Today, I’m writing this newsletter from a co-working space, which feels a little strange. I usually write it from the comfort and chaos of my own home. It feels unfamiliar to write this letter among the sounds of strangers’ conversations mixed with the soundtrack of generic hotel music. I actually miss the sounds of the television, my husband’s footsteps, and the air being punctuated by the screams and laughter of my children.

This year, I’m on a journey of rediscovery. I mentioned earlier in the year that through my social media detox, I’ve gotten back into reading and running, and I’ve been asking myself simple questions, like: is my favourite colour still pink? The answer is no—it’s probably pistachio green.

As part of this journey of rediscovering Tobi at 35, I found myself returning to my local library. I spent a lot of time—if not most of my childhood—there. Every time I drive past it when visiting my mum’s house, I’ve been curious about how much it has changed. Coupled with the fact that I spend a fortune on children’s books and that my daughter is now reading and forming her own interest in books, I decided that a family trip to the library—my childhood library—could be good for all of us.