So, I’ve just returned from the doctor. Diagnosis: vertigo.
I suppose it’s been coming. I’ve been running non-stop since July — organising the talent show, editing videos, coordinating graphics, managing everything down to the last detail. Add to that the preparations for Mum’s home, the interiors, the errands, the hours of standing and walking, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for the world literally spinning around you.
Yesterday, while putting up Diwali lights, the room suddenly began to tilt. My balance went, my blood pressure dropped, and I had to lie down, feeling as if gravity had decided to play games with me. I took my fluids, rested, and eventually felt better. But this morning, it happened again — so off I went to the doctor, and there it was: vertigo, my uninvited festive guest.
As I sat there, I couldn’t help but laugh — the kind of quiet, knowing laugh that comes with age. You see, for years I’ve imagined myself as Carrie Bradshaw — the free-spirited, stylish writer from Sex and the City, twirling through life in fabulous shoes and clever words. But apparently, I’m not Carrie anymore. I’ve become Charlotte.
Charlotte, with her house, her husband, her children, her dog — the woman who found meaning not in the city’s dazzle but in her home’s quiet rhythm. She used to seem naïve to me, a bit too proper. Now, I see her differently. She’s the one who stayed grounded. She’s the one who built something that lasted.
It’s funny how growing up changes the lens. We stop chasing glamour and start craving peace. We stop looking for the story’s hero and begin to value the ones who hold everything together behind the scenes.
I used to think being a Gryffindor was the dream — all courage, drama, and heroic flair. I loved the idea of it. In my twenties, Gryffindor felt like home — the house of Dumbledore, the house I believed even J.K. Rowling herself would be sorted into. That world shaped my imagination, fuelled my creativity, and gave me a sense of belonging when I needed it most. But as I grew older, something changed. When I saw Rowling’s transphobia emerge in 2019, the world I had held sacred began to crack. It felt like watching a piece of my youth crumble — the very magic that once inspired me revealing its darker corners.
Yet, perhaps that’s what growing up really is — learning to see hate for what it is, prejudice for what it is. I realised that maybe a Hufflepuff would have recognised this truth from the beginning — that kindness and empathy matter more than hero worship. The illusion of the flawless hero shattered, leaving behind something steadier: practicality, wisdom, and compassion.
Maybe that’s what life teaches us when it makes us dizzy — literally and metaphorically. That balance matters more than bravery. That it’s not about shining constantly, but about being there when it counts.
And honestly, as I start my medication and take a deep breath before the next round of festive madness, I realise something: I’ve built a life with roots. A life where, when I fell, four people rushed to help. A home where family still asks what I want for breakfast, because I am not up to making it myself. A circle that cares when I’m unwell.
For all the spinning, the world has never felt steadier.
Here’s to the Charlottes, the Neville Longbottoms, and the Hufflepuffs among us — the ones who may not seek the spotlight but who make sure the lights stay on.
Hearts Still Care 