Some might consider it a nothing age, not one of the big ones. But 36 seems like such a fabulous age to me, a happening age.

Maybe it’s because I keep thinking about all the women I remember being 36: my editor at madison was 36 when I started there; one of my aunts had her first baby at 36; another aunt got married at 36 (and, at the time, she considered it “old”). To me, it seemed like the kind of age when things happened.

Now here I am, at 36— I’ve had a baby, but have never been married or the editor of a magazine. So, lots of life left to live.

To celebrate, my favourite (and only) annual post: 36 lessons I’ve learned. Some the hard-easy way, some the plain hard way, but most the fun way.

1. Building a blanket fort really gives you a new appreciation for how hard it is to build a house.

2. You go through way more toilet paper when kids start wiping their own bottoms.

3. How to use a stainless steel frying pan.

4. Don’t order coffee from places with lots of old people. They’ll make it so hot you can’t hold the cup.

5. My mother was right about most things. Not everything, but most.

6. Some weeks, surviving without having a menty-b is a win.

7. Set reminders for everything.

8. Don’t buy anything full price.

9. Most of the time it’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it.

10. Kids find joy in everything; and it’s never how you expect.

11. Awe is a remedy for the soul.

12. Take a jacket. Being cold is worse than carrying it.

13. You can invent a game for anything. For example: Stair Fishing: tying a rope to a stick and a small basket and sending it down and up from the landing. Endless entertainment.

14. We overcomplicate so many things. Keep it simple, wherever possible.

15. Protein has a fantastic PR team.

16. Fads annoy me. (Which is probably a sign I’m 36.)

17. Gardening is therapeutic and physical exercise.

18. Buy nice or buy twice.

19. Nothing better than wearing matching pants with your kid.

20. Society is obsessed with powering on and I abhor it. If you’re sick, REST. There’s no prizes for acting like a hero and carrying on, despite what the mugs claim.

21. TV is not the enemy; phones are.

22. My 4 year old is better at identifying emotions that many adults.

23. People often cry ‘why me?’ — but why not you?

24. Dressing for your colouring and a body type can make a real difference but, in the same breath, just wear whatever you want. (I do.)

25. Going grey wasn’t as hard/bad/devastating as I thought it would be.

26. Pilates works.

27. Having a village requires you to be inconvenienced sometimes; you do it to contribute to the village.

28. Buy local.

29. Boredom seems to be the antidote to consumerism. Maybe even capitalism.

30. Lead with compassion. Unless you get that intuitive uneasy, unsafe, deeply uncomfortable feelings, then run.

31. Briggs is a national legend. As is Iyah May.

32. There’s always another way. Just sleep on it.

33. Finding peace isn’t about having a storm-free life; it’s about being storm-proof.

34. My 4 year old telling me I’m ‘the best mum in the whole wide world’ will never not be the best thing in the whole wide world.

35. Four is the best age.

36. Again: finishing the last 10% takes longer than I think.

Now, rather than fighting my desire/need/toxic habit of having 2,430,957,205 tabs open at once, it’s making it easier for me to see them all at once!

(I deliberately screenshotted the tabs I had open for my uni assignment, rather than the other browser window with all the ‘best non-fragrance hair oil for wirey gray hairs’ and ‘how many times a day should a 4 year old poo’.)

On the surface, it’s just fantastic user experience, aka UX, design. But the premise is actually even better: don’t fight your toxic traits, just create a better system to incorporate them!

Once upon a time, we didn’t even have tabs! Back in the early noughties when everyone was dressed very similar to how they are now. What a world it was. Ten thousand windows open at once on the aqua blue iMac; it was like Tetris trying to line them up on your screen so you could see them all and get to the one you needed.

But then those evil tech monsters saw what we were doing (because they see everything) so they suggested putting tabs in one browser? Yes please! Very year 12 binder vibes.

Suddenly we could just ‘open in new tab’! Everything could be a new tab. Keep lots of tabs open. All our tabs, happily nestled into one window.

Then chaos unleashed. We had so many tabs open that when we clicked on them, we accidentally closed them because there’s so many we can’t see which one it is and the X takes up the whole tab label! (I’m saying ‘we’ but is this just me and my friend Steph who I work with??)

But now: tabs on the side!? FAB. Absolutely genius! You’re evil but brilliant.

(Also I realise there will be a bunch of weirdos who only operate one tab at a time. Based on no evidence, I can’t help but feel that you are in the minority but also likely to be highly effective.)

Google is working with our dysfunctional nature, rather than against it. They’re making our dysfunction function. Quite toxic really. But, honestly, it’s what I need to start doing. I need to be a Life UX Designer. (And switch to ProtonMail.)

As I’ve mentioned a million times before, I’m a) very easily distracted and b) a recovering perfectionist who strives to do all jobs (even ones I don’t like) perfectly. Terrible combo, do not recommend. It often means I pop out to get some basil while I’m cooking, end up weeding the whole flower bed and overcooking the pasta.

But, rather than fighting it, I need to find a better way to use it. Make my dysfunction functional.

This week I tried. I convinced myself to do something by saying ‘just take a quick look at, just for a minute.’ I had a ‘quick look’, got distracted doing it— and once I’ve started, I’m entranced—lost track of time and had to quickly rush to pick my daughter up in time. Absolutely brilliant.

Of course, there are obvious flaws to this plan. Like: what was I meant to be doing? (Can’t remember.) And it’s obviously not the best for ‘project planning’ or ‘effective time management.’

But the thing is: I’m rubbish at those anyway! They don’t work for me, ever. And believe me I’ve tried every platform and strategy, read every book and Reddit suggestion. Mapping it out, to do list blah blah blah; it never works. But telling myself I’ll just spend 5 minutes looking at it before I have a cup of tea with a raspberry and white chocolate muffin? I’ll end up in the zone, get it done by that afternoon, and run late to pick my kid up.

The idea that I just need to harness my willpower, work on my self discipline, and learn how to manage time is, quite frankly, a waste of time. Instead, I can just lie to myself and harness my wily albeit shambolic nature. Isn’t that what Nike meant when they said Just Do It? Mine is: Trick Yourself Then You’ll Do It.

Like Google, I need to design features based on how I’m operating rather than how I aspire to be. A million tabs open? Fab—here’s an easy way to view them all at once. Not very good at doing what you need to do? Same—just tell yourself it’ll only take five minutes. (Guess how I got this finished!)

We’d all like to have Immanuel Kant levels of self discipline, but we kant all be that way. (I choose him just for that line but realise it might be a niche reference: basically he was an extremely disciplined philosopher who ran his day like clockwork, which he could because he was a white man and had servants.)

Regardless, self discipline is overrated. Keep the tabs open! Lie to yourself! Eat the rich! Just get it done.

Rather than constantly being at war with myself, I’m going to use my faults to my advantage. Make my dysfunction functional, embrace my flaws. I’m sure there’s something about all that in the The Art of War—or even the The War of Art.

In the end, it’s just about getting it done. Then you can have that cup of tea and raspberry and white chocolate muffin, while being thankful you don’t live in an evil country where billionaires all find tax loopholes rather than paying their civic duty. Oh, wait, hang on…

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But if you were to call me right now and tell me one of my best friends was hired as a big supermarket’s Head of Quality Assurance, aka the person responsible for wasting hundreds of kilos of food on the premise of ‘cosmetic standards’ every year, I’d immediately soften. I’d start reconciling their decision, claim they’re doing it to make change, blah blah blah, etc, etc.

What I would be saying and my core belief system would be completely unaligned; an immediate and obvious double standard. (Luckily they’re all good people, so they keep my hypocrisy to a minimum.)

I’m like this with most women (a few heavy exclusions apply; *cough* Linda Reynolds *cough*). If I’m ever embroiled into a random couples (often intoxicated) argument—which I have been, on more than one occasion—you better bet your bottom dollar I’m on her side.

For instance, when Lily Allen exposed David Harbour’s private habits, I felt she was more than justified. How dare he abuse the rules of their open relationship! (Is that what it was?? Can’t say I’m fully across all the deets.) Basically, hell hath no fury like Lily Allen scorned! As is her right as an artist with two kids to feed.

Yet if David Harbour had done it to Lily? I’d call for his head!

In fact, when it came out Lily Allen had an affair with Liam Gallagher while he was married to Nicole Appleton, that still didn’t sway me. I assumed she had her reasons. Why do we always blame the woman!? BLAME LIAM. Anyway, that’s between Lily, Liam, and Nicole. None of our business.

However, when Kevin Federline wrote a book to further monetise Britney Spear’s pain? I found it disgusting. Because it is.

The man released it practically the week his children came of age and his child support payments from Britney stopped. He emotionally abused and financially used that woman for decades; as did most of her family. (Jamie Lynn Spears, you have a lot to answer for.)

Some would argue Lily and Kevin did the same thing… but they didn’t. Lily had the decency to use pseudonyms.

In my mind, Lily’s an artist and Kevin’s a hack. There’s no argument. Yet in the same breath, I acknowledge this might be a double standard. (Debatable, but possible.)

I’m biassed towards women, and I know it. When it comes to the plight of women, I do have double standards. Mainly because we experience double the double standards, so I believe I’m just evening the playing field.

Many double standards derive from our biases; people lean towards people like themselves. There’s lots of science behind it: social identity theory, in-group bias, homophily, take your pick. The best proof of these concepts is the patriarchy. After nearly a millennium in the sun, it boils down to: white men (even without realising it or needing to say it out loud) just picked each other for jobs, promotions, leadership roles, winners in lawsuits of any kind, etc. Worked a treat.

We all have biases. Every single one of us, without a doubt. The only difference is that some people acknowledge them while others don’t.

Biases aren’t all bad; they do serve a function. For instance, I’m biased towards my daughter—she’s perfection, an absolute genius, and I won’t be persuaded otherwise. Most likely, I’m biologically wired like this to ensure I remain focused on keeping her alive.

When we love and/or adore someone, we often wear a pair of rose-coloured glasses. That’s why love is the colour red, and we give roses on Valentine’s Day.

Additionally, I’m biassed towards my friends—who can waste massive amounts of food if they choose. (Although I’d rather they didn’t, and honestly they wouldn’t; they are all good people.) I’m biassed towards my family, Lily Allen, my favourite Rachels — Ms, Bilson, and McAdams. Unsure what the psychology is behind that though.

Some biases are mental shortcuts for our brains; an attempt to make fast decisions. Not always good ones, just fast ones. Which is why many biases regularly skew our judgements too.

My double standards aren’t hurting anyone: Lily Allen and David Harbour are both still rich, as are Britney and Kevin. But the double standards on women, anyone who isn’t white, and people living in poverty, just to name a few, are often harmful.

Riddle me this: why are we all fine with the royal family marrying their cousins yet it’s considered derro for anyone else? And have you read how much alcohol Queen Elizabeth drank in a day?! If you heard someone on the dole had a gin and Dubonnet before lunch everyday you’d be calling for a tax reform, yet the Royals—who also live off public money—can??

Recognise the double standard for what it is. Luckily most of us don’t want to breed with our cousins so it’s fine, but other double standards do impact us.

Pauline Hanson standing up at the National Press Club claiming that workers ‘are lazy’, and ‘don’t want to work anymore’, while only showing up to her job 53% of the time, is a brazen double standard. (For reference, David Pocock’s attendance is 86%, and Larissa Waters, leader of the Greens, is 94%.)

There’s often a double standard when people talk about Barack Obama as President. Countless times I’ve heard people say, ‘but what did he actually do?’ Aside from the fact he did heaps of stuff, notice how no one ever says, ‘but what did either of the George Bush’s actually ever do?’

Despite some men decreeing equality already exists, an Australian household survey over 20 years found women do double the labour at home. While being in the workforce. And getting paid less. It’s a double standard so deeply entrenched we think it’s gospel.

The enlightened among us can recognise their biases and stop them from doing harm. For example, asking yourself: ‘Am I defending Kevin Federline because I actually think he deserves to write a memoir about his ex-wife who he was only married to for two years—or is it because we’ve been conditioned to give white men the benefit of the doubt at all times?’ Food for biassed thought.

We all have biases and double standards; there will be people in our lives that we will always defend, and sometimes rightly so. But double standards can be harmful, and recognising them within ourselves is essential if we want to create a more just and fair culture.

Once you hit a certain age, it’s no longer cute to be blindly governed by biases you’ve never questioned. We all have to do some sort of work to further educate ourselves, question our ways of thinking, and consider whether our beliefs are actually “facts”. (Spoiler: Joe Rogan often doesn’t deal in ‘facts’— Google it before you repeat it.)

We all have a responsibility to question ourselves. That’s part of being a well rounded, responsible adult. As is realising that Marilyn Manson didn’t have his ribs surgically removed, so there’s a chance most of the stuff we all told each other in year 5 isn’t true either.

Remember it’s okay to change your mind! Learning something new is good, as is realising you were wrong about something you blindly believed. Intelligent minds are the most flexible.

Does that mean I’ll stop defending my friends? No. I’ll defend them until my dying breath, whatever the charge.

But just know that I am aware that sometimes it’s a double standard—and that’s half the work.

Personally, I think it’s great. Now that he has a trillion dollars—which, to be clear, is one million million—he’ll finally be able to afford all the therapy he needs. Because there’s no way a man who wears Ed Hardy-style hats in 2026 despite having ONE MILLION MILLION DOLLARS isn’t riddled with insecurities.

Whenever I think of Elon and all the other tech villains, I’m reminded of a one-hit-wonder noughties song: Underwear Goes Inside The Pants by Lazyboy. (Very popular on Limewire circa 2005.) Many of the lyrics are deeply inappropriate, even more are still relevant today. This lyric in particular:

Lazyboy was right. Gates and his affiliated mates have taken over and brought all their high school grievances with them.

Unfortunately, it’s not playing out like a nineties rom-com said it would. The ‘weird’ guy doesn’t look like Heath Ledger and the ‘nerds’ aren’t nice guys who do the right thing and dress up in Shakespearian outfits just to get the girl.

Maybe its because they didn’t get the girl in high school, they hate all females everywhere. Or the high school cliques never accepted them, so now their hell bent on destroying society. Maybe they’re just assholes.

The point is I don’t know. That for them and a trained professional to find out. But it shouldn’t be for rest of us to deal with!

We each have to face our own demons, whatever they may be. History’s proven that men who don’t work through their insecurities become menaces to society. And often, unfortunately in Elon’s case, wealthy ones.

I see through his bravado, but if you need further proof of his insecurities:

Exhibit A: I repeat, Elon dresses like an Ed Hardy commercial. Ed Hardy was popular circa 2006.

Exhibit B: How many kids does the man have, to how many women? But the better question: how many does he actively father?

Exhibit C: He worked very hard to make everyone believe he’s the genius behind Tesla—which was created and founded by Martin Eberhard and Marc Tarpenning. Sure, he’s listed as co-founder but there’s some pretty shakey legal history. So what, many argue, he ‘invented PayPal’… but did he?

Musk joined PayPal when his company, X.com, merged with Confinity, PayPal’s parent company, but he was unanimously voted out after clashing with the board. The service was already called PayPal before he arrived, and the company adopted that name after his departure.

Did he “create" some of the financial features of X.com? Maybe. Or maybe not.

I don’t think Elon’s a genius. He just has a genius PR strategy. (And probably a fantastic PR team behind it.) Even if he did invent Tesla and PayPal, and is the genius he claims to be, are you really a genius if you never discover… self awareness??

Sadly, there are many reports of Elon Musk being bullied, even assaulted as a child and teenager. I can only imagine how harmful that must have been. But rather than using that as an example of how toxic masculinity hurts women and men, he just hates women. Even though I doubt it was women who assaulted him.

Rather than healing his inner child, Elon got plastic surgery and a cameo on The Big Bang Theory pretending to volunteer at soup kitchen… a bit rich considering he now has enough money to eradicate world hunger and/or lift all American’s below the breadline out of poverty, but instead he cuts aid.

Save that tidbit, in case you’re ever tempted to buy a Tesla. In a capitalist society, money is power. To give Elon Musk your money, is to give him power. People want to act like where we spend our money is inconsequential, but it’s not.

Do you know why Starbucks didn’t monopolise the Australian coffee market? They tried, opening 87 stores. But we are a land of coffee snobs! The Italian and Greek immigrants brought espresso with them during the 1950’s post-war migration, we took the idea and ran with it. Aussie’s prefer a local indie coffee shop over a chain filled with American dirt water; it’s now deeply embedded in our culture. So we didn’t give Starbucks our money—they opened 87 stores, and closed 61 of them a few years later.

Boycotts work, whether they’re intentional ones or not. We didn’t plot against Starbucks, they just suck. But big corporate machines rely on our collective dollar. Where you put your money matters.

Most importantly, Elon Musk is a reminder that our unaddressed insecurities can govern our lives, whether consciously or unconsciously. Those feelings of inadequacy, that we’re not enough are derived from fear and anxiety, driven by comparisons and envy. Insecurities can guide our every decision if we let them.

All Elon’s probably ever wanted was for people to think he’s cool. And sure, maybe some people do now. I certainly don’t. But people thinking he’s cool won’t make him happy.

Money doesn’t buy acceptance, from others or yourself. It might seem like the answer to our insecurities, but as we’ve seen with Elon, it only exacerbates them. Sure, money makes life easier. It can buy us a bit of happiness. But true contentment comes from a life aligned authentically to your values.

Of course, Elon’s not alone. Modern society is blessed with multiple tech villains. Never forget that Mark Zuckerberg started his career by creating a website to ‘rank hot women’ on his college campus. Women he probably never had the nerve to talk to. I assume Jeff Bezos had some redeeming qualities when he was younger, as Mackenzie Scott married him, but his moral evaporated with his income tax. I could go on, but it’s depressing. A billionaire group therapy session would be worthwhile.

Unfortunately though, it’s not looking like the tech villains are keen to do the work. They’ve learned nothing from The Sopranos. In the mean time, we all have to suffer. You know what men are like, so emotional.

But whenever you think it’s hopeless or helpless, remember your dollars matter. Spend them on therapy instead of a Tesla. Or a Jeep. Whatever. But consider who you’re supported. Australian’s stopped Starbucks from monopolising our coffee culture, and named a pool after a Prime Minister who likely drowned, so we can do anything really.

And Elon, I’m sure you’re reading this: I’ll be a qualified clinical psychologist in 2-3 years. Feel free to call me—I’ll give you a good price. We believe in supporting the less fortunate in this country.

She replied, ‘Oh no, it’s me. I’m in the way. I just can’t decide with all this extra protein—do you think it’s actually worth it?’

Unbeknownst to her, she had poked a bear. When it comes to the farce that is protein marketing, I’m like Nick Kyrgios when a ref penalises him: outraged and volatile. It is one of my biggest GRIPES right now. (I would’ve tried to get on Subway Takes, but someone beat me to it.)

So I said, trying my very best not to rant: ‘Honestly, I think it’s a croc of shit. Stuff that actually is full of protein—like eggs and chicken—doesn’t have to claim an extra 3 grams, you know? Besides, not everything you eat needs extra protein in it. And yoghurt already has protein!’

Side rant: The world has gone protein made and the products screaming the loudest probably have the least amount of protein. Just because they put the word ‘PROTEIN’ in front of it, or say ‘5 extra grams!’, doesn’t mean it’s high in protein—probably means it had none to begin with.

Eggs come with protein. No need to boast about it. Also, we can eat something without protein. Unless you’re training for that weird weight lifting competition where everyone deliberately looks 2008-fake-tan-orange, you’re good.

Sure, if you’re a vegetarian or vegan, you may need to boost your protein levels. BUT A PROTEIN CHOCOLATE? Guys, it is a SCAM.

If you’re eating well, you’re probably already getting enough protein. And FYI: Greek Yoghurt generally has more protein than other yoghurts anyway.

As you can tell, I’d slipped into rant territory, so I apologised—again.

She looked at me, incredibly sincerely, and said ‘No, thank you. I needed to heart that.’ Then she grabbed a tub—of what I assume is her favourite—yoghurt and off she went.

Hopefully the Protein Scam Marketers lost a sale that day. Or maybe she bought the PROTEIN chocolate yoghurt with ten litres of sugar and only half the protein of greek yoghurt. Her call.

But it reminded me: sometimes we need to hear something. Even if it’s from a complete stranger.

While we should trust ourselves and form our own opinions, yadda yadda yadda, we also shouldn’t believe everything we think. Mainly, because our thoughts aren’t fact. Our minds make stuff up—more than you realise, in fact.

Sometimes hearing it from someone else confirms what we know deep down. Or when we can’t decide, we’re overcomplicating it for ourselves, or working our asses off, a bit of positive reinforcement helps.

I took my daughter for her 4-year-old check up and vaccinations yesterday—she was incredibly brave; an absolute star!—and the doctor was extremely impressed by how well she listened. She turned to me and said, ‘You’re doing an outstanding job. Honestly, outstanding.’

What a lovely thing to say! I nearly cried but managed to do a choked laugh instead. Of course, she’s not a complete stranger—she does my pap smears. But it meant a lot. Especially because it had been a bit of a day.

Parenting, from what I can tell, is mostly a thankless job. When you absolutely nail it—on time all day, packed a healthy lunch, emotionally regulated each meltdown, fantastic home-cooked dinner, house tidy and in bed on time—your child doesn’t look at you and say: ‘wow Mum, A+++ mumming today.’ She just says, ‘I’m not tired. Read me another book.’

So, having someone randomly tell you on a Wednesday afternoon that you’re doing an outstanding job means a lot.

Shames thrives in silence. And while no one’s ashamed of being confused about protein yoghurt, other things thrive in silence too. Ruminating thoughts, unchecked beliefs about ourselves, assumptions that go unchallenged, and narratives that quietly harden into truths.

Sometimes we need to hear it from someone else to snap ourselves out of it. A bit of positive reinforcement, and/or the confirmation that the world’s gone insane, not you helps.

Often people need to hear it—so say it. Tell someone they’re doing a good job, answer a question honestly, find solidarity in the common. An insignificant moment for you can turn the other person’s day around.

(Plus, the more we build each other up, the harder it is for Protein Marketing Executives to make us pay $10 more for less protein than you find in Greek Yoghurt.)

Alternatively, when you need to hear something: ask. Even if it is a stranger in Woollies. You might find they have a lot of opinions about protein—and that it’s exactly what you needed to hear.

This manifests in a myriad of ways including, but certainly not limited to:

• ‘time optimism’—deeming 15 minutes before we need to leave for swimming lessons as the best time to meal prep for the week;

• genuinely believing Zoë Foster Blake and I will be best friends (we’ll probably meet at an authors event—she’ll rave about my book);

• a deep faith that one day a long lost grandmother will find me to tell me I’m the sole heir to the kingdom of Genovia. (I’m strong and directive—perfect qualities for the leader of a fictional country.)

But practically, day-to-day, it means I’m full of ideas with very little understanding or thought given to how long any of them will take to complete. I’m the embodiment of all the gear, no idea. A great idea hits me so I drop everything and start furiously. Buy all the stuff! Get so much done! Get frustrated its not finished in a day; give up and take a nap.

Dreaming is easy. The practical bit is where things fall apart. (Amazingly, ZFB is good at both.)

This has lead to the unfortunate realisation that most big dreams boil down to small, consistent actions. Boring.

But true.

I read a quote years ago: ‘people plan the next eight years without planning the next eight days.’ I can’t remember who said it, but it’s stuck with me—because that’s me.

Big dreams are exciting. We decide to run a marathon, write a book, start a business, learn Italian, meditate every morning or grow all our own vegetables. We make grand declarations about who we’re going to become and what we’re doing to do every day for the rest of our lives.

Then forget about it by lunch.

But the problem isn’t the dream. It’s not even the first step. It’s the million other small steps following the first step. Big dreams take small, boring, repetitive actions. The kind that no one write home about—or posts about on Instagram.

Because you don’t write a book on Wednesday. You write 200 words. Most days you’ll find you write more. Some days 200 words feels like pulling teeth without anaesthetic. But books are written one sentence at a time. And, if you want it to be good, that sentence will probably get edited, and re-written at least twice.

We also must be careful that our big dreams don’t stop us doing things for the fun of it. If as a child you dreamt of being an Olympic gymnast, but you fell short and gave up all together—that dream has robbed you of something more important than medals: it’s robbed you of the joy. The big dream might not have played out, but you can do gymnastics every week. There’s PCYC’s everywhere.

Or you wanted to be in Destiny’s Child. Sure, that bootylicious ship has sailed —but you can still be the independent survivor they wanted you to be. Sign up for singing or dancing lessons. Join a choir (Michelle did) or a 90’s-themed dance group.

Big dreams are great—but stuff that brings you joy every day/week/month is better. For me, I need to stop being so focused on a future version of myself that I forget to start being that person now, with tiny steps (nearly) every day. Authenticity isn’t found, it’s created.

Rather than dreaming big, aim small. Shrink the dream down to something you can do in the next eight days:

Want to garden? Plant one herb. Then make a plan to water it the next day (unless it rains).

Want to read more? Sit outside with a book for 15 minutes. Then block out the next 15 minutes.

Want to get fitter? Go for a walk at lunchtime. Every day this week.

Or go even smaller—but then consider the next step:

• Sign up for the dance class. (Then put it in your calendar.)

• Email the tennis club. (Ditto.)

• Book the piano lesson. (Ditto again.)

• Write for ten minutes. (Then set a reminder for tomorrow.)

• Meditate for five minutes. (Ditto.)

• Open the savings account. (Then set up an automatic transfer for every payday.)

Aim so small it almost feels ridiculous… then do it. The sense of accomplishment upon finishing something, no matter how small, becomes motivation. We feel as though we’re on track, making headway—even when all we’ve done is book a flamenco lesson online.

Once you’ve done the tiny thing, decide what the next actionable tiny thing is and do that.

The saying is: go big or go home—but we got it all wrong. Go small, then you can get it done and feel so good about yourself that you can go home and watch telly or something. The sayings not quite as snappy, but a lot more effective.

Big dreams only get us so far. Aiming small gets us somewhere this week.

(Having said that, I worry about my girlfriends. I can’t live without them and I’m not sure they’d all survive (you know who you are). I gave them all chilli plants for Christmas last year, but that’s not enough to live on… this year it’ll have to be potatoes. Or, better yet, they can move in with me—kids included, husbands optional.)

Yet aside from its eventual-apocalyptic necessity—and despite my ongoing war with the caterpillars—I’ve become someone who gardens for fun. It’s downright therapeutic. Regardless of whether it’s down to genes or age, it’s good for the soul to be outside in the sunshine, hands in the soil, wearing dirty clothes and a litre of Bushmans. (Turns out, my mother was right.)

But as I do so, the aspiring Aristotle/Taylor Swift in me can’t help but notice that gardening is full of metaphors for life. Overgrown with them, you could say. Life is a garden.

And when it comes to nature versus humankind, nature always wins.

What happens instead

My goal this past spring/summer was to get our lovely but not-yet-fruiting peach tree to deliver the goods, so to speak.

I followed the ‘how to’ guides, pruned it to a V-shape, fed it compost, studied the soil’s pH with my thermometer (yes, I know) ensuring it was ‘slightly’ acidic, but not too much. And do you wanna know what I got?!?

DA NADA. The literal definition of fruitless efforts. All I had to show for my peachy efforts was… pumpkin seedlings! Unplanted, springing out of the compost (which is boringly common in my garden).

As you can imagine, I was raging. Huffed a lot, and forgot to pull out the pumpkin seedlings. Lo and behold, suddenly a pumpkin was chugging along!

Did we enjoy the homegrown peaches I fantasicised about this summer? No. The peach tree is probably worse off, due to the unplanned pumpkin patch. But you better bet your bottom dollar we’re going to be enjoying some pumpkin soup and/or risotto (depending on its final size) in approximately 4-6 weeks.

We can plan and plot; focus on one thing, convinced it deserves all our attention and care—then life gives you a pumpkin. So do you pull out the pumpkin?

Or start fertilising it instead?

‘You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes, you just might find,
You get what you need’

— The Rolling Stones

Just leave it

During the summer of 2024-25—the summer prior to the (unfulfilled) peach dreams—I’d hoped for capsicums. Infuriated at how expensive they are, when all you need to grow them is literally the seeds inside one, I reverently began growing my capsicums. And when they died, I took mums.

Eventually, the seedlings were ready to brave the big bad backyard and I potted them in the veggie bed. So full of hope, dreaming of capsicum salads! And dips! And stuffed capsicums!

Little did I know I would end up in fruitless WAR with the snails. And, much like Trump in a preposterous (and illegal) war, my antics got me nowhere.

The mummy (and daddy?? unsure of the equality within snail child rearing practices) snails would crawl through and lay their cute little baby snails all over my perfect capsicum plant leaves and proceed to eat all of it until the plant was a stick.

I tried everything the internet told me to do: sprays, crushed eggshells, coffee beans, sharp sand, nets, wire. But the next day we’d pop out, and pull off six million new babies. Nothing worked, the snails won. I was defeated.

So I left it. There were grand plans to pull it all up and start again, but I completely forgot about until the following spring.

And what happened, when I did absolutely nothing? CAPSICUMS APPEARED. The area was only operating at half soil, hadn’t been touched for months, yet there were three baby capsicums, healthy leaves, and not a snail tentacle in sight.

The lesson? Just leave it. Let it go. See what happens—you might get capsicums.

Every living thing needs water, sunshine, sustenance and space

Most of the time when a plant is struggling, it comes down to a few things: does it need more or less water or sunshine? Does it have enough space around it? Is it getting enough chicken poo?

Humans should ask themselves the same questions.

When in doubt/depressed, revert to the simple essentials: sleep more, drink more water, eat well, get outside in the sunshine. Maybe consider whether your fertilisation system is operating well (take from that what you will).

We all need sunshine and water everyday. And putting some space between us and whatever’s going on does wonders. (If you’re anything like basil, it will allow you to get quite bushy.)

Not every space is for you

A bit more space doesn’t always do the trick though, sometimes the spot isn’t right, sometimes we outgrow it.

I had the textbook spot for two rhubarb plants, according to the multiple gardening books I’ve stolen from my mother. But the rhubarb hated it—too much sun, didn’t seem to like her ‘companion’ plants, bugs were up in her grill. So I moved her and she’s loving it. (Don’t know why the rhubarb is a girl, she just gives me that vibe.)

Some spaces just aren’t right. We’ll never thrive there, no matter how hard we try, or fertilise. Even when it seems right on paper, sometimes it just doesn’t work.

Other spaces we simply outgrow. Like my everlasting wildflowers—they started great, tall with colourful flowers, but as the plant grew, the buds stared dying before they opened. I moved them from a little pot to a garden bed, and now they put the flower in flourishing.

Sometimes it's hard to say goodbye to a pot that once felt like home, but in order to grow, we need a different space. That pot was what we needed at the time, and now its time for bigger pastures. So wish it well, grieve it even, then enjoy the new growth in a fresh garden bed.

Because sometimes it feels like we’re dying, but we’re not—we just don’t have enough room to grow.

Cut back

I’ve said it here once, and I’ll say it again. Life is like a rosemary bush: it requires a good pruning every year. Shed the dead weight, the stuff dragging you down, even if you end up with less than you expected.

Once you cut back, you often find yourself growing stronger than ever.

Find the root cause

We can mow or whipper-snipper weeds, pull them and chop their heads off, but unless the root is removed, they’ll come back.

We must deal with the root cause, not the symptoms, otherwise the problem just grows back.

The Great Cycles Of Life

Life’s lived in seasons. Yet when we’re in it, it can feel like forever.

Like when you have a blocked nose, and you promise the universe that you’ll never take un-snotted breathing for granted again—but you do. Or when you’re heartbroken, you can’t imagine ever loving again. Worse still, when you haven’t slept for 10 months and the baby is screaming bloody murder, you do not believe it’s temporary. When you hate your job, your house, and those ugly chairs you can’t afford to replace—it feels never-ending. But it isn’t. Everything is temporary. And marketplace has everything.

This season will pass, another will bloom. You don’t know whether the next season will bring you capsicums, pumpkins, or a caterpillar infestation, so when you’re in a good season, embrace it. Be grateful for the moment you’re in. You don’t know how long it will last.

After a few hard seasons, I love the season I’m in—I can only assume it’s all the gardening. And capsicums. Who knows if it will last a month or a day, so I’ll just breathe through my nose and head out to the garden.

Ready for whatever metaphor the garden grows next.

Often it starts with a flat shoe here; elasticised pants rather than jeans there; and suddenly she’s asking, ‘These are dressy enough, aren’t they?’ about a pair of Crocs.

Is it age? Is it laziness? Is it an act of micro-feminism against a society that still obsessively focuses on how women look? Hard to say.

For me, the slide into comfort has accumulated into wearing my Nike sandals with jeans. Actually, who am I kidding—I never wear jeans (too dressy). I wear my Nike sandals with everything: dresses, shorts, pants, swimmers, active wear, pyjama wear, loungewear, all the wears. They’re extremely versatile.

You might think ‘Nike sandals? Yuck’. But you’ve never seen these bad boys (until you look at the pic below). ONLY available in Japan. And, I might add, all the rage there (as I informed a girlfriend on the weekend who had the audacity to question them).

But if you’d told me at 22 that I’d wear ‘Nike sports sandals’ willingly, I would have assumed I’d had a lobotomy somewhere along the line.

There’s been a womenswear revolution of sorts in the past decade or so—comfort has reigned supreme, heels have been substituted for sneakers, and ‘trackies’ were rebranded to ‘loungewear’.

In my mind, it started with the explosive return of Birkenstocks circa 2014 (contrary to popular belief, they existed prior to that—many people, including my mother, elderly men, and lesbians always wore them).

Then, during COVID, people gave up completely. Suddenly matching coloured tracksuits that would’ve been considered abhorrent became the pinnacle of style. Old school sneakers—like Adidas Gazelles—became sought after. Again, Adidas have been making Gazelles since 1966. When I worked at Glue in 2008, we could barely get them out the door. They were permanently on sale and only sneaker aficionados bought them.

Now here we are today. Big t-shirts are back; the early nineties silhouettes are once again en trend. No more tottering around in heels you can’t walk in, paired with a bandeau dress you can’t breathe in. Gazelles go with everything. Many women have become sick of the idea that being uncomfortable equals being stylish. (Plus low rise jeans won’t last.)

But it makes me wonder: why that shift? Was it accidental or inevitable—does every generation rally against something?

In the late 19th century, women revolted against the corset. During the 1930’s and 40’s, women fought to wear trousers. My mother’s generation did away with pantyhose.

Despite denim’s heyday in the 80s and 90s, growing up in the noughties put an extreme emphasis on ‘day-to-night’ looks (which I never needed), heels, and lots of tight and short things. They told us to dress for the job we wanted, not the job we have. But forget jobs—dress in weather appropriate attire that won’t make you itchy.

Along the way, my generation realised that looking put together and chic doesn’t equal being uncomfortable. Maybe every generation shreds something. Fashion can be an act of rebellion.

Notably or not, during the past decade feminism also became trendy. No longer is it just grey-haired pyromaniacs burning bras. Women I’d once argued with about glass ceilings and quotas were suddenly fighting the patriarchy, posting on International Women’s Day. (And no judgement—everyone’s welcome.) Does the rise of feminism correlate to a more relaxed look? We’re not dressing for the male gaze, so who cares if your boobs are saggy and your feet are flat?

Of course, this is all very Western. Japanese style—beyond just the Harajuku style—has long embraced larger silhouettes: flowy, airy, comfortable and stylish. Even in the intense humidity, Japanese women don’t strip down the way many Aussies living vaguely near a beach tend to do. Those big, relaxed shapes are modest, classic and practical. Comfort as an aesthetic, not a compromise. Japanese women seem to understand that you can be both comfortable and stylish—which, honestly, explains my sandals.

So are my sandals cool or daggy? Depends who you ask— ‘super cool’ if you ask my mother, ‘super daggy’ if you ask my cousin’s boyfriend. But who cares! They’re like walking on clouds. My only concern is how I’ll get to Japan for another pair when I inevitably wear out these ones.

Whether it’s age, society, or laziness, I’m not willing to suffer through hours of pain for a lewk. There’s a part of me that knows I’m unlikely to ever wear my YSL Tributes again. I put on a nice skirt the other day and the seam ‘rubbed a little bit’ so I took it off and put cupro pants on. And my sandals of course.

Growing up, it was all ‘no pain, no gain’—but actually no pain, and you feel great and can get way more done, day or night. With the world crumbling around us, there’s no better time to wear whatever the heck you want. Cool/daggy sandals—and keffiyehs—highly recommended.

(I did actually weep, btw.)

Sure, it’s a very small and incredibly specific book—“niche” I guessed I’d say if I wanted to sound a bit wanky—but the point is I DID IT. Yay me.

The book is called UnProductive—how to get things done as a (broke) new mum. (Because if you’re loaded you can just outsource everything to your butler.)

I wrote it for new mums. Basically. it’s just all the stuff I wish someone had told me when I was a new mum and I was on the edge of a nervous breakdown/thought I was failing at everything/didn’t know you were meant to cut grapes in half.

And here it is:

(I shortened by name as my surname doesn’t fit on the spine properly.)

Truthfully, I started it in 2023 and finished it in 2024—but then I lost my nerve. I told myself ‘no one would want to read it’, and ‘who’d listen to me anyway?’ So UnProductive remained closeted away in my Google Drive, never to see the light of day (bit like the full Epstein files).

Then last year I had an Elizabeth-Gilbert-esque epiphany and realised I didn’t need to publish it for other people, I just needed to publish it for me. To show myself I could—so I did.

Will the book be a raving success and on every bookseller list? No. (The marketing budget is abysmal.) But is it a success? YES. Because I finished it, I put it out there, I did it. That’s the success—anything else is just extra.

Sometimes we need to do things, not for glory or fame or recognition, but simply to prove to ourselves we can. To do anything brave or gutsy, a key element seems to be self belief. Yet—in the words of Mind Over Matter (RIP)—‘the hardest thing in the world is making your self believe.’

But this is proof I can do it. I do believe.

Self-publishing a book has required an interesting culmination of my skills across the various jobs I’ve had—writing, formatting, coding an eBook, editing, using the publishing platform, knowing the process etc. Funny how life works like that. I’m forever grateful I learned how to read code from a very clever Web Master. It’s served me well.

I’m on the bits (all the mistakes found on the proof copy!) and then I’ll send a link for everyone to enjoy.

Of course, I’d love it if you read it; but, as mentioned, it’s very niche. So even if you don’t read it, it’s still been a success and I’m very grateful that you’ve read this newsletter—which is essentially just me boasting.

But if you can’t be your own cheerleader, who can? Eh?

Back to regular programming from next week. So good to be back in your inbox in 2026! (Or Spam folder—I won’t take it personally.)

And sometimes you just don’t get things done.

So, here’s 25 things I didn’t do this year:

1. Complete my New Year resolutions for 2025.

2. Spend more than 2 hours per day on my phone.

3. Let racists comments go unchecked.

4. Worry about taking up space.

5. Madly clean my house before anyone came over. (Sanitary, not perfect.)

6. Lie and say I was fine when I wasn’t.

7. Beat myself up over small, inconsequential mistakes.

8. Save money.

9. Finish sanding the chopping board (my dad did it for me two days ago).

10. Exercise.

11. Pretend I wanted to do things I didn’t want to do.

12. Hit my GoodReads Reading Challenge goal.

13. Leave anywhere on time.

14. Organise my schedule effectively.

15. Follow my writing schedule.

16. Remember to send out Christmas cards.

17. Finish sewing my new office cushion covers.

18. Mow the lawn regularly. (My house looked abandoned more often than not.)

19. Achieve any form of consistency.

20. Defrost the freezer, clean the oven, wash the curtains etc. (Apparently all things you’re meant to do?? Who knew!)

21. Get my inbox to zero. Or my to do list.

22. Fall for the media’s lies.

23. Buy from or support any Zio-affiliated organisations.

24. Maintain emotional composure at all times.

25. Forget to laugh.

I’m consistently inconsistent yet wildly grateful for all the adventures and lessons in 2025. And the best is yet come.

Sending all my love and desperately wishing for peace this New Year’s Eve.

Isabel x

‘Expectancy is an ally only when it is realistic.’

— Egan & Reese, ‘The Skilled Helper’

One of my biggest problems—among many—is my extraordinary ability to be completely unrealistic. If I was being diplomatic, I’d say ‘I’m a dreamer’—but I’m self aware enough to call it what it is: delulu.

Sometimes my delulu-ness is a manifestation of my perfectionism; unrealistic tendencies often pop up, particularly in relationships and creative projects. But, mostly, it hijacks my time management.

It’s insane what I think I can do in a few hours, despite all evidence to the contrary. My to-do list (which, as previously mentioned, I’m terrible at adhering to) consists of: order groceries, clean the whole house, write a book, cook a Michelin-star meal, mow the lawn, cure cancer and pick Tilly up at 3pm. (And it’s 11am now.)

Deranged, I know. But it happens constantly—even yesterday. I wrote out a to-do list even Mari Kondo couldn’t get done.

But, worst of all, my unrealistic tendencies bleed into my parenting. A three-year-old’s mind—as proven by scientific evidence—can’t yet reason, understand logic, or grasp abstract concepts.

Therefore, a three-year-old who can’t physically comprehend that pouring milk from a little cup into a big cup is still the same amount of milk—EVEN THOUGH IT LOOKS LIKE LESS—can’t be expected to understand the long-term consequences of not following her meticulously crafted bedtime routine. Of course she just wants to have fun and play Barbies.

Why do I do it? Why am I so painfully self aware yet utterly delusional? (As opposed to completely delusional like James Packer.) It boils down to expectations.

Our expectations plant invisible pressure on situations, people, experiences, and ourselves. We create an idea of what something should or will be, often letting it interfere with our choices, actions, or a perfectly good time.

When a girlfriend and I went backpacking around Europe, everyone told us how amazing Barcelona was. Spain was towards the end of our three month trip, so by the time we got there we’d built it up outrageously in our minds: Barcelona was going to be the best city ever! Barcelona was going to be SO fun! We’d love Barcelona!!

In reality, I had a very average time. I started claiming Barcelona was ‘overrated’. Barcelona isn’t overrated; my expectations were. (Sorry, Barcelona—my B.) I went in expecting the time of my life, and because it fell short of the pedestal I’d put it on, I declared it ‘overrated.’ In a sense it was, but only by me because I’d pre-rated it before experiencing it.

We do this constantly, without realising. When one of my girlfriends was pregnant, our advice at the start was: don’t have any expectations about the birth. She readily agreed she had 'no expectations’, then two breaths later said, ‘He’ll be early as mum told me we were all early.’ Surprise: he was late!

Before judging something based on our expectations, it’s important to consider whether they’re appropriate parameters. We can see things as ‘falling short’ even when they haven’t, simply because we’ve expected a day, an experience, a place or even a person to be a certain way.

I watched a video of a dad describing his teenage daughter as ‘beach water.’ Some days the water is glassy and calm; some days the waves are fierce and relentless. The only constant is change, dictated by the tide.

Yet when we’re at the beach, we judge it through the lens of our expectations: too rough, too flat, too windy, too cold. We wanted sunshine and got a storm, or expected waves and got stillness. We expected something of the beach, and judged it accordingly, forgetting to consider the conditions or even what the beach wanted. We compare it to what we expected.

Expectations are necessary in some facets of life: you expect your partner to be supportive and trusting. Self-expectations of personal care; from showering to doing your laundry to pursuing your interests. You expect your neighbour to pick up their dog’s poo. All of those are reasonable and realistic expectations.

The expectations that hinder us are those unjustified ones or the pesky invisible ones we’ve formed without realising. Expecting a three-year-old to see the logic of your decisions isn’t realistic. Nor is cooking a Michelin-star meal when you haven’t ordered groceries.

Naturally, we feel disappointed when people, life and circumstances fall short of what we wanted. Feeling disappointed is normal, but it becomes harmful when we’ve manufactured that disappointment with unrealistic expectations, particularly the ones we can place on ourselves.

Constantly falling short of unachievable standards sets our minds up for some deep-rooted negative self beliefs. Not achieving an unrealistic to-do list can signal ‘I can’t get anything done’. Claiming ‘things never work out’ when it didn’t follow our preconceived ideas creates a false and detrimental perspective.

Most experiences aren’t what we expect, and judging them by our expectations is futile. New parenthood is like that; and I predict, every new parent is surprised. No one actually knows what to expect when their expecting, but it is impossible not to spend the nine-to-ten months imagining it.

Daydreaming is always encouraged, but so is keeping in mind that expectations are often inaccurate.

In therapy, there’s an emphasis on realistic expectations— ‘expectancy is only an ally when it’s realistic.’ When you create realistic expectations for yourself and follow through, you signal to yourself that you’re competent and capable. Setting a bar completely out of reach sets you up for feeling inadequate.

Some level of delulu-ism is needed in life—every person chasing big dreams needs to be delulu, particularly when people try to squash those dreams. But forging delusional expectations can set us, and people around us, up for failure. Particularly our kids.

Hope and expectation aren’t the same thing; hope is filled with action and positivity. Expectations are found in assumptions, biases and plans. You can hope a baby comes early, but planning for it is unwise.

Plus sometimes it’s good to not know what to expect; it’s make something all the more enjoyable. A day with no expectations makes for a great day.

Last Thursday, I woke up thinking about my full (and unrealistic) to do list; I was feeling super productive as I drank my morning coffee. Then my kid woke up, covered in a bright red rash.

What did I do? Raged and whinged for a bit, to be honest. As we drove to the chemist, my daughter asked, ‘Mum, are you frustrated?’ I snapped ‘yes!’, and she reminded me to take some deep breaths—so I did.

After the chemist, we got a milkshake and popped into the op-shop where we found some blocks, books, and cute dresses in a size 3. We went for a glorious swim in the ocean pool, the beach water was clam and peaceful; then we played blocks and watched Bluey. I even got a little bit of writing done. My expectations vanished—and we had a wonderful, albeit mostly unproductive, day.

Instead of grieving the death of our expectations, maybe the best we can do is take advantage of the moment we have.

It’s unrealistic to think we can live entirely without expectations, but it’s more unrealistic to think all our expectations are warranted. Some things require standards; but mostly life requires you to show up, be present, and give the moment your all.

And when it comes to to-do lists, it’s good to realise you can’t write a book by 3pm—you’d need until at least 5pm.

Maybe this means a more realistic me is finally on the horizon… or maybe that’s the delulu talking. Forever a dreamer.

What’s even more shocking is that, in the midst of all this, Marjorie Taylor-Greene is saying things that make sense—like ‘America should stop funding it.’

Just to be clear: Zi-on-ism is a modern political ideology. It is not the same as Juda-ism, which is an ancient religion.

Last week, I had to dump a piece I’d written for UnBluffed because I had unknowingly praised a Zi0nist—Dr Orna G of Couples Therapy (who I’m extremely disappointed in). Aside from emailing Penny Wong weekly, my small retaliations include avoiding companies profiting from the ongoing gen0cide and actively ignoring all Zi0nists. Which is harder than it sounds— basically I can’t watch anything made in Hollywood unless it has Susan Sarandon in it.

Turns out: Jerry Seinfeld is a passionate IDF-supporter (and evil monster), David Schwimmer is a propagandist who’s ruined Friends, and Debra Messing… wow. Not only has Debra Messing publicly defended Is-rael’s obscene actions, she posted an Instagram story calling the now mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani a ‘jihadist’ (an Islamic extremist) and ‘communist’.

Meanwhile, she calls herself a ‘feminist’ while advocating for an (alleged) sexual predator for mayor. Honestly. White women can be so embarrassing. (And many need to Google ‘what is communism’.) But giving Debra Messing a society and culture lesson is for another day…

Because today, like so many others around the world, I’m taking heart in a socialist Muslim immigrant becoming mayor of New York City. Despite the 1% running a racist, fear-mongering smear campaign—which cost them more than Mamdani will tax them!—to elect an (alleged) sexual predator rather than a brown man who believes in human rights, Mamdani won. Truth won. The people won.

So, to sum up, billionaires spent $22 million on lies and achieved nothing. Here’s the spreadsheet:

You have to wonder how much they spent when Arnold Schwarzenegger, a fellow immigrant, ran for governor of California?

The most refreshing part of Mamdani’s campaign is that he remained proudly pro-Palestine, pro-trans, and an ally for all people throughout. A Muslim immigrant who met his wife on Hinge (their next ad writes itself). Plus he just announced an all female transition team.

So why should we care, here in Australia, thousands of kilometres away? Sadly, because our country is hell-bent on copying America. This is a sign that might not always be a terrible thing.

But for me personally, it’s hope—particularly after Albo being such a massive let down. Mamdani makes me believe that the rare breed of politicians that really care are still out there. The Gough Whitlams, if you will. When we elected Albo, I thought we had a decent, left-leaning guy who was finally going to do what he promised. Instead, like all bad situationships, it’s been nothing but empty promises, back-traking, and befriending badly fake-tanned liars.

Albo has proven to be just another power-hungry white man who cares more about holding on to his position than his principles. Maybe Mamdani will disappoint too, who knows. My instincts say he won’t. Regardless, Mamdani’s shown the world that you can stick to your values, even when the entire establishment is against you, and come out on top.

And honestly, it’s just nice to see a bunch of too-rich-for-their-own-good people lose.

Despite my viewing options now being limited to shows and movies that are either Irish-made, with Susan Sarandon in it, or straight up Ms Rachel, I’m glad for the wake up call. Hollywood sucks, but the people of NYC clearly know what’s up. Hope is alive and well.

Gusto to Mayor Mamdani. Free Pal-stine.

Note: Apologies for the password-like spellings of key words. Algorithms punish you and hateful people troll you when using certain words; this is an attempt to ensure this piece is still read by nice people like you.

And that nature truly is mother. (As is Ms Rachel.)

Namibia makes history and higher education free

Starting in 2026, Namibia will make higher education free by covering 100% of tuition and registration fees at all public universities and vocational training centres—a historic policy announced by President Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah, the country’s first female president.

Namibia has also made world history: it’s three highest offices—President, Vice President, and Speaker of the National Assembly—are now all held by women. The first country ever lead entirely by women.

Nature’s created a natural solution to plastic pollution

A fungus—called Pestalotiopsis microspora—discovered in part of the Amazon rainforest naturally digests and fully metabolises plastic. Found in Ecudaor’s Yasuni National Forest, the fungus can survive on polyurethane plastic alone, even without oxygen.

Most methods for plastic disposal merely break it into pieces, creating microplastics that end up everywhere (including in men’s testicles). However this fungus fully digests polyurethane plastic, offering a natural solution to plastic waste.

Being ordinary: the special secret for Dutch kids

Dutch kids have ranked number one in wellbeing for the past 15 years—a feat credited to the Dutch parenting approach. Their approach values being ordinary over exceptional; focusing on safety, space for play, and strong family connections, rather than packed schedules or a pressure to achieve.

Happiness, in this model, is something children carry rather than chase. Research supports the approach—showing that it’s not achievement that builds children’s confidence, but connection, autonomy, and a calm, supportive home (which the Dutch are evidently nailing).

A Zimbabwean all-women anti-poaching group reduced elephant poaching by 90%

In Zimbabwe, an all-women anti-poaching unit called Akashinga has slashed elephant poaching in the Lower Zambezi Valley by 90% since 2017.

Akashinga, meaning ‘The Brave Ones’ in Shona, is made up of women—many of whom are single mothers or survivors of domestic violence. Together, they have arrested more than 1,100 poachers, safeguarded wildlife, and channelled resources back into their communities. Goals.

Sweden turns trash into treasury funds

Sweden is so good at waste management they import other countries waste. With high recycling and composting rates, Sweden doesn’t generate enough waste to keep its plants busy—so it imports 1.3 million tonnes annually from countries such as the UK, Norway and Ireland (who all pay for the service).

Less than 1% of Sweden’s trash ends up in landfill, while around 50% of household waste is incinerated to provide electricity and heating for over a million homes, cutting the country’s reliance on fossil fuels.

THIS is an example of a circular economy—transforming waste into a valuable resource, while offering a model for sustainable waste management worldwide.

Ms Rachel gets the kudos she deserves

Ms Rachel, who’s been proudly and bravely vocal on behalf of Palest*nian and Sud*nese children, has been named one of Glamour’s Women of the Year and recognised by Rolling Stone as the third most influential creator for 2025.

Amongst the merciless criticism and backlash she’s receiving for believing children deserve basic human rights (!), this is public recognition of what a badass she is.

India’s farmers are healing the planet

Across India, farmers—who also happen to be women—are are the forefront of an ecological revolution. Using ancestral seed banks, they are building chemical-free farms that restore soil, protect biodiversity and challenge industrial agriculture.

But what they’re doing goes beyond food: they’re preserving culture, breaking gender norms, and showing that climate solutions can grow from the ground up.

Football fans keep flying the Palest*nian flag

Despite official restrictions, football fans across the globe—in Chile, Spain, France, the UK, and Scotland—continue to use the sport as a platform for Pal*stinian solidarity by displaying flags and banners in support of Palest*ne.

Sports are political. (Everything is political.)

One woman planted 2 million trees in the desert

Yi Jiefang, who is now 67 years old, has spent over a decade turning Inner Mongolia’s desert into a thriving forest, planting more than 2 million trees to honour her late son’s wish.

She planted 46 trees every hour for 10 hours per day for 12 years!! (Let that sink in.) Battling extreme conditions, her efforts have helped to combat desertification, restore biodiversity, and mitigate climate change.

And, finally, more kids are drawing women as scientists!

A study of children’s drawings shows real progress in how kids see scientists: more children are now imagining—and drawing—women in lab coats than ever before. A (hand drawn) sign that the future of science may be in women’s hands.

Feeling better? If so, here’s how you can take action to help end use collective power for good.

Normal writing will resume next week.

Sure, a few impulsive-slash-crazy decisions and occasional bursts of hard work contributed. But the real turning points? Smack-you-in-the-head-and-break-your-nose curveballs that landed at, what felt like, the worst possible time. Bad timing has been the unlikely catalyst for all my biggest life decisions.

For instance: spending thousands and thousands of dollars on a van, only to get pregnant and spend the next 37 weeks vomiting my guts out. The pinnacle of bad timing. But now, of course, my daughter is a self-determined, frustrating, and exhausting dream come true! Even imagining a life without her makes me cry.

Same goes for getting made redundant from madison magazine, my dream job, at 22. While that may seem harmless; who cares! You’re 22! But after long hours, coffee runs, and doing everything I could to prove myself, I’d finally landed my first byline—an international travel story—then BOOM. Redundant, just as I was finally making progress.

And yet if I hadn’t been made redundant, I wouldn’t have moved to London that year, or learned what to do when you miss a ferry to Italy and get stranded in Croatia with no where to stay. Essential life skills.

Hindsight has a way of transforming bad timing into fate. Looking back, it feels like everything—the good, the bad, and the outrageous—landed me here: right here, with a three-year-old who snores in my ear while draping a possessive leg over me every night. Hindsight gives you all the pieces of the puzzle so you can see the full picture, rather than staring at a single ‘bad’ piece that doesn’t fit.

Often, pivotal moments in our lives—the forks in the road—aren’t carefully curated, planned, or maneuvered into existence. Bad timing catapults us into unplanned or unforeseen circumstances.

We fall in love with Derrick, then he moves overseas; we plan a wedding, and the world experiences a once-in-a-century plague. Start a new job, and the company announces bankruptcy. Yet a missed opportunity can turn into a near miss: Derrick might reappear as a serial killer in a true crime series a decade later. You never know.

While sometimes it’s the opposite: what feels good in the moment is deemed terrible timing later—a fun distraction at the time, that lead us to miss an opportunity we desperately wanted.

Alternatively, there’s never a ‘good time’ for some events; those devastating moments that divide life into a before and after, where nothing is ever the same again. There’s never a good time to lose someone, to grieve, to experience heartbreak, or to endure a life-battling illness. Timing is irrelevant for some pain—it simply happens.

When chronic overthinkers—like me—go to therapy, a therapist often helps examine our patterns of thinking (or, if you’re lucky like me, friends that are therapists). One of the most unhelpful patterns is black-and-white thinking—or all-or-nothing thinking. It’s when your mind insists there are only two options: right or wrong, good or bad, success or failure. In reality, life rarely fits into two neat boxes. There’s a million ways to do things, many paths lead to the same destination, and two options can be equally valid.

Life isn’t just ‘this way’ or ‘that way’. There’s also this-that-way, a that-that-way or a this-and-three-quarters way. The dichotomies we create are rarely rooted in reality, which is exactly why they call it ‘thinking outside the box.’ Because the box is a matchbox—tiny and completely un-reusable. Bad for the environment.

Of course, good and bad does exist. Netan-devil-yahu is undeniably and irrevocably bad and wrong. But when it comes to situations in our own lives, it’s often more nuanced than that.

A hallmark of emotional intelligence, and one of the most valuable skills we can learn, is the ability to hold two competing truths at once: recognising that a disaster in the moment might become a gift; that there’s beauty, even in the chaos. Seeing situations in all their messy complexity, without the dichotomies, helps us accept the moment we’re in.

Maybe there is no such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ timing, just timing. Things happen when they happen. What feels like bad timing simply redirects us to something else—it only feels ‘bad’ because it’s unplanned, unwanted, or unforeseen. But, as the Rolling Stones wisely advise, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well, you might find, you get what you need.”

Whatever the timing, the best we can do is try not to let the nose-breaking curveballs break our spirit, and allow hindsight to give even the shit bits meaning. And maybe, if you’re lucky like me, timing will give you a three-year-old who snores in your ear.

It’s both a lovely feeling, and a powerful metaphor: sitting with discomfort is what creates release. You hold yourself in it, in order to let it go. Yet… we don’t.

I read a lot of kids books at the moment—just in my spare time. Repetitive themes emerge, with a focus on sticking with things even when they’re hard. The most poignant, and arguably well-known: ‘We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, oh no! We have to go through it.’

Yet somewhere along the bear hunt, most of us forgot the importance of going through it. We try to go under or over, sideways, or around. We try to drown it with alcohol, escape it with doom scrolling, or simply shove it down so deep we don’t have to deal with it. Anything but through, it seems—even if it means taking the long way around.

Because, to be clear, not going through it is just taking the long way around. Suppressing or avoiding it doesn’t make it go away—those feelings just wait for another day, ready to bubble up when you least expect. To truly move forward, you have to go through it. Not over. Not under. Through.

Feeling sad? Then be sad! Sit with it. You don’t have to Instagram quote your way out of it, or compare your life/grievances/sadness to someone else's. Be okay with just being sad for a bit. Hold yourself in it.

Mad at the world? Be mad at the world! Just do it in a way that still allows you to show kindness to the people you love.

In trying to become a more emotionally aware culture, we’ve ended up addicted to quick fixes, dopamine hits, toxic positivity, and the constant need to be happy. It’s unrealistic. The reality is you’ll be sad, and angry, and frustrated, and hurt, and disappointed, and bored! Quite a lot, actually. But as Chilli Heeler reminds Bluey, sometimes you just have to be bored and wait until something turns up. Sit with it, and the feeling releases.

And by ‘you’, I mean me. My tolerance for discomfort is abysmal. My instinct is to fix it. I treat my life like a renovation show: a lick of paint will fix this! New plumbing will solve that! Problems must have solutions.

I’m not alone. Research by Nicholas Carleton shows that intolerance of uncertainty is rising in modern life, and it’s a core driver of anxiety and distress. We’re becoming more emotionally aware, yet getting worse at sitting in discomfort. Go figure.

The goal isn’t to dodge ‘bad’ feelings. After all, they’re not really ‘bad’, simply uncomfortable. Yet discomfort is where life happens. Sure, you’ll get bursts of pure joy, and that’s fabulous. But you’ll also feel low, and bored, and angry and you’ve got to be okay with that too. Most of life isn’t in the fleeting highs, but in the mundane and ordinary, and sometimes the painful. Hate the world, but still do the dishes. Accept that you’re sad, while making dinner. Chop onions in your discomfort.

Sit with your sadness long enough, and you might find it isn’t so bad after all. She’s actually just a cute little blue person with glasses and a turtleneck sweater, who’s trying to help you process a tough experience. Just sit with her. She won’t stay forever. Don’t fight her or try to fix it. Be still, let yourself feel; the only way out is through.

Hold yourself in the discomfort, breathe through the tightness, and you’ll feel the physical release. Maybe not all at once, but slowly, the heaviness leaves you. Your body lets go of what its been holding onto.

Can’t go over it, or under it—we have to go through it. But it’s the only way forward.

In reality, there’s often not clean endings; just life’s messiness. You can be living an ending without even knowing it—the last time you pick up your kid, an unknowing final goodbye, the end of a season. The movies, shows, and media we’ve consumed poetically convinced us that our lives are neat, little stories that can be split into three understandable parts: beginning, middle, end. We’ve been left constantly searching for that elusive perfect resolution; a conclusion that’s worthy of the story.

As a sentimental person (I’d call myself an ‘SP’ for short, but I listen to the Hamish & Andy podcast…), I’d say I’m even more obsessed with endings than most. I’m not sure who to blame; normally it’d be the parents. But my lifelong obsession with Disney story arcs and overly dramatic nervous system are probably at fault.

Part of my condition is always wanting occasions, situations, and events to end on the highest note possible—the last day of a job should end with a dramatically memorable moment; the final night of a holiday must be the BEST night; I need to strut down the sidewalk in a white dress, my hair billowing in the wind, a wild horse rearing behind me, as I farewell a lover forever. That kind of thing.

I’d argue my dad is the same—minus the white dress and hair. When my parents recently moved overseas, my dad wanted his last day with his granddaughter to be full of their special traditions. She had other plans, i.e. chaos and an astounding number of meltdowns overs biscuits. Toddlers don’t really care for sentimentality—they do hate when the biscuits end though.

Despite only being a third of the story, endings seem to determine the result. “We got off to a rough start” implies a redemptive arc. “I started so well…” hints at decline. The ending redeems or destroys the initial feelings.

Ending on a bad note is a horrific feeling for sentimental people! Not only is it incredibly unsatisfactory, it taints the whole experience. Psychological theories suggest when we form memories, we give disproportionate weight to the end of an experience: it’s called the peak-end rule.

The peak-end rule suggests that our memories are based on the most intense moment (the peak) and the final (end) moment, rather than averaging the entire experience. Therefore, ending on a bad note can shade—even poison—the whole experience.

A fabulous holiday is overshadowed by a horrendous, delayed and turbulent journey home. An awkward goodbye spoils a joyful encounter. A good book ruined by an unrealistic and forced ending. TV shows are a great example. You can think about a fantastic series finale for days. But if the ending sucked, it’s the first thing we mention: ‘I liked it… but I hated the ending’. Good endings are gratifying; bad endings taint a great story. Particularly when it feels abrupt, unfinished, and—

See? Endings are important! As are full stops.

Relationships are particularly susceptible to bad-noted endings—a bitter divorce rewrites the tone for the whole marriage; a painful breakup destroys positive memories. It seems only time offers a more forgiving shade, when the beginning and middle hold weight too.

In that sense, Ash Barty was on to something when she retired, literally, at the peak of her career. She’d won everything she wanted to win, and walked away on her terms, at her best. Some people judged it as shortsighted, but it was the opposite. Wisely, she retired on the ultimate high note: both the peak of her career and the end in one glorious exit.

Humans are meaning-making machines. We attach meaning to everything—particularly goodbyes, closures, season finales—because they help us make sense of the experience. A satisfying ending closes the chapter with certainty; a sense of a mission accomplished, a goodbye that captures the essence of what it meant to us. Ending well leaves us on a high, while ending on a bad note leaves us scrambling, often in frustration, confusion or pain, as we try to wrap up a story with no clear resolution. That’s why every heartbroken person searches for closure: there must be an end that makes sense.

Sometimes an ending is our choice, sometimes they’re uncontrollable. Seasons end, chapters close. But every ending is also a new beginning. They bleed into each other and the cycle continues; “every exit line is an entry.” Life is a never ending story; it’s only hindsight that gives our stories clear arcs, and time that makes memories less jaded.

And sometimes, just as we think something is over, it rears it’s head again.

All things come to an end, and whether it ends on a good or a bad note, we all find a way to draw a line in the sand and put a nail in the coffin. Remember there was a beginning and a middle too. Give weight to the other parts. Force yourself to look beyond the peak and the end.

That’s all she wrote.

Now, I tolerate my phone at best. Don’t get me wrong, ApplePay has replaced my wallet, and I’d be desolate and dehydrated somewhere in the outback without GoogleMaps, but I solemnly believe phones are the root of all evil.

As a result, I am a prolific and horrifically Bad Texter. I hate spending time on my phone, it rarely leaves me feeling good, so I often ignore it for long periods of time. Coupled with my genetic disposition for completely forgetting things, I often reply in my head but not physically, or I hear the message in the car then tell myself to sort it out later (and don’t). But my most toxic trait is messaging someone and even if they reply a second later, taking days to reply back. That cute/highly frustrating sort of thing.

Honestly, it’s lucky I have any friends. I’m incredibly annoying to get ahold of and you can’t guarantee on any sort of follow up. I live in awe of my friends who always get back to someone within a 24 hour time frame. My friend Ruby is like the case study for good modern day correspondence—three kids, a husband, a career and there’s not a thing that woman misses.

Meanwhile, I’ve just accepted that I’m a Bad Texter. Same way I’ve accepted my grey hair: it’s a pathological condition. Until I saw a Subway Takes interview recently with Delaney Rowe.

Rowe’s take: ‘There’s no such thing as being a bad texter, they just don’t want to respond.’

Her (undeniably sound) reasoning being I that Bad Texters become Very Good Texters when they need something. And, sadly, she’s not wrong. If I’m feeling texty, then I’m the world’s fastest replier—but you have to catch me with a) my phone in my hand and b) a strong desire to procrastinate. (B isn’t hard, but catching me with my phone in my hand is slightly harder.) Plus when I need soemthing, I do get back to people quickly!

However, Kareem Rahma, the interviewer, nails it when he argues that, ‘The standards to be a good texter are so high.’

And he’s not wrong! We’re expected to constantly reply to every text, email, Facebook comment, Messenger message, WhatsApp message, Instagram comment, Instagram message, call, voicemail, all while ‘being present’, meditating, eating twenty vegetables a day, drinking a gallon of water, building a bossb*tch career and abs. PLUS, often, keeping a pet/human/plant alive.

It’s TOO MUCH.

The expectations of when people should get back to you are ridicuslous. A guy I went on ONE date with complained when I didn’t get back to him within FOUR HOURS. I don’t even write back to my mother that fast.

To be a good texter and get back to everyone and everything immediately means having my entire day dictated by my phone—which I don’t want to do. It’s nothing personal. Simply that I’d prefer to read Robin Hobb and plants flowers in my garden. Also, it turns out when you’re a single parent, if you don’t wash everyone’s undies, no one will.

Given I spent most of early noughties on the phone (landline and mobile), part of me thinks I’m over it. I used up all my minutes. YET, if you happen to catch me on the phone, you’re in for an absolute marathon—you’ll be begging me to hang up. So, to sum up, I’m a walking contradiction.

The bigger piece I can’t untangle is whether being a Bad Texter makes me a bad friend? I worry it makes me an unreliable friend. Not in the physical or emotional sense, just in the ‘will she actually ever reply to my message’ sense. Most of the time they build up until I have to set aside a few hours to do ‘my correspondence’ like I’m Mrs Van Rhijan in The Gilded Age. (A must-watch, by the way.)

I understand my not-replying can make people feel like I don’t care about them, when I do—deeply. I’ve had multiple boyfriends express issue with my lack lustre relationship with my phone.

There’s positives though—being a Bad Texter often makes me a more present mum. I’m happy to ignore my phone and just play. I can tell my daughter prefers it because whenever I am on my phone, she reacts—either by doing something she knows is outrageously annoying, or claiming she needs the phone to make a call. As a spoiled only child, she likes being my sole focus—and, luckily, with my mission being to maintain the lowest screen time ever, our values align.

Yet there’s many a mum who can do both! Some people (mostly women) are high capacity people, who can reply to everything and still play with their kids. While I’m starting to realise I’m a very low capacity person—just one thing at a time, PLEASE. Preferably after midday.

And I’ve gotta be honest: I was a Bad Texter before I had a kid. At some stage during my twenties, my relationship with mobile phones turned sour and it’s been a rocky journey ever since.

More and more I want to do a Simon Cowell and not have a phone at all. But then I remember that he’s a wealthy white man with a thousand assistants and probably a home phone. I don’t even have a home phone.

When I’m at my most controversial, my argument remains MUST our time be dictated by Steve Job’s best/worst invention ever? One device take up so much of our lives—often hours per day. We all live with a rectangular, robot dictator and we now consider it normal. I want my time to be dictated by the moon, as Mother Nature intended! Get rid of the phones! While we’re at it, let’s remove all artificial light! Let’s get back to daylight hours only. (Maybe I’m secretly Amish?)

All jokes aside, we could go back to landlines and answering machines—it always looks super cool in nineties roms-coms. OR we could return to writing letters. I genuinely think I would be better at that.

Ultimately, it’s a catch-22. My friends are a priority—but being on my phone is not. My time is precious, and I’ve got to prioritise what matters; yet my friends and family matter above all else. Taking the time to reply shows I care and that I’m listening. (Although, honestly, I’d much rather they all just buy houses on my street so we could pop in whenever we feel like it—there are still a few blocks for sale, gals.)

In a world where everything seems to be about our phones, I feel a strong desire to make it about being present with whose with me. And that might make me a Bad Texter, but I feel like, in lots of other ways, it makes me a good friend.

I’ll try to be better, but at heart, I’m a Bad Texter—probably always will be. Not because I don’t care about the person texting me, but because I care about the person sitting next to me. However, I am truly sorry to all those I regularly let down—please know that next time I’m with you, I’ll ignore everyone else who texts me.

Another year older, and none the wiser on the difference between effect and affect. I still struggle with my left and my rights, too. But I have learned some things and, as always, can’t help but foist it upon you.

1. Reframing is one of the most helpful mental health tools one can learn. (But reframing by the media is a weapon of mass destruction.)

2. Chemistry and compatibility are two very different things.

3. Nothing is cuter than my three-year-old asking me ‘how was your day today, mum?’ at the dinner table.

4. You don’t have to be productive all the time.

5. Missing something and wanting it back are not the same thing.

6. Often, you are the problem.

7. Cats really like computers.

8. Sometimes unexpected things hurt deeply—but you don’t have to grin and bear it. Instead, feel it until you either learn to live with it or learn to let it go.

9. Furthermore: give yourself time to recover—from break ups, bangs up, hangs up, big days, even sports injuries. Recovery is necessary.

10. Do stuff your way. Your way is as good as any.

11. Just try it.

12. Being early is overrated—having said that, being late has created more stress in my life than most other things.

13. When it all seems too hard, try doing ‘the thing’ for just five minutes. You can reason yourself into doing anything for just five minutes.

14. As Dr Seuss said: ‘When you're in a Slump, you're not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.’ Slumps are unavoidable. Everyone needs to learn how to un-slump themselves.

15. The best days are often unplanned.

16. Peak happiness follows having just written and/or my toddler going to bed early.

17. Society trashes single mothers because the opposite would require admitting many women can do it on their own too easily.

18. Being alone and feeling lonely are two different things.

19. They call birth ‘labour’ to get women immediately accustomed to the idea that that’s what they do from now on: labour.

20. Maturing is realising that you were the villain of some stories.

21. Some people want to hurt people simply because they can—hold it against that person, but not everyone. Don’t let it be normalised.

22. You can live with less than you think.

23. Biases colour everything.

24. Being truly listened to gives someone more confidence and worth than a hundred compliments.

25. Follow on: the best compliments often have nothing to do with appearances (someone once told me I was ‘human sunshine’ and I’ve never forgotten it).

26. There’s a lot to be said for having your own daily ‘uniform’.

27. Parenting is easier when you stop trying to make a kid be what you expect them to be, and instead let them be themselves.

28. Everyone loves taking credit, very few take accountability. But the ones that take accountability are worth far more than the ones that take all the credit.

29. When your inner critic says something, talk back. You don’t have to take their word for it.

30. It’s extremely useful to have friends in the medical profession.

31. Ditto for all the trades.

32. Contrary to popular belief, women can mow lawns. But, as predicted, it is tiring and boring.

33. Tell the people you love that you love them as much as possible. Who cares if they get sick of it—you’d rather they roll their eyes than ever forget how much you love them.

34. Three-year-olds ask the best, and most inappropriate, questions. Along with 95 year olds.

35. Make, grow, create as much as possible.

As always, thank you for reading UnBluffed ♡

And Happy Birthday to me!

If you don’t know her, she’s an Italian legal scholar and human rights expert, appointed UN Special Rapporteur on the occupied Palestine territories (which means she’s an independent expert appointed by the UN Human Rights Council).

On top of that, she’s braver than most of the world leaders combined. Certainly all the Western leaders (excluding Ireland).

Albanese has dedicated herself to detailing concrete evidence that Israel’s actions in Gaza amount to genocide, providing viable and practical steps for leaders as well as citizens around the globe. She’s visited countries—whether welcome or not—to inspire action and defend Palestinians, as well as arguing with idiots like Piers Morgan. (Although, to Morgan’s credit, he’s interviewed more pro-Palestinian advocates than most and has been ahead of the media in acknowledging ‘maybe Israel has gone too far’.)

Francesca Albanese is the first woman to hold her current UN position—and, I would argue, one of the first Special Rapporteurs to have such a high profile (given I can’t name a single other UN Special Rapporteur). Speaking with passion but relatable intelligence, she’s been a fearless advocate when so many have cowered. Blunt, honest, educated—she’s a badass.

Most recently, she released a report that details the 48 global companies financially benefitting from this genocide and the Israeli settler occupation— including Microsoft, Alphabet Inc (Google), Amazon, AirBnB, Booking.com, IBM, HD Hyundai and Volvo. Money, greed and power continue to reign supreme.

As a result of her report, she’s being bullied by the biggest bully there is: the United States of America. The U.S. imposed sanctions on her, meaning U.S. businesses and citizens are banned from doing business with her, she’s unable to travel to the U.S., and if she had any U.S. assets they would likely be frozen. You know, the stuff our government should be doing to indicted war criminals.

Despite this, she is not backing down.

Above is an image taken of her a minute after she learned of the sanctions. When Al Jazeera questioned her about it, she reportedly replied in a text message:

‘No comment on mafia style intimidation techniques. Busy reminding [UN] member states of their obligations to stop and punish genocide. And those who profit from it.’

See? Badass.

The U.S. sanctioning her is a farce that will one day be another mortifying tidbit of American history: America, the land of the free and the brave, welcomes indicted war criminals with open arms while sanctioning human rights experts.

In reality, this is not out of character for the U.S.—a country that has helped overthrow beloved, democratically elected leaders for dictators who serve their interests. America is a country built on war. It’s reportedly been in conflict for majority of its 249 years since Independence from the British. The nation claiming to be a ‘peacemaker’ while financing a genocide has spent over 90% of it’s post-colonial existence at war.

Additionally, it’s not a stretch to believe that the same country that dropped napalm on small, undefended villages in Vietnam fifty years ago may not have a problem with dropping bombs on people again. Reports suggest more bombs have been dropped on Gaza in months than during the entire Vietnam War. But this isn’t a war—it’s a genocide.

This week, two Israeli-based human rights organisations—B’Tselem and Physicians for Human Rights–Israel—released damning reports stating that Israel is committing genocide against Palestinians in Gaza, calling on Western leaders to abide by their legal and moral duty to stop it.

While, along with Francesca Albanese, many global NGOs—including Amnesty International and Médecins Sans Frontières/Doctors Without Borders—have already been doing so, this is two groups within Israel saying yes, it’s a genocide. And yes, Western leaders need to act.

Thank God for the South Africans and the Irish, who’ve stood with Palestine from the beginning. From Kneecap to Nicola Coughlan, the Irish have shown their backbone. Additionally, nearly 400 Irish, English, Scottish and Welsh writers penned an open letter labelling Israeli attacks on Gaza as genocide, condeming global silence and inaction.

Across the world, we’ve seen individual acts of bravery—U.S. rapper Macklemore, who hasn’t stopped flying the Palestinian flag, to children’s presenter Miss Rachel, who—despite the backlash—continues to advocate for Palestinian children.

In Australia, Jan Fran and Antoinette Lattouf stand tall among those choosing conscience over comfort. Two journalists with their own stories, now helping Australians look beyond the whitewashed narratives of our mainstream media.

Enough of acting like any of this is justified. Stop pretending this is a war. No more defending the indefensible. It’s time to look beyond the biases and agendas.

As Irish actor Nicola Coughlan wrote:

‘Let no one — no person, no news organization, no government gaslight you into thinking that basic human empathy is controversial.’

But the Western world has been too slow. Nearly a year ago, the Arab-Islamic Ministerial committee, representing 57 Arab and Muslim nations, laid out a peace plan and issued a joint press statement that remains as clear as it is overlooked in Western media:

‘The Israeli Prime Minister came here today and said Israel is surrounded by those that want to destroy it. We are here, members of the Muslim Arab Committee, mandated by 57 Arab and Muslim countries, and I can tell you unequivocally that all of us are willing, right now, to guarantee the security of Israel in the context of Israel ending the occupation and allowing for the emergence of an independent Palestinian state…

[The Israeli PM] is creating that danger simply because he does not want a two-state solution. And if he does not want the two-state solution, ask Israeli officials: what is their endgame?’

Jordan Foreign Minister Ayman Safadi went on to highlight that the Arab world are partners in peace, urging international involvement. Not only were his pleas ignored, I wonder if this was reported in a single Western media outlet.

Recently, we’ve seen which countries in the Global South are willing to stand for humanity. Two weeks ago, thirty countries gathered in Bogotá, with twelve nations—Bolivia, Colombia, Cuba, Indonesia, Iraq, Libya, Malaysia, Namibia, Nicaragua, Oman, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, and South Africa—committing to concrete steps to hold Israeli actors accountable.

We should be ashamed that Australia wasn’t among them. Our Prime Minister may share a surname with Francesca, but he shares none of her backbone.

Even more troubling is that, again, this major international development appears to have been ignored by major Australian media outlets. Even Senator Lidia Thorpe’s public call for Australia to join seems to have gone unreported by mainstream media.

It’s time Australians consider that maybe in a country such as ours, where our media concentration is the second-worst in the world, what we see and hear has been carefully curated to serve a particular agenda.

You don’t need to understand geopolitics, or even learn Palestine's full history to agree that genocides are wrong. Sending people to a ‘safe zone’ then bombing it is wrong. Snipers killing people lining up for food is wrong. Starving people is wrong.

And if you don’t think that, then there’s something wrong with you.

The tide is turning. It must be if even Piers Morgan and Joe Rogan are questioning the morality of the situation. Turn with it. Don’t let those around you justify what is happening. Speak up.

The UK and France have announced plans to recognise Palestinian statehood by September, and it’s likely Albo will follow suit. However, once again, we see that bureaucracy is too slow a response to evil.

Soon, Western leaders will claim they were always on the right side of history. They weren’t. But Francesca Albanese was.

She has been a relentless, fearless advocate. A voice of reason in the face of propaganda. She’s offered practical solutions, presented hard evidence, and stood her ground with unshakeable strength.

She’s a modern hero. In fifty years or so, all the history books will acknowledge her as such—when, retrospectively, everyone denounces this genocide that the world tacitly ignored or, worse, defended.

But the real martyrs are the Palestinian people—innocent, courageous people caught in the crossfire of Western colonialism, a regime built on lies, and America’s endless appetite for war.

Eventually, everyone will be against this. Francesca Albanese will be hailed as a hero. Palestine will be free—but far too late, and at a cataclysmic cost.

For me, if the person was stupid I might be able to do that—a stupid person may not recognise my extreme wit and intelligence. But what if the person mattered to me?

An old boyfriend told me I was ‘too much’ and, as you can see, I’ve never forgotten it. I once had a boss tell me I’d never succeed and I believed her. Both times, internalising nonsense rather than recognising it as such gave people’s words undeserved power; I not only took offence, but took it to heart. In retrospect, I should have recognised idiocy and gone about my day.

I envy highly unoffendable people. They’re authentic; simply themselves, never trying to manage other’s peoples interpretations. They don’t catch every minor faux pas, or take every comment seriously. Never the butt of the joke, because they’re in on the joke. Probably even cracked it. There’s a sense of acceptance both for themselves and others; a self-worth that’s devoid of other people’s opinions.

True unoffendability is a gift. It doesn’t derive from arrogance; it isn’t behaving like you’re made of metal or pretending you’re fine while silently crying into your napkin. Highly unoffendable people just have an innate discernment; an excellent filter system, if you will—they know what to let in and what to let go. Water off a (highly unoffendable) duck’s back. Rather than being the antithesis to sensitivity and empathy, those feelings are reserved for when their warranted—not for show, kudos, or self pity.

However, the most admirable quality of being highly unoffendable is the complete lack of time for idiots. Many of us let an idiot destroy a good day; highly unoffendable people pity the fool, then go about their business. It’s actually excellent time management.

The best example of a truly unoffendable person is Matthew Cuthbert from Anne of Green Gables’—he’s ego-less, purely kind, and unaffected by other’s opinions. A man of strong internal values with a low reactivity to social judgement. But it’s likely only me and senior citizens that get that reference so I’ll use a more recent one.

The ultimate comeback queen: Taylor Swift.*

Berated, mocked, and misogynistically criticised for simply for being blessed with an active dating life—then she wrote a song about it. Arguably, a turning point in both in her career and the power dynamic. By turning the jokes into lyrics, she stripped them of their sting. She stopped being publicly offended by it, and started making money off it instead. She learned to shake it off.

Maybe Swift was/is still offended privately—the media (and me) remain aggressively obsessed with her—but once the butt of every joke, she’s now the most powerful woman in every room. So, the jokes on them.

Whether it’s writing a hit song about it, or just not letting people’s comments deter or direct your opinions and actions, being highly unoffendable comes from an inner strength of character. A quiet conviction in who you are and a well-honed filter that stops cheap shots from rewriting your reality.

However, we must be weary of false unoffendability. Sometimes what looks like unoffendablity is idiocy—or unchecked ego. Take Joe Rogan, for example. He acts unbothered, enjoying the undeserved confidence that often comes free with being a mediocre white man in a position of power.

Similarily, there are those who masquerade as unoffendable, acting tough and claiming they don’t care, when they’re clearly offended by absolutely everything single thing that ever occurs anywhere. People like Andrew Bolt and the man whose name starts with T and rhymes with dump.

As we’ve discovered with equality on the rise, mediocre white men are often the most easily offended—especially when they’re not the ones claiming ‘it’s just a joke’. What they’ve mistaken for emotional resilience and strong sensibilities is unexamined privilege. Dolly Parton has strong sensibilities; Joe Rogan is a walking Dunning-Kruger diagram.

(The Dunning-Kruger effect is a well-documented phenomenon: the person who thinks they’re the smartest in the room is often the least intelligent. It’s why politics is packed with nincompoops. Although, to be fair, many politicians are highly unoffendable—though often in a vaguely sociopathic way. Others, however, are so easily offended it’s criminal they have access to nukes.)

But outliers aside, it’s important to question when we are offended by someone else’s words or actions. Sometimes it’s granted; hurtful and hateful speech should never be met with complacency—offence is warranted. But offence by trivial and minor things, particularly throwaway lines or comments on a non-consquential topic, calls for us to ask ourselves why.

At a wedding a couple of years ago, a newly made friend told me she didn’t want to have kids. ‘Fair enough’, I replied in a sleep-deprived haze, ‘they’re hard work.’ She looked me dead in the eye and told me I was the first mother she’d said to that didn’t immediately start trying to convince her otherwise. Misery loves company, I guess?

Tying our identity and self worth too tightly to opinions and things—like sports or horoscopes—leads to us being easily offended. When we’re offended by someone else making an alternate decision, it’s a sign our sense of self is tangled up in it. Someone choosing not to have children isn’t a decision that calls for offense; and if it does, hard questions about why a decision that doesn’t impact you has such an effect need to be asked. Defensiveness is often how offence shows up.

I’ve been offended countless times by comments that said more about the speaker than they ever did about me. And, I can confirm, it’s a complete waste of time.

In the face of bigotry and hatred, we must—and I will—speak up. Hate dressed as ‘jokes’ is never acceptable. But in the face of idiocy, or someone simply making a different choice than us, we should go about our day. Once upon a tim we ignored people yelling from soapboxes—now we give them podcasts. Remember that not every opinion deserves airtime.

We can’t control what anyone else says or does; only what we do, say, and choose to be defined by. So we can either sit around and be offended by everything… or we can write a hit song about it and make millions. Some things deserve our offence—just not everything. And particularly not idiots. All that does is give them power.

Build a filter system. Blocking everything out would be psychopathic; but choose what to absorb and what to dismiss. What to focus on, and what to let slide off. Unless you’re one of the billionaire losers ruining the planet and society, then be offended—every offence is intended. (They’re big UnBluffed readers so they’ll definitely get this message.)

I want to be highly unoffendable. Not just because those people are gas, but it’s a sign of valuing oneself and opinions. A highly unoffendable person filters out the noise around them to focus on what matters. It comes from a strong sense of self, undefined by what people might say—a trait that serves us well. For when we’re not afraid of criticism, we’re not afraid to try—or fail.

Maybe this whole thing reads like nonsense. Maybe you’re offended by the suggestion that you’re easily offended. Either way, I don’t mind. Water off my highly unoffendable back.

(Except if my mother isn’t impressed about what I’ve implied—sorry, mum. Love you. Please leave me in the will.)

Inspired by the bunch of fabulously unoffendable people in Macksville.

*Do I mention Taylor Swift too much? I’m worried this is turning into a borderline fanpage. But I guess haters gonna hate, hate, hate.