The earrings I lost the night I found my voiceI remember the earrings because they were ordinary. Small silver hoops, bought from a stall at a Sunday market in Melbourne, they caught the light without…What A Borrowed Book With Notes In The Margins RevealsA borrowed book carries more than its printed story. Between the covers, it may hold a previous reader’s impatience, delight, arguments, underlined truths and…When Silence Starts BreathingSilence is easy to treat as an absence: no footsteps, no reply, no clatter from the kitchen. In a story, though, quiet can have a pulse, a temper and a…The Belt That Held Everything Together When I Couldn’tThere are objects that belong to a particular version of us. A chipped mug, a pair of earrings, a jacket carried through too many winters. For me, it was a…Why Rivers Help Me Move Through What I Cannot KeepI write about rivers when I need to move on because water gives change a shape I can see. A relationship can end in a room that still contains two coffee cups,…The Watch I Stopped Wearing When I Stopped WaitingFor years, I wore a small silver watch with a face the colour of rain. It was inexpensive, slightly scratched and permanently five minutes fast, but I treated…How to frame a regret as a giftRegret rarely arrives looking generous. It may feel like a message from the past, carrying the weight of a decision you wish you had made differently. A missed…What A Wrinkled Shirt Taught Me About Showing Up AnywayThere are mornings when the outfit on the chair looks less like clothing and more like evidence. A shirt has spent the night in a heap beside the bed, the…The art of describing a voice you can still hearSome voices remain long after the room has emptied. They follow us through supermarket aisles, along Melbourne’s tram lines, or into the quiet of a bedroom…The endings I keep rewriting in my headI have a habit of carrying other people’s stories long after they have left the room. A friend tells me about the relationship that ended over a quiet dinner,…