30 Lessons from 30 Years in 3000 words

On the 11th September 2018, I’m 30. There have been times over the last few years when I didn’t think I’d make it. But I did. I am here. And I have learned a lot along the way that I wanted to share with you. I know not everyone will agree with all of these, but these are my lessons. The things that I have learned and the ways in which I try to live my life. Maybe you recognise some. Maybe you think some of them are hokum. Maybe you think they’re all hokum. But these are my 30 lessons for 30 years and I wanted to offer them out to you.

  1. Life doesn’t always go as planned
    Sometimes there are more curveballs thrown our way than we know what to do with. Life likes to keep us on our toes. When it rains it pours. But there’s something to be learned from every single curveball that is tossed at us, even if the only thing we learn is how to be really good at juggling.
  2. You can’t go wrong with a sequin or glitter
    Does this really need any explanation? There’s no item of clothing that a sequin doesn’t improve. Sequin boots? Winner. Sequin jacket? Divine. Glittery trainers? Yes please. Sequin jeans? Yep, I’ll even give them a try.
  3. There’s more than one soul mate in the world
    We’re sold the idea that your soulmate is a romantic partner, and while I’m pretty sure I found my romantic soulmate at 17 (god knows how), I have found any number of other soulmates along the winding footpath of life. I genuinely believe a friend can be your soulmate. And they don’t have to stay for long. Maybe they’re there for a season or a reason, but soulmates come in all shapes and sizes and they should be embraced wholeheartedly.
  4. There’s always something to learn
    I pride myself on taking an interest in learning new things, so much so I’m currently talking myself out of doing a masters. But there’s something to be learned every single day if we are open to it. I learn from podcasts, from the radio, from reading books that have entirely different perspectives and explore experiences that I could never encounter. I learn from the news and from re-watching old episodes of Gilmore Girls. And learning is like magic.
  5. No matter how much you read, you’ll never want to stop reading
    If you’re a person who likes to read, it’s a compulsion that cannot be helped. No matter how many words I devour, how many books I manage to squeeze into the year, I want more. I want more books propping up my bedside table. I want more books overflowing from the shelves in our one bedroom flat. I want to read more words because when you read you live a thousand lives and I don’t believe I was put on this planet to live just the one life.
  6. Good eyebrows are essential for framing your face
    I knew a girl at school who’s brother shaved off her eyebrows when she was sleeping and I didn’t understand at the time why this made such an inordinate difference to the way she looked. Then when my eyebrows went MIA and never came back after chemo I learned that eyebrows are totally crucial for framing your face. Bonus: your eyebrows are sisters, not twins. And they should be respected. Because losing them forever is more weird and unnerving than you might think.
  7. Sometimes you’ll identify more with book characters than real life people and that’s OK
    I see myself more in Scout Finch, Eleanor Oliphant and Hermione Granger than I do in most people I know. And truth be told, sometimes I identify more with characters in books more than real people. Because characters in books are usually openly flawed and if they’re pretending to be something they’re not, we as the reader see it from a million miles off. No matter how complex a character is, readers see everything. And that feels so refreshing
  8. Maybe we’re constantly getting to know ourselves
    To quote Joan Didion, as I often do, “life changes in an instant” so of course we can’t fully know ourselves. We can’t know how we’ll react when we’re dealt the cancer card or when we meet a person who will mould us into the best versions of ourselves. How can we know these things? So I genuinely believe we are constantly getting to know ourselves, getting to know the person we need to be at any point in time.
  9. You’re stronger than you can ever imagine. You will bend so much before you come close to breaking
    I have come very close to breaking point more than once. I have reached the very lowest of the low ebbs. But it took a lot more to get me there than I thought it would. And as of yet, I haven’t broken. I have many cracks and I’ve been bent into all sorts of twisted shapes but the fibres of my being still remain intact. I am so much stronger than I think I am. I can take so much more than I think I can and in that I am not alone. I know so many people who have looked hellish adversity in the mirror and stared it down with their own unexpectedly strong will. Human beings can take a lot more than we give ourselves credit for.
  10. It’s never a bad thing to dress like a kid’s TV presenter
    Polka dots, primary colours and an excessive amount of floral patterns make up a glorious wardrobe and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with accepting that. Never apologise for it. Embrace it.
  11. Social media is not real life
    It’s edited images and “content” which shows the best of a highlights reel. It’s not even just the highlights reel – it’s the very best bits of the highlights reel. And the best way to protect yourself from any negative feelings that you might be susceptible to as a result of exposure to this kind of thing is to curate your feed in a way that it makes you feel good. Only follow people who make you feel good about yourself. Don’t follow those who make you question your worth or your body or your character. You are magnificent and you deserve to remember that.
  12. Your job is not who you are it is what you do
    It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the job you do. It’s the first question people ask you when they meet you for the first time so it’s no wonder you feel like it’s such a big part of the person you are, but it is just what you do. It is not who you are. Who you are comes down to the stories you tell and the character traits you possess and how you treat other people. It’s in the way you react to situations that are difficult and they way you look out for the people you love. It is not the way that you earn money. That might be a part of it – but it’s not all of it. You are a multifaceted human being with so much to who you are.
  13. People will let you down. But people will surprise you (in a good way) too
    Whether they’re with you for a reason or a season friends come and go. Some people stick around through the thick and the thin. They’re the ones you need to give your time to. Because some people will let you down. You’ll probably let some people down too because none of us are perfect. But there will be people who continually show up and who surprise you with how great they are. Cling onto these people (not in a weird way) because they are like daylight.
  14. There’s no ailment the sea doesn’t improve (even if just for a minute or so)
    Sometimes I think I was some kind of sea-dweller in a former life, because there is nothing that the sea doesn’t make better for the time I’m stood in front of it, staring it in the mouth, watching the ebb and flow of the tide, feeling the salty breeze on my face and reminding myself that I am a tiny part of a big and beautiful and wild world.
  15. Love comes in all shapes and sizes and hues
    When we’re younger, we’re sold the stories of true romantic love, but some of the greatest loves of my life haven’t been remotely romantic. Love is about so much more than choosing the person you’re going to live with for what may or may not be the rest of your life. It’s who you spend your time with, who you share your life with and who you turn to in those key moments that are the loves of you life. As well as the person you share your bed with.
  16. Having your shit together is overrated (probably)
    Often strikes me that having your shit together might create a bit of a boring life. Half the thrill of living is not knowing how I’m going to react to a situation or set of circumstances at any given moment. It’s living on the edge isn’t it?
  17. Health is key
    A healthy body is an absolute bloody gift. Looking after your body is the absolute best thing you can do for yourself. I’m not talking about going gluten free or cutting out sugar, I’m talking about nourishing yourself with good food and exercise, being kind to ya mind and keeping an eye on the general goings on of your body.  Move more. Find a way of moving that’s good for your body and your brain. Take care of yourself because your body is your home and without it, you’re a bit fucked. (Note: you can’t judge other people’s health by how they look so this isn’t an invite to judge people for not being “healthy” based on their appearance).
  18. It couldn’t have been any other way
    “Let go of the notion things could have turned out any differently”. Maybe you should have gone for that job. Maybe you could have done something differently to hold onto a relationship. Maybe you shouldn’t have eaten that second slice of cake but you did. You did. And that’s the way things are going to be. Not taking that job is probably going to result in something better coming along. Maybe that relationship failure is making way for the person of your dreams to roll on into your life on a noble steed. Maybe that second slice of cake stopped your blood pressure from plummeting and you fainting on the tube. You don’t know what might have been. So try not to overthink. Everything happens for a reason (or, sort of at any rate).
  19. The universe has your back
    I know not everyone believes in this but I genuinely think the universe has my back. There was even some kind of purpose for me getting cancer at 26. I have no clue what that purpose was but it was a message from the universe that I am still unpicking. But generally I trust in the bigger picture and believe that all of the little loose or sad ends will be tied up in a bow and presented to me as a gift. Even if I can’t see it and it takes a while to untie the knots.
  20. There’s nowhere you have to be
    You don’t have to have achieved certain things by a certain age. There’s no ideal age to get married, or to have kids, or to start a new job or to buy a house or to be earning a certain amount of money. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be. And the right age to do any of the aforementioned things is the age that you do it at. What’s right for you might not be right for other people and vice versa. Drive your own drive. Do what you need to do. Your gravestone isn’t going to say “didn’t get married at the right age” or “wasn’t as good at writing as JK Rowling”. So try not to sweat that stuff.
  21. “Busy” isn’t glamorous
    Seriously. Busy isn’t glamorous. Let’s stop glorifying it as the be all and end all of being a successful person. Sure you’re busy but are you busy living? Busy learning? Busy loving? Because those are the busy’s that matter – not the busy being busy that we’re taught is the definition of being good at life.
  22. No-one really knows what they’re doing, they’re just better at making it look like they are
    This is one I keep telling myself on the regular. I often feel like I should have a better idea of what I’m doing because I feel like I’m floundering. But isn’t it in the moments of floundering we find the golden threads of life? The interesting moments that turn things on their heads? Isn’t this where we learn and grow? And isn’t learning and growing the best thing to aim for in life? I think so.
  23. Happiness is made up of little things
    It’s lots of little things that make up a big picture of happiness, not huge romantic gestures or massive numbers on your online banking screen. These things are good but they’re not the key to curating a happy life. To me, happiness is made up of moments and memories. The squeeze of a hand at a difficult time. An offering of chocolate buttons when you’re struggling. A laugh shared with friends. Good food, good wine (Prosecco), good tv, a safe place to live, a good duvet to snuggle under, a good book to read. These are the things that help me create happiness.
  24. Breathing can make a huge difference in pretty much every scenario
    It’s estimated that we take about 23,000 breaths a day, but how many of them do we actually recognise? All too often we’re on autopilot and if we’re stressed or scared or sad or distracted this auto-pilot can become erratic, leading us to snatch our breaths rapidly, which can exacerbate any negative thought processes we’re experiencing and help us regain a bit of control on the situation. I am a true believer in the power of the breath. It’s one of the few constants in our lives, something we can always come back to, to remind us that we are right in the moment, not in the future and not in the past. No matter what’s going on around me, a few deep breaths can be exactly what I need to reset and take a moment. It has been my salvation a number of times.
  25. Change isn’t a bad thing
    Change is scary. Sometimes it’s unwanted. Sometimes it’s unwelcome. But it isn’t always a bad thing. It can be an opportunity for growth or a chance to embrace new challenges and keep learning. Without change things stagnate and stagnation is the gross green slime you see in water sometimes. Change is healthy. Everything changes. We must evolve to keep existing. So if anyone ever says to me “you’ve changed,” I think “good. So I bloody should have”. Change isn’t a bad thing. It might bring challenges with it, but those will often bring great things too.
  26. Passion is crucial
    Life is made up of moments of passion and these are key for living the best life you possibly can. I’ve made a conscious decision since becoming sick to pursue what I’m passionate about, to chase it down with the biggest net I can find so I can catch it and use it to drive me forward. It’s so incredibly difficult to make your passion into your career, but then it’s all the more important to pursue it beyond the 9-5. Passion is what makes me feel alive and reminds me why we do the things we do to keep on living.
  27. The things you tell yourself have long lasting effects – so be thoughtful about this
    Sometimes our brains can be our no1 enemy. I know mine is. Sometimes my brain is a really horrible bastard that tells me the absolute worst things about myself. But it wasn’t until relatively recently that I realised just how much damage those things I’d told myself were doing. So take care with the things you tell yourself. Don’t berate yourself too much. Try not to be too hard on yourself. Because we listen to that voice in our heads a lot more than we think we do. So be kind with the things you tell yourself.
  28. It’s not a race
    Life isn’t a race. You’re not competing with anyone. Go at your pace. Set your own milestones. Run your own journey. You don’t have to be anywhere other than where you are.
  29. Sometimes the only thing to do is to take your shoes off and stand in the grass
    We spend so much of our lives with our feet squeezed into shoes but there’s something really wonderful about taking throwing your trainers to one side and reconnecting with the ground beneath your feet. I know it sounds like nonsense but it’s something my friend Sophie told me about and I genuinely believe that it is a simple way ground yourself in the moment that has massive benefits. And if your feet are in the grass, it means your body is outside and in a bit of nature and that’s more healing than any of us give it credit for.
  30. There’s so much more to learn. So much more living to do.
    I will never stop trying to learn more or stop trying to live the best life I can. No matter how wise we think we are, there is still so much to get from this incredible, wild and wonderful world we live in. There’s still so much for us to do. So many things to experience. So much left for us to give.
breakfast as self care

Nitty Gritty Self Care

 

If there’s one thing I really, truly love in this world, it’s words. I am obsessed with words, with expanding my vocabulary, with using the right words to tell a story, to describe a situation, to ascertain a feeling. Words have been my solace for most of my life. They are my safe place, my shelter in the storm. So of course, I watch with interest when a particular word or turn of phrase ingratiates itself into the mainstream and becomes a widely used “buzzword”. Words like “privilege”, “intersectionality”, “humblebrag” and so many more seem to take up a position in the zeitgeist and represent a huge part of what life at a certain time was focused on. One of these buzzwords, or actually, a buzzphrase, if you will, which has occupied a lot of my brainspace over the last year or so is “self care”.

Because here’s the thing. The idea of self care, while pure in its original intentions, has become somewhat of a cliche. These days, it’s become very much bubble baths and scented candles (thanks in part, some critics argue, to Gwyneth Paltrow’s often criticised website Goop) but allegedly takes it’s origins from the Ancient Greeks. Allegedly Pythagoras was a big believer in taking some time each morning (a whole hour) to ground himself before engaging with other people, claiming it is essential for getting your soul in order,  while Plato’s self care was rooted in taking the time to find wonder in the world.

Depression

For those who live with depression, many of the self care suggestions we see online are a million miles away from firstly, what we need, and secondly, what we could ever feasibly warrant ourselves. I’d love to roll running a luxurious bath and filling it with Lush bath bombs into my routine, but more often than not, if I’m in The Dark Place™, self care is significantly more about brushing my teeth, hauling my monochrome-visioned ass out of bed, forcing myself into the shower and taking care not to listen to the negative thoughts using my brain as a trampoline.

One of my big self care rules is that I will eat breakfast every day, regardless of how I’m feeling. If I’m teetering on the edge of The Dark Place™ or I’m right there in the trenches, breakfast and lunch are one of the first things to go. I’m pretty sure this harks back to the days when I didn’t eat enough or look after myself very well. It’s not an easy habit to shake. But breakfast has become a key part in the battle with my brain and all of the drama that the aftermath of cancer treatment has brought my way.

The revolution begins at breakfast

Most days I just settle down at my desk with a warming bowl of porridge or my signature Breakfast Paste (an apple, sultanas, oats and a tablespoon of yoghurt – more delicious than it sounds, I promise) but other days – usually when there’s no milk in the house – I head out to my favourite cafe in South East London, Brown & Green’s in Crystal Palace for my favourite London breakfast, their Bircher muesli with cacao and sea salt. Breakfast has become a bit of a revolutionary act of self care for me. It’s so simple but it’s effects are widely felt – I’m less lethargic, my fatigue is less pervasive and I know that I’ve done a good thing for myself which can be momentous if I don’t feel like I deserve any of the good things.

Sometimes though, these things slip. Even with the best will in the world, there are days where I sleep in too long or I just “don’t get around” to making myself breakfast and boy can I feel it when I don’t.

But the thing about this breakfast routine for me is that it’s an easy one to stick to. I know that yoga can do wonders for me when I’m not feeling great. I know that exercise, while not a cure-all gives me time and space away from whatever negative self talk is burrowing its way through my skull and into my awareness. I’m aware that I should meditate and I know that I should make a gratitude list. Getting out of the house, or hell, even out of my pyjamas, is something that has the potential to make me feel better – but sometimes, they’re just not accessible.

Depression takes all of the things that you think you should be doing and uses them as a reason for religion free self-flagellation. When my blues are so pervasive I can’t see past the end of my nose, it benefits me to have a singular thing to focus on. A simple objective that helps me get up and start my day, even if it means I crawl straight back into bed afterwards.

the nitty-gritty

This is the nitty gritty of self care – not the “Goopified” (there’s another zeitgeisty buzzword for ya) version we see on websites that aim to make a buck or two from those who are struggling. For me, it is based around self compassion. Self compassion comes from the idea that we should give ourselves the same kindness and care we’d give to a good friend. Food is my first go-to when it comes to taking care of a person, whether a friend or a loved one, and thus it has become my first port of call when looking after myself too.

All this said, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a self care ritual that involves a monthly massage, a hike in the woods or de-cluttering your room. These are all incredible tools – but I think there’s a risk that these suggestions aren’t inclusive of the people who need them most. Self care doesn’t have to be Jo Malone candles that cost a tonne and facemasks that purify, refresh and hydrate your skin (though they’re good too). It can be something as simple as putting a delicious, nutritious and heartwarming meal into your belly.

For me, the revolution against my brain and it’s negative tendencies starts at breakfast time.

What’s the nitty-gritty act of self care you turn to in times of need?

My Grandma Constance

My beloved Grandma Constance died on 24th February, four days after her 93rd birthday. She was an incredible woman and I am exceptionally proud to have called her my family. Here are two pieces of writing that I put together before and after her death. The first, I read at her funeral, the second I wrote as she was on palliative care, towards the last days of her life. I saw her last on her birthday. The final thing I said to her was “I love you”. The final thing she said to me was “I love you”. I will hang onto that forever.

My Grandma Constance

My Grandma Constance was a tour de force. I have admired her for as long as I can remember. I don’t know if she ever realised how responsible she was for shaping me into the human I have become.

I have been moulded by her love of words and reading. This made me into a voracious devotee of the written word myself and an avid writer. She bought me my first thesaurus when I asked her what another word for “kerfuffle” was. I think I was about six.

Her intense attention to detail when it came to spelling and grammar made me a total pedant when it comes to accuracy. She taught me to spell and she taught me the right place to put a comma for both practical and poetic reasons.

Her insatiable curiosity fed my innate need to ask questions. I want to know more, to experience more, to live life in a state of constant inquiry because of her. I remember the time she read Harry Potter, because she wanted to know what all the fuss was about. She never got past The Prisoner of Azkaban, the third in a seven book series because the Dementors gave her nightmares. But her need to know meant she had to find out why everyone was talking about “this Harry Potter boy”.

Her baking taught me to love the attention to detail required to make culinary delights, but I carry it with me in my every day life too. I used to sit on a stool in the kitchen as she pottered around and watching her make delicious treats out of raw ingredients seemed like magic to me. That’s not even mentioning the results of her time near the cooker – my favourites will always be her Smartie topped chocolate buns and the crunchy, rich fridge cake she’d rustle up from a hand written recipe. I’d live on the fruits of Grandma’s labour in the kitchen until I turned 93 myself, given half the chance.

I have acquired her fiery streak, her sharp tongue, her cold hands and her warm heart and her love of daffodils. Chris jokes that I am going to bypass turning into either of my parents because I am already my paternal Grandma.

She was the very best of the humans. Kind to the core, compassionate, brilliant, determined, warm and fierce. She was stubborn and she was witty and she was effortlessly intelligent. I often wonder what she would have done with her brain had she been born 60 years later.

Losing my Grandma has broken my heart. But in losing her, I’ve taken some time for reflection, time that we’re all guilty of not granting ourselves often enough. I have sat back and looked at our whole picture together, a picture spanning almost 30 years. It is a beautiful picture. Full of love, laughter, joy, goodness – and chocolate buns.

I loved her very much. I love her very much. I will miss her immeasurably. But I am so very grateful for every single minute I got to spend with her.

Grief

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last three years grieving. Cancer takes so much from you that with every piece that is removed, there is a process of grief. I have grieved for my hair, for what my body used to be and all of the phases it has been, I grieve for the time when I didn’t worry about cancer reappearing in my life, and the times when I hadn’t confronted my own mortality head on. I grieve for the career I might have had, the things I might have achieved. I have become very familiar with grief in the almost three years since they told me it was cancer.

But I had forgotten how it feels to grieve for a person. I had forgotten the all encompassing, enveloping heartache that comes with losing a person you love. I had forgotten the breath-snatching feeling of getting a call to say that someone you’ve had in your life, for your whole life, is fading. I had forgotten that even though you spend your whole life preparing for your grandparents not to be here, when one of them begins the process of leaving, a world without them in it seems inconceivable and ugly and harsh.

And while this falls under the same umbrella term of “grief”, the two are worlds apart. There are oceans between the feeling of losing yourself and losing a loved one. The number of capital cities between the two is overwhelmingly high – there are vast continents stretched out between the state of Self Grief and the feeling of saying “I love you” to someone for the last time.

I had forgotten what it was like to grieve for a person. But this week I am remembering as my Grandma lies and fades in a hospital bed, 53 miles away. But I am remembering her chocolate buns – my favourite baked treat, the fluffy Easter chicks on her April cakes, her jokes about feeding me boiled eggs, her insatiably curious mind, her warmth and her love of words. Her stubbornness and her fiery streak, her sharp tongue.  The blurry days of my childhood when she sang “I thought I saw Puddytat”.

I had forgotten what it is like to grieve for a person. But I had forgotten what it is like to sit back and see our whole picture together too. And what a beautiful picture it is.

Perfection Paralysis

My Dad has always told me that “procrastination is the thief of time”. It’s something he told me a lot when I was growing up, and something I think about often in my working life. I’ve always been guilty of procrastinating. I often put things off for as long as possible, waiting until the absolute key moment to get things done. I’m the typical journalistic type in that I work best when I have a deadline, because then there’s no dallying. And it’s best if that deadline is set by someone else, rather than me. Because if it’s set by me, I’m much more likely to put it off. This sounds like a terrible quality for someone who works for themselves and is expected to figure out and control their own workload, but I actually think that’s part of the reason being self employed works for me.

But I’ve had a revelation recently. I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting older or because I’m more self aware or a combination of the two, but it seems that I have quite a lot of these revelations these days. You see, as well as being a procrastinator, I’m also a perfectionist. You might not think it if you were to see the way I bake or the presentation of food on my plate, or the disarray of books next to my bed, but when it comes to my work, my writing in particular, there’s a strong part of me which feels that if it’s not perfect, it’s not worth doing at all. So often I find myself with something to write or an idea that I need to pitch and I stop. I end up paralysed by the idea that I’ll never be able to make anything as perfect as I’d like it to be, so why would I bother even beginning? Obviously, I’m able to give myself a kick up the backside more often than not (ALWAYS if there’s a client or a work project involved) – but there are definitely things, primarily ideas I have, that linger by the wayside as I procrastinate them off my agenda.

This is something I have really found with Life, Lemons and Melons over the months since the Kickstarter finished. This is one of the easiest things to procrastinate off my agenda that I’ve ever worked on. It’s a balance for me, at the moment, between doing work that I’m making a living from and work that is essentially going towards a passion project, not to mention the fact that putting a massive piece of my heart and my soul on the line feels like a gargantuan step. How on earth am I not going to screw this up? I suppose it’s no surprise that I hold incredibly high standards for myself. I have done for a very long time in pretty much every aspect of my life. I must be the best daughter, sister, wife, employee, writer, cancer patient, survivor, mental health patient I can be – not being those things, and the pressure I put on myself to do them, is a big part of what sends me into a tailspin that results in my prolonged periods of low mood.

Procrastination, perfection and paralysis are three words that sit together very well, and not just because they are alliteratively pleasant – but because one often leads to the other. When a hearty dose of self doubt is thrown into the mix (and everyone has at least a dollop of this thrown into their genetic makeup), it’s easy to see why people find themselves in a vicious cycle of trying to get things done, freaking out that they won’t be exactly how they want them to be, aborting the thing they’re working on and then repeating the whole cycle when they try to confront the task at hand again. It is exhausting. For such a long time I thought I was just lazy, but it is SO not true. I mean, I obviously am lazy sometimes (what would Sunday mornings be without a lovely long lie in?), but I’m not lazy when it comes to my working life – just sometimes I am incapacitated by my urge for everything I put out into the world to be perfect. Do you know how many half written blog posts I have saved on the back end of this website? Too many. Do you know how many half-written pitches I have for features I’ve been considering and then suddenly decided they’re definitely not worthy of sending? Countless. I have a whole spreadsheet. I have semi-written stories, opening paragraphs of stories and a notebook full of wild and wonderful ideas that may never actually see the light of day unless I break this habit. And I’d bet my bottom dolla that I am not alone.

So what can we do when Perfection Paralysis strikes? That’s a bloody good question my friends, and something I think Liz Gilbert touches on perfectly in her book Big Magic (if you’re at all creative and haven’t read it, beg, borrow or steal to read it).

I keep coming back to Big Magic in times of creative distress . She describes her creative journey as a “road trip”. Those present in the car are Gilbert, her creativity and of course, the unavoidable Fear, who’s main purpose appears to be to tell us that what we are doing is not enough. She goes on to describe the welcoming speech she gives to The Fear before the trip gets underway. She accepts that fear is coming along for the ride – but she sets out definitive rules for it if it insists on coming. She says:

There’s plenty of room in this vehicle for all of us, so make yourself at home, but understand this: Creativity and I are the only ones who will be making any decisions along the way“.

Gilbert goes on with the analogy which perfectly nails what it is to be a creative person who is trying to combat The Fear. Her closing words to The Fear?

You’re not allowed to touch the road maps, you’re not allowed to suggest detours. Dude, you’re not even allowed to touch the radio. But above all else, my dear old familiar friend, you are absolutely forbidden to drive“.

I’ve learned a lot about acceptance over the last few years – I’ve had to accept my body as it is now, I’ve had to accept my experience of cancer and I’ve had to accept my brain for the gifts it gives me. I suppose combatting this Perfection Paralysis is just another part of that – accepting my brain for the gifts it gives me, but not letting it run the show.

And here’s the thing. What is perfect? Who decides what’s perfect? And why do we put so much pressure on ourselves to achieve that unrealistic standard? As with most things, it’s time we gave ourselves a break. So I’m creating a new mantra for myself: “imperfectly finished is better than perfectly unfinished”.

AND HOORAY! I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT WRITING THIS BLOG POST FOR ABOUT 6 MONTHS AND I’VE FINALLY DONE IT. It’s not perfect, but it’s DONE!

Here’s a song by Fairground Attraction. When it comes to love, perfect is pretty nice

Future Islands – Brixton Academy, Review

While the lead singer of Future Islands, Samuel T. Herring, looks distinctly like a GP with his sleeves rolled up in preparation to perform a prostate exam, the sound that spreads through Brixton Academy from his voicebox and the collective sounds of the band are quite different.

Future Islands do not look how they sound. Quite the opposite in fact – the cool demeanour in their sound is not represented by their image. Had you only heard these guys on the radio, you’d be surprised to see the four men standing on the stage in front of you. They look more like they’re about to teach a geography lesson than rustle up a heady collection of songs that set Brixton Academy alight with a thrumming atmosphere and make feet tap to the rhythmic beat of the heavy drums and synthy keyboard sounds. And this is something which only seems to add to the magic of their live shows.

The intensely feeling lyrics, such as “People change, You know but some people never do, You know when people change, They gain a peace but they lose one too” from the hit song Waiting on You, enable Future Islands to balance dreamy, futuristic riffs, guitar sounds and the haunting language of the songs with meaning that lingers long after the song has finished. There’s something about their lyrics which speak to the millennial audience gathered. The crowd is hooked on both the sounds and words of each song as if it is an addictive drug, but rather than seeking nothingness from its clutches they are seeking guidance from the wisdom of the song lyrics and escape from the real world with the harmonious melodies. Every song can be related to the real lives of the audiences – we all hear a part of ourselves as Herring performs, throwing himself dramatically around the stage and giving attention to every word he sings.

Herring is a showman like no other, eliciting the full spectrum of emotions from the audience looking on to his performance. From the guttural roars of his low-end vocals to his theatrical, crowd-pleasing dance moves, dazzling high kicks, Cossak moves (yes, really) and overwrought chest thumping feeling of the lyrics, it’s as if every moment of the show is an exercise in exorcising his internal demons. Were it not for his regular interaction with the audience – singing directly to those crammed in at the front of the stage to expletive laden messages about how awesome the rowdy crowd are – it would almost feel voyeuristic to watch the man in front of you come undone and piece himself back together in every song, especially as the band’s latest offerings have become somewhat bleaker, exploring themes of depression, death and loss with in amongst their pithy electrobeats. His energy levels are similar to that of an over exerted toddler on a frenzied high before they crash out into a deep sleep or an exhausted tantrum. Just how much he exerts himself is evidenced in the way his characteristically cleanly pressed black shirt becomes a sweat-sodden memory of a shirt within the first 25 minutes of the show.

Future Islands sound like no other band of the present or from history and the album of this tour The Far Field (released in April 2017) is a rip-roaring success amongst those who require their music to have as much theatre as it does feeling. And boy do these guys know how to put on a show as they edge their way towards the curfew with no hint of winding down anytime soon. When the gig finishes, Future Islands leave behind a feeling reminiscent of the moments just after a storm – an electric atmosphere still hanging in the air and the sense that you’ve just witnessed some of the realest, purest magic the world has to offer.

food

A Love Letter to…Food

When asked what my favourite food is, it’s practically impossible for me to choose just one thing. I can’t even pick one meal, let alone one ingredient. I love the flavours of my go-to recipe, a delicious pork and bacon lasagne while the scents of a Sri Lankan chicken curry can drive me to distraction as it simmers away on the cooker. When I was in treatment for breast cancer, sometimes plain pasta and peas with a knob of butter and a grind of black pepper was the only thing worth crawling out of bed for. A light, fresh and vibrant stirfry is my favourite thing to tuck into when I’ve been a bit overindulgent and there’s really nothing better than a Sunday roast and all the trimmings, whatever day of the week it is. Put a block of cheese in front of me and I’ll happily nibble away at it, whether it’s cheddar, Wensleydale, Applewood smoked or, even, if the mood strikes me, a Babybel. Food, to me, is life. And I find solace in pretty much everything I eat – not just the classic comforts of Shepherd’s Pies and chocolate bars. In a perfect world, I think comfort can, and should, be found, whenever you transfer something from fork to tongue.

Cooking too, is somewhat of a salvation for me. Our little kitchen doesn’t have room for fancy gadgets, nor does it have room for more than one person to be in there at any one time, but the process of taking ingredients in their constituent parts and creating something that makes my mouth water has always appealed to me. When making meals, I so often seek new recipes for inspiration and then find myself thinking that I know better than the chef who wrote the recipe and end up freestyling. I’m an absolute tornado in the kitchen – often throwing not only food but pots, pans and bottles on the floor in my haste to whip up a taste sensation. Surfaces represent food war zones and the cooker top is splattered like a Jackson Pollock work of art but where his colours are varied and vibrant hues of paint, my works of art are made up of slices of leek, splatterings of tomato puree and sprinklings of herbs and spices decorating the cooker top as they miss the pan. If I’m baking, you can expect to find floury footprints on the carpet as I’ve spilled on the kitchen lino and proceeded to absent-mindedly trample it through the house. I once managed to get soy sauce on the ceiling, something I consider to be an accolade. I am never clumsier, nor more sweary than I am when I am in the kitchen, but the experience still has some kind of meditative quality about it. My camera roll is filled with poorly captured photos of dishes that I created that tasted incredible but which I could not translate to film.

At the start of my Boobettes talk, in an effort to introduce myself to the audiences and position myself as a real person, I share a few facts about myself. The line that always gets a laugh, or a slight smile of agreement is one of the most honest statements I can possibly say about myself. I tell them “I love food. If I’m not hungry, I’m thinking about being hungry. And if I’m not eating, I’m thinking about what I’m going to be eating soon.” And I really do love food. I love everything about it. From deciding what to eat (though admittedly, sometimes this flummoxes me more than it should), to carefully selecting the ingredients from the supermarket, to chopping and slicing and cutting and grinding and adding and stirring and tasting, to the slop of a saucy dinner as it is transferred from spoon to plate and the sitting down, knife and fork in hand, taking a moment or two to admire whatever I’ve created. Then I adore the way I can dismantle each mouthful to pick it apart with my tastebuds and identify the tastes and flavours of the ingredients I took in their raw, individual form and made into a meal. The way food brings people together is one of my favourite things about the human race. Family meals on mundane Mondays, everyone crammed around a too small table on Christmas Day, trying a new restaurant with old friends, meeting new friends at an old favourite. These are the details that make up the tapestry of my love of food. There’s nothing I like more than inviting a friend around for dinner and feeding them a home-cooked meal. It is, in fact, probably my only maternal inclination (I have come to realise that I may well be lacking in every other department, genetic or societal, for what it takes to want and to be a Mum – but that’s a story for another time).

But so often women are castigated for an open love of food. A passion for pastries can lead to a squishy stomach. An often fulfilled craving for a casserole can result in rounded edges. A big appetite can lead to a loss of abs. And we are told that these things are not good things. We are told that women should be slender and perfect and not gluttons who eat too much food and need to learn some damn restraint. Far too many times I hear or see women withholding food they want, the food they deserve, from themselves because they don’t want to put on an extra few pounds here and there. They restrict their access to, what I believe is one of the purest pleasures in life – the taste of an indulgent pudding on the tongue; the warm fulfilment and comfort offered by a bowl of pasta, that no other food can offer in quite the same way; the satisfaction of giving into a craving every now and again, because it’s your body’s way of telling you what it needs right now. And it is that want that is important. They are choosing not to eat what they want because society is telling them that they shouldn’t.

There is so much darkness in the world and it feels to me like food is a light that we shouldn’t hold back from ourselves, for fear of us growing spindly and yellow like a plant growing in a dark box. We need to seek out light and joy wherever we can find it, and I genuinely think one of the first places we can find a bit of that light and joy is in the kitchen, at the bottom of a tin of soup, or even under the chicken breast on an empty plate at Nando’s. And we should, if we can, allow ourselves that joy, despite what society tells us we should be doing.

This piece came about as a result of a conversation on Twitter about the incredible food writing of former Bakeoff star and all round food hero Ruby Tandoh and other female food writers. Check out Ruby’s latest piece in the Guardian here and the conversation it led to here.

In Search of a Bikini Body

I have never been one to strive for a bikini body. I’m very much from the school of thought that if you have a bikini and a body, you’ve got a bikini body as soon as you put the swimwear on. All of the rhetoric around dieting for summer so that you look your best has become outdated and passe, a mediocre and lazy attempt to target women through advertising and taking advantage of their insecurities. Every time a company tries to pull a new campaign out along these lines, society flocks to social media to call bullshit. I absolutely love it.  I love that we’re living in a world where we’re calling out beauty standards for what they often are – edited, airbrushed, unattainable and just not real life.

But I’ve been thinking about bikinis and bodies a lot lately. As most millennials are (because Whatsapp has revolutionised our lives), I’m in a group chat with a couple of friends, girls I used to work with. Earlier this week one of them dropped the interesting fact that bikinis were in fact named after the atomic bomb test site Bikini Atoll because, like the atomic bomb, it was ‘small and devastating’.⁠⁠⁠⁠ During my trip to Lanzarote in May, I spent quite a bit of time thinking about how my relationship with a bikini has changed a lot since I lost my boob in 2015. Weirdly, I think being in Sri Lanka and the Maldives with my uniboob and not a prosthetic in sight, made me more comfortable than I’d ever been in a bikini before. And a brief spell in Lanzarote with my folks recently reaffirmed that feeling.

I never anticipated that I’d be having liposuction this year, so that’s given me a whole different perspective on the bikini body too. To those of you who don’t know, I didn’t suddenly decide that I needed to invest in lipo to get super-fly thighs for the summer months, but my surgeon floated lipografting to me as an idea after I said I wasn’t sure if I could face the gruelling process of having a DIEP flap surgery. It’s a snazzy new technique which involves liposuctioning fat from other places on the body and then injecting it into the chest and gradually moulding it into a breast. I KNOW. INSANE RIGHT? Anyway, I’ve now had two rounds of this procedure and find myself moving slowly towards the world of having two boobs again. That’s a weird world. I’ve been this way for about 20 months now. Going back to wearing pretty bras and not worrying about whether I need to throw on a prosthetic is going to be…quite something I think.

I’m getting off topic. Despite the liposuction and occasionally feeling more comfortable in my own body than I used to, I’ve not been getting on well with my body recently. It’s not really all that new. I’ve talked before about my body confidence and about how cancer has impacted that. But the negative feelings have been more heightened than ever, probably as a result of the fashion disasters I’ve been having recently trying to find something to wear for a wedding. And it (combined with other things) has left me feeling pretty low. I’ve been cross that I have gained weight recently. Been frustrated that my legs are still bruised, still sore after surgery. I’ve had a lot of shitty conversations with myself about the size of my arms, about the fat on my belly, about the pains in my chest. I’ve been really shitty to myself. Really shitty. But one thing I’ve been working on is doing yoga pretty much every day. (I pushed myself too hard the other day & have been getting cramps in my chest as a result so there’s a thing to learn about balance too).

One particular day, the yoga mantra I was working on was “I love”. And while saying “I love myself” does NOT sit well with me, I did it anyways. And (unrelated to the mantra, but quite remarkably) for the first time in my life, I was able to do side plank. And hold it. That’s a pretty big deal for me. Not something I could do BC and certainly not something I expected I could do after cancer. During all this time I’ve been beating my body up, it’s been getting stronger. All this time I’ve been berating myself for being out of shape it’s been getting stronger. And I suppose what I’m trying to say is that my body let me down quite dramatically. But I let it down pretty regularly too. I let it down by not giving it the credit it deserves. I let it down by starving it of the things it needs and wants because of some crazy idea of perfection that has been perpetuated by the patriarchy and the media.

My body doesn’t deserve to be berated. It deserves to be celebrated. And so does yours. For whatever victories it has given you. So find a victory that your body has given you recently. Today. Yesterday. This month. Last. And celebrate it. Really celebrate it. We can’t keep negative thoughts at bay forever, but we can kick ’em in the goolies once in a while. Do that today. I’m celebrating my side plank in yoga. I’m celebrating my body, wobbly bits and all for swimming through the Durdle Door (BUCKET LIST – CHECK). I’m celebrating my body for getting me through cancer treatment and for healing from every. single. surgery I’ve had over the last two years.

And if you’re looking for a bikini body, stop looking. If you’ve been eyeing up that bikini on ASOS but haven’t bought it because you’re worried about your size or your thighs, or your tummy. Stop procrastinating. Buy it. Put it on. Feel fabulous. Because you already are. The world knows it. You just need to tell yourself.

On This Day. And This One. And This One

When I was a kid and we first got the Internet at home, I was transfixed by looking at the BBC’s On This Day website. This was, of course, in the years before MySpace came into existence and I found myself wasting time choosing apt song lyrics to express the depths of my emotion and deciding which of my friends should be in my top 9, not to mention being distracted by the politics of being a teenage girl. But before all that, when things were a bit simpler, I think On this Day was probably the website I visited most. I used to sit and read about all of the things that happened on specific days in history. What happened on my birthday. What happened on mum’s birthday, on dad’s, on my sisters. What happened on Christmas Day in 1973 or at the turn of the century. We had this enormous book called The Chronicle of the 20th Century which I used to pore over for hours at a time, devouring news articles and headlines from specific days of specific years in history. And it wasn’t even because I was a history buff who was obsessed with history lessons at school. While I found that part of the book and the internet interesting, I was more fixated on the idea of anniversaries than anything else.

It’s interesting, because I wrote about Facebook’s On This Day page for Stylist last summer and talked about how nostalgia like this can be damaging or painful. I stand by that line of thought in a lot of cases, especially relating to ex partners or old friends, or people who are noticeably absent from your life, but I still find anniversaries that aren’t directly related to myself pretty fascinating.

We all have anniversaries or days that we mark, whether they’re personal like birthdays or wedding anniversaries or the anniversary of losing a loved one; or whether they’re more generic days celebrated by everyone – St Patrick’s Day, New Year’s, Armistice. But when something happens – like in my case, you guessed it, you get diagnosed with cancer, you’re given a whole new bunch of anniversaries to celebrate. Scratch that.  I’m pretty sure celebrate is not an appropriate word for all of them, but there are certainly days that you notice more after you’ve heard those words.

The anniversary of the day you’re diagnosed. The day you had your surgery. The day you started chemo. The day you shaved your head. The day you finished chemo. The day you finished treatment. And almost inevitably, cos I am prone to excessive rumination, all of these days stick in my head. I never know if they’re happy days, sad days or a combination of the two. Sometimes I’m not even really thinking about it but I wake up and feel a bit strange and it takes me a couple of hours or a couple of days to notice the date and realise why (I can still blame that on chemo brain, right?). And every time one of these anniversaries comes around, I feel simultaneously like 30 seconds and 30 years have passed since whichever anniversary it is.

Last weekend was one year since I finished active treatment. I can remember every single detail of the morning leading up to my last radiotherapy session. I can remember what I was wearing, I remember sending Chris to find the nurses I’d seen every day for three weeks to give them a box of biscuits – a small token of my gratitude for making one of the weirdest times in my life seem more normal. I remember lying on the table, arms above me in 5th position and thinking about how far I had come in the 10 months since they said I had cancer. I wore red lipstick – the best armour I know – and I tried my hardest not to cry as they blasted me with a final dose of radioactive waves, the last my right breast will ever receive.

I feel like I haven’t come that far since I finished treatment, but in my heart I know I must have. Time moves, whether we want it to or not. Time passes, whether it goes at the speed we think it should or not. Days come and go, and whether we want to or not, there are so many that we’ll associate with people or things that happened. It’s like muscle memory – and even if the mind forgets key dates, the body always seems to remember. I guess it’s just a case of figuring out how we process the dates that snag our consciousness. And knowing that it’s OK to feel ’em, no matter if the feeling is positive or negative, or somewhere in between the two. That’s not just for dates relating to cancer either. It’s for all of the dates that mean something to me. All the dates that mean something to you.

I think I’ll always be obsessed with anniversaries – whether they’re mine or historical ones. I have a lot of dates that stick in my mind and I honestly wonder what I’d know if I didn’t use up valuable space in my memory with this kind of thing. And song lyrics. Reckon I know the equivalent of that whole Chronicle of the 20th Century in song lyrics. It’s also weird that chemo has forced me to forget what I went into the kitchen for (EVERY TIME) but allows me to remember key dates. THANKS BRAIN.

Exposed at New York Fashion Week

I saw something in the news this week that almost made me cry. And while, I’m more inclined to cry when I see the news these days (since Brexit in June and Donald Trump’s inauguration) these near tears weren’t borne out of sheer despair at the state of the world (that’s another blog post), these almost weepies came as a result of something that happened at New York Fashion Week on 14th February.

While I may not look like I know my shit when it comes to fashion, I think it’s pretty fair to say that I do. I’m no expert but I sit at the sidelines of the internet and watch with interest as fashion shows unfold around the world. A few years ago, I was lucky enough to explore backstage and sit on the front row for a couple of shows at London Fashion Week and I was absolutely in my element. I know I’m not exactly a style icon. It’s rare you’ll find me out of my jeans and a baggy tshirt, especially in these uniboob days, but my love of fashion has been formulated by the fact that it was my sister’s first love. So I’ve watched as the shows have rolled out of New York over the last few days. I clocked “hot convict” Jeremy Meeks (aka Stockton’s most famous export) on the runway for Phillip Plein, I swooned at Oscar de la Renta’s utterly dreamy AW17 collection and I noticed the rise in “fashtivism” on and off the runway throughout the week.

I never expected to look to a NYFW catwalk and see myself looking back at me. I’m not disillusioned, despite my recent rendez vous on the catwalk for Breast Cancer Care – I know I am far from model material. I do not see myself in Gigi Hadid or Karlie Kloss. But when a bunch of incredible and awesome breast cancer survivors, over half of whom are living with metastatic breast cancer, took over New York Fashion Week in an alternative lingerie show, I saw myself. I saw my broken and scarred body in these women and saw that it could still be beautiful. I saw their confidence and I saw their passion and determination and I recognised that I carry that with me now too. Not always, and not often as clearly as these guys did on the catwalk, but I do. I think every breast cancer survivor does in one way or another.

I whooped when Ericka Hart stood at the end of the catwalk, holding her power pose. I had to hold back the tears when one of the models who spoke to the BBC said that she felt really powerful because she is “tired of feeling ashamed of having cancer”. I was overwhelmed with pride for these women.

I read a lot about race and gender and representation. I know that as a white, straight, cisgender woman – representation is not an issue for me. While I may not see people like myself on runways in fashion shows, I do see them everywhere else – on the tv, in magazines, on billboards, in newspapers, in movies – but I appreciate how important it is for young girls to see women of colour on their TV’s or in their magazines. I can understand how incredible it must feel for disabled people to recognise something of themselves in advertising campaigns and I had an even better understanding of it when I saw these powerful breast cancer survivors normalising the after effects of a disease which has impacted every.single.part of my life. I know that I have nothing to complain about when it comes to representation. There are far bigger fish that we need to fry on that account. But this show made me feel human again. And it made me feel like a woman again. And it made me feel that I can be sexy again and beautiful again, regardless of the fact I’m missing a breast, a nipple and the vast majority of my self confidence. It made me feel powerful again. For today at least.

Created by AnaOno Intimates, who specialise in mastectomy and post surgery underwear and curated by US designer, and breast cancer survivor, Dana Donofree, the show was a first for NYFW – never before have “real” women stomped their way down the catwalk and I’m pretty sure no women will ever do it in quite the same way again.

Donofree told Reuters: “It is a very important moment for them [the models] to get out there and experience something like this because breast cancer has taken over their bodies.”

And this isn’t just important for the models Dana. This is important for every breast cancer survivor everywhere.

So thank you.

Image taken from AnaOno Intimates blog.

 

Why I March

I don’t know when I became a feminist. I used to say that it happened as an accident, that I stumbled my way towards it, but I’m not altogether sure that’s true any more.

I was raised to believe that I had the same rights as any man or boy I encountered. I was told I could do whatever I wanted, regardless of my gender. My parents instilled in me an innate sense of feminism – so much so that I didn’t realise I was a feminist until I gained a proper understanding of the word. That probably only happened a couple of years ago. And at first, I was embarrassed to call myself a feminist. The word had gathered a number of negative connotations – that we were rabid manhaters who believed in women gaining superiority. That we were angry, shouty women who resented men for all they had achieved. For a long time, I’m somewhat embarrassed to say, I referred to myself as an “equalatist” because I believed in total equality – regardless of gender, religion, race, sexual preference. Hey, past Alice, that is not a word. That which you’re describing there is feminism.

I don’t know when I suddenly realised that I was a feminist. I guess, it was when I started reading around the subject more. When I began finding articles by strong and intelligent women who had proclaimed themselves as feminists and found myself nodding along vehemently. Or when I sat down with my pal Sara (who now works at Buzzfeed and who you should follow because of her innate skills for keepin’ it real) to chat about feminism over our Sainsbury’s lunch. She said to me “Alice. Do you believe in equality for men and women?” to which I replied “of course.” And she looked at me with one of her knowing looks (she’s actually the smartest person I’ve ever met) and said “dude, that makes you a feminist”.

Now, I don’t hesitate to say I’m a feminist. I stand with my white, cisgender privilege and declare that I’m a feminist who tries damn hard to make sure my feminism is intersectional – that it applies to all women. I KNOW that my battles are different to those of women of colour or transgender women (who, incidentally have as much right to declare themselves as women as I do, regardless of how we were born), and I try hard to fight ableism too – but I’m still learning every day.

So when I made the mistake of looking at my phone at 5am the morning after the US election and discovered my heart in my mouth as I read that Donald Trump, a proven misogynist, had become President Elect of the USA, and held back tears for women across the globe – I knew that no matter how small it was, I wanted to add my voice to the cacophony of those who were shouting about women’s rights. That’s why I joined the Women’s March on London on Saturday afternoon.

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I marched to proclaim that Trump’s treatment of women throughout his lifetime is not OK with me. I marched in solidarity with the women whose needs were overlooked and ignored by white, middle class women in America when they voted into power a man who is fundamentally racist. I marched with the people who are scared about their future under the tyrannical reign of Donald Trump. I marched with the LBTQ population to help remind the world that love is love, whatever shape or form it comes in. I marched because women’s rights are human rights. I marched because we can never move forward if over half of us are held back. I didn’t march to speak for any of these people, because I can’t speak for every person in the world, but I marched alongside them, with them, to let them know I’m behind them.

I’ve heard a lot of criticism about the Women’s March movement over the last few days, but from where I was standing (admittedly the crowd was so big, I didn’t make it out of Grosvenor Square), this march was about solidarity. It wasn’t calling for another election. It wasn’t claiming that Hilary should have won (that’s a whole other can of worms to open and digest). It wasn’t about decrying women’s rights as fundamentally more important than men’s. It was about saying that what happened in the US election wasn’t ok with us. It was about humans, regardless of gender, standing together and saying that they way Donald Trump treats people is not the way we believe people should be treated.

I live in the UK, so I’m not directly threatened by Donald Trump but I am threatened by his opinions and his attitudes. We all are. These scare me. What they mean scares me. And as my friend Linzi just said on Facebook:  “Dear any women saying they do not understand the women’s marches because they do not feel PERSONALLY threatened by Trump. Firstly, that he could be elected even after the misogynistic, racist, hateful rhetoric he spewed is a threat to everyone, worldwide. Secondly, intersectionality always.”

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So what was my personal motivation for marching? Because I know women who have felt threatened by men throwing “locker room talk” around. I marched because this kind of behaviour is a gateway to domestic violence. I marched to let the British Government know that I believe they should be addressing all of these issues when exploring the “special relationship” with the USA over the next four years. I marched because women have been battling against the stream of misogyny for years and it’s time this shit stopped. I marched because I can not believe we live in a world where Donald Trump has become president. Or rather because I absolutely can believe it, and that says more about the world we live in and the horrifying reality of what that means for US citizens. I’ll be honest, I’ve been sleepwalking, consistently assuming the best of people. But with Brexit and now Trump’s election, I’ve had a massive wake up call, and it’s significantly less pleasant than being woken up by foxes banging in the garden at 2.34am (you’ve all heard that noise, right?).

Truth be told, I’m still figuring out where to go next from here (but I’m starting by reading threads like this one). I don’t want this to be where me adding my voice to the cause ends. I want to keep working to make a difference and I want to keep standing in solidarity with the 4 million people all over the world who stood up on Saturday and said “not in our name”. So this isn’t over yet. It’s far from over.

I will keep shouting for the next four years in the hopes that it will make a difference. I will be a nasty woman and I will be proud of it. I will strive to be kinder than ever. I will strive to keep adding my voice whenever it matters, not just when everyone else is doing it.

Because we are all in this together. And we’ve got to look after each other.

Now, more than ever.

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Great things I’ve read about the March

This is why I’ll be marching – Marisa Bate on The Pool

The Women’s March heralds a renaissance of resistance – Eve Ensler on The Guardian

Pictures From Women’s Marches on Every Continent – New York Times

Why Londoners are standing in solidarity with the U.S. at the Women’s March – Rachel Thompson on Mashable