And just like that, the momentum was gone.

The past few weeks, I’d been making solid progress—drafting content, fleshing out the site, feeling aligned. Then the Bank Holiday landed, and I drank for three days on the bounce. Not completely reckless, but enough to hurt.

Tuesday was a write-off. No work, no writing. Just a flat, deflated fog. I wanted to hide under the duvet. The rain didn’t help—but it also gave me an excuse. I even avoided myself, skipping journaling altogether.

This morning, though, I felt more like the weather: better, brighter.

I journaled about realigning with what matters. Touched base with all of my pillars. And just like that, the fog began to lift. What surfaced surprised me: I wanted to heal.

Healing, for me, means freedom from the weight of regret.

I knew that a short run—a gentle one, in the sun, with Woody—would help. It would lighten the load. Shed some of the regret I was still squirming in. But usually, my ego steps in and buries any good intention under another cup of tea and a scroll on the phone.

It used to take me weeks to come back from a heavy weekend. And while this one wasn’t even close to the chaos of old, it still left me depleted.

But here I was, just two days later, with clarity. I knew what I needed. So I got up, stretched, and put my trainers on.

The run worked.

More importantly, I felt like I had hold of the reins again.