A Nathalie-Style blend of Shaolin, Yoga, Stoicism and laundry
Let me tell you about the fish
I don’t know where it came from. One day I had three dogs, two cats, two teenagers, one chaotic self and a decent understanding of what lived under my roof. Then suddenly, there was a fish. Just swimming. No explanation. And a bird. A loud one. Possibly judging me.
And while I stood there, hair unwashed, coffee reheated for the third time, phone full of messages I hadn’t replied to, I had this moment of quiet clarity.
This is it.
This is my life now.
Shaolin monk on the inside, dog-wrangling entrepreneur mother artist on the outside.
We do not resist the chaos. We flow with it.
(We also feed the fish. No idea where the food even came from.)
After the quiet comes the mess
Losing two people I loved more than words has shifted something in me. There was a long silence inside, a necessary one. Not sadness in the way others expected, more like an emotional full stop. A stillness. I shut things down to survive it. And when I finally came back, everything had moved. People had moved on. My inbox had grown teeth. There were socks on the table. Again.
I had to start over, not just with my work, but with my rhythm.
The daily dance between caring and creating. Parenting and processing. Holding others and not forgetting to hold myself.
It’s one thing to find structure when everything’s fine.
It’s another thing entirely to rebuild it after your world’s been turned inside out.
A little Shaolin. A little yoga. A lot of dog hair.
These days I run my day the way I imagine a peaceful but slightly sleep-deprived monk would. One task at a time. Quiet attention to small things. A cup of tea as a ceremony, not a caffeine delivery system.
Yoga helps me breathe again, not because it solves anything, but because it reminds me I still have a body. A tired, often-interrupted, real one.
And then there’s Stoicism, my emotional backup plan.
Focus on what I can control.
Let the rest go.
The bird will scream, the dogs will bark, someone will forget their shoes again.
But I choose my reaction. I get to decide how much of my peace I hand over.
Structure with wiggle room
I’ve stopped trying to master balance. I build soft containers for my day. Mornings are for thinking, writing, stretching, feeding everyone (yes, even the fish). Afternoons are for calls, emails, and letting my creativity peek out again. Evenings are for letting it all go. No more squeezing life into neat shapes that don’t fit anymore.
Some days it works. Some days it explodes. I’ve made peace with both.
A small wondering
So I’m wondering, while sipping lukewarm tea surrounded by fur, feathers, and feelings
What does balance look like when everything has changed?
And what if it’s less about having control, and more about meeting the day with softness, humour, and just enough structure to hold you?
Warm greetings from a monk hearted, yoga breathed, Stoic willed, fur covered mom
