If I had to pick something to do less of, it would be overthinking. It doesn’t solve much, but it does a great job of turning small tasks into mini-boss encounters. Most things take five minutes once I finally start them.

I could also do less multitasking. It sounds productive, but half the time it just splits my focus and slows everything down. Finishing one thing properly beats juggling five half-done things any day.

Another habit I could tone down is doom-scrolling. Not dramatic amounts, just the quiet routine of checking one thing, then another, then somehow ending up reading something that adds nothing to the day except a raised eyebrow.

And finally, I could do less second-guessing. Not every choice needs a full internal review panel. Sometimes “good enough” is exactly what it needs to be.

Nothing life-changing — just small adjustments that would free up a bit more energy for things that actually matter.

The past year had its challenges, but there were still some solid wins worth noting. Nothing dramatic, just steady steps in the right direction.

First, I made real progress on projects I’d been putting off. Getting things moving — or finally finished — felt like a quiet victory. Momentum can be slow, but once it shows up, everything feels a little easier to manage.

I also picked up new skills along the way. Some came from curiosity, others from problem-solving, and a few from situations where learning something new was the only practical option. Either way, it all added up and made the year feel productive.

Another positive shift was finding a better rhythm with my hobbies. Writing more, gaming with purpose, and exploring ideas I kept shelving. It helped bring some balance to a year that wasn’t always calm.

And finally, there were moments of clarity — small but useful. The kind that help you focus on what matters and drop the things that don’t earn their place.

Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just consistent progress, which is sometimes the best kind.

I do have a favourite place, though it isn’t the kind you find on a postcard. It’s a quiet spot that feels a world away from noise and pressure, even when it isn’t far from everyday life. Nothing dramatic happens there. That’s the appeal.

What I like most is the stillness. No traffic, no background chatter, no long list of things demanding attention. Just space, time, and the kind of silence that lets your thoughts settle instead of scrambling to keep up with everything.

There’s a view, but not the sort that tries to impress you. It’s simple and steady — the kind of landscape that looks the same no matter what else is going on. I think that’s why it sticks with me. It feels reliable in a way most places don’t.

I don’t visit often, but when I do, it works like a reset button. A small pause in the middle of all the noise. A reminder that slowing down for a moment isn’t a luxury; it’s maintenance. Even survivors need a breather now and then.

So yes, I have a favourite place. Not famous. Not busy. Just a quiet corner where everything feels a little lighter for a while. Sometimes that’s all you need.

1. Keeping a level head when things get messy.
   Whether it’s a game throwing nonsense my way or real life deciding to speedrun problems, I stay steady and work through it one step at a time.
2. Sticking with things until they’re done.
   I don’t always sprint to the finish, but I’m stubborn enough to cross the line eventually. Slow progress still counts as progress.
3. Planning with the future in mind.
   Routes, routines, blog schedules, gaming runs—if it benefits future-me, I’ll map it out. It cuts down on surprises and gives me a clearer path forward.
4. Finding efficient solutions.
   If there’s a smarter, quieter, or less painful way to handle something, I’ll track it down. A good shortcut is worth its weight in gold.
5. Turning experiences into stories.
   I’m good at taking something simple—or chaotic—and turning it into a narrative that’s honest, dry, and hopefully entertaining. Survival diaries pretty much evolved from that habit.

If I could change one thing about myself, I’d probably upgrade my energy reserves. Not to superhuman levels—just enough to get through the day without feeling like I’ve been fighting a miniboss before breakfast.

Life runs on a tight loop of chores, work, writing, gaming, and general survival. A little extra stamina would make that loop smoother. Fewer “I need a nap already” moments. More “I can actually finish this” moments.

It’s not a dramatic change. Just a small quality-of-life buff. The kind every tired survivor quietly wishes for at the start of a long day.

I wouldn’t say I’m a full night owl or a committed morning person. I just operate on whatever schedule life forces on me that day.

Mornings are fine once I’m actually awake, but getting to that point is a negotiation. Coffee helps. Silence helps more. If the day starts smoothly, great. If not, I deal with it like any other survival scenario: one small task at a time.

Nights aren’t much different. I’m not out here thriving at midnight, plotting world domination or reorganising cupboards. I just stay up long enough to finish what needs doing and maybe squeeze in some game time before sleep wins.

So the honest answer?
I run on “whenever I can,” powered by caffeine, stubbornness, and the hope that tomorrow behaves itself a little better.

I keep my feelings about meat pretty straightforward. I eat it. I enjoy it. I also try not to overthink it, because life already throws enough decisions at me without adding philosophical debates over dinner.

Meat ends up on my plate mostly because it’s familiar and easy to work with. Chicken, mince, sausages—quick meals that don’t start arguments in the kitchen. When the day’s already chaotic, convenience wins.

I’m not out here trying every exotic cut under the sun, and I’m not hunting my own dinner. I just cook what I know, add some veg, and call it a victory.

No drama. No guilt trips. Just food that helps me get through the day in one piece.

Most days I keep it simple: jeans and a T-shirt. Nothing fancy, nothing dramatic, just the basic armour that gets me through whatever the universe decides to throw at me.

Jeans handle pretty much everything. School runs, food shopping, emergency coffee trips, even the occasional “why is this happening already?” morning. They’re durable, comfortable, and don’t start judging me if the day goes sideways.

T-shirts? Same deal. Breathable. Easy to replace. Works for both “I slept well” and “I survived on fumes and stubbornness.” If I spill something on it—which is often—it forgives me quicker than most fabrics.

It’s not stylish. It’s not cutting-edge. But it’s reliable, and reliability is undefeated in the daily survival game.

I’m taking a small detour from my usual tone for this one — still me, just a little more grounded than usual.

There have been a few turning points in my life — the kind you don’t see coming until you’re standing in the middle of them, trying to work out whether you’re meant to stay, leave, or sprint in the opposite direction with your coffee still in hand.

I won’t go into the personal details. Some choices belong in the private archive, not the public one. But I will say this: the hardest decisions are usually the ones where you realise something has been draining you for far too long, and the only way forward is to put yourself first for once.

Making that call isn’t dramatic. It isn’t glamorous. Most of the time, it’s the quiet kind of survival — choosing boundaries, choosing peace, choosing a path that doesn’t leave you carrying someone else’s weight on top of your own.

That doesn’t make the decision easy. But it does make it necessary.

So while the internet gets to hear about my struggles with aggressive sea fauna, angry wolves, and vehicles that absolutely should not be flipping that often… the real-life challenges stay off the grid. And honestly, that’s the healthiest balance I’ve ever found.

We’re not a family with a long list of sacred holiday recipes. There’s no legendary dish that only appears once a year, no ancient cookbook with pages stuck together, and definitely no competitive baking. Our approach is closer to: “make something warm, make something tasty, and make sure it doesn’t turn into a survival scenario.”

Most years, it ends up being simple comfort food — the kind you can put together without needing a flow chart, a timer, or divine intervention. It’s about feeding people without stress, not impressing the neighbours with a five-course meal that requires a respec halfway through.

Sometimes it’s a proper sit-down dinner. Other times it’s whatever we can pull together between work, life, and keeping the general chaos at bay. But there’s always one constant: something warm, filling, and familiar. The sort of food that gives you a breather before the next round of yearly madness.

Nothing fancy. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet, reliable meals that make the day feel calm for a moment — which honestly is the best holiday tradition we’ve ever managed to keep.