On Loving Instagram Without Losing Oneself

My Dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society, 

Pray, draw your chair nearer, for I wish to speak of something exceedingly modern and yet most ancient in its temptation — the little glowing screen that rests so innocently in our palms and yet can stir the most curious tides within a woman’s heart.

You know well that I have no desire to flee from the world in dramatic renunciation, nor to cast my Instagram into the sea as though it were some malevolent talisman, for I confess quite plainly that I love it — I love the quiet gallery of beautiful homes, the gentle exchange of thought, the correspondence between kindred spirits across oceans and hedgerows — and yet I began to observe, with the sober clarity of a woman no longer content to be ruled by habit, that there were moments when curiosity was not truly curiosity at all, but a subtle leaning outward to measure myself against another’s lantern.

It was not envy in its loud and unbecoming form, nor was it bitterness, but rather a small internal tremor — a tightening so slight one could easily ignore it — and I realised, with the tenderness one reserves for self-examination, that deleting the app would not mend that tremor, for if a lady has not tended the garden within, the weeds shall sprout elsewhere, whether in a parish hall, a marketplace, or the drawing room of comparison; thus I resolved not to retreat, but to remain, and to learn the far more delicate art of setting the phone down when my spirit whispered, “Enough.”

There is a most curious power in that gesture — the quiet placing of the device upon the table and the turning instead to one’s own life — to a teacup that requires washing, to a book half-read, to a husband waiting in the lamplit hush of evening — for in that turning I felt not deprived, but steadied, as though some invisible thread had been gathered back into my own keeping, and I perceived that regulation is not the stern refusal of pleasure, but the gracious choosing of peace over restless scanning.

How easy it is, in this age of perpetual unveiling and hurried transformation, to believe that one must either withdraw entirely or surrender wholly, yet I have discovered a middle path — to love the gallery without bowing to it, to admire another’s tapestry without unravelling one’s own, to open the app with intention and close it without agitation — and this, my loves, feels less like conquest and more like integration, as though the sea within me has grown calm enough that passing ships no longer dictate its tide.

I do not write this as counsel from a lofty tower, but as confession from a woman who has known the subtle exhaustion of comparison and has chosen, day by day, to return to her own hearth, and if you, too, have felt that faint stirring when another’s life seems polished and swift and endlessly renewed, may you remember that your task is not to vanish nor to compete, but to remain — to inhabit your own rooms so fully that no curated corridor can persuade you to abandon them.

For when I set the phone down and turned toward my own small, ordinary miracles, I felt steadier, and steadiness, I am persuaded, is a far more exquisite adornment than endless novelty; it is the jewel that does not glitter ostentatiously, but glows with quiet assurance, and in that glow I find myself loved without condition, anchored without striving, and content to be precisely where I stand.

Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim, 

Lady Raquel 

Unentangled: A Letter to the Woman Who Chose Peace

Stillwater, where peace does not argue. 

My Dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,

Permit me to draw my chair a little closer to yours, to smooth my skirts beside the hearth, and to speak in that low and tender tone one reserves for a beloved friend who has known both the frost of exclusion and the warmth of her own becoming, for there is a peculiar sorrow — and an even more peculiar strength — that arises when a woman begins to awaken into her own soul and finds, to her astonishment, that not all will rejoice in her rising; indeed, some will call her strange, others misguided, and a few, in their tremor of certainty, may even whisper that she has wandered into shadow, when in truth she has only wandered inward.

It is a curious thing, is it not, that the moment a lady ceases to ask permission to exist in her own spiritual skin, she is suddenly informed by anxious sentinels that she has stepped beyond the pale, as though the garden of God were bordered by their particular fence and patrolled by their own trembling convictions; yet I have observed, with the calm of one who has weathered many a squall, that those who cry “danger” most loudly are often fortifying the ramparts of their own fear, for when one’s faith is fused not to love but to alarm, every differing bloom appears a weed, and every sovereign woman a threat to the carefully tended order of things.

You must understand, my loves, that when you no longer quake beneath the opinions of others, when accusations fall upon your doorstep like leaves that cannot enter unless you open the door, there arises within you a most delightful lightness, a sensation as though you have at last set down a heavy trunk you had been carrying since girlhood, and in its place you discover something far sturdier than defiance — you discover steadiness; not the rigidity of stone, but the rooted grace of an old oak whose branches may sway yet whose heartwood does not splinter at every passing gust.

There was a season — and perhaps you know it well — when being misunderstood felt like annihilation, when family alienation stung like salt upon an open wound, when spiritual accusation threatened to unhouse your very sense of belonging, and yet, instead of shrinking into compliance or sharpening yourself into perpetual defence, you chose — sometimes trembling, sometimes resolute — to heal, to regulate, to return again and again to your own centre until disagreement no longer signified danger and judgement no longer dictated your worth; this, my darling, is not arrogance, nor rebellion, nor some theatrical emancipation, but the quiet consolidation of the soul.

You will notice, as your spine grows straight and your breath grows even, that many still live upon the battlements of defence, interpreting every differing thought as invasion and every unconventional woman as a herald of doom, and though it may at first tempt you toward a subtle superiority — that faint and fleeting whisper that you have grown while they have not — I entreat you to smile gently at such a flicker, for it is merely the echo of the part of you that worked so very hard to survive, and it dissolves most sweetly when met with compassion rather than censure.

True maturity, I have found, is not the absence of ego but the refusal to enthrone it, not the impulse to correct the world but the willingness to let others be precisely where they are upon their own arc, for when you can delete what disturbs you, close the door without slamming it, and whisper sincerely, “May you find peace,” you have already stepped beyond the battlefield; you are no longer interested in proving, persuading, or performing righteousness, but in tending your own lamp and keeping its flame steady for those who wander in need of warmth.

And oh, what a revelation it is to discover that the most potent form of strength is not loudness but lightness, not reaction but rootedness, not conquest but authorship, for when you cease to build your identity in opposition to others and instead fashion it from the silken threads of your own lived truth, you become psychologically expensive — unbaitable, unshameable, uncoerced — and in troubled times it is to such women that others instinctively gravitate, not because they shout the loudest, but because they remain the calmest harbour in a season of restless seas.

So if you, my sweet mermaid, have been called peculiar, misguided, or even wicked for daring to inhabit your own spiritual sovereignty, take heart, for your task is not to wrestle shadows nor to patrol the beliefs of those who fear you, but to remain soft and boundaried, open-hearted and discerning, wishing others well without surrendering your ground, and continuing, with the serene confidence of a lady who knows her lineage, to build a life so anchored in truth that even accusation cannot rearrange it.

I write this not as one who has never felt the chill of exclusion, but as one who has flourished despite it, who has learned that being unentangled is far more powerful than being victorious, and who would far rather be rooted and luminous than universally approved, and if ever you doubt your steadiness, remember that the oak does not argue with the wind, nor does the sea apologise for its tide — it simply remains itself, vast and faithful, and in so doing becomes a refuge for all who are weary.

Most affably yours ‘til my next enchanting swim, LR

A Letter on Quiet Lives and Loud Expectations

Dear mermaid darlings and the lovely Stillwater Petticoat Society,

I have been noticing something of late, and I wonder if you have felt it too.

At times, as I wander through these so-called slow living and old-fashioned spaces — the linen aprons, the sourdough loaves, the rows of industrious little hands — my chest tightens rather than softens. Instead of calm, I feel a faint unease, like a breeze that carries the memory of a storm long past.

These women are always doing.  

Cooking from scratch, teaching their children, tending homes and gardens, building dream houses plank by plank, posting daily, filming constantly, offering themselves endlessly. There is scarcely a moment when the hands are not busy, the mind not occupied, the body not required.

They call it devotion.  

They call it purpose.  

They call it a beautiful life.

Yet what I see — and what my body remembers — is something altogether different.

I see exhaustion worn like a badge of honour.  

Dark circles framed as virtue.  

Rest postponed, justified, or quietly denied.  

A life where stillness must be earned, and silence feels suspicious.

I know this life.  

I lived it once.

And it nearly cost me everything.

When I was younger, I carried a home, children, responsibility, faith, and expectation upon my back without pause or mercy. There was always one more thing to do, one more soul to tend, one more measure of goodness to prove. I did not know how to stop — nor was I ever given permission to do so.

The world praised my strength while my spirit quietly disappeared.

So now, when I see these images — no matter how charming the crockery or golden the light — my nervous system stirs. It is not judgment. It is recognition. The body does not forget what survival felt like.

What troubles me most is not the work itself, but how exhaustion is sanctified. How suffering is reframed as calling. How a woman’s worth becomes entangled with her usefulness, her output, her endurance.

This is not slowness.  

This is labour dressed in lace.

Authentic slow living — the kind that heals rather than hollows — leaves room for margins, for unseen days, for afternoons that accomplish nothing at all. It allows creativity to arise from rest, not pressure. It honours the woman herself, not just the life she produces.

These days, I choose a quieter rhythm. A gentler authority. A life that does not require constant evidence of its value. I no longer confuse depletion with devotion, nor busyness with meaning.

And if you feel that same tightening — that subtle tremor in your chest when you scroll — please know this: there is nothing wrong with you.

Your body may simply be remembering a life it survived.  

And it may be lovingly reminding you that you are no longer required to live there.

We are allowed to build beautiful lives without breaking ourselves upon them.

A Small Blessing for the Woman Who Is Learning to Rest

May you never again mistake exhaustion for holiness,  nor believe that a life must be heavy to be worthy.

May your days contain pauses that require no explanation, and rest that arrives without guilt or apology.

May your hands learn that they are allowed to be still, and your heart remember that it is not measured by what it produces.

May you choose beauty that soothes rather than strains, and rhythms that leave room for breath, wonder, and quiet joy.

And when the world grows loud with its expectations, may you feel no obligation to answer.

You are already enough.  

The tide does not hurry, and neither must you.

With affection,  

R.

From the Stillwater Days

—reflections for women who are no longer willing to prove their worth through exhaustion.

The Art Of A Quarterboard And The Naming Of Homes {An Olde British Nautical Tradition}

I'm so happy to be back after a week of working on a vast paint job. I'm not sure you had seen my stories last week on Instagram, but I'm finished now, and I realised something beautiful after having gotten that job. I realised that I don't like working for other people. As kind as they might be, it takes me away from my dreams of authoring my books, painting and working on The Carter Settlement. The money isn't worth it to me, regardless of how good the pay is, I'm now going to be saying no to all of them. I look at it like this; if it's not bringing my career forward, then I'm out. It's that simple. 

Leaving A Legacy And The Introduction Of The English Settlement

That's our dear Sawyer to the far left holding Zoe Kennedy's hand, wearing suspenders {he insisted in wanting to be different even on that day.}. I relish in those memories. Happy tears...

My dear friends, 

I posted a little excerpt onto Facebook this morning about my tiny epiphany on leaving a legacy for my precious boy Sawyer. 

As you may well know by now, I find that being able to share my life with you is such a therapeutic approach for my soul's growth. So I thought that I would share with you a few particulars that transpired this weekend.

I, Too, Am Creating A Tasha Tudor Storybook Life

My dear friends,

Today and yesterday were very good days for me. I was able to look where Sawyer IS, and not where he WAS. When thinking about the souls that are no longer here in a physical sense, oftentimes, it is difficult to make sense of things, for those left behind. The reason is that we have been taught very early on, that there is a separation; when indeed, there is not. I believe, that too many folks dismiss those moments of communicating with their loved ones, because they believe that once physical death has occurred, a limit has also been placed on our communication with the dead. Since my son's passing, I feel as though, the flood gates of communication have opened~widespread. I feel Sawyer ever more present in my life, even more, now than when he was in physical form.