I woke up sometime around 4-4.30 this morning, although I wasn’t quite ready to get out of bed. The cabin was still and dark, but outside, the first light was beginning to creep across the Norwegian Highlands. I could see the gorgeous sunrise from my bed, the sky gradually changing as morning arrived, and for a little while I simply lay there taking it in.
Eventually, I went back to sleep, only to be woken again by the sun itself streaming through the window and landing directly across my face. Apparently, the Norwegian sun had decided that my lie-in was over.
When I finally got out of bed, I did what I always do when I wake up somewhere that is supposed to feel like home. I reset the cabin. There was a little mess left over from my brother the night before, so I pottered around putting things back where they belonged, clearing things away and restoring the space to the way I like it. Then I stepped outside onto the terrace for a while. The morning air was cool, the landscape stretched out in front of me, and everything felt wonderfully quiet. I came back inside and made myself breakfast, enjoying that small pocket of time when I was simply in my own world.
Then my brother got up.
He wandered into the living room around 8.00, still half asleep, and asked for food. I pointed towards the kitchen and told him to help himself. He made himself a sandwich, wandered back to the sofa, and lay down again. About half an hour later, he announced that he was hungry. I reminded him that there was food in the kitchen and he could make himself something. Apparently, though, a sandwich wasn’t what he had in mind. He wanted a proper, nice breakfast.
And that was the moment I realised just how different this week is going to be from the cabin stay I originally imagined.
My solo cabin stay was never supposed to have a plus-one
When I came to this cabin, I came here for solitude. Not because I don’t love my family, because I absolutely do, but because I had just spent several days surrounded by them. I’d travelled between different homes, caught up with relatives I hadn’t seen for a year, spent time talking, eating, shopping, cooking, and being around people constantly. I loved seeing everyone, but by the time I reached the cabin, I was exhausted and overstimulated.
I needed quiet. I needed space. I needed not to be responsible for anyone else for a little while.
This cabin has become particularly precious to me because of what it represents. Last year, during my ten-day stay, I saw three humans, one car, and a dog. That was pretty much it. I had ten days where nobody needed anything from me, nobody expected me to be anywhere, and nobody was waiting for me to do something for them. I could wake up when I wanted, drink tea when I wanted, walk when I wanted, write when I wanted, and sit in complete silence for as long as I wanted.
It was bliss.
So when I came back this year, I was looking forward to having that experience again. I had already decided that this wasn’t going to be a productivity retreat. I wanted to edit my book, certainly, but I also wanted to paint, read my old journals, go for walks, take photographs, drink tea, make FIKA, and simply allow myself to exist without constantly asking what I should be doing next.
Then my brother decided to gate-crash my solo cabin stay, and not only did he decide to come, but he also decided he was staying until we check out on Sunday.
The audacity 😂
The old pattern would have been very different
I know myself well enough to know exactly what could have happened this morning.
My brother says he’s hungry, and without even thinking about it, I get up. I open the fridge. I look at what we’ve got. I start thinking about what he might fancy. I make breakfast. I put something on his plate. I make sure he has enough. I clean up afterwards. And somewhere in the middle of doing all of that, I realise I’ve spent the morning taking care of someone else when I came here specifically to take care of myself.
That pattern is deeply ingrained in me.
I’ve spent decades being needed. I’ve been the person who remembers, organises, cooks, cleans, sorts, anticipates, and takes care of things. Often, I don’t even consciously decide to do these things. I simply notice something needs doing and do it.
So when my brother said he wanted a proper breakfast, I could feel that old pattern sitting there, waiting for me to step into it.
Except this time, I didn’t.
I told him I wasn’t cooking breakfast. I told him that if he wanted food, he could go into the kitchen and make it himself. I’m happy to cook dinner because that’s something I don’t mind doing and may actually enjoy, but I am not here to provide breakfast, lunch and snacks on demand. This is my break from being needed and wanted by anyone.
And I meant it.
There was no drama. Just a boundary.
That’s perhaps what surprised me most.
There wasn’t an argument. I didn’t need to make a speech. I didn’t have to justify myself or explain my entire emotional history. I simply stated what I was and wasn’t willing to do.
I’m cooking dinner.
Breakfast is yours.
You are a grown man.
There is food in the kitchen.
That’s it.
And sitting with that afterwards, I realised how significant something so ordinary actually felt.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about boundaries, but there is a difference between understanding boundaries intellectually and actually holding one when somebody is standing in front of you asking you for something. It is easy to say, “I need better boundaries.” It is much harder to look at someone you love, know that you could make their morning easier, and choose not to do it because doing so would mean overriding your own needs.
I didn’t feel cruel.
I didn’t feel selfish.
I didn’t feel like I was withholding love.
I simply felt clear.
And perhaps that’s what a healthy boundary feels like.
I am allowed to have needs too
The phrase that kept coming back to me this morning was, This is my break from being needed and wanted by anyone.
Because that is really what I’ve been craving.
It isn’t necessarily a break from people. I don’t need to be completely isolated to feel restored. What I need is a break from the invisible responsibility that comes with always being available to other people’s needs.
There is a huge difference between someone being in the same room as me and someone needing something from me.
I can sit beside someone and drink my tea.
I can enjoy my brother’s company.
I can have a conversation.
I can cook dinner.
I can laugh.
And I can still have my own life within that shared space.
What I don’t want to do is automatically become responsible for another adult’s comfort simply because we’re sharing a cabin.
That is the bit I’m learning to put down.
The timing of this lesson is almost perfect
The funny thing is that this entire week has been giving me little pieces of the same lesson.
On Monday, I came to the cabin thinking about what a sabbatical means to me now. I realised that I don’t want to escape my life anymore. I want quality solitude, the kind of time where I don’t have to be anything to anyone and can simply be myself.
Then everything went sideways with Dad’s missed flight, and I unexpectedly met the frightened little Kiran who was still carrying the fear of disappointing him. Later, Dad apologised and told me to stop worrying about the money and enjoy the cabin, which brought a huge sense of relief.
On Tuesday, I wrote about my Meet-Cute Experiment and my intention to put myself back into circulation this Autumn. I want to start living again after a year dominated by pain, surgery, recovery, and heat, and I want to make myself available to life because I want to experience it, not simply because I might meet someone.
Yesterday, I sat down with the watercolour kit I had been carrying around and discovered how difficult it is for me to do something that serves no purpose. My brain kept asking what productive thing I should be doing until eventually I settled into the simple rhythm of brush, paint, paper, and concentration.
And today, I am learning something else about slowing down.
Sometimes slowing down means not automatically doing something for someone else.
Putting myself first isn’t selfish
I think women can be particularly good at confusing care with responsibility. We love people, so we anticipate what they might need. We want them to be comfortable, so we make ourselves uncomfortable. We want everyone to have a good time, so we take responsibility for creating that good time.
I’ve done this for years, but I don’t want to do it automatically anymore.
I can care about someone without managing their experience. I can love someone without making myself responsible for their every need. I can be generous without constantly giving from a place of obligation.
And I can put myself first without becoming selfish.
In fact, perhaps putting myself first occasionally is exactly what allows me to continue showing up for the people I love from a place of genuine choice rather than resentment or exhaustion.
That’s why I’m still perfectly happy to cook dinner. I enjoy cooking. I like feeding people when it is something I have chosen to do. What I don’t want is the assumption that because I am the woman who cooks, I am therefore available to cook whenever someone else gets hungry.
There is a difference.
My brother can stay, and I can still have my sabbatical
I’ve accepted that my brother is going to be here until Sunday. I may not have chosen it, and I certainly didn’t plan for it, but I’m not going to spend the next few days being irritated that my solo cabin stay has been interrupted.
He is my brother. I love him. He brought groceries. We’ll probably have a laugh. There will undoubtedly be moments where his presence is lovely.
But I’m also going to protect the reason I came here.
If I want to paint, I’ll paint. If I want to work on my book, I’ll work on my book. If I want to sit outside with my tea, I’ll sit outside with my tea. If I want to go for a walk, I’ll go for a walk. If I want to stare out of the window for an hour, I will stare out of the window for an hour.
And if my brother gets hungry, he can make himself something to eat. That’s not me being difficult. That’s me remembering that this week belongs to me too.
Perhaps this is the real sabbatical
I’ve been thinking about the word sabbatical since I arrived here, and perhaps I’m understanding it differently every day.
At first, I thought it meant stepping away from work. Then I realised it meant stepping away from the noise. Then I realised it meant creating quality solitude.
And today, I think it might mean something even deeper: stepping away, temporarily, from the roles I automatically inhabit.
The cook. The organiser. The problem-solver. The person who remembers everything. The person who anticipates what everyone else might need. The woman who can never quite relax because somewhere in the background there is always someone else’s need waiting to be met.
For a few days, I want to put those roles down. Not forever, or because I don’t love the people in my life. But because I want to remember who I am when nobody needs anything from me.
Maybe that’s the real gift of this cabin. The mountains don’t need anything from me. The trees don’t need anything from me. The rain doesn’t need anything from me. The little watercolour painting doesn’t need anything from me.
And now, my brother doesn’t need me to make his breakfast either 😂
This morning, I stood on the terrace after resetting the cabin, breathing in the cool Norwegian air and looking at the landscape in front of me. I thought about the little girl I met earlier this week, the woman I am becoming, the life I have created, and the boundaries I’m finally learning to hold.
Then I came back inside and made my own breakfast.
My brother can make his.
And honestly?
I think that’s exactly how it should be. ❤️
Kiran x
Kiransinghuk.com | The Sattva Collective
CHECK OUT LAST YEAR’S DAY 4 ENTRY
The Cabin Diaries - Day 4: Where Healing Feels Like Quiet Mornings
I woke up with the sun this morning, the air still cool and carrying that soft hush that only exists in the Highlands before the day fully wakes. The first thing I did was reset the living room after my brother's visit yesterday. I opened every window wide, letting the freshness pour in, the kind that instantly makes your lungs feel cleaner.