I’ve been meaning to write something here for a long time, but it’s taken a while to find the words, and maybe even longer to feel like there’s something to say. Not because nothing’s happened (quite the opposite), but because so much of it has been happening slowly, underneath the surface, often without clear direction or outcomes.

The last few years have been full-on in ways we couldn’t have predicted. We’ve lived through a three-and-a-half-year drought, the kind that reshapes everything. It wasn’t just dry, it was relentless. We watched the land change and with it, a lot of our plans. There were times it felt like the land was trying to spit us out; it would have made sense to leave. We even talked about it. But something kept us here, maybe stubbornness, maybe hope, maybe both.

During that time, we had to adjust nearly everything. Ideas we arrived with were put on hold, transformed or let go of entirely. The process has been slow yet honestly quite humbling. I used to feel like I had to have things figured out, that I should be further along by now, but the last few years have taught me a lot about patience and acceptance. Not the easy kind, but the kind that sinks in over time when there’s no other option but to stay with what is.

This year, finally, the rain came back. Not all at once, and not enough to erase the impact of those dry years, but enough to feel like a turning point. The land looks healthy again. The food forest is thriving and for the first time in a long while, there’s visible momentum. It’s subtle, but it’s there. And it’s helped me reconnect with why we’re doing this at all.

The yurt, which for so long seemed stuck in a never-ending state of "nearly done", is now edging closer to actually being usable. It’s taken far longer than expected, everything here does, but it’s getting there. Like so much else, it’s become a kind of metaphor: not quite finished, but still going.

There’s also a deeper piece to living here; the emotional, mental and sometimes existential reality of being in such a remote place. It can be incredibly beautiful and also incredibly lonely. The sunsets are often so stunning they stop me in my tracks and briefly dissolve everything I’m worried about. But there’s also a real ache that comes with the isolation. I miss warmth; emotional warmth, community, spontaneity. And yet, I’ve learned that I can survive this too. More than that, I’ve grown a kind of resilience I didn’t know I had.

Living with ADHD adds another layer to it all. Planning, starting, finishing, it can feel like I’m always juggling too many tabs in my brain, some of which just disappear without warning. The kind of life we’re trying to create here asks for a lot of self-structure and consistency, which doesn’t always come naturally to me. There’s been frustration and a fair bit of self-doubt, but also an ongoing sense of learning how to work with my brain rather than against it. I’m still working that out...

There’s also been grief. Some of it around people; friendships or connections that didn’t last or didn’t turn out how I hoped. Some around ideas that I poured energy into that didn’t take root. Letting go of those things is painful, even when it’s the right thing. But what’s surprised me is that I still have hope. Despite everything, the droughts (outer and inner), the delays, the limbo; I still believe we can create something beautiful and grounded here. Something honest. Something that offers people a chance to reconnect; with land, with themselves and with what really matters.

Finca Marjari was never meant to be a polished retreat centre or a perfectly branded wellness project. It’s a living, evolving space that reflects the people who care for it. Our vision is rooted in nature, in somatic healing, in seasonal rhythms and sustainability. Not just the kind you see in brochures, but the kind that comes from doing things slowly, ethically and with care.

We’ve still got a long way to go. In many ways, we’re still in the in-between, not quite where we were, not quite where we’re going. But this feels like the right moment to begin sharing more openly. To say: we’re here. We’re doing our best. We’re still showing up, even on the hard days.

If you’ve found your way here, thank you for reading. Maybe you’re also in a season of waiting, rebuilding or redefining what you thought your life might be. Maybe you’re navigating neurodivergence or wrestling with the reality of a dream that turned out to be a lot messier than expected. Either way, I hope this space can be one where that complexity is welcome, where we can speak honestly about what it takes to keep going and where hope can coexist with uncertainty.

Thanks for being here with us.