There’s a different pace to everything at the moment.
Mornings begin a little earlier, but softer somehow. The light feels gentler as it comes in through the windows, and the day unfolds more slowly than it used to, less about what needs to be done, more about what can be held, noticed, and not rushed through.
Somewhere in between feeds, cups of tea going cold, and the low hum of emails beginning again, I’ve found myself easing back into Wizz & Wild. Not in the way I imagined before, there’s no clean line between “time off” and “back to work”, but something much more blurred, and actually, much more real.
I used to think returning would feel like stepping back into something familiar. Instead, it feels like building something new, but from the same roots.
Work now happens in quieter pockets. A reply written one-handed, a design thought through on a walk, sketches and plans scribbled on the corners of envelopes, ideas forming slowly rather than all at once. There’s less urgency to it, but somehow more clarity. The noise has dropped away a little, and what’s left feels more considered.
I’ve noticed it in the way I’m thinking about weddings, too. A stronger pull towards simplicity. Towards designs that feel effortless but intentional. Flowers that move, that aren’t overworked. Spaces that feel calm to step into, not overwhelming. Perhaps it’s just where I am at the moment, but it feels like a shift that’s here to stay.
There’s also a new kind of awareness around time. Not in a pressured way, but a gentle understanding that it’s finite, and valuable, and worth spending well. It’s made me more certain about the kind of work I want to create, and the way I want Wizz & Wild to feel going forward.
Slower, yes, but never less thoughtful. If anything, more so.
And alongside all of this, there’s him.
A small presence who has, without trying, reshaped everything. The days are anchored around him now, his rhythms, his needs, the small moments that seem to fill the whole day without you quite realising how. It’s a different kind of fullness.
There’s something about early motherhood that’s hard to explain. It’s not just the change in routine, but a shift in perspective. What matters feels clearer. What doesn’t falls away more easily. The edges of everything soften slightly.
And layered quietly beneath all of this is something else, too.
A deeper sense of gratitude, I think. Not loud or overwhelming, just there, steady in the background. This baby, our baby, came after a time that felt very uncertain. A loss that changed me in ways I’m still understanding, and a season where everything felt a little more fragile.
I remember so clearly how much comfort I found in hearing other people’s stories then, knowing that it was possible to come through something like that, and still have this. Still have joy, and softness, and something to hold.
One thing I didn’t fully understand until going through loss myself was how limited miscarriage support and investigation can feel here in the UK. In many cases, families are still expected to experience three miscarriages before the NHS will begin further investigations or offer specialist support.
That statistic stayed with me deeply during that time.
Since then, I’ve come across the incredible work of Tommy’s, who are campaigning for better miscarriage care and earlier support for women and families experiencing pregnancy loss. Their “Miscarriage Matters” campaign is calling for care after every miscarriage, not just after three, alongside improved mental health support and access to specialist services.
If this is something close to your heart too, you can read more and support their petition here:
Tommy’s Miscarriage Matters Petition
And so I suppose this is just a quiet offering of that, in case it’s needed by someone else. That there can be another side to it. That things can come back together, in their own time, and in their own way.
This season feels like an in-between. Not fully paused, not fully back. But something softer and more considered than either.
A slower return. A different rhythm. A place to share all of it quietly as it unfolds, the weddings and the flowers, of course, but also the life happening around them. The slower mornings, the balancing of business and motherhood, and the joy, chaos, and constant learning that come with raising a little boy amongst the flowers.
I’m looking forward to filling this journal with more of the in-between moments going forward. The beautiful ones, the challenging ones, and all the small, ordinary parts that somehow end up meaning the most.
May 8, 2026
