My daughter's birthday party had a guest list of roughly forty children, zero decorations, and absolutely no clearing up.

This was not a failure of planning. It was the plan.

When my three were small, I discovered something that has quietly shaped everything I've done around gathering since: the best parties happen when you stop hosting them. We rocked up to the local park with a cake, a handful of party bags, and a picnic for just our three. Everyone else brought their own. The children ran and climbed and did what children do in parks in June when the grass is warm and nobody is telling them to stay clean. We sang happy birthday around a picnic cloth on the ground. We ate cake in the sunshine. And then we went home.

My son Theo will make you wait.

Not out of rudeness. Out of necessity. Because if we pass anyone — anyone at all — on a public footpath, in a farm shop, at a village fête, in a car park, at a school gate, in a queue for literally anything — Theo needs to say hello. And not a polite, performative, let's-keep-walking hello. A proper one. An interested one. The kind that comes with follow-up questions.

It was the fifth day of the holiday.

Which matters, actually. Because the first four days I was still that version of me, the young mum version, the busy-brain version, the one quietly cataloguing everything that needed doing back home while pretending to be present at the table. Holding her tummy in slightly. Monitoring. Half-here, half-somewhere entirely more stressful.

But by day five, something had shifted. I'd started to exhale. I was properly in the conversations with my children, not half in them, not managing them, but in them. Laughing too loudly. Not caring who was watching. Not worrying about how I looked or whether I was taking up too much space.

Why your joy is the most generous thing you can offer the room - and what happens when you stop containing it.

Here’s a question that’s been living rent-free in my head: What if being joyful is the bravest thing we can do?

Because if you think about it, society doesn’t exactly cheer us on when we choose joy. In fact, we’ve been conditioned to think of it as immature, frivolous, selfish, even childish. Joy isn’t “serious.” It’s not an achievement. It doesn’t pay the bills.

There are seasons when nothing is technically wrong. And yet everything feels slightly unsteady. You're busy. You're functioning. The fridge is stocked. The diary is full. And still - something feels untethered.

There are days when nothing is actually wrong. And yet everything feels loud.

The kettle's on. The house is standing. The people you love are mostly fed and accounted for. And still - your mind is pacing the room like a dog that's missed its walk. Restless, circling, occasionally barking at things that haven't happened yet.

January has a particular smell about it. Damp coats. The faint ghost of Christmas candles. The very specific existential scent of a new planner you've filled in with optimistic colour-coding that will absolutely not survive contact with actual February.