The Tulips Were Always There
I love the unexpected tangents that emerge during counselling sessions—and the things I learn when conversations wander somewhere I never anticipated.
I love the unexpected tangents that emerge during counselling sessions—and the things I learn when conversations wander somewhere I never anticipated.
I have discovered two words that should never be used when describing the week ahead: “quiet” and “busy”. Apparently, both are invitations for the universe to prove me wrong.
Perhaps the stories we inherit are not carried forward word for word, but in the feelings, images, and truths that remain long after the details have been forgotten.
The most important writing is not always done at a desk. It begins in the quiet places where the mind is finally free to wander.
Naming a methodology is not always a neutral act. The words we choose—or choose not to use—often carry meanings of their own.
The most important discoveries in doctoral research are not always found in journal articles. They emerge when the project begins to reveal what it has been asking of you all along.
There are seasons in research when the work is less about producing and more about becoming the person who can do it.
In trying to imagine an arts-based component for my doctoral research, I discovered that the metaphors guiding my thinking had quietly become the method itself.
Sometimes the most unexpected days become the ones that quietly reshape the stories we tell ourselves.
Sometimes the answers we search for are not waiting to be invented, but quietly waiting to be recognised.