Journal Entry 06/04/2026

Laying here in the grass, yoga mat and blanket plush beneath me. The smell of the dirt and laundry drying on the clothing line above me. The sun is warm, greeting me again after a long winter, a comforting hug. An unusually beautiful spring day in London this early in the year, not too warm and not too cold, just right. How lucky am I?

I can hear all the birds, the fluttering of their wings, the way they land in the trees, their calls to each other, and then I can hear the wind. The wind rustling the leaves, the trees creaking, and the flapping of the clean sheets in the wonderful breeze – I swear I saw some squirrels planning their great escape into the foliage. I am hypnotised by the blue bells near my head, swaying back and forth, bees buzzing nearby. I am so happy. How lucky am I?

Book in hand, I am currently reading “It Lasts Forever And Then It’s Over” by Anne De Marcken. The beautiful blue cover complements the clear blue skies above me. I bring it up to my nose, I fan through the pages – I love the smell of a new book. Pen scribbling adds to the beautiful garden orchestra of sounds. Finn huffs next to me – my dog shaped shadow– he is laying down by my legs. He has never done this before, laid down so close, cuddling with me like this. How lucky am I? 

I think quietly – almost afraid someone will hear me – that maybe I won’t return home any time soon. I look around to make sure no one can hear my thoughts. 

The birds don’t seem to care. 

Maybe I love my island too much to move back. 

I don’t know if I could handle going back and seeing the state I left it in. Or the state it left me in. Mass tourism, Airbnb’s all around my childhood home, our sell-out government, American holidays (we are Aruban, not American), the loss of our culture, the loss of our language, the loss of our people. The loss of my people, of my identity. I don’t know if I left it, or if it left me first, or if we are just slowly becoming strangers to each other, the way people sometimes do. 

Am I still myself if I am not on my soil? Or am I more of myself away from it? I could never not be Aruban. The soil holds my name in its roots. I will return home, but not now. 

I don’t let myself think too hard about it. I put my nose back into the pages. The birds chirp again, and a butterfly crosses right above my face, a flash of yellow. I watch it go, for now, this is enough.

It Lasts Forever And Then It’s Over. I don’t want it to be over just yet.

-Sophie xx