Something which puts me off completely, romantically or platonically, from another person, is their inability to carry a conversation because they don’t ask any questions. Lately, I’ve been interacting with too many people who don’t seem to be able to carry a decent conversation, or don’t realise they’re only talking about themselves the whole time (no one wants to be your audience, Karen).

My distaste for these types of conversations came to a head recently when texting the guy I’m seeing. In person, he can carry a conversation; over text, there are no questions. I knew everything he was doing all weekend, yet for all he knew, I was in Siberia.

I may be being quite harsh, considering in person he is a great conversationalist. But the inability to even ask me how I am over text message was driving me up the wall. (Honestly, I’d rather you not text me at all.)

It’s not just men, it’s women too (letting the side down).

A friend of a friend is notorious for this, and people actively avoid her. She will only ever talk about herself and her love life, will never ask you anything about yourself or even respond when you are talking about anything that isn’t about her, and will repeat what she is saying multiple times until someone replies.

She’s not the only woman I know erring on the side of this rude conversational edge. Either way, it’s just so frustrating, and quite frankly boring, conversing with someone like this. Honestly, I’d rather hear about something that happened to you on the bus, or the last movie you saw, or talk about the heatwave, than the only thing you are able to maintain a conversation about is one topic: boys.

So why is it so hard for some people to carry a conversation?

My mum has said, for my entire adult life, that phones are ruining people’s ability to communicate. Turns out she’s (but I haven’t told her)...

Two Stanford University professors looked into this for TIME magazine, and found that lockdown, working from home, and the rise of social media all contributed to our short attention spans and waning communication skills. When we stop using or trying to develop long, articulate conversations, we lose the ability to do so in the long run. The authors suggested decreasing screen time, joining a community, or getting a job that requires in-person communication.

How does this affect your (but more importantly, my) love life?

Well, if you aren’t showing interest in your situationship’s day (because, let’s be honest, it’s probably a situationship), they’re probably going to find you pretty boring eventually. No one wants to have one-sided conversations for too long. Once the fresh, super-shiny attraction starts to fade, then you’ll be out the door.

Yes, I may be being too harsh. But, sue me, I want a good conversation that flows with someone as interested in me as I am in them (the bar is on the floor).

Livia x

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Hair, it’s part of you (literally and symbolically). You style it a certain way, you wear it, you express yourself with it. Short hair, long hair, dyed hair — you are communicating a part of your personality in the way you style your hair.

This is something I’ve been thinking a lot about recently. How a woman’s hair is so tied to her identity, femininity, and oftentimes innocence. Long hair in particular is an inherent sign of fertility, cast across history in paintings and religion to symbolise such.

My hair falls to my waist. I wear it much like an accessory. It hangs straight and long most of the time; sometimes I wear it wavy, or in an updo every once in a while, but mostly, it’s down (and getting all up in my business). I’ve been going back and forth about cutting it. A few years ago, I cut all my hair off and had a very short bob that saw me through lockdown (and a blonde, then a redhead phase), and I vowed never to go back.

But much like an artist, I view my hair as a sign of the particular period I am living in. I will look back in five, ten, and twenty years and remember I had hair that fell to my ass, and the memories and men that came with that time. And since I’ve now had such long hair for a few years, I’m thinking it’s time for a chop.

My desire to cut my hair grew stronger about a week ago, when I went to see The Odyssey (because I'm exactly like every other girl), and couldn't help but follow the female character’s journey through how their hair was styled. Anne Hathaway as Penelope only wore her hair down when with her husband, Odysseus — a sign of her vulnerability and womanhood, as his wife and mother of his child. Then came Zendaya’s Athena, whose hair was only shown at the height of her vulnerability and innocence (if you’ve seen it, you know exactly what scene I mean).

Their long hair, used as a plot device by Nolan, made me feel uncomfortable. It was as though their identity, their hair, had been weaponised to reflect upon the status of Odysseus. I felt (and feel) uncomfortable thinking about it.

My hair is something I’ve always thought I can control, and in some ways, I can, but in others, my hair speaks for itself. The cultural connotations of my plain, straight, brown hair are more nuanced than I’ve ever cared to consider before now. Inherently, you may view my hair and think of innocence, of youth, of vitality.

Yet, in my uncomfortable realisation, I can’t quite let it go. I use it as my shield, something that I have in abundance that others do not. I have chosen to grow it so long, to accumulate it, to hide my identity behind it (because looking beyond it would reveal the real me). And the scary question, not just for myself but for you too: is who am I without this hair?

Perhaps I am getting far too into my hair, but it really is that serious, and more so tenfold for women who have no freedom or control over their hair.

They say you are what you eat, and you are what you wear. Actually, you’re your hair.

As my favourite on-screen character, Fleabag, once declared: “Hair is everything.”

Livia x

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A beautiful, thin princess in danger is saved by a man, they marry and live happily ever after. The simple plot runs through all the classic Disney princess movies and is a fantasy many Gen Z women grew up watching. These “classic” white, skinny, cartoon princesses were examples of femininity to women. The depiction of these princesses is problematic: promoting passivity and attributing beauty to moral value, teaching young women to see their worth through the actions and approval of men. In doing so, it positions them as the subservient gender, and shaped their views on femininity, self-identity and romantic relationships.

The only way to be saved from your evil stepmother is through marriage, or to escape your life as a bookworm, you must find true love; even to regain your voice, you must find a man. In all movies predating the 2010s, Disney princesses are often saved from their various situations by a prince, their knights in shining armour. Linguists Carmen Fought and Karen Eisenhauer found that, despite many of these films being about and named after the princess protagonist, from 1989-1999, male characters spent on average 70% of the time talking. The depicted gendered hierarchy, especially in relationships, promotes harmful romantic ideals and exposes young viewers to unrealistic relationships steeped in outdated gender roles.

The princesses were often depicted fulfilling domestic duties and were rarely involved in the action like their male counterparts: Belle, Cinderella, Snow White are given domestic tasks while the men fight for and in their honour. When these films are supposed to be about women, the dialogue, action, and screen is dominated by men. These classic princesses continuously reinforced limited gender stereotypes in young girls, who grew up with these princesses before the rise of fourth-wave feminism.

The gendered hierarchy also appears in Tangled (2010), where Rapunzel must protect her purity, symbolically represented by her hair, from Flynn Rider. This subconscious messaging communicates to young women that they must remain pure, homely, alongside the ultimate female attribute (skinny, beautiful) to attain a man, which is the end goal: the happily ever after. These princesses are confined to a feminine ideal, and as research by Rachael Michelle Johnson indicates, this messaging that was internalised in youth has been linked to the development of eating disorders, low self-esteem and depression in many Gen Z women.

There have also been discussions over the lack of racial diversity in these earlier Disney films, and how princesses such as Jasmine and Mulan are the sole representatives for lots of young women of colour, who saw there was little space and acceptance of them in fairytales, alongside the damaging messaging around women’s body image and agency. Having one of these racially diverse characters adopt male traits further highlights to a young mind that, without the masculine, women cannot achieve success. Whereas, as adults, we can see Mulan’s success came from working within her society’s restrictions, not because masculinity is inherently superior.

Furthermore, the female beauty standard and their perceived thinness were used to differentiate the princesses from characters larger in stature and more expressive with their makeup, whose size and style often signified their age or their evil nature, e.g. Ursula, Maleficent, and even Mother Gothel. Subliminally, the women who express themselves, take up more space physically and with their personality, are ultimately evil and to be avoided. It stifles self-expression and inclusivity in young women, even more so, perpetuating body and confidence issues.

Thankfully, alongside fourth-wave feminism and the rise of the MeToo movement, Disney moved away from these classic depictions of female characters. Brave (2012), closely followed by Frozen (2013) featured princesses without male love interests for the first time. Merida’s beauty wasn’t her defining characteristic, and her lack of make-up and general manner allowed young women to see they didn’t have to fit into the “classic” princess box. Unfortunately, when marketing Brave, Merida was shown slimmed down, wearing makeup and overtly feminine, in stark contrast to her portrayal in the movie. Then, Disney slid back to their “classic” feminine visual portrayals in Frozen, with thinner female characters. The feminine ideal is unfortunately still reinforced in the messaging of both of these movies, only now she has agency.

It took nearly another ten years for body-positive inclusivity in female characters in the form of Encanto (2021), where there was little emphasis on the female beauty and body, and more on their free will and power. It is the story of female heroes and empowerment of a diverse group of women. There are far more positive messages to be absorbed by young female minds that the earlier Disney films lacked. These women are still confined to their town, but because they are the protectors and saviours of it, and therefore depend upon in the same way the classic Disney prince once was. Viewed alongside the classic princess films, young women will take in a variety of messages about what it means to be a woman, and ultimately a more progressive, positive one.

For many Gen Z women, the princesses are a staple of their childhood, a fantasy they once lived in and are now dealing with the personal consequences of. As young women, they couldn’t see or understand the gendered stereotypes or messaging they were absorbing. Now they too have a diverse set of princesses to refer to, and know that their beauty, independence and power are not based on a man, nor comparable to fictional, cartoon female characters. The princess problem affected many women, but the fantasy is finally evolving, with independence, agency, and creating your own destiny shown as the real happily ever after.

Which means we can all agree that Ursula had more fun anyway.

Livia x

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Within minutes of England losing 1-2 to Argentina in last Wednesday’s World Cup semi-final, my social media feed was full of women quietly sharing domestic abuse helplines. Domestic abuse incidents in England rise 38% when the national team loses, and stay 11% higher the next day, regardless of the result. A fact I have memorised by proxy.

The quiet reflex of women to reshare these facts and phone numbers reveals how ritualistic these warnings have become, without the underlying pattern shifting. Perhaps we have all grown used to these facts, and resigned ourselves to helping women instead of stopping the behaviour. Comparatively, during the 2024 Euros, police across England and Wales logged 351 domestic abuse incidents flagged as football-related. We will get the results from the 2026 World Cup shortly (and you will be hearing from me then).

All the posts shared reiterated the statistic above, and affirmed that “even though England may win, she always loses.” Yet not once did I see anyone explain why this is the accepted standard, and just what it is about football that brings the violence out in men.

The psychology behind the spike in domestic abuse comes from three main factors: alcohol, tribal mindset, which leads into football as a proxy for modern warfare. None of these factors are an excuse, but for those out there wondering the origins of the abuse (and arguably why it is accepted rather than protested):

Alcohol
An investigation by the London School of Economics found alcohol was a significant factor in the increase in domestic violence. In the UK, sportsmanship and drinking go hand in hand — men and women will have a pint (or a few) and watch the match, whether at home or, as London saw during the England v Argentina match, in pubs overflowing with football fans. Going out and being part of the crowd is part and parcel of the Euros and World Cup in England; it is essentially part of pub culture in the UK. The study found that the spike in abuse incidents correlated with match days, which were randomly allocated initially and further proved the hypothesis.

Tribal mindset
Also known as club/country rivalries, which have been a thing for the past hundred years or so. You have probably heard of football hooligans before, and hooliganism is where this phrase comes from: deep association and support for one’s team brings out violent behaviour. Football supporters see themselves as members of their club/country, comrades with their fellow supporters, and when their team loses, it is not just a knock to them, but to the system they supported. This reinforcement of social divisions, and the violence caused as a by-product, continues the cycle of abuse being accepted (because “the hooligans can’t help it”).

Football as a proxy for modern warfare
“Football has its origins in the tradition of tribal warfare among our ancestors, in which male band members formed coalitions to weaken or destroy local rival bands.” For the same reasons football fans have a tribal mindset, its role as a proxy for modern warfare comes down to team colours, “playing” on home turf, and male “warriors” and the WAGs they have to protect.

The conclusion of the match on Wednesday, and how players reacted, as well as the fight that broke out between Argentinian and Spanish players after Spain won the final, highlight these three things that feed into increased violence because of football: violence directed towards family or an intimate relationship, as defined in the UK.

Part of the reason this goes unchallenged is that the very things that cause domestic violence are the same things we celebrate in football. That’s the sad reality that’s repeatedly ignored. We celebrate a culture that promotes violence, and it’s harder to interrogate that violence, whether it’s alcohol or a tribal mindset, when it’s ingrained in the sport we celebrate. It’s a frustrating reality (maddening, upsetting, and honestly, there aren’t enough adjectives to describe it).

To conclude, the sad, reshared pattern that dominated my social media is a result of violence being accepted as part of football, being a proxy for modern warfare, with the outlet being family and close relations rather than what would once have been the enemy. To reiterate: this is no excuse, and domestic violence is serious. Women should not suffer for a sport they have been historically excluded from, nor should women suffer abuse for any sport, or in general.

These patterns are a sad reflection of the society we live in today, and it is up to everyone to support, share these helplines and fight for change.

Livia x

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Don’t be emotional. Keep all your feelings locked inside, don’t react, always be the chill girl, and never, not once, admit that you have feelings because once you do you will have to repeatedly justify them because no one will believe you.

Like much of the nation (it is summer 2026), my screen time is split between Love Island and the World Cup. I must admit, I am far more into Love Island than I am football, but that’s always been the case. Love Island has been a regular fixture in my summer since I was a teenager, and it’s a (not so) guilty pleasure of mine. When I was younger, I watched to observe the actions of the singles and for the drama of it all. Now, I watch a very eerie mirror of misogyny being broadcast everywhere, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg: the racism, sexism, and overproduction that purports what is wrong with dating and UK culture is actually terrifying (Gilead, is that you?).

Over the past week, we have seen one particular contestant, Jasmine, come under scrutiny for simply being upset that the guy she likes disrespected her. But being upset has caused the other male contestants to question her feelings, and so she constantly has to reinforce that she does like Kavan and that is why she is so upset. Then, when the girls defend her, all claiming that she does in fact HAVE FEELINGS for this boy six years younger than her, the narrative that they need to be silenced continues as Sean says “all the girls need to relax…are you adults or children?” (Sorry, can women not speak now too?).

Anyways, back to Jasmine and the scrutiny she is under, all because she is friends with Lorenzo, which somehow deems her a villain to Kav and excuses his bad behaviour (every apology of his is followed by a “but”). When she defends herself, or even demands respect (like asking him not to talk over the top of her) she is still somehow in the wrong (make it make sense). Yes, she snapped, and then she apologised for making him feel that way, but got no apology in return. Asking for respect isn’t out of order, it shouldn’t have to be asked for in the first place. But, like every relationship, there are teething problems when you get to know each other, when you settle into how your relationship will work together.

Side note: being called “off-putting” by the brother of the guy you like, and then having the grace to walk away from the conversation and respect that it is his opinion (even though he couldn’t give you a reason why) is when I knew she was my favourite. To have the self-confidence and emotional intelligence to walk away from the conversation and not waste her energy trying to convince him otherwise is setting a good example for the women watching!

As I said, it’s overproduced like a McDonald’s chicken nugget, but still…there is a narrative on display here that 2.1 million viewers are eating up. It is only the women that are celebrating each other on this show, taking the time to understand each other’s emotions, and when they do something rude or shady, they hold their hands up. Yet, when a man regularly disrespects one of them, he has a fellow male contestant reinforce the terrible behaviour and tell him he deserves the girl he just humiliated on national television (I think we all need to be as delusional as these men).

There has never been such a male/female divide in the villa in all the time I’ve watched it, and it feels exactly like the Gen Z dating scene. There’s an archaic expectation for women to contain their emotions, because if they are too emotional they are deemed “crazy,” and if they remain calm, they are (in this instance) “off-putting” (usually cold and unloving).

On Love Island, the double standards, misogyny and reaction to one woman having feelings and being vilified for it. I mean, come on...I can only hope that Jasmine will not crack under the pressure the men are putting on her to change her character, because she is setting an example I feel we all need to understand. You don’t have to settle for awful behaviour, and you can ask for more. MOST IMPORTANTLY you can get mad and sad, it doesn’t (and shouldn’t) define your character, and I think a lot of the male contestants are in for a rude awakening once they leave the villa.

There is so much more I could get into, especially regarding the double standards, because you bet if Jasmine were a man, none of the male contestants would even bat an eyelid if she acted this way (because they don’t for the current ones already displaying the misogynistic behaviour…and I will SAY IT AGAIN). Being emotional is viewed as negative and inherently feminine, which once again reinforces that women are emotional and this is a bad thing. Yet, the boys can cry?

Long live the standards Jasmine is setting, and may she win just like England (the latter may be more unrealistic, but a girl can hope).

Livia x

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The heatwave arrived, and like many other Londoners, I tried to escape it and find as much shade (and dare I say aircon) as the next person. The tube was hotter than outside, buses were full of commuters exchanging the underground furnace for, well, another furnace, and anything and everything was used as a fan.

When the sun comes out, all I want to do is lie out in it and lose myself in a book. It’s how I spent my summers as a teenager (reading about summer flings rather than having them) and how I’ve continued to spend every spare minute on holiday as an adult (despite the flings). And so, whilst thinking about my next read and wanting some inspiration (hoping for a list just like this one), I reached out to my favourite Substackers for their summer reading recommendations.

This is what they are reading and recommending this summer, and what you should be reading too…

From the well-loved writer who has inspired the start of so many Substacks (mine included):

I’m currently reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck which is probably an essential for everyone to read, I love how he considered it his life’s work and that he spent his whole life learning how to write it! Plus it’s got one of my all time favourite & most famous quotes, “now you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.”

If you aren’t reading Hot Pursuit of Pleasure, take a look in the mirror because you need Ismene to not just get you through summer, but through they year:

I devoured What Am I, A Deer? by Polly Barton and it has continued to live in my mind ever since. While it’s nominally the story of a young woman who develops a debilitating crush on a man she doesn’t know, it’s so much more: a searching, beautiful exploration of romance and what it does to us, a celebration of the ways we use music to understand the rhythm of our own lives, an investigation into earnestness and embarrassment and cheesiness. Barton intermingles language theory with Carly Rae Jepsen lyrics, etymology with karaoke etiquette. A summer read so engrossing you might forget to top up your sunscreen

If you aren’t already reading Bintworld by Smizzo, what are you doing?! She’s a writer whose work I can’t get enough of:

Jonathan Livingston Seagull – Richard Bach. It seems this book is a bit of a cult classic. I’m yet to start it, but God knows I’m a SUCKER for a fable on quelling existentialism with positive absurdism. Jonathan Livingston Seagull is about a seagull (shock) who rejects his flock to fulfil his passion for flying. It was a recent trip to Marseille, where I walked past a restaurant called Livingston, inspired by this fable, that reminded me of one of my favourite albums of all time, Lahai by Sampha. I remember listening to it endlessly, especially the song “Jonathan L. Seagull”, and realised it was about time I finally read the book that inspired an absolute GOATED album.

Babylon, Albion: A Personal History of Myth and Migration – Dalia Al-Dujaili. Middle Eastern representation is scarce. Iraqi diasporic representation is scarcer. As a British Iraqi born and raised in one of the most quintessentially English places, it was so comforting to find a book that discussed just that. The book highlights that migration is an intrinsic part of nature, looking at patterns of migration mirrored between the UK and Iraq, while using parallel mythology to unite the two places I call home. There is so much Iraqi history and mythology can teach us, especially in times like this that feel so turbulent.

A writer who never fails to leave me wanting more, and giving me a new perspective every time with every memento vivere:

I’m currently reading The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. I picked it up because I’ve been wanting to sit with some bigger questions — about beauty, youth, the transience of life, and moral corruption. Wilde writes about the human capacity for self-deception in a way that feels timeless. We will sacrifice almost anything to preserve the image of who we want to be, even at the cost of who we actually are.

The person who gives me reading recommendations every time I ask (you may have seen us swapping book recs before) and has rescued me from countless reading slumps:

This Is How You Lose The Time War by Amal El-Mohtar. It is an absolutely incredible, beautifully written love story between two agents on opposite factions of a war that takes place across dimensions, times and universes...I see it as a tale of hope and endurance in the face of seemingly unbeatable odds. I highly recommend it.

Another person who inspired me to start Substack, and someone after my own heart with these recommendations (kindly giving them even when on hiatus):

I chose London Falling because I think Patrick is a fantastic writer and investigative journalist. I read Empire of Pain a while ago and was instantly hooked. He gives such great detailed background to the story and it feels like reading fiction even though it’s all true. I recommended Empire of Pain to everyone so I had to read his next book (and if you are looking for a sci-fi/fantasy) Red Rising was recommended to me by a friend after I told her about wanting to reconnect with a younger me / my more youthful side who read an enormous amount, was obsessed with all of it and was enthused by reading. I just so happened to really enjoy dystopian books back then so she recommended I get back into them with Red Rising.

A writer whose work I’ve followed since I joined Substack, and who has impeccable taste:

The Use of Photography by Erneux and Marie. It is a lovely non fiction piece that explores the subtle eroticism that the action of picture-taking in a relationship can have. It involves a collection of mini essays between these two lovers after taking pictures of their clothes on the floor and in hotel rooms as a result of making love. The essays involve reflections of where they believe they are in the relationship and a sort of analysis of the pictures themselves. If you are a lover of erotic elements intertwined in romanticism and intellectualism, this is absolutely for you. Additionally, the prose is extremely existential and mature, which is the key to a good summer read!

Someone who gives the best reading recommendations all year round, and runs a substack that feels like home:

The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai. This is one of those rare books that can devastate you as much as it will fill you with hope. It’s a story that takes place across two timelines, one following a man named Yale in 1980s Chicago at the start of the AIDS crisis, and the other following a woman named Fiona in 2015 as she scours Paris for her estranged daughter. I found the writing to be so captivating, all these people feel real enough that you could pick up the phone and call them. Definitely in my top ten of all time. BUT! My summer read is like most girls East of Eden. Just started it this morning and I’m excited to be part of the zeitgeist tackling it before the Netflix adaptation debuts this fall. I stole my copy from my sister’s childhood bedroom and it feels like required reading from high school. Love it so far!

Hook her newsletter up to your veins, I promise you won’t be disappointed (also she is arguably the best interviewer and Substack is lucky to have her):

Happy Hour by Marlowe Granados is my hot girl bible and the perfect slim summer read, I’ve gifted it to every girlfriend with a birthday between May and September. This year I changed things up and read Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann which delivers a similar amount of women having fun with little to no consequence. In a similar vein, I’m currently finishing up The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy (recommended to me by fellow substack girlie Ismene Ormonde). For a quick summer getaway I love Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan, it takes me away to the French Riviera and simultaneously lights a fire under my ass to get to work whenever I remember this was written by an eighteen year old.

I also love a memoir and was thrilled to get an early copy of Knives and Spoons by Alasdair Gill and am planning on devouring it on my next flight.

Coming in last are my recommendations for you:

I’m reading and recommending two, both of which are perfect to sink into in the sun (and what you’ll want to read in one sitting). The Rachel Incident by Caroline O’Donoghue is my first choice, which follows the friendship of Rachel and James, the chaos they cause in Cork as James tries to help Rachel seduce her English Literature professor. It made me laugh so much, and I’ve passed my copy on and forced as many friends as possible to read it (who all loved it, so you know it’s that good). It’s about to be a television series, so it’s the perfect time to read it. I also just finished this and feel it’s one everyone is reading it right now: I Want You To Be Happy by Jem Calder. I devoured this book and feel like every woman in her twenties should read it, get angry, and endure (yes, endure) the catharsis that Jem puts you through because the writing is so good it’s worth it.

Thank you to all the lovely, amazing writers who responded to my message asking for their summer reading recommendations. If you don’t already know them, get to know them, and read all of the above, because you won’t find another summer reading list like it.

Livia x

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I'm sat on a plane, it's the start of a somewhat (intermittent) euro summer, it's raining, it's fourteen degrees (and I may have only had two hours sleep). The coffee in my system is keeping my eyes open, eyes trained on a novel, when the woman next to me asks if the book's any good.

Usually, I don't engage on public transport (is a plane still public transport?), I'm used to blending into the ignorant population of TFL commuters, headphones in and head down. But recently, out and about, I've been trying to talk to people more. It started as an attempt to get off my phone and evolved into something I do now naturally.

I got chatting to the woman on the plane. We were talking about where she lived when she was my age (Camden) and why she had to move (she points at the baby in her lap). We talk a bit longer and my mind starts whirring about what my own life will look like at her age (she's only a few years older but she's already left the city). It reminded me of the episode in Sex and the City where Carrie and her friends complain about the people they used to know who moved to the suburbs (aka their lives are over, they've basically entered retirement).

Fast forward a few hours and we've landed.

From the club at three am, to bed, to the airport at 6am, and now eating the best double baked almond croissant of my life, the Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte of my life (perhaps Marnie, Jessa and Shoshana suits them better) discuss our evening plans.

We sort our lives out (chat some shit) and amidst trying to decide what to do, I ask the server for recommendations. We get a host of new places to try. One of them we head to a few hours later, and there, I ask the same thing: for recommendations. Except this time, the man I'm talking to is maintaining eye contact and flirting like there's no tomorrow (this is when I realise what an unintentionally great pick-up line this is).

Without chatting to strangers, I wouldn't have met the consecutive people I did. Our lives, our circles, remain small when we let them. Searching for new opportunities, even new friendships, by starting a conversation with a stranger is my new way forward. I also read that opportunities are more likely to come to you through acquaintances rather than close friends, which, if you needed another reason... (veering into networking territory here, so let's get back to business).

You might not even be looking for a connection. You might think you don't need new friends or want to date someone new (or you do and have no idea how). Get off your phone and talk to a stranger. Don't let your years go by staring into the black mirror, watching other people live their lives and daydreaming about living your own. Doors open as easily as they close.

Livia x

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She’s smiling widely, he’s laughing, eye contact galore. They get each other; you can tell by looking at them. Are they friends? Lovers? Worse? Then, a third person, another man, joins them. He seems slightly older, but not by much. The dynamic changes instantly; there is less eye contact between the earlier two, the original male is now deferring every question to the new male, and the girl is barely speaking now (apart from the occasional comedic quip that receives polite laughter before returning to the “actual” conversation).

I was sitting next to them, minding my business (obviously not), drinking a very bitter latte and avoiding the torrential London rain when a man and a woman sat down next to me. At first, I promise, I really wasn’t paying much attention to them, until the third party arrived and I noticed the female was talking a lot less. Perhaps it was the sudden absence of her voice, or the increasing boom of his (which one? Precisely). I couldn’t concentrate anymore, wondering if a misogynistic, gendered dynamic was at play, or if my own perception was skewed. Either way, men are more likely to disregard, interrupt, and dismiss women in a conversation (there I said it).

Women often assume a passive role in conversations due to deep-rooted gender bias and socio-cultural beliefs we were raised with. Whereas men tend to dominate conversations by speaking for longer, interrupting, or controlling the topic flow…exactly like the three in the café.

Gender dynamics in conversations seem unavoidable, and depending upon the relationship, so are power dynamics (but is a man always going to think he holds the power?) Women are more likely to ask questions to invite other people into the conversation and keep it going. We chat to form connections; men chat to share information or assert power (dare I say it?).

That old phrase, “two’s company, three’s a crowd,” came to mind as I observed them. I tried not to be so obvious as I watched the two men shift their shoulders towards each other, heads now turned, physically excluding the female. Yes, people naturally gravitate towards one person, which happens in a group of three. To play devil’s advocate (even though I don’t want to), it could be the case that the two men had a stronger relationship (again: friends, lovers, or something worse?).

I left that café and thought about recent conversations with men. Close friends have never made me feel like that. Acquaintances who lack respect often put me in the same position as the woman in the café: quietly listening to two men posture (I mean talk).

Over the past few days, my mind keeps wandering back to the café, to the one girl and two boys, and I’ve been assessing more conversations ever since.

And that is why you (don’t) watch people who sit down next to you in cafes.

Livia x

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References:

Pakzadian, M., & Tootkaboni, A. A. (2018). The role of gender in conversational dominance: a study of efl learners. Cogent Education, 5(1).

Aponte, Catherine. (2019). "Do Women Really Talk More Than Men?" Psychology Today. https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/marriage-equals/201910/do-women-really-talk-more-men

Salif, Hanane. (2025). "Gender Dynamics in Face-to-face and Online Turn-taking." Journal of Gender, Culture and Society. 5(3). 10.32996/jgcs.2025.5.3.2

Sitting on the bus in the sweltering thirty-degree London heat, scrolling like my life depended on it to distract me from hungover thoughts, I came across an article by Rhese Voisard for Roe Magazine, No Man Ever Broke My Heart Like Leaving London Did.

I saw myself in Voisard’s words: having studied abroad and interned in London, I too had become enamoured by a city I could never access full-time. Much like a summer situationship that slips through our fingers, London to Voisard was my summer at 23 on my own study abroad.

It was almost like divine timing, having spent the midnight hours in the depths of my photo archives (after a night out), looking at photos from three summers ago, when I was on said study abroad . The summer remains one of my favourites, and I made such a big deal of it that the place has become part of my personality; friends I ran into on the night out had asked me about it (hence the nostalgic scrolling). (Don’t get hung up on exes, get hung up on places).

So, sitting on the bus, I thought about the things we can’t ever seem to quite let go of, written into our identity like they were inscribed on our souls: exes, particular friends, jobs, places, sometimes even food.

When studying abroad, I met a version of myself for the first time that I never even knew existed. I discovered I was capable of so much more, creatively and career-wise. It felt very coming-of-age (like all summers are) and has informed most of my decisions ever since.

Getting off the bus, I met friends for a walk (why we decided to move in the heat, I don’t know). I asked them the same question I’m asking you: What is something you can’t let go of? One couldn’t quite let go of their final year at university, and another couldn’t let go of her time spent travelling and teaching (thank goodness neither of them said a boy).

The article and the conversation that ensued because of it (and now the Substack post) have not prompted me to get over the summer of 2023 (I think we’ve established I never will), but it’s inspired me to strive for that kind of life again in London, packing my days with similar activities.

One of my good friends that summer, whom I met studying abroad, would always make us take a walk the morning after a night out, sometimes on as little as 4 hours’ sleep (I’m not recommending this unless you’ve had more sleep). The walk, coffee, and chat fed me in a way I didn’t know I needed. And so, as I walked around Regent’s Park with my friends, I saw the parallel. The small things that compound and get your endorphins running, which makes things so much better.

I would tell you more about it, but I’m keeping most of the memories to myself.

And so my own thing, that I will never let go of, until the next thing I will never let go of, continues to inform my life in ways that make me live. Rather than wallowing and looking at photos at two am (but I will probably do that again), I’m using it to fuel how I choose to spend my time, what and how I create, and ultimately who I am. We are shaped by our experiences, and continue to be long after they’ve gone. There’s something magical in that (don’t worry, this is as mushy as I’ll get).

Livia x

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Hinge is starting to feel a bit like a video game you’re getting bored with, but summer’s not in full swing yet, so the bars aren’t feeling as sexy as they will. You’re still trying to save money for that summer holiday you’ve booked (not a full week, though, we have to ration the annual leave), and you’re waiting until payday to be able to afford a social life again. It’s Friday, you stay in because of the whole no money thing. You turn on that new television show your friend told you to watch. And…you’re a lost cause.

It’s starting to feel a bit like parasocial relationship summertime again. The summer television shows are locking up our televisions, attention spans and daydreams with them. Four good-looking hockey players gracing our screens (following the two everyone was already obsessed with over Christmas). What did we really expect would happen?

Every app I use is full of clips, images, and cast interviews of a show that didn’t even exist a week ago. I’ve been consuming audience reactions like I’m watching new episodes of my favourite reality show. (Whatever they put in it, I want some.) It’s cringe, but it’s the kicking-your-feet, giddy kind of cringe that reminds us all of being teenagers reading Wattpad at 2am, long before we’d even picked up Virginia Woolf or Zadie Smith and realised how vast literature actually was.

Although I cannot fault those days on Wattpad. Much like I won’t fault these shows gracing our screens this summer. I want escapism as much as I want a challenge (more so the escapism). I know I’m not the only one, because me and (seems like) everyone with an internet connection is hooking one particular television show up to their veins. And yes…it’s giving parasocial (knock knock, it’s your teenage tendencies).

What is a parasocial relationship? (Like you don’t already know.)

A parasocial relationship, as defined by Cambridge Dictionary, is: “a relationship in which someone feels a connection between themselves and a famous person they do not know, a character in a book, film, TV series, etc.” Apparently, it can also involve AI (scary stuff).

My first real instance of a parasocial relationship may or may not have once been with a glittery vampire. And let me tell you, the day I aged older than him was a sad, sad day for my eighteen-year-old self, even if it was to be expected. (I really woke up this morning and thought I may as well expose myself on the internet, didn’t I?) The phenomenon was so big, that I know there’s at least another million people who went through the same thing. Talk about being individual.

Anyway, Cambridge Dictionary also revealed that we can experience something called a parasocial breakup (no thank you), which is when you go through the end of a parasocial relationship. I’m not quite up on the specifics of this one, so I can’t help you there.

These relationships tend to occur through consistent exposure to characters or people, say on social media. We get hooked and slowly start to develop an emotional investment in their lives. This occurs especially through reading, because language engages us emotionally with the characters (insert sparkly vampire here).

THERE’S AN UPSIDE?!

Apparently, these bonds can have a positive impact: we are inspired by what we see, so we take action in our own lives. Or we form bonds with others who are equally as emotionally invested, or feel part of a cultural moment which boosts our happiness, e.g. now, and shall I refer you to last summer at the beach house? Basically, it’s similar to being a fan of football, or Game of Thrones, before the last season.

Obviously, there are downsides too (because they aren’t real, and they aren’t ever going to love you back. Sorry, I had to say it). But let’s not dwell on the negatives.

If the parasocial relationship is going to keep us all motivated this summer to get out there and find our own hockey players (or something tangible at least), keep you writing, keep you creating, or maybe even get you playing sport (literally, anything), then I’m all for it. I’m also all for just crushing on a fictional character, and since it carried us through last summer, long may it carry us through the long, hot summers ahead. Because, either way, you’re a lost cause.

Livia x

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You're not taught how to love someone else romantically. But you have to learn. When you're young, inexperienced, idealising romantic love and expecting the real thing to be the fantasy which media fed your young and impressionable mind, it can come as a shock when love isn't quite so easy (or hard) as it seemed.

Understanding familial love and its many, often hurtful forms, comes very early in life. We learn how to love our parents, our siblings, friends and our wider family through those interactions. Then, we learn to love ourselves (ugh, I know).

I’m not a lover girl, I never was and I’m not sure I will be in the traditional sense of the word (and that’s okay). Because of my aversion to being tied down again after back to back relationships, I was thinking about what love would look like in my life now. And I realised, I have no clue. I thought “I haven’t used that muscle in a while”, then stopped my internal monologue because there was truth in the thought. Love, romantically, is like a muscle, it’s a skill, and one I developed but not one I’ve exercised in a while.

As a teenager, I was obsessed with the Vampire Diaries. I used to rewatch it every Christmas (thank goodness that tradition stopped) and sink into the world of toxic love that was portrayed on my screen. Alongside that I watched the classics, Gilmore Girls, Gossip Girl, Grey’s Anatomy, The OC, One Tree Hill (etc. on my very typical mid-2010s teen girl roster) and what do they all have in common: that love hurts. To be so in love with someone is going to cause you pain. It’s going to be hard, it’s two people screaming at each other, it’s sleepless nights, sore hearts and heads.

I can’t name one relationship I saw on television that was healthy, and why would it be when they need drama. Unfortunately, my younger brain didn’t understand that love could be different. You didn’t need to shout at each other in the rain, ignoring each other for days. You could communicate your feelings, talk through disagreements without raising your voice and you can quietly understand that person.

My first few relationships were splashed with this television-esque version of romantic love. And then I clicked on, to learning how to love, to be in a relationship I wanted to be in, that was in my control. Learning how to love the individual and creating an environment for the both of us. Equating our needs. Understanding what we both needed and wanted. Being happy and not having to blow everything up like it was life or death. I came to know what romantic love was and how to do it, properly, healthily, happily. That took time, and whilst I remember the bare bones of the operation, I could not perform it at the drop of a hat. I would have to relearn how to love, not quite from scratch but essentially in a healthy way again.

I’ve not run in years, so I doubt I could run more than a mile without feeling some kind of burn and having to stop. It takes training to get to the point where I could run for longer, constantly trying, letting my body adjust as I build the muscles back up again. I imagine it will be like that with love too. I won’t remember how to do it until I have built up my understanding of it, and then all at once I will.

Livia x

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Getting botox or injectables (or whatever they are even called) never really crossed my mind as something I would get. I did once do a deep dive into PRP but I don’t want to spend the money, and that’s about it. Friends I know have had filler in various places, boob jobs, nose reconstructions, and a little bit of baby tox. Others have invested in red light face masks, spent their pay cheques on skincare I’ve never heard of, and swore off coffee because “it gives you wrinkles”.

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Plastic surgery I have considered (dreamed about), a baseball to the nose at fourteen the culprit.

When at a friend’s house over the weekend, chatting shit and drinking, we ended up going through old photos of ourselves (thankfully not preteen) but from ten-ish years ago, where we obviously looked much younger. Then we moved through various photos from birthdays over the years, disposables my friend had, and found we all thought we looked completely different to three or four years ago. Some of it was down to hair dye growing out, faces growing thinner with age, and probably sun damage. The most striking thing: we now had smile lines.

When did they stick? Were they now here for good? Am I visibly ageing? (The clock really is ticking towards thirty.) I flicked through images that didn’t have an answer.

My mind flicked back to the PRP, but I don’t care enough to do anything cosmetic about them. Honestly, beauty standards can go **** themselves (wow, how beautifully put) because I think natural ageing is also beautiful. I think about the women in my family, my grandmothers who never had anything done and how their eyes and cheeks would crinkle when they smile, all the smiles that came before them written on their face.

Our foremothers had advertisements, magazines, famous women setting their beauty standards, which were actually set by men (a rant for a different time), and as the male gaze continued to evolve with cosmetic procedures, women have adhered to it. A scary fact I learnt recently: women pay 37% more than men on gender-targeted products. (Pink tax haunts my nightmares.)

I have no interest in further catering to a standard I don’t value unless it’s my own. Let me buy my makeup and skincare products without any more pressure, please.

Smile lines don’t require an oil change, an automated update, or complete eradication. They are memories I’d rather not extinguish. They are a privilege to have, and I think getting caught up in Western beauty standards often makes us forget that. My smile lines are reminiscent of grins caused by family members who are no longer here, exes who made me laugh, and people I’ve drifted from. They hold so much, and arguably the former is the most meaningful (because the fact that I credited my ex may be too kind a reference).

My smile lines aren’t the only lines on my face. I used to raise my eyebrows as a preteen, thinking my fringe hid my crinkled forehead, not realising this made me look slightly worried all the time until I started complaining to my mother that everyone keeps asking if I’m okay. For some reason, as a preteen, I thought I looked far better with my eyebrows halfway up my forehead because it “fixed” my hooded lids (spoiler: it didn’t). Now, I have slight forehead lines, their deepness staved off by a lot of forehead massaging during the pandemic, when I believed “circular movements and oil” would fix my former habit.

This is not a knock to plastic surgery or Botox, it’s in favour of ageing naturally, and an option that capitalism and the male gaze would often like us to forget. If women want to, because they want to and not because they believe they should or have to, then go and do it. I personally would rather rub yoghurt on my face, but that’s because I have a fear of needles (and I’m also 99% sure that if something could go wrong, it would go wrong with me).

Eat cake, drink coffee, smile more, and make those lines deeper.

Livia x

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Seven days, no television, no music. You walk to work and your headphones aren’t playing a single thing. You can read, but that’s pretty much it. What’s your only option left: to create.

The purpose of a media detox is to get rid of outside influences and force a reckoning with your inner artist, where they can’t feed off other media or get distracted by them when creating something. If you are someone constantly inspired by art and often use it to fuel your own productivity (like me), be warned, you may find this particularly hard.

It is currently day seven. I spent the whole week walking around, to and from everywhere with no music playing, no television in the evenings, and no social media (a personal choice to really force myself to reset and create).

Usually, at the height of my productivity, if I so much as sniff my phone, I’m lost down the rabbit hole — videos, music, distractions of any kind for that quick serotonin hit. I forgot the sentence I was writing, or what I was actually looking for when I clicked unlock. My brain had become mush, and I was in need of a reset. Last year, I did the same thing. A one-week media detox left me clear-headed and inspired. So, of course, I was going to do it again.

At the beginning of the week, I found it much easier, eager to cut everything out for a while. I ended up reading so much more than usual to fill my time outside of my designated writing time. And, since I wasn’t listening to any music while walking to and from places, my ideas were flowing uninterrupted. I made countless notes and drafts out and about over the week.

As I hit day five, I saw friends in the evenings, and with the constant chatter, I realised how out of the loop I was over certain things I could only have seen on my social media or by watching the most recent episode of a TV show. One episode is nothing, but when you’re my age, and there’s a pregnancy, engagement, breakup, and breakdown every week, it can feel like I’ve missed a whole season of a television show. It speaks to how fast everything moves online nowadays. I wasn’t saddened by having missed these things. Missing them raised the question of how trivial certain information was (I don’t need to know what’s happening in someone’s life who I went to school with over ten years ago and haven’t seen since). On the other hand, it’s fun to have a gossip.

The detox forced me to reevaluate my relationship with my phone — and therefore myself, because it is only an extension of me (how sad) — and with what I consume. Without the algorithm spewing what it thought I wanted to see, what I actually came across on my phone was very intentional.

Now, as I go forward, I will keep the restrictions on my apps to ensure my interactions with reels and TikToks are kept to a minimum. Inspiration comes in many different forms, and so much more freely when we aren’t overloading or distracting ourselves with things (basically numbing ourselves).

I think any and every creative person should push themselves to do this. After all getting comfortable with being uncomfortable often produces the best work. And it might show you a different side of yourself. If not, at least it forces you to work on the project you’ve been avoiding (because what else are you going to do?).

The outcome: 7,000 plus words, more outlines, article edits, ideas, engaged journaling (where I’m not just journaling for journaling’s sake) and don’t forget working full-time. It’s been a productive week, but I also can’t wait to wake up tomorrow morning, have a scroll, rot a bit, and see how the relationship continues.

Livia x

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Attraction isn’t something any of us seem to shy away from. Whether it’s to a celebrity, a life path, or a food (this week), there is inevitably something we focus our energy on, much like a crush.

For the first time in a long time (currently a crush-less woman), I have found myself fantasising about having a partner, adding to the plot whilst the sun is back and temperatures are rising. I previously spoke about only wanting him because I thought I should, but since then, the allure has had me in a chokehold: thinking about even living with a partner (yuck) and doing all the gooey eat-your-heart-out-stuff I’ve previously rolled my eyes at (like holding hands in the park, but also I need to get a grip about both).

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Many of us echo around the internet about being independent, driven, single women who don’t have time or even the need for a relationship. Our needs haven’t been met by the previous partner or man we dared to date, and we can’t waste precious time on another vapid conversation when we would much rather be getting on with our actual interests (I’d literally much rather be on a walk with a friend than in a dark bar with some stranger).

But, not to be so unromantic, there is an attractive quality in the stability that being with another person offers. You feel like two pillars against the world, expect them to consistently support you, be there when you’re sick, and make you feel special. It’s not necessarily them, but the routine, the pattern you relax into, that you crave. You are no longer sailing alone; you have someone with you, an almost extended self (sometimes unhealthily so).

Why, suddenly, do I crave a relationship?

Our brains effectively equate stability with predictability, which feels safe. And we crave that safety, especially when other aspects of our lives aren’t so stable.

I see this in myself, as work and my social life get busier as we move into summer. The demands I’m putting on myself, to fill my cup but also get those words down and write as much as I can in my free time (but I can’t forget to read, oh and I need to exercise, but I also need to save, and then there are bills, and the state of the world, and it’s so and so’s birthday on Friday). The cycle is endless.

Basically, I want something consistent that acts as a gravitational force around which I can organise everything. (But, like, come on. I do realise I am this gravitational pull for myself, it’s NOT always about a boy.)

Which leads me to possibility number two. I’m actually not craving stability, I’m craving distraction (the good old chestnut of self-sabotage coming for me yet again). My plate is so full, and I’ve worked so hard to get here, and I am a strong and stable in my own right, but I fear that sometimes (much like many others) the possibility of failure, or the fear of success, can hold us back (cough cough).

And having a partner, whose needs I often forget I would also have to meet (because it’s not a one-way street where only they provide the predictable safety), would take me away from the other demanding yet fantastic opportunities coming my way.

I expect, much like the crush did, my desire for a partner will inevitably crash and burn (which wouldn’t be a bad thing). But, even if so, it’s given me a lot of food for thought, and another way to level with strangers on the internet (much like writing in a diary). In a way, I’m sure many women can relate when trying to navigate their love life, sleep schedule, and work work work. It’s dangerous, it’s exciting, and it’s probably hormonal.

Livia x

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He’s over six feet (tall), with blackish-brown hair (dark) and is (you guessed it) handsome. As they say on Love Island, he’s my type on paper, but do I actually want him?

I recently read Polly Barton’s first foray into fiction, What Am I, A Deer?, and resonated with the main character’s astute questioning over whether she was living this way because she wanted to, or because she thinks she should want to (what with being a woman and being told exactly how you should be and live from the minute you’re born).

This notion stayed with me, and as often happens with a book, I turned the questioning on myself and my own love life. Like Sylvia Plath’s fig tree, we have so many paths beckoning for us, so many choices, and I feel like I constantly straddle all of them. These paths aren’t even of my design; they were designed around me and for me…

For example, we choose university degrees because we are told they will make us money, or because they will make our parents proud, or because the subject is impressive. When I was at school, there was a huge push for women in STEM (which I avoided like the plague), and I stayed close to the humanities (but hiding my actual goals for fear of being seen). I chose something I liked, not something I necessarily wanted to do. Much like choosing my degree and university, my relationships have occurred the same way — with little thought and more of a belief that a relationship is something I should want (and kind of have to) do, because nobody was giving me any other options (and my brain wasn’t fully formed then, and now, I don’t have the same excuse).

Disney princesses used to dance across the television when I was a child, and then I graduated to watching television shows where every main female character HAD to have a romantic interest. Gen Z women were raised with the belief that they should want a significant other.

But, do I actually want him? I’ve had long periods of being single and always enjoyed them, and then, for some reason, I blink and find myself in a situation or relationship before I’ve stopped to think if it’s what I want.

Wednesday evening drinks at a bar overlooking the Thames in twenty-degree heat with two of my closest friends revealed the pattern. One friend, enquiring after my date, joked, “Summer’s coming, it’s warming up, time for Livia’s annual summer romance that she’ll inevitably get bored with and rid of before Christmas. What happened to the last guy again…?”

A lightbulb went off. “Wow, I really do love a summer romance, don’t I?”

Or do I? The urge to download a dating app as the heat hits, finally respond to those messages from him, or have a secret scroll of another him’s social media — I’ve set a pattern I’m stuck in, all because I think I should want one of them (at least) and the reminder apparently goes off every summer.

And on some level, I do want to date, in the same way we all crave companionship. But I don’t actually enjoy the invasion of my space, my private life, or the disruption to everything. More often than not, I don’t like the version he becomes when it becomes official. I didn’t like the boyfriend version of you, I liked the version of you I got to know on a personal, non-romantic level, and now I’m left with someone I don’t know (who’s both too much and too little at the same time).

Maybe I’ll break the habit this summer, now I’ve realised I don’t actually want to be in a committed relationship (there’s always a risk when you’re thriving).

It’s easy to look back and analyse the pattern, or the relationship, or the texting. Easy to see that I never stopped and thought about the consequences of what I was doing (who does) or asked if I actually wanted it. Instead, I get caught up in the plot, in telling my friends, in the nerves.

On more than two occasions, I repeatedly told my exes I didn’t want a relationship, only to end up in a relationship with them because it’s what they wanted (and look where that got me). Next time, you bet I will be asking myself if it’s all because I think I should want him, want the fairytale relationship, the invasion, and think of the consequences. (A lot more needs to be unpacked with this).

The question applies to everything in life. Am I doing this because I want to, or because gendered expectations have made me think I should want this…?

Livia x

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First, I must apologise for the hyperbole. It isn’t the end of the world (fingers crossed) and if you’re reading this, the likelihood is you are so far from it actually feeling like the end of the world — you are fine. But…

If you are like me, and you cannot open a social media app without news from a certain someone telling you his current plan for the day, or people acting like they are BBC News, giving you the run down on how you are about to lose electricity and transport (don’t forget that food is about to be unaffordable), then you probably feel a bit like March 2020, which was also termed “the end of the world” for a bit.

Things have been bleak for a while, but they haven’t quite felt this bleak since we went into lockdown. But now, globally, everything and anything is up in the air.

It feels foolish to listen to a podcast on being whimsy, or to be set up with one of my friends’ friends, especially when that one girl on my For You page is telling me I won’t be able to leave the house next week.

Hell, all of this feels foolish when we turn on the news and see clips of what actually is happening to other people on the other side of the world.

And when all of this is happening, the last thing you want to do is read MORE about it, because you’re so overloaded anyway, you don’t need more information about impending doom.

Well, I’m not here to give you (or myself) another existential crisis on Easter Sunday. No, no, no. More like, to tell you you aren’t the only one seeing all these pages shouting out into the void and scaring the life out of people (some doing so only to fearmonger and gain a following), and to tell you that it is completely normal to feel overwhelmed by the news.

We as humans cannot compute what is going on so far away from us: our brains quite literally won’t allow it. There is a thing called “cognitive overload”, where your brain can no longer process the information you are taking in, and this often happens when you watch the news, as too much negative information can leave you feeling helpless, scared, and angry.

“But there are deeper evolutionary reasons for why people give priority to negative news, according to a 2019 study of ‘negativity’ bias. The preference for it serves as a kind of survival strategy, a warning system about imminent threats.” — Washington Post

So, the fact I may be going on a date this coming week shouldn’t feel like it’s going to be my last date EVER. It all feels very foolish to be worried about said date when I turn on the news (or even scroll on my phone). These things still do matter, and are allowed to, whilst we keep in mind (and try and do something about it where we can) what is going on far, far away from us.

I will be going on the date, because a girl should at the end of the world, as she ignores how everything else could realistically go very wrong, she can also hope it won’t.

Livia x

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We’ve all been there, done something that, looking back, makes us squirm in our seats or feel that awful black pit open in our stomachs (maybe even as recently as last weekend). Times when we wish we had chosen a different path than the one we did.

If you haven’t been through this, you’re probably lying. If you’re not lying, good for you.

Maybe you’ve woken up in a bed you weren’t supposed to, or kissed someone who wasn’t the person you were dating (and everyone knew), or you stole something, caused a fight with a stranger, the list goes on. I may as well tell you to insert a regretful experience here.

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When speaking with a friend over the weekend regarding her last relationship, she transported me to my own past, saying, “I regret ever dating him in the first place. If I knew it was going to end this way, feel this way, I wouldn’t have done it.”

After talking her through the various feelings I had once been through myself, like looking at an old photograph, I found myself telling her: “Don’t waste any thoughts or feelings regretting it, you’ve grown from this situation, you are literally moving past all of this as we speak. It makes you who you are.” It was advice I had received years earlier, and had since passed on to friends, family, and (if my dog could have replied) he would have told me the same thing.

We make decisions with the information we have at the time, and we do the best we can with what we’ve got. There is no point in mentally bullying ourselves because we think we regret something in the moment.

Also, there is no turning the clock back (the most unhelpful thing to say, and not what you want to hear) so you quite literally cannot change anything. So don’t waste any more time and energy on something you already think you wasted time and energy on (it’s simple maths).

As we both sat outside a café in the sunny Notting Hill sun, discussing these various (regrettable) parts of our pasts, looking at different versions of ourselves in each other and back in time, I realised the same thought process happens to the best of us. It happens to my closest friends, hell, it happens to me sometimes. Thinking: if we had chosen to study medicine, or law, or something else that would give us a stable career and guaranteed income in the long run, would we be better off than chasing our tails in the current creative climate? But who am I kidding? I would always choose writing over those paths because that’s who I am, what I breathe, and what I choose to pursue.

I’m a big believer in things working out the way they were always supposed to, with people, places, and things. So why regret something that was always supposed to happen?

Livia x

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I watched something slip by me, after days of people telling me to listen to my heart, do what I want instead of what others expect, and even saying myself that I wanted to grab every opportunity. Then I stupidly didn’t put two and two together and let it pass me by.

The ship set sail, and I stood there stupidly with my ticket, wondering why I hadn’t used it and gotten on board.

But that is the past. We’ve all been in situations where we’ve told ourselves it “wasn’t meant to be,” or “it’s not for me right now,” and our only option is to cry and carry on.

The frustration with myself was so palpable (I think there was fire coming out of my ears, honestly). Trying to deal with the overwhelming emotion when it hit me (or when I let the shit hit the fan) was difficult. I didn’t know how to exorcise this emotion. I couldn’t journal; it was making me infuriated to recount the events that led me here, and so I did what any sane Gen Z would do: I phoned a friend.

And the tears started coming.

It was after about five to ten minutes of ranting and her making sense of the situation to me that I started to hear myself. I sounded like a baby. Not to invalidate my feelings (or yours), because it felt like after so long of working towards something, I had completely dropped the ball without even realising it. It hurt.

But I couldn’t help but start laughing when listening to myself.

Laughter, typically, is the best medicine.

My friend at this point said, “See, it’s already getting better.”

We were both laughing now at my childlike response, but also not invalidating it. Sometimes you have to let yourself feel things, even the silliest, smallest things, to get them out, work through them, and move on. Because as soon as I put the phone down, a weight had lifted. It made more sense as to why the series of events had happened this way.

I’m a big believer in things happening when they are meant to, and having the space in your life to receive them (emotionally or physically). And to be honest, I’m not sure I was ready to receive what I so badly wanted. I know it’s easy to say with the benefit of hindsight, but something stopped me from using the ticket in the moment. I didn’t want to get on the boat when I had the chance. Something held me back. Sure, I didn’t have all the details, but I’m not sure I would have gone even if I had.

Not to belittle the self-soothing affirmations (though I will), but understanding that something isn’t meant for you, or hasn’t happened when you know it so easily could have, is a tough pill to swallow.

Gen Z always get hated on (at least in my experience) for wanting everything yesterday. Maybe that’s true in the era of fast fashion, overnight fame, and next-day delivery. But in the realm of success and effort, I will be the first to tell you that Gen Z work as hard, if not harder, than everyone else (because hello, the job economy, the cost of living, and the multiple streams of income that are somehow a necessity). Sure, I’m generalising, but there is truth in it.

I wasn’t upset because it hadn’t happened yet. I was upset because I could have made it happen (if you get my gist).

“Next time, when it comes around again, you won’t make the same mistake twice. Not that you even made a mistake this time,” my friend told me (and honestly, I will take any kind of reaffirmation).

What will be will be, and what isn’t meant won’t. Aka timing is both a blessing and a curse sometimes.

Livia x

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I’m sat in a bar crying with laughter at what my friend has just told me. Her eyes are streaming too, wolffish grins on our faces with pints in our hands, our work days forgotten. Later, strobe lights flash over pulsing bodies as music pounds through the speakers. It’s nearly two in the morning, in a club in North London I’ve never been to, and I’m having so much fun my cheeks are starting to ache. Before leaving work to meet her, tiredness hit me; the thought of tucking myself under a blanket and watching Love Story sounded so appealing. My thumb briefly hovered over the send button, threatening me (and her) with a cancellation and a night in. Thank goodness I didn’t listen to those distracting (enticingly so) thoughts.

Two days later, I’m so hungover my body hurts from a night spent with other friends. My legs are aching from the too-tight shoes and the dancing as I lie in bed and entertain the same thoughts of cancelling plans with friends. I’ve had about three hours’ sleep. I go back and forth with myself, I want to see them, I know I’ll enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the night out with my friend (where I stopped myself from cancelling). My alternative is bed-rotting, and that seems like a waste of a day in a world where we are trained to think about our productivity.

“You haven’t seen them in ages, and you don’t even need to leave the house, plus it will be fun,” I reason with myself.

“But you’ve barely slept. You need to get up, get ready, get the house ready. There’s so much to do,” the cancellation devil whispers in my ear. I choose to ignore it.

I decide not to think about the tasks but rather to just do them mindlessly, drinking water as I go. My friends arrive an hour later and we sink into the sofas with our popcorn and decide on a classic film, Chalet Girl.

The debaucherous behaviour of Ed Westwick’s character, the Britishness of the whole movie, the euphoric ending and cringeness of it all reminded me of being a preteen watching it for the first time, and made me forget all about my lack of sleep.

Throughout the movie we bump our gums, making jokes about the film, listening to my friend’s latest dating story, and then I divulge what happened last night. One friend tells me I seem surprisingly awake for having so little sleep (all I can do is smile and agree, because to my own surprise I am a functioning human right now). Of course we laugh, there’s never a serious moment that isn’t balanced out. I realise, as they’re leaving, it’s what I needed: to see them and just be able to be, for an evening, with people who know me best.

We’ve (not me and my friends, I’m talking about me and you, us, society, here) all started to morph into versions of each other, with similar 5-9s after our 9-5s (cloning lives from our screens). Selfish creatures trained to listen to the thoughts telling us we’d rather do nothing over making the effort to leave the house, because we all want an easier evening. I listen to friends unable to change their plans because of workout classes they “have to go to”, they can’t see me because that’s when they have to go to the gym, or run. But what about after the gym or the run or the workout class? (You can do more than one activity a day.)

I hold my hands up, I’ve fallen for the same selfish thoughts. When I think about what is best for my mind and body, I immediately think of sleep. Especially recently, when I’m jamming my time outside of work with so many activities (and I’m not about to change it), that I need to prioritise my rest.

So when I thought about cancelling on my friends (you guessed it), it was because, how could I put my body through the day with three hours’ sleep? I needed rest (duh), but it wasn’t an activity taking a lot from me; I was going to sit down all day. That in itself is still restful. And I’m in my twenties, childless, not in any serious relationship, now is the time to run on little sleep and do as much as I can, because my body and my life can take it.

We all need to see our friends, to be around others, particularly when so many things are going on around us right now (the list seems endless, even pasting the news headlines here wouldn’t cover it). Investing time in and fostering your own community is so important and worth the payoff. You care for these people and vice versa. “Fun is associated with both high-activation and low-activation positive effects…and is enhanced when experienced with others (especially friends).” Socialising with your friends is good for you, it’s fun, you derive social pleasure from it. (Do I need any more proof for you?!)

Next time you think of cancelling, in favour of an easier life, more sleep, because you can only do your gym class after work and not dinner and the gym class, remember this article. Now is the time to make memories, to run on no sleep and copious amounts of caffeine and Red Bull, to say yes to going out on a random Wednesday.

Don’t cancel, go.

Livia x

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“Do you want to go to one of those in-person dating events with me?” One of my newly single friends asked a few weeks ago, over a glass of wine on a hazy, cold Saturday in London.

Did I? (I’ve been on some interesting dates, but a singles event felt like a different kind of ordeal.) I obliged anyway. She was newly single, I could get a good story out of it (hi there), and when she cancelled, I wasn’t about to throw fifteen pounds away. I enlisted another friend instead (by force).

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In-person events are becoming a backbone of modern socialising, bringing us all together (amidst the doom and gloom) and particularly bringing singletons together. A quick Google search on dating events will throw up more articles than I could ever link to, which tells you everything you need to know. Turns out, people are leaving the apps behind for these things. And in true (Substack) style, like all those who had come before me (Carrie, Dolly, etc.), it was only a matter of time before I tried it and reported back.

The event took place in an undisclosed bar, and we got there what we assumed was late. Turns out we were early and among the first people there. A lot of singles, thrown in a room together and set free with alcohol and the chance to chat.

We felt like we were at a school disco, wishing for it to end as soon as possible. But, with some liquid courage behind us, we threw ourselves into it.

If I’m totally honest, I had the most fun with my friend. And if she hadn’t been there, I think the night would have been a total write-off. We had talking points, people could come and chat to us and immediately strike up a conversation. We gave them chat-up lines, had fun, and took the romantic pressure off it.

But with every good conversation came a horror story (I won’t detail the worst ones for fear of putting you off dating altogether). One particular man’s answer to “Where are you from?” made me want to bang my head against a wall.

“Well, it depends what you mean by from. Because I’ve lived in London for four years, so I’m from London. Not (redacted UK location) anymore.”

I think I narrowed my eyes at him (because I asked where he was from, not where he lived) and started squeezing my friend’s hand next to me to save myself from the conversation, which had already veered into negging territory.

She swooped in, and we made our way elsewhere. A lot of people seemed so fed up with online dating that they were just happy to be out and chatting (which is always fun with a few drinks in).

That said, I will never go to one of these in-person dating events again. I didn’t need to pay to go to a bar to chat to single people. I could do that for free. The one bonus is that you know everyone there is open to chatting and available, or else they would have stayed at home with their Netflix and a takeaway (which, in hindsight, I should have done).

A fall, a paramedic, and a lot of laughter later, my friend and I survived the event and did get a really funny story out of it (one I’ll be taking to my grave, or she won’t talk to me again). She also vowed never to attend one again. But I think that says more about our own romantic notions than anything else (doesn’t everyone want a meet-cute?).

Forcing these things never seems to work, at least not for me. I fall into things, both literally and metaphorically, and it has never once been while I was actively looking.

Livia x

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