Hello Again

Hello, dear ones — It’s been a while.

I didn’t mean to disappear. I needed time to ground and reflect.

Life has been loud and overwhelming. These past weeks have pulled me into a storm I wasn’t prepared for — emotional and physical exhaustion, deep work stress, the chaos of moving, and the quiet unravelling that happens when too much lands all at once.

I’ve been standing in the middle of the storm, with barely a place to rest — and still, I’m showing up for myself. That’s what matters more than anything.

I’ve been quiet — not just here, but everywhere.

The voice inside me — that reflects, shares, and bubbles with excitement — has been subdued. Silently listening.

That silence isn’t avoidance. It’s presence. It’s healing. It’s care.

Sometimes we have to turn inward before we can speak outward. Sometimes the most sacred parts of us don’t need to be spoken in full, to be felt in truth.

Opening Heart & Muse after the dust settled felt like opening a lost and forgotten treasure chest. I re-read some of what I’d written, with fresh eyes, and I felt a spark ignite again. A longing to reconnect is returning.

So this is just a gentle hello. A wave from where I am.

I’ve realized something over these past few weeks: I’ve learned to be my own strength. I’ve been leaning into my love, my intuition, and the quiet wisdom that’s never left me. And I’ve earned that — with all the scars I carry. Scars I’m proud of. Scars we should all be proud of. Because while they don’t define us, they do shape us. They are part of who we are. And they’re proof that we’ve lived, endured, and still found ways to love.

This space — Heart & Muse — has always been about truth. But not the kind that requires me to lay everything bare.

There are parts of my story I’m keeping sacred — and that’s okay.

That’s not hiding. That’s honouring. I’m learning that I can be real without having to explain everything. That I can be open without being exposed. That I can care deeply and still protect what matters most.

Thank you for holding space in my absence.

Thank you for your quiet patience.

I’m still finding my way, still coming home to myself — this is the beginning of a return.

With love,

Astrid