There are moments in life when you realise that the way you have been moving through the world is no longer sustainable.

Not because anything dramatic has happened, but because something quieter has shifted. A kind of internal signal that asks you to slow down, to step back, and to listen more carefully to what has been building beneath the surface.

This project began in one of those moments.

I had taken some time out, without a clear plan beyond the need to pause. Around the same time, I came across the idea of the 100 Day Project, a simple commitment to show up creatively each day, without overthinking the outcome. It felt manageable, even gentle. A way of beginning again, without needing to know exactly where it would lead.

But beneath that simplicity, there was a more personal question emerging.

What do I know to be true?

Not professionally, not intellectually, but at a more human level. What have I learned about how to live, how to respond, how to stay open in the face of uncertainty? And perhaps more importantly, what would I want to remember if, one day, remembering did not come so easily?

So, I picked up a watercolour pallet and a brush.

Each day, a small watercolour postcard paired with a line, a thought, a quote or a fragment of something I wanted to hold onto. They were not designed to be perfect. They were not even designed to be shared. They were simply notes to a future version of myself. Reminders of what matters. Markers of who I am, or who I am trying to be.

Over time, patterns began to emerge.

Themes of becoming, of trust, of starting where you are. Of allowing life to unfold while still choosing how to show up within it. Of holding both light and difficulty without needing to resolve them too quickly. Of connection, to others, to the natural world, and to something quieter within.

The project became less about producing something, and more about paying attention.

Attention to what felt true and to what stayed.
Attention to what kept returning, even when I tried to move past it.

Looking back now, these postcards feel like a conversation across time. Between the person I was when I started, and the person I might become. They don’t offer answers so much as orientation. A way of remembering how I want to live, even when things feel uncertain.

I am sharing them here not as a finished body of work, but as a record of that process.

An unfolding, rather than a conclusion. A quiet reminder to trust what unfolds.