People often ask me, “Why do you write about every day, ordinary things?”
And I smile. Because to me, the ordinary is not so ordinary.
I write about the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
About the quiet warmth of a morning sun slipping through the window.
About the sound of laughter from the next room, or the clinking of cups in a late afternoon meeting.
I write about rainy afternoons, hurried footsteps, the way the breeze brushes past you when you least expect it. About the neighbour’s cooking wafting through the street. The soft hum of a fan. The light jokes a colleague throws your way, and the long, meandering phone calls with a friend that feel like coming home.
These moments — fleeting, small, imperfect — are the building blocks of a life. I care about them deeply. Because this is what life is made of. Not grand gestures or epic moments, but the quiet rhythm of an ordinary day.
We spend so much time chasing the extraordinary, hoping for something bigger, brighter, more meaningful. But the truth is, there is no extraordinary without the ordinary.
You can’t appreciate the miracle unless you’ve sat with the mundane.
Even Newton’s apple — the one that sparked a world of discovery — was just an ordinary apple falling from a tree.
And yet, it held a universe inside it.
That’s why I write. To capture the extraordinary that hides inside the ordinary. To honor it. To hold it still, even for a moment.
Because when you begin to notice the beauty in the everyday, you start to live more fully.
More gently.
More humanly.
And maybe, just maybe — that’s where all the magic really is.