Write About It

by Agnieszka Wolsoncroft #freedom #joy #gratitude I want to tell you something I almost didn't write about. For a long time I didn't think it was the kind of story people needed to hear from me. I have written about gratitude and adoption and leaving one life for another. I have written about grief and joy and the long blue sky over Perth. Cigarettes didn't seem to fit the picture I was painting. But then I remembered something from the first newsletter I ever sent: hidin

by Agnieszka Wolsoncroft Anya with all the pums, ready to learn how to bake the plum cake #plumcake #plums #autumn #baking #lovebaking I was six years old, standing on a Polish beach, watching the Baltic Sea stretch endlessly. My mother stood beside me, quiet. The wind whipped our hair. Salt spray touched my face. "What's on the other side?" I asked. "Sweden," she said. "And beyond that, the whole world." I didn't know what Sweden looked like. Didn't know what "the whole worl

by Agnieszka Wolsoncroft Thursday last week marked three years since my Babcia left us. I was walking through a shopping centre on an ordinary Sunday when I felt it. A heat wave, sudden and complete, moving through my whole body. Not a hot flush. Not a dizzy spell. Something else entirely—a warmth that felt like arms around me, like someone pressing their cheek to mine the way she always had. I remember thinking: this is not a good day for shopping. I'll go home.