Nature is tonic for almost everything. Even when the world is in chaos, dappled light dances across ocean waves, and vibrant flowers strain skyward, and birds chatter across tree branches. There is visceral comfort in the way nature carries on: quietly, beautifully, reassuringly. Immerse yourself in it as often as possible.

You’ll never regret spending an afternoon with a good book. This year especially, my imagination has brought a sense of freedom I couldn’t find anywhere else. Read, read, read.

On that note, writing a book is bloody hard work. I know this because I am over a year into a project I wanted to finish six months ago. Behind a novel that compels and inspires you; a novel that feels effortless in both of those things, is an author – an artist – who has undoubtedly agonised over plot developments, sentence formation and whether that particular character should wear a green or blue jumper. Reach out to the authors you appreciate to let them know you like their work. Leave them a good review. Lend their book to a friend.

For all of the shit in this world, there is so much light. So much kindness. For months on end this year, we came together, apart, in an incredible act of love and compassion to protect each other. We stayed home for one another because we are at home in one another. I have never seen such humanity.

Grief is suffocating and messy and terrifying, but it is also – in all of its debilitating fuckery – a privilege. Grief is love: love beautiful and lasting and gone, but never gone. My Granny, who was in equal parts a mother and a best friend, died this year, and the weight of my sadness has often been overwhelming. I miss her endlessly, in everything. Almost four months on, I still can’t speak about her without my voice breaking. But I wouldn’t change a thing about this pain. I grieve because I love her. Because I was loved by her.

You are more resilient than you think. Sometimes, the world-ending life event happens, or there’s a pandemic and everything as you know it changes entirely. Yet, still, the sun rises the next morning. Slowly but surely, life goes on. So will you.

If all else fails, DANCE ON THE KITCHEN TILES IN YOUR PANTS. Few things in life rival the joy of it.

Small joys are everywhere. The way the sunset bleeds gold across the horizon; the satisfying crunch of that first Autumn leaf; seeing your friend’s face light up when you present them a mediocre but crafted-with-love banana bread; limbs entangled in the darkness. It’s easy to focus solely on the ‘big’ moments, but there is so much magic in the mediocrity.

You realise this more-so when practicing daily gratitude. Taking a moment to count life’s precious little victories is so damn good for the soul. What are you grateful for? Ask yourself that question every single day.

It’s okay to enjoy what you enjoy. I enjoy walking and yoga and eating that extra slice of pizza, and making a tit of myself at aerial gymnastics classes. I also enjoy having weird, one-way conversations with my dog, and an unhealthy obsession with Normal People. All of that is okay. Life is short; you have to make joy your priority.