Douze...

Ije Uwa...the one where our journey brings us back to books and self

The truth? I haven’t been reading much lately. I’ve had friends over, and when they see my bookshelf, they ask me, “How have I been able to read this much?” or “How many books on my shelf have I read?” My response? “I’m struggling.”

And I don’t mean “I’ve only read three books this month,” kind of struggle. I mean, days, weeks, and months have passed since I cracked a spine, made it to the end of a chapter, or even picked up my Kindle.

And it’s not for lack of love. I’ve missed me - the part of me that sinks into stories and remembers how words can stretch time. I miss reading not just for entertainment, but for its grounding effect. For connection. For the small joy of discovering a sentence that feels like it was written just for you. For the wonder and awe of discovering a world different from reality, a world where perfection isn’t exactly needed.

I miss reading the way you miss an old friend. I miss the quiet companionship of a well-written sentence, the way time folds when I’m inside a story. But right now, life feels loud, and lately, that version of me has felt very far away.

Between my remote marketing job (hello 9-hour timezone gap), running Whisk n’ Mix (my tiny but mighty home bakery), trying to rebuild my bookstagram and podcast, and simply being a person with dishes, errands, and a brain... reading has slipped to the bottom of the pile. And honestly, I hate it.

But here’s the thing: books are patient. They wait. They don’t guilt you for being gone. And when you return, slowly, hesitantly, almost like you’re tiptoeing back to an old friend, they open their arms like nothing ever changed.

A soft return, not a comeback

So, I’ve stopped trying to “bounce back” into reading and instead, I’m drifting back slowly. Gently.

Here’s what that looks like for me, realistically:

• I keep my current read where I can see it. Not hidden in a drawer or tucked in a bag, but right on my desk, beside my planner, next to the remote. It reminds me that it’s okay to read just one page between tasks.

• I read 10 pages a day, or try to. This is part of the small challenge I’m doing, and some days, those 10 pages feel like a luxury. Other days? They’re survival. It’s not about page counts, it’s about presence.

• I stopped chasing “big” reading moments. Reading doesn’t have to be a ritual every time. It can be five pages on the toilet, one page while waiting for banana bread to bake, or a few paragraphs before I crash into bed.

• I don’t care if I don’t finish a book this week. Or even this month. This season of my life is already packed; I’m letting books be something that feeds me, not another checkbox.

Right now, I’m moving through Someone Birthed Them Broken by Ama Asantewa Diaka slowly.

On Creativity

The last time I wrote here was months ago. Coming back feels like shaking hands with an old friend, awkward for a second, then easy, like nothing ever left.

I’m learning that creativity, like reading, doesn’t demand perfection. It doesn’t care about streaks or algorithms or how long it’s been. It just waits. And when you return, it says, “Welcome back. Sit down. Let’s begin again.”

From my coffee corner:

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been loving Matcha, and one flavor I've made over again is the toasted marshmallow matcha iced latte. Sweet, creamy, and the kind of drink that makes the afternoon feel less like a blur.

If you’d like to try:

• 1 tsp high-quality matcha (sifted)

• 1/4 cup hot water

• 1/2 cup warm milk (any of your choice)

• 1 tsp toasted marshmallow syrup

• Ice

Place ice into your favorite cup, whisk matcha with water until frothy, and pour over milk mixed with toasted marshmallow syrup. Sip slowly, preferably with a book you’re half-finished.

Pro tip: if you’re feeling indulgent, pair this with shortbread cookies. Simple, buttery, perfect.

The life beyond the books

Since June, I’ve been hosting small Sunday brunches at home. Nothing elaborate, just a curated menu, connection, and laughter that lingers long after the plates are cleared.

For now, I’m hosting two friends, two Sundays a month, paired with a 6-course menu (complete with cocktail, mocktail, and cafe pairings) that, honestly, is as authentic as it can be, with fusions here and there, and I keep the alcohol flowing.

There’s something magical about carving out time to rest, eat slowly, laugh loudly, and talk about everything and nothing.

And in the background, my tiny bakery keeps going. Even when I don’t market as hard as I “should,” the love for Whisk n’ Mix still shows up. It reminds me that softness and consistency can carry you farther than hustle.

Life lately has been imperfect, yet full and soft. A little loud, a little overwhelming, but still anchored by the things I return to: books, baking, cooking, music, and community.

If you’re in the same place…

If you’ve also felt a little far from your reader self, this is your reminder that you’re still a reader. You don’t need to prove it. You don’t need to hit a goal. If all you do this month is reread your favorite chapter or listen to one audiobook on your commute, that’s enough.

Books don’t leave. We do.
And when we’re ready, they open back up like nothing ever changed.

Closing thoughts…

Maybe that’s the whole journey - ije uwa - not to stay constant all the time, but to pause, wander, and then return.

To remember that softness is a strategy, slowness is sacred, and every return to yourself is worth celebrating.

Here’s to finding your way back, gently.

Journal Prompt

What part of yourself are you ready to return to this month, slowly, softly, without pressure?

Until my next letter, I hope you take this as permission to pause, wander, and return back to self.

Daalụ 💕