THIS is the 'Practice Room'

Darling one,

I’m in the kitchen, one hand on the bench, the kettle rattling towards a boil, someone talking to me from the other room and my mind is already building its case.

They shouldn’t have said that. They knew better. I’m fucking justified.

I can feel the heat rising up my neck as the story gets better and better. The kind of story where I’m very clearly the reasonable one.

And then, something shifts. Just enough. That tiny moment where I can feel myself standing outside the story for a second.

Oh. There I am. This is it.

This is the practice room.

Not some quiet little corner of the house with a candle burning and my journal open. 

It’s the wet towel abandoned on the bathroom floor. The cold matcha beside my laptop. The car idling in the driveway while I sit there for an extra five minutes because I’m not ready to walk inside.

It’s bare feet on cold tiles at six in the morning. Salt drying on my skin after a swim. The lump in my throat halfway through a conversation. The hot flush of anger. The ache in my chest when something lands somewhere tender.

The relief that comes when I finally stop arguing with myself and tell the truth.

This is where I get to practise.

In the noise. In the mess. In the ordinary Tuesday-nightness of being alive.

I don’t want to become someone who never gets knocked off centre. I want to know the feeling of myself well enough to notice when I’ve gone missing. And to find my way home again.

That’s the work I love doing with women.

Right here.

In the middle of actual life, with the washing still waiting and dinner to make and conversations that don’t always go how we hoped they would.

That’s THE PLACE - 90 day group expression space.

The next one begins November 14th. Book your place in The Place HERE

Come sit with us.

I’d really love you there. x

Big love