Another glorious Sunday in a sunny garden. I’m still not used to how much sun we get here in California vs. back in England. March usually meant more gray skies than blue; more sweaters than shorts. I love pottering around in the garden—speaking to neighbors over the fence, pulling a few weeds, moving the lawn, lounging around doing a lot of nothing. We didn’t really have a garden in Brooklyn, and I’d forgotten how nice it is.

We went out with some (great, like truly excellent) friends last night. There was a point in the evening where I realized that I’d truly found my people here. Moving a few thousand miles in your thirties (twice, within a couple years) can be tough. I’m lucky to be doing it with my best friend, but it’s still tough, and friends are so important. Anyway, these friends mean a lot to us, and it struck me last night how lucky I am to know them.

So now it’s Sunday night, and I’m sat here with my family, and my heart is feeling full, and I’ve got a week of work ahead at a job that I love. I’m feeling very grateful, I guess. I’ve been so lucky. Not always, but more than many and more than I’d have ever imagined possible. I try to work hard, and to try hard in general, but I’ve been lucky. The funny thing is, it feels like I’m just getting started in some ways, here in this new place.