Finally Earned a Black Belt in Couch

There comes a point where you stop trying to impress anyone, including yourself. You look back on all the years of running — new houses, new jobs, new expectations — and realise maybe you don’t have much left to prove. Not to the world, anyway. So you take a breath, sit down, and let yourself be exactly where you are.

Feet up. A decent drop in hand. Something familiar playing in the background — a reminder of the places you’ve been, the people you’ve known, and the parts of life that still matter. It’s not glamour. It’s not achievement in the way others would define it. But it’s earned.

There’s a quiet satisfaction in that. Knowing you’ve reached a point where rest isn’t laziness — it’s a reward. Recovery from decades of turning up, stepping in, carrying responsibilities that never fit neatly on a list. You don’t get applause for that sort of work, but you feel it in your bones.

The house might be quiet now, but quiet isn’t empty. It’s space. Space to think. Space to breathe. Space to look out a window without needing to rush off and solve something. There’s still plenty ahead, but tonight isn’t about planning or fixing or worrying. Tonight is about acknowledging that I’ve made it through more than once.

A lot of life has been forward momentum — sometimes full-tilt, sometimes hanging on by the fingertips. So it feels almost like an achievement to sit still and not feel guilty about it. To take up my own space on the couch and call it enough.

Black belt in couch may not be a recognised qualification anywhere. It won’t earn a line on a CV. But it’s a sign that I’m finally letting myself arrive — right here, in the moment, and that’s something worth noting.