Yet, what I can’t hear is the constant, ear-piercing sirens that swarm the city. It’s strange to let the breeze brush through my hair and not be greeted with a loud noise that removes any capacity to think.

In a way, something feels like it’s missing: the chaos, humidity, and a smog of pollution coating my lungs, overstimulation around every corner. I’d liken it to a bad ex; you know they’re no good for you, and yet, you feel a bit lost without them. These sirens were ingrained into my everyday life, in all 5 of my senses. I moaned whenever I was talking on the phone to my nan, as she would always ask, “What’s that noise?” I couldn’t wait to get away from them. It’s not that I’m not aware of their purpose before you start thinking that; it’s more about the noise that I found jarring, which I completely removed from their role.

I guess the sirens became a metaphor for my city life. Rushing through the crowds of people to meet my friends for a pint in Stevenson Sq as soon as the sun came out, no time for looking up; I was always on a mission (i.e. running from something). From A to B, the ease of having all I needed on my doorstep; I recognise this privilege, and it’s for sure a first-world problem, but that’s what living in a city can do to you—an individualist mindset, treating the concrete maze like an escape room.

Suddenly, the air is fresh; it’s peaceful. I roam the country lanes, and I can count on one hand how many faces I see. I’ve nowhere to rush to; my thoughts have time to process away from the wall of sound. Despite this, it feels uncomfortable. It’s an adjustment period, I suppose… Will my own thoughts become the sirens?

There is nothing like walking in, the bottoms of my soles brushing against the carpet that hasn’t changed since the 90’s, and instantly being hit by the smell of sweet-and-salty popcorn, pulling me towards the counter. The fluorescent and familiar Pepsi colours encourage me to indulge; I know it will cost me a fortune, but I willingly spend. It’s worth it for the warmth that trickles through my veins, the first sip of something brown and sugary, sweet enough to feel addictive. I’m hooked instantly. As I open the double doors, noticing a cloud of fingerprints scattered across the handle, I wonder if everyone else who has entered these doors loves it just as much as I do or even what film did they watch?

The cinema has always been a safety blanket for me, especially in my adult years, a place to experience art without it feeling pretentious or out of reach, something it too often does for a working-class girly. It never fails me: on my period—cinema; need alone time—cinema; want to see a friend—cinema; trying to keep up with all the films flooding my FYP—cinema. The occasions are endless. It all falls back to my first memory, realising that my nan had the same idea, you can’t go wrong with the big, warm glow of the screen to provide safety on a cold, autumn evening.

With the constant hustle and bustle of everyday life, it’s my church, a place where I can completely lose myself and my pesky thoughts at the altar of the sticky floors and let the crumbs of popcorn that stick to my shoes transcend me to a holy space.

It’s more than a hobby. The cinema taught me how to be alone, without feeling lonely. A feeling I used to avoid before I learnt that there’s nothing strange, sad or weird about enjoying your own company, about doing things that quietly fill up your cup. If anything, it’s essential. Who knew that sitting in a dark room, surrounded by strangers all connecting over the same piece of art, could make me feel so connected!

This feeling stands even in a room of people who speak a different language from me. My friend and I went to watch ‘Wuthering Heights’ in the sweetest little cinema, or shall I say, “Kino” in Berlin during March. There were no more than 26 seats in the 2 screens that they had. It was interesting to see what humorous parts of the film would land with the (what I assume was a predominantly German audience) and what didn’t. I also enjoyed occasionally catching the German subtitles and wondering how that would impact the script or whether certain idiosyncrasies would be delivered in the same way.

I found myself observing the audience a little bit more than the film; it was truly beautiful to experience the cinema in another way and to acknowledge the pool of unfamiliar faces, we connected, regardless of where we were from.

If you take anything from my love letter to the cinema, I hope you take that the purpose of the cinema is for art to connect us all. I hope this is never lost.

PS. Go alone, take a blanket, your favourite snacks- you won’t regret it x

My first introduction to love was my parents- like most of us. Two 20-something-year-olds navigating love, the mundanity of adult life, and the challenge of raising two completely unexpected children within less than three years of knowing each other, they fell hard and fast. I don’t remember this exact moment, but when I look through pictures of my childhood, photographs taken on a cheap film camera, display the affection my parents had for one another. My dad’s hand is resting on my mum’s knee, just above the hemline of her midi denim skirt, which is the perfect shade of washed-out blue, and my mum is smiling ear to ear; they look so at ease in that picture, resembling that completeness that 90’s love songs so desperately yearn for.

My first introduction to heartbreak was my parents seperation, messy, vengeful, gut-wrenching. I learnt quickly how love can be beautiful yet soul-destroying. I won’t go into the details of the event, but as an 8-year-old, that is the strongest memory I had of what it was like to love and to hate. It completely warped my perception of love.

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They were good people, but not good together. It was a tale as old as time, the kind of trauma that fuels classic psychological theories, leaving me to feel like the model child for attachment issues, the billboard for “Daddy issues”: A young prepubescent girl latching on to any naïve boy who could make her feel “loved”. It’s no wonder I would scream “Black to Black” by Amy Winehouse on my lilac CD player, in my hot pink bedroom, lined with shaggy carpet, as if I had experienced heartbreak just like her.

Throughout my teenage years, I battled with the feeling that love needed to be earned; it was transactional, fragile, and conditional. I was always so aware of how quickly my butterflies could turn into a deep pit in my stomach, an aching heart. Love was dangerous, and a large price to pay.

It wasn’t until my early 20s that I actually began to form kind, soft and gentle relationships - not just romantically, but with friendships and my own relationship with myself. I did the whole “I need to learn how to love myself before I can learn to love anyone else” saga, and yes, whilst that holds weight and self-love is the one thing that everyone should prioritise, I’ve come to believe that when we look at others, it forces us to look at ourselves. I think loving others has shown me ways to love myself.

Fear once shaped the way I loved; I loved with fear. That’s not the “Dreamlover” I craved. Whilst love isn’t perfect, love is accepting that. I mistook intensity for intimacy and anxiety for devotion, believing that love had to be chaotic and precarious for it to be “real”.

In the spirit of embracing cringe, I’ve come to realise that this encapsulating emotion is not supposed to leave you with a racing heart, bracing for impact. It is steady, imperfect, but accepting, leaving room to grow without the threat of my once-dreaded abandonment, that clouded my judgement of how to be loved AND how to love. I have found a version of love that feels less like losing myself and more like finally coming home.

After all the turmoils, heartbreaks, and repairing my perception from childhood trauma, I am still a true romantic, fantasising and yearning for deep infatuation, the kind of love that feels cinematic. I feel alive when there’s a sexual tension in the air, the quiet electricity of lingering glances, the certainty of a hand resting on my hip or a thigh and a passion that creates an aura that paints the room in deep shades of pinks and reds, that only us can see.

Love is a shelter, sexy, cosy and inviting, that makes room for the person you are becoming, built brick by imperfect brick.

There’s a buildup of hairspray from Friday night laced through my slicked-back ponytail as I begin to write this (it’s now Sunday). I didn’t care to wash it, telling myself I’ll do it tomorrow. This is stage one of rotting.

I always notice my mood is better when I wash my hair, it’s like I wash away the thoughts that have been whirling around my brain all week, leaking into each strand, all ready for the start of a new one. As someone driven by their emotions, I’ll go through phases of wanting to be super productive and achieving my list of ever-growing life goals, unamusing life admin, a solid gym routine, eating a balanced diet, wearing a coherent, fun outfit rather than joggers and an oversized jumper, but sometimes, I JUST WANT TO ROT.

I know I’m not alone in this, with the ever-increasing rise of burnout and escapism being a vice for Gen Z. I think rotting could be one of the most “productive” things you can do. Not in the sense of tick-list, I feel so accomplished, more in a sense I return to my core self. To me, it’s a day where I do everything against the rules I set myself and simply do what my body craves. In a world where every couple scrolls, I’ll be force-fed “SpEnD a ProDucTiVe dAy wITh Me” or “My 5-9 bEfoRE mY 9-5” blah, blah... before I know it, I’ve been dragged into a comparison spiral and all the previous burnouts have been eradicated from my memory.

For the majority of my 20’s, I’ve let this make me feel guilty or as if I’m not doing enough, but the fact is, I am, and so what if others think I’m not?

My kind of rot day non-negotiables:

★ Lie in bed for as long as possible, no time limit

★ I will scroll, respond to messages I forgot to or flick through my photo albums (I am super nostalgic and ashamed to admit that I do this way too often)

★ Skip breakfast, straight to lunch

★ Shower but not wash my hair, that’s asking too much of me

★ Throw on the baggiest items of clothing

★ Watch Desperate Housewives for hours and hours

★ Snacks, tea, more snacks

★ Scroll through Vinted throughout the day

★ Build ANOTHER Pinterest board of all the things I want

★ Eat dinner, something hearty

★ Get back into bed

A year ago, I would have felt deep shame for writing this list (kind of ironic to be writing a list), consumed by how I might appear or what my peers would think of me. Yet, this list is what makes me feel softer and ready to conquer another week. Nourishing my body and/or mind is not just about all the things I do that are socially accepted; it’s about knowing when to stop, to do the things that I’m constantly pushed to be embarrassed of, for me to heal while being suffocated in the sphere of capitalism.

Not to mention, January is the perfect rot month, I’m all about channelling my inner cosy girl, and this drab month is the perfect time to do it. I personally don’t feel like the new year starts until February, with spring on the horizon, that’s when nature starts to blossom, so why can’t I? Not that the art of rotting is just for winter, it’s just as crucial to lie horizontally through the summer months as the breeze through my bedroom window brushes over me and the sun kisses my greasy hair. Regardless of the seasons, rest is essential to my being, an act of freewill.

I’ll wash my hair tomorrow — until another rotting day x

I was hooked by RosalÍa the moment I heard DESPECHÁ, a feel-good, fast-paced reggaeton pop hit that leaves the drum beats controlling your hips whether you like it or not. It has been on repeat every summer for the past four years, the soundtrack to my holidays in Barcelona, the Balearic Islands, and my time in Madrid, the perfect settings, however stereotypical that may be.

Her music has allowed me to connect with people who didn’t speak the same language as me (I’m finally making 2026 my year to improve my Spanish), singing the lyrics in a Spanish nightclub, without being able to translate to English. At the time, this didn’t feel significant. It was simply shared joy, loud and unexamined. This didn’t hold much weight to me at the time; the surface-level connection was enough, until LUX.

LUX is an entirely different entity from her last album, Motomami, breaking away from the mainstream in a way that feels both unexpected and deeply intentional. The album opens with delicate, theatrical piano notes that lure you in gently before Rosalía’s voice enters, soft, restrained, and unmistakably emotive. Before long, deep strings begin to swell and a blaring choir emerges, sung entirely in Spanish. This isn’t the only language sung on the album, however; Rosalía sings in 13 languages from the perspective of thirteen different female saints.

From the very first track, I didn’t feel the urge to read the lyrics in English. I didn’t want to interrupt the experience by translating it. The emotion was already present, carried through sound alone. I could feel it in the rise and fall of the orchestrated strings, in the way the music seemed to ask for stillness rather than movement. This is exactly what Rosalía wanted to achieve, as quoted in her interview with The New York Times:

“There has to be something that pulls us to be focused for fully an hour where you’re just there. I know it’s a lot to ask, but that’s what I want. There’s songs that haunt you like a fucking ghost, as soon as you hear them they are in your head, like a virus or some shit like that. And then there’s other songs that they just help you release something. Hopefully there’s some songs that help you have something freer inside you when you hear this album. That’s all I could wish for.”

I realised that language was no longer a barrier. Even without shared words, I felt an undeniable connection, visualising memories that aligned with the energy of each track. It wasn’t just about spoken language, but about body language, shared eye contact, and the unspoken connection shared through religion. Understanding, was no longer something I constantly needed to chase.

This surrender became most powerful in Rosalía’s references to religion. Her songs about female saints didn’t feel distant or doctrinal, but intimate, stories of devotion, endurance, and quiet strength. Even without the words, the reverence was unmistakable. It softened my relationship with religion, not the institution, but as a language of comfort, one that people turn to when ordinary speech falls short. Faith, like music, seemed to operate beyond explanation, something you don’t analyse so much as receive.

In countless interviews, Rosalía is asked whether the songs are drawn from her personal experiences. Without avoiding the question, she simply states that there has to be some truth from her own experiences for her to write, but LUX was never intended to centre her alone. She wanted to shed light on the experiences of the 13 female saints.

“Fortunately or unfortunately, it will have pieces of me, little pieces of me. But, I think the best fiction, is the fiction that has this blurry line, there’s a blurry line like the sweet spot between what’s personal and what’s universal, what’s detailed and what’s abstract […] obviously because I wrote it, there has to be some sort of truth for me in it. But at the same time, I think it’s much more about the other than about myself.”

I never expected to find myself relating to the emotional landscapes of saints. Despite a Catholic upbringing, I felt a disconnect from religion since my early teen years, choosing distance and indifference over belief. I had always associated sainthood with something unreachable, rigid and moralistic, not with feelings I recognised within myself.

Yet when listening to Sauvignon Blanc, Rosalía draws inspiration from Saint Teresa of Ávila, a Spanish mystic who renounced all her wealth to pursue a life devoted to God. I found myself reflecting on a similar impulse within my own life. Not toward strengthening any faith I may or may not have, but toward a deeper connection with the immaterial things in my life to build wealth within my relationships, time and creativity with objects I already own (that’s a whole other substack article). I want to be drinking Sauvignon Blanc with the person I love beside me, present in the moment, choosing human connection over the quiet pull of excess.

Yet what struck me in LUX was not doctrine, punishment, or divine authority, but behaviour: endurance, surrender, devotion, longing. The saints Rosalía invokes are not presented as distant holy figures, but as women who persist in their belief even when it costs them comfort, certainty or understanding. I found myself relating not to what they believed in, but how they believed.

This distinction mattered. It created space for a duality to exist: the version of me who remains disconnected from religious institutions and the version of me who recognises the emotional language of faith. In LUX, misunderstanding is no longer a barrier, because belief is communicated through tone, day-to-day emotions, as a woman, that I feel throughout my life, throughout my relationships with others and myself. The mystic saints are not trying to convince or translate themselves; they simply exist within their devotion.

In that sense, the album mirrors love and the ways we behave when we love. Not everything needs to be spoken to be understood or felt. Language, both literally and metaphorically, isn’t always required for magnetism to exist within relationships, romantic or not. Just as love can grow between two people who do not share the same words, LUX proves that meaning can be felt rather than translated. Eye contact, tone, and silence are all languages too in their own right, and while this isn’t revolutionary, perhaps we have forgotten their power. They are often the most honest ones, allowing emotion to pass freely without needing to be explained or understood in the conventional sense.

So, with all my rambling thoughts thrown out there, this realisation has unsettled me. If language isn’t always necessary for connection, then neither is certainty. I began to notice how often I reach for explanation, to clarify myself, to be understood and reassured, to feel in control of how I am perceived by others. LUX asked me to sit with something different.

Without translation, there is nowhere to hide, only the risk of being felt rather than understood. I have realised how often I rely on language to create distance, mistaking explanation for safety. It feels ironic that while writing this, some of the strongest emotions I experienced refused to be shaped into words. I couldn’t find a way to connect them neatly or make them behave the way I had envisioned in my head.

Perhaps that is the point. To let go of the control I so desperately want to maintain in my writing, in my self-expression, in how I am perceived. Lux did not offer me clarity; it offered surrender. Through it, I began to recognise how deeply love governs my world, and how devoted I am to chasing that feeling, even when it resists understanding.

Mio Cristo Piagne Diamanti.

Those voices are part of the grief itself. They’re its soundtrack; shame, guilt, sadness, all looping in circles I never asked for and never felt ready to face.

Today is the sixth anniversary of my dad’s passing. That number feels strange. It’s close enough to touch, yet far enough that my brain has started to blur the edges, almost as if I’m writing about someone else’s dad. Sometimes it feels like an out-of-body moment, like I’m observing myself from the outside, telling a story that doesn’t quite feel like mine.

My relationship with my dad was complicated. It wasn’t a straight line; it was a lot of stops and starts, a lot of distance, and even whole years of silence. In a way, I started losing him long before he died. Back then, I didn’t have the language for it; I didn’t know you could grieve someone who was still here. But when I look back, the ache I felt then is so similar to the ache I’ve carried for the last six years.

People say time heals. And maybe it does, but it also reshapes your memories. It softens some parts and erases others, and sometimes I’m not sure if that’s healing or just the mind doing what it can to survive.

Some days are still harder than others, anniversaries, birthdays, even the change of seasons. When the days start getting darker, my body seems to slip back into those anxious, heavy feelings almost automatically. I’ve never struggled with SAD, and winter never used to affect me, but losing my dad in November created this quiet link between the cold, early evenings and the worst period of my life. It’s like my body remembers even when I try not to.

And I think this is something no one really talks about: at first, grief doesn’t leave you. It hangs over you like a dark cloud at all hours of the day. I felt paralysed by it. Then come the waves, once the cloud starts to clear a little, the smallest thing can hit you out of nowhere: their voice, their smell, a memory you didn’t expect. Suddenly, you’re crying in the middle of Aldi on a Wednesday at 6 pm (Yes, it really is as embarrassing as it sounds).

But six years later, I cry a little less. I can talk about him (at least sometimes) without that familiar lump tightening in my throat. It feels like I’m finally learning how to live alongside my grief rather than fight it. I can look at a photo of him now and feel warmth instead of that heavy pull in my chest. The good and even the bad parts of him rise to the surface more easily, and I see him as the person he was rather than the pedestal that my extreme emotions put him on, this is comforting as it’s no longer this high almighty image, it’s the dad I loved for all his imperfections, and the memories behind those pictures come alive in a way that feels like he’s sitting with me for a moment.

Six years ago, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say his name without bursting into tears. And that’s exactly why I wanted to write this piece today. Whether you’ve experienced grief or not, I want people to read this and feel reassured that grief doesn’t disappear, but that doesn’t make it a bad thing. Over time, the emotions become lighter, and in allowing that, you’re also allowing their memory to live on.

To me, that’s what grief really is. It’s the emotion that lets someone live on through us—through every tear, every story we tell about them, even the little items of theirs we keep around the house. It’s so unique to each person, and I genuinely don’t believe any two people grieve in the same way. Yes, there are the classic “stages of grief,” and while they aren’t wrong, real life doesn’t always unfold in neat psychological cycles. Sometimes you move through five stages, sometimes three, in the most chaotic order imaginable because no relationship is the same, and grief mirrors that.

Anyway, I’m rambling now, and I promise I’m not trying to discredit psychological theories.

If I could tell Cortney from six years ago that she would be writing a blog post about her experience with grief and hoping to reassure others that the journey does get easier, she would be begging for that to be true.

I see my dad in me in so many ways, from my eyes to my dry sense of humour, to a resilience I never quite understood. I carry pieces of who he was, and who he was trying to be.

To my dad, forever x

While it’s tempting, I refuse to succumb to the misery that lingers all the way until April (UK winters feel like eternity). Instead, this year I’ve decided to collate a list of all the things that uplift and make my days feel cosy, while I try not to yearn for summer. Here’s my little list of rituals and recommendations to help brighten the darker months. I hope it inspires you to create your own autumn magic.

1. Surround my space with cosy, warm lighting.

This is already all-year-round non-negotiable for me. Lighting can really make or break my mood. I am not a big light girlie, but as we rely less on the long summer days, we must have soft, golden glows at all times!

• Lots and lots of candles, I recommend beeswax or soy candles if you’re feeling fancy, as they are less harmful or even battery-operated candles. These can be an inexpensive option as they last a lot longer and can be stored away for years to come.

• Treat yourself to a new lamp (budget dependent). Salt lamps can be a budget-friendly option; they provide such a beautiful orange glow to any space and can be really good for air-purifying and promoting better sleep. For the darker months, SAD lamps are a great way to wake you up in the dark mornings with their multi-light settings paired with an alarm that won’t shock you out of REM. Lumie host a good variety of SAD lamps ranging from £49.99 to £219, depending on your budget.

2. Dust away those cobwebs, let’s have an autumn refresh

We’ve all heard of ‘spring cleaning’, but why autumn cleaning too? Reality is, we’re going to be spending a lot more time in our own space, so let’s make it feel like a sanctuary we can enjoy:

• This could mean organising your wardrobe, let’s hide those summer dresses that’ll be staring at us, begging to be worn and make those snuggly knits front and centre.

• I’m one of those who LOVES cleaning, so I like to prepare by doing a deep clean, it makes it so much easier to keep on top of and creates such a welcoming space, your future Friday nights will thank you.

• Pull out your favourite blanket so it’s always within arms reach, easy access for those colder nights and creates a comforting space instantly.

  

3. Curate your soundtrack of the season.

Create a playlist that leans into this time of year or cling to your summer repeats; who says you can’t listen to Aquamarine by Addison Rae in October?

Here’s my Spotify playlist I made to get me through those cold but necessary morning walks: Romanticising Sad Girl Autumn

4. Move your body (no pressure, of course!)

Moving your body doesn’t have to mean lifting heavy weights; it can be dancing around your bedroom or even a quick walk to the shop. But if you’re feeling a bit more adventurous, there are some amazing workout classes dotted around Manchester that I’ve plucked out for you:

• Infrared pilates at Health Labs - Low light, warm aura, and all the benefits of infrared heat. This is such a calming class, allowing you to move your body in a soothing way.

• New Moves: Yoga and coffee morning - Founded by Caitlin Rawlings, this class combines movement, community and most importantly, caffeine. The perfect autumn/winter activity to boost your mood on those dark and dreary days.

• Hotpod Yoga Manchester - Yoga in 37 degree heat? SIGN ME UP! This is the perfect activity to get those limbs moving while in a tropical pod, dimly lit with a soothing atmosphere, pure heaven!

  

• Restart Reformer Pilates - If you want something that will really get those obliques burning, look no further than Restart Reformer Pilates. They have studios dotted conveniently across Manchester city centre and offer a range of classes for all levels. With instructors like (@ PilatesbyHannah on Instagram), who’ll make you feel at home.

• Zeno Health Club - A space that will really get the endorphins pumping. It has everything in one hub! Whether that’s weightlifting (my fave, nothing like feeling strong), yoga, or HIIT classes, they have it all!

5. Recharge your batteries:

   Cosy season is the perfect excuse to slow down. Pick up that book you abandoned in July, binge your favourite TV shows or learn a new hobby. Whatever it might be, this is your invitation to guilt-free hibernation.

6. Nights in with the girlies!

   Rainy Saturday nights don’t have to mean that your social life dies. Host a sip and paint night (wine and canvases). Even just putting on a classic Y2K chick flick to let the nostalgia heal you. Low-cost, low-effort and high vibes.

   

7. Gratification journaling this is a non-negotiable for me:

   Autumn can be such a gorgeous season, when I’m sick and tired of the cold evenings, I remind myself of the small things: colours and tones of orange and red leaves littering the pavement, warm drinks 24/7, hearty meals I cooked up with my boyfriend and a new knit I managed to layer perfectly, if I do say so myself.

   “Autumn is my season, dear. It is, after all, the season of the soul” - Virginia Woolf.

8. Coffee shops, coffee shops, coffee shops:

I firmly believe a weekly café visit is essential. Here are some Manchester favourites of mine:

• Yón Orangé - Specialising in the most delicious coffees and matchas, it’s a nice break away from the bustle of the city centre. With its cosy, yet unique interiors, it feels like you’re walking into someone’s Parisian apartment with Vogue magazine pages taped to the walls.

• Side Street - Day and night, this is the perfect bar/coffee shop. Their mid-century interiors call you in and make it hard to leave. It’s the ideal co-working space with great coffee and ambience, but also the coolest hangout with friends to get yapping.

• Allpress Espresso Manchester - This light-flooded café will make you forget about the depths of winter, with its perfectly curated interiors and world-renowned coffee. It goes without saying that this is the pick-me-up needed.

• Artista Perfetto - If you’re needing a pick-me-up, this is a great grab-and-go option for those crisp autumn/winter walks. Originating in Hong Kong, they provide a creative flair to your coffee with state-of-the-art machinery. If you’re a coffee fanatic, this one’s for you.

  

9. If your budget allows, invest in some kind of winter clothing:

   Whether that be a new fluffy coat, a pair of gloves or even a scarf, you don’t need a whole new wardrobe, just one or two winter pieces that make you excited to leave the house. Charity shops and Vinted are treasure troves for all your stylish finds (Shameless plug: keep an eye on my Collective Archival Depop & Vinted for some dreamy autumn and winter finds).

10. Last but not least, drop the pressure!

This is a season of rest, a slower pace, and sleep becomes a luxury. It’s important to lean into these hibernation months by doing what makes you feel your happiest. Eat that snack, listen to what your body wants, go to therapy, and skip that workout class if you aren’t feeling it. This isn’t all about productivity.

Be soft with yourself. These months may be darker, but they can also be tender and beautiful if we let them. So here’s to embracing autumn—the candles, the blankets, the coffees, the naps.

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So, here I am! If you’re reading this, know that I’ve been sitting with these thoughts for the past two months.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed how unnatural it feels to start a hobby just for fun. There always has to be an end goal — or a fear that it’ll lead nowhere. Even when I never wanted it to “be something” in the first place. My head can be full of ideas, but each one feels too daunting thanks to the lingering voice whispering: You’re not good enough.

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I started writing on Substack as a creative and emotional outlet, hoping that one person could relate to me. Sometimes when I sit down to write, it turns overwhelming. Suddenly, it has to be the perfect post. I tell myself it needs to be worth subscribing to, shared on social media in just the right way, paired with aesthetic photos, and carefully curated to fit a “brand”. All of that noise distracts me from why I wanted to write in the first place.

When it comes to perfectionism, it’s never enough. Hobbies turn into chores if you let them. Or you doubt yourself so much that the joy gets sucked out, you stop altogether, and then regret stopping. And so the cycle begins again…

On Saturday, my friend came over for a little “paint and sip” night. We poured ourselves some chicken wine (obviously) and scrolled through Pinterest seeking inspiration. But before I could even put brush to canvas, the familiar negative self-talk started to creep in, worming its way through my mind.

What should’ve been light-hearted, messy and carefree suddenly felt like another recipe gone wrong — half a cup of self-doubt, half a cup of perfectionism. I knew I wasn’t about to paint anything extraordinary, but still, that nagging thought of it had to be good hovered over me. Eventually, a wobbly martini glass appeared on my canvas, and while it wasn’t (my favourite word) perfect, it gave me just enough confidence to keep going.

That same voice follows me with all the new adventures I choose to do. I launched my vintage clothing business, Collective Archival, three weeks ago, and it’s been exhilarating yet terrifying. I find myself second-guessing everything — the photos I take, the way I caption pieces, even whether people will actually care or what to buy the pieces I handpick. Instead of enjoying the process of curating the clothes I love, I catch myself that it all has to look effortless and polished from day one.

Collective Archival

I don’t know if it’s capitalism, the constant pressure to achieve and stay relevant. Maybe it’s social media, with its endless streams of content and comparisons. Perhaps it’s just getting older, when time feels too precious to “waste” on something that might not go anywhere. What I do know is how quickly perfectionism can creep in and rob the joy out of things that should feel light, fun, and fulfilling.

The entire journey, we talked about our plans once we arrived in Malta, solely consisting of charity shopping, eating good food and spending our days sunbathing at the many beaches we saved on our extremely organised Google maps (highly recommend collaborating on Google maps with whoever you’re travelling with).

It was the perfect itinerary, a holiday where we could recharge and reconnect with each other and ourselves.

Our first night wasn’t what we expected, but we wouldn’t have had it any other way - the great thing about girl trips is that ordering sushi and watching Sex And The City on your first night in the Airbnb isn’t frowned upon, a complete act of freewill. It was the perfect start: an evening filled with good food and even better gossip.

Our hearts were already full, it’s true when they say it’s the small things in life.

After a relaxing evening, we were ready to hit the charity shops as soon as we opened our eyes. It was a successful venture through the rails of denim jeans, mesh camis and European brands like Morgan De Toi for €2. My friend Rhi is one of those people who has a natural eye for gorgeous vintage items that no one else is quick enough to notice; she’s like a magnet to all the cool things in the store, and they are instantly attracted to her. What makes thrifting with Rhi even more enjoyable is, she’s not only looking for herself, she’s considering me, and this selfless act is a new love language unlocked.

All the shopping was a right to passage for an iced matcha and pistachio croissant, with a side of people watching. It’s the simplicity of grabbing a caffeinated drink with your bestie that we should all live for; it’s the perfect pit stop before continuing with our browsing around the quaint streets of Valetta. It’s reaching 30 degrees and we’re desperate to find a dark corner to coat our shoulders in sun cream before they become blistered in the heat. I used to worry I wouldn’t tan when applying SPF, now I worry about how my skin will look in 10 years.

It wasn’t long before we could no longer bear the swelling of our ankles and the sweaty upper lip as we paced around the peaceful roads lined with historic buildings and cobbled paths. It was only right that we found the nearest boat stop and made our way to a rocky beach with the bluest ocean that would relieve us from the city heat.

Hours had passed as we lay on the rocks, occasionally dipping into crisps you can’t get in the UK and nattering about how lucky we are. It’s so easy in our day-to-day lives to take for granted the friends we have, but there is nothing more beautiful than being with them in a different country and soaking up every moment of their company, along with the high levels of UV, of course! Most days were spent this way, while evenings were filled with good wine, Aperol Spritzes and delicious seafood.

I won’t pretend it was all bliss, as with every holiday, there’s always something that goes wrong. We were influenced to visit the Blue Lagoon, an unavoidable location all over my TikTok- as with anything viral, it wasn’t as it seemed. There were swarms of people climbing over each other to find a spot where they could breathe, let alone enjoy themselves, us included. As we were walking through the rocky beach, I dropped my camera in the sea. With all the people and feeling overwhelemed, this felt like the end of the world and sent me into a spiral. Looking back, it’s now a silly memory that doesn’t matter, and it’s something that can be replaced, and luckily, Rhi knew exactly what to do to make me feel better about the “catastrophe”.

Even so, we managed to enjoy the rest of our days eating gelato and dancing the nights away. Our tans would eventually fade, but the memories—and the clothes—will always hold the story. Each sequin top, each flowy skirt stuffed into that tiny suitcase, now feels like a timestamp of Malta: the charity shop treasures, the sun cream stains on linen, the sandals that still have grains of sand caught in their soles. The outfits we vigorously planned, I realised, aren’t just what we wear—it’s woven into the memories we make and the friendships that shape them. The sequins, the skirts, the thrifted treasures are reminders, but it’s the laughter and love stitched between them that I’ll carry long after the trip ends.

We arrived at the airport, I was slightly apprehensive following the extensive research that I do before every holiday, there was a lot of scaremongering and negativity about Marrakech airport (and to be honest, Marrakech in general), yet we found it to be swift and before we knew it, we were outside the entrance awaiting our taxi to the Riad and enjoying the first touch of Morrocan sun. Immediately, I felt at ease and excited for the days that followed.

Our drive to the Riad was down streets lined with Palm trees, the seat belt in the taxi didn’t work and yet, I didn’t care, it’s almost as if safety measures I would threat so much about back in the UK didn’t matter, the danger is all part of the anticipation, the culture and taking the whole care-free thing a bit too literally.

We swerve down dusty roads, bustling with locals gathering around food markets and chatting away with each other in a language I wish I knew. The buildings were astounding, with traces of rich history on every corner, from the street names in French on floral tiles, to the opulence and attention to detail of Islamic architecture. Even the simple and functional homes of the locals remain traditional and stand strong against the hardships faced over centuries. The Riad was just as stunning, a peaceful retreat from the chaotic streets and the sweltering March heatwave, this was the perfect space to start our holiday.

The next couple of days, we spent wandering around the narrow streets full of souks and motorbikes barging their way through herds of tourists, who were haggling their way from stall to stall. This city will keep you alert, with the smell of leather bags, glimmering jewels, handmade trinkets, mirrors, and rugs- it’s a shopping haven and I was definitely in my element. You’ll never become complacent but I think that’s what makes it such an appealing location, it’s tangled and at times overwhelming but every corner will have you in awe.

Not only are the streets and famous squares of Marrakech a wonder for the senses but so are the vast deserts, we, fortunately, booked a day trip to the Agafay Desert where we basked in the desert sun, near the pool which felt otherwordly to have this body of water in between dusty hills and dunes. It was the perfect way to relax and have a moment away from the colourful atmosphere of the city. However, the calm didn’t last too long as that’s not my kind of holiday. We rented quad bikes, aimlessly riding around and enjoying the landscape, my boyfriend did most of the driving and I was a passenger princess (obviously), it was one of the best days, there’s so much this place can offer.

Aside from the gorgeous scenery, the sensory overload (in the best way) and the incredible food, the people of Marrakech were so kind, generous and welcoming. I’ve never felt so safe and appreciated, everyone we met and spoke to was so happy and it felt like they had all the time in the world to talk to you. We even had a taxi driver who offered to pick us up once our dinner was over, not wanting any money until he had dropped us home- I don’t know many taxi drivers in the UK who would be so trusting! I could go on and on about how amazing the locals were and their hospitality but I highly suggest you experience it for yourself.

I wish we were there for longer, 4 days didn’t feel like enough time but I think it’s one of those places that never does…

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As grateful as I am to share a gorgeous home with my boyfriend, a part of me grieves the idea of never living with friends again.

It’s a systemic way of adulthood for most of us, and it leaves me longing for the feminine, carefree environment we once took for granted.

Living with your friends made it easier to know everything about their lives, their thoughts, their plans for the evening, and even what they had to eat that day. Now it’s infrequent text messages, occasional scattered rants on voice notes and sharing TikToks we KNOW they’ll enjoy (this is a love-hate relationship for me), if we are lucky, we will see each other at least once a month and bounce from one topic to another with urgency to get all our thoughts out that we once could share most evenings, in the comfort of our shared space.

I think as we begin to live our separate lives, finding the time to have an in-person “yap” becomes trickier. Friendships ebb and flow, this adjustment can feel confusing and at times, lonely. It’s easy to question the relationships around you when there’s so much space for doubt and insecurity but it’s all about making that time, even if it is a 30-minute coffee on a random Tuesday afternoon during our lunch break that never feels long enough.

This is a love letter to my friends, though life gets busy, there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about every one of you.

Love Cort x

From May until the beginning of September, I was thriving, with the privilege of spending most of my weeks in different cities and countries across Europe. Surrounded by those I loved and who loved me, the seawater air tangling my hair, the energy of the bustling humid streets with a murmur of European accents and languages that created a white noise. Even the sunny days in Manchester were spent day drinking and having picnics with friends in local parks- reminding me to enjoy life and appreciate the smaller moments in life. It’s easier to romanticize your days when the sun is out. Of course, there were some shit days too, the ones that zap all your enthusiasm, and the downs feel like the PITS!!

The pits: come the end of September, reality quickly set in and my previous job became more challenging. I have always loved working with people, people who were deemed vulnerable, and people who needed or wanted emotional support, I found huge rewards in this field of work and felt valued for what I did most of the time- minus the micromanaging. As the weeks went by, I started to experience physical symptoms of “burn-out” and stress; A new illness every couple of weeks, stomach problems, constant fatigue, a lack of compassion, and the cherry on top Alopecia.

It took me losing my hair, to proactively change the things in my life that were making me unhappy, it’s crazy to me that it took that much for me to start taking my mental and physical health seriously. I know I’m not alone in this feeling, we are a society that allows things to build and it causes us to feel like failure if we decide to leave our jobs or even a relationship that isn’t serving us. The biggest lesson I learned from this is that starting something new and scary does not make you a failure, it’s empowering and it displays the determination we have within us to want a happier life. Although 2023 wasn’t a year full of sunshine and rainbows, it set the path I needed to reach the goals and level of happiness I wanted to achieve in 2024.

It’s taken me a while to write a new blog, so much has changed since I started writing and wanting to have a silly little creative outlet. I started a new job in market research (something I thought I wouldn’t have been able to do in the few months after I decided I wanted a career change that focused on marketing and market research) so far, I’m thoroughly enjoying it and it feels like the perfect fit! I’m so glad I took the scary leap of training in something new, it’s inspired me to continue to step out of my comfort bubble as you never know what could come out of it. I haven’t set any particular “goals” for 2024, January didn’t even give me the chance. Yet, it’s nice to just see what comes of the year and not apply any pressure to it. As cringe as it is, I hope for good health for myself and those I love, I hope for life to be calmer and to give more time to new hobbies.

This is just a short snippet into where my head has been in recent months and it feels good to get it out into my digital diary. I plan to write more blogs over the coming weeks, currently don’t have a clue what about…

I hope January was kind to you and look forward to the year ahead of writing crappy blogs with minimal insight <3

As I sit down to write my first post, the scraps of summer are nowhere to be seen, autumn is in full swing. I’m not sad about this, but neither am I gleaming with joy.

This summer was an incredible summer I’ll never forget, it taught me how important time in the sun with friends and family is. It was my first year going on a ‘girl’s holiday’ and my first year abroad with family (well, my boyfriend’s family). I’d never been abroad with my own family, we never had the money and my mum isn’t the biggest fan of long-distance travel, visiting Lyon with my boyfriend’s family was a new and exciting experience I’ll always appreciate!!

We stayed in a gorgeous villa in the centre of Beauregard, with a patisserie and a tabac across the road, a river at the bottom of the HUGE garden, and a private pool- dreamy, is an understatement. I feel like an imposter typing this, a girl who grew up on a council estate to now staying at a private villa in LYON?! World’s apart. Every day was spent around or in the pool, I’d never had so much time to be completely free of responsibilities or worries, it was almost as if I had retreated to the carefree child I once used to be. With so much time to ponder, it made me realise how unhappy I was with my life back home. Yes, I know, everyone is happier on holiday but, I realised the high-functioning anxiety and feelings of dread were not normal and were not how I identified myself. Throughout my life, I always thought I wanted to work in mental health or provide care to people who were struggling because of personal experiences and at one point, I did. Yet, my current job wasn’t fulfilling me in ways I thought it would and maybe that’s naivety even still, the most important thing about this summer was that I learnt that living in a state of high-functioning anxiety was not acceptable.

Who knew that lounging around a pool all day would help me realise how mentally exhausted I was?

Following the incredible trip to Lyon, I didn’t want to fall back into old habits. I decided to list my values and my goals in life (professionally and personally), the three things that stood out were, Progression, Creativity, and Freedom; the three things I definitely do not get from my current role. As much as I love supporting people through my role, I refused to live my life putting others first and putting other people’s expectations of what I should be doing with life onto my own choices. The week in Lyon spent retreating to my ‘inner child’, permit me to shift my perspective and realisation of how I want to feel Monday-Friday. Summer is a time that we have more energy and optimism- I’ve already recognised how the shorter days creeping in can have such an effect on my productivity and dreaming thoughts.

Even if it means, writing my shitty newsletter that I’m not expecting anyone to read, this is something I find exciting, rewarding, and fulfilling. I can regain my sense of creativity, I can develop a portfolio for future endeavors, and I no longer feel like a prisoner in my own life.

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