Our Christmas plans aren't clear yet. I've rendered life unplannable. Whether we celebrate at home in Johannesburg or ten hours drive away in rural Eastern Cape is a detail that flys in the wind as I type.

I've been struggling to find myself lately. Unsure of who I am or what I want in life. 2022 wishes: To publish my first book, write my second, go on a family holiday, and spend time with my siblings so they can know their niece. Purpose feels like a hollow word and I don't recognize myself in past renditions of me. I couldn't really tell you what I stand for. The emptiness feels refreshing though. Like a broken phone that releases me of the pressure to respond to messages or power-cuts that bring me back to the simplicity of breath in the light of a candle.

Today I went out with Mama. Shopping. My daughter tucked up in her pram, wide-eyed for the world. Mama bought oranges from a local shop to squeeze into fresh juice at home, a daily ritual of hers. She waved at numerous locals who have come to know her and advised me on the best routes to take the push-chair so as not to get stuck. She wanders the streets with her granddaughter daily, for hours at a time, picking up sticks for the fire and getting to know more people who live in our area.

That's what I admire about my Mama. The audacity of her heart. She outright refuses to give up the idea that humans are inherently kind and caring. In the baddie-filled crime-ridden gritty city of Johannesburg, she makes herself at home and brushes off any fear-filled comments that float her way. I see how I let those comments in and feel inspired to detox myself from them. As I watch my mother seize life with my daughter in tow, I see myself too. Me, a tiny baby, held in Mama's dauntless arms. I was raised in a kind of adventure that money could never buy, one that only the free spirits of this world can permit. I remember the audacious hearts that fed me, hers and my Dad's, and I become braver in that remembering.

My moon time has returned. My blood now falls with the full moon. The bloated sluggish feeling clutches me tight, and I remember the intensity of birth. Tomorrow will mark four months and I wonder where time has gone. Life feels like a blip and I feel like I'm disappearing into endlessness. My significance feels questionable and I enjoy the freedom in that. What if I really don't have to be of any importance? What if the grandest thing I will ever do in life is listen to my child intently before her words form, hold her to my heart as she dreams, and sing her nonsense songs that will soothe her as she travels audaciously into the world like her Oma one day? What if that is the meaning of me?

Today I pulled on different tops, wondering which I might feel comfortable in if we do travel to the rurals. There I am known as Nomtha. I dress as a traditional wife and do my best to assimilate to the Xhosa culture that my husband's family keeps. Sometimes Nomtha's mouth becomes whale-sized and I find my Yana self swallowed whole and sat inside a big Nomtha belly. Funny that Jonah and Yana (Jana) are related as names. Do I need to explain that connection? Jonah and the whale? As I tried on those tops I was seeking a little Yana-coloured light to hold up in the dark of that wife-whale-belly. I found one. A black long-sleeved plain top that Mama said gives me a lovely shape. I'd like to live life as a lovely shape. One that the world looks at the way my daughter looks at christmas lights.

Perhaps I should start by looking at myself that way. And introducing myself that way too. Hi, my name is Yana. I am a lovely shape. It's nice to meet you.