After a few weeks on holiday in Greece, I was excited to be back writing. I attacked the week, bashing out words at quite a pace.

Kept declaring, ‘I’m in flow,’ and waking up during the night, writing on my phone when inspiration struck. Apologies to the husband who now looks a shadow of his former self.

Had to dig deep midweek when I realised I was in Barnsley and no longer on a Greek island. I sat in Starbucks Barnsley with a bucket of tea and the words kept on coming.

Fizzled out towards the end of the week. My watch sent several updates telling me I was suffering from extreme fatigue and urging me to have a minute. Obviously, paid no attention until Bank Holiday Monday when I could barely lift a limb.

Had a wonderful 5-mile run in the summer rain. Got drenched, came home and danced around the kitchen to Belinda Carlisle’s ‘Summer Rain’. Husband grumbled I was dripping water onto the floor. “It’s just been mopped!”

Watched my magician friend perform at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Unfortunately, I could not be there in person but had just as much fun watching it on YouTube while enjoying a Diet Coke and munching a bag of Tyrrells’ Furrows. And yes, I have a magician friend! He’s amazing, and I knew him from when we were teenagers at college in London.

Made the final tweaks to the front cover of my next book. I love it and can’t wait to share it. But first, we need to finish the back cover.

Phone catch-up with Craig, my editor, while he was out on his morning walk in Leeds. Chatted books, writing and holidays, and then, just as he was strolling past the Aston Martin dealership, cars.

‘Do you like cars, Liz?’ he asked. ‘Someone is taking an Aston Martin for a test drive. It sounds gorgeous.’

I’m not really a car person, Craig, but I do like Days of Thunder.

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Enjoyed a catch-up with my niece over ice cream at Yummy Yorkshire (Jaffa Cake flavour for me and the husband, and mint choc chip for Olivia).

‘I didn’t realise they had an upstairs café,’ I said. ‘How long has this been open?’

Olivia gave me a look that she reserves just for me. It translates to, ‘Is this your first day on Planet Earth, Auntie Liz?’

‘It’s always been here,’ she said.

‘Has it?! Has it, really?’

I’ve always stood outside, tucking into my ice cream in all weathers while imagining I was in sunnier climes just to keep warm. Enjoyed the warmth of the upstairs café.

Had a romantic meal with the husband at the DilRaj. ‘You look to be enjoying each other’s company,’ the waiter said as he cleared our starters. ‘Would you like extra time before we serve your main course?’

Me (horrified!): ‘Please can we have our food? We can talk later.’

Husband: ‘Hahahaha.’

Me: ‘Did I ruin the moment?’

Husband: ‘You ruined the moment.’

In my defence, I was so hungry that, even after my onion bhaji starter, I could have eaten the table leg.

In other news, I wrote a Substack book special, had a Japanese manicure to try something different with my nails (no colour, how will I cope? – post coming soon), and held my Make Your Writing Happen group, the last session of the summer.

A wonderful week. A fun summer.

How are you? What have you been up to?

Liz xx

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer, reader and creative coach from Barnsley in South Yorkshire, who has had the most fantastic summer. I don’t want it to end…but I also love the back to school vibe of September.

If you’re new to my work, I’ve written three collections of creative non-fiction, and my journalism has been published in various magazines and newspapers.

My summer holiday is usually all about relaxing by the pool with a good book. I take lots of novels in my suitcase but always buy more at the airport. It’s all part of my holiday experience. This year, I had three books on my airport wish list: Whistler by Ann Patchett, because I love her writing; People in Love, the new love story from Claire Daverley; and Sara Cox’s latest novel, The Truth of Us. They are all new releases, only currently available in hardback, but I was hoping to get lucky and snap them up in airport paperback.

Unfortunately, no matter how many times I walked round the WHSmith’s bookshop at Manchester Airport, I could only find People in Love. Not to worry, I threw in a few extra titles because it would have been rude not to take advantage of the buy one, get one half price offer. My niece, Olivia, laughed at me because I was wandering around, excitedly mumbling, ‘It’s buy one get one half price,’ like all my Christmases had come at once.

I was so excited to be in a bookshop and going on holiday that there was a possibility I would get distracted, spend too long browsing and then end up having to sprint to catch the flight, which has happened a few times before. Thankfully, Olivia stayed in the shop with me, keeping track of the time. I made my purchases and, with a suitcase and hand luggage full of books, jetted off to Rhodes with the family.

I was looking forward to a relaxing break and reading lots of novels, but on the first day, I realised I might not get through as many as I’d hoped. Olivia sat down on the sun lounger next to me and started chatting. Liv is 14 years old and, at home, has far better things to be doing than chatting to me. But on holiday, she was chatty, chatty, chatty, which warmed my heart and made me happy. I just ended up reading the same page about 62 times.

Not that I was bothered, of course. Time with my niece is precious, so I put down my book and focused on her. As Chris, the husband, reminded me. ‘The books will still be there after the holiday, but Olivia will only be 14 once.’

I knew that as soon as we returned home, I wouldn’t see much of her. It would be back to one-word answers and communicating via Snapchat. So, I made the most of every minute, and now I am home, I am bereft without her, but on a positive note, I’m getting back on track with my reading.

My individual reading might not have been what it usually is, but as a family, we got through a lot of books. So, I thought I would share them, along with a few of my family’s comments. Do not expect literary review-length quotes. ‘It was good,’ or ‘It was okay,’ and ‘I’ve only read a page, I’ve been on my phone,’ is as in-depth as it got.

So, here’s the list, including romcoms, sports romance, campus romance, non-fiction, literary fiction, spy thrillers and young adult.

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My reads

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

I read a third of this on the flight on the way out. If you remember, a few weeks ago, I had an urge to run away from my life again and wanted to read Eat, Pray, Love to find out how Elizabeth Gilbert had taken a year off to go travelling. But by the time we landed on the Greek island, my need to run away from my life had faded. I put Eat, Pray, Love to one side to finish at home.

Summer Island by Kristin Hannah

I picked this one up because I loved The Women, one of Kristin Hannah’s recent historical novels, set during the Vietnam War. I thought Summer Island, which she wrote in 2001, would be good to read in the summer while on an island. I enjoyed it, but definitely not as much as The Women.

People in Love by Claire Daverley

I adored Claire Daverley’s first novel, Talking at Night, so I was very much looking forward to her new one. It sounded like a different kind of love story—messier, with no happy ending guaranteed. Just the kind of thing I love to read.

Carrie Soto is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid

I’m becoming quite the fan of Taylor Jenkins Reid. This is my fourth of her novels. Previous ones were Daisy Jones and the Six, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, and Astronaut. Carrie Soto is Back is a tennis book about ambition and success, and I couldn’t put it down.

My husband’s reads

The Gallows Pole by Benjamin Myers

Chris really likes Benjamin Myers’ style of writing, and raved about his previous book, The Offing. He enjoyed this one too, but there was a ‘but’.

Chris said: ‘Really good, but quite dark for a holiday.’

I said: ‘I’m surprised…with it having a gallows pole in it.’

The Trees by Percival Everett

Chris said: ‘A good holiday read. My favourite of the holiday.’

Eurotrash by Christian Kracht

Chris said: ‘I enjoyed it, but not as much as I thought I would.’

And I felt a little sad for him because he’s had this book on his list for ages. He should have read it sooner. It’s only small.

My sister’s reads

You and Me on Vacation by Emily Henry

Confusion all around for my sister because she thought she was reading People We Meet on Vacation, also by Emily Henry, and also a rom-com on Netflix. She wanted to read the book before the film, but it was the wrong book. Anyway, despite the mix-up, she raced through You and Me on Vacation, saying it was her kind of book with a happy ever after.

An Ideal Husband by Erica James

This was my sister’s favourite read of the holiday. She loved the characters and the detailed story.

Also, I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I love the cover.

Hit or Miss by Elle Kelk

Something a bit different from Lindsey Kelk, writing as Elle Kelk.

My sister said: ‘It’s not like her usual novels.’

I said: ‘That’s why it’s under a new name. It’s a campus romance, a bit more spicy than her other books.’

My sister said: ‘It’s a good poolside read.’

So, it was a hit!

My mum’s reads

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

I recommended this one to my mum, and she couldn’t put it down, loved everything about it, including the ending, which she said was, ‘Just right.’

Someone Else’s Shoes by Jojo Moyes

Mum loved this. ‘I’m enjoying my book,’ she kept saying. ‘Have you read it?’

I haven’t. But it’s on the list.

Firefly Lane by Kristin Hannah

She’s halfway through this one, but my sister, who has watched it on Netflix, says she’ll love it.

My brother-in-law’s reads

On holiday, while my sister and niece were getting ready every evening, my brother-in-law, Mark, would head to the bar with his book, where he would order a beer and sit reading and drinking, enjoying the peace and quiet. He raced through his holiday reads, and I was jealous that I couldn’t get ready so quickly to do the same.

Russians Among Us, a non-fiction book by BBC security correspondent Gordon Corera

I forgot to ask for a verdict on this one. Good, I think.

London Falling by Patrick Radden Keefe (non-fiction)

I had book envy when Mark strutted to his sun lounger with London Falling. I’ve heard amazing things about it and I’ve wanted to read it for a while. Mark whizzed through it, declaring it his favourite read of the holiday.

The Persian by David McCloskey

Finishing the holiday with some fiction, an espionage drama from former CIA analyst and The Rest is Classified Podcast co-host David McCloskey. ‘A pacey read,’ Mark said.

And last but definitely not least, my niece’s reads

Geek Girl by Holly Smale (Book one)

Olivia has the entire series of these books. I know this because I bought them for her. She started ages ago with book three because it was about New York, and she loves New York.

Geek Girl – Model Misfit by Holly Smale

‘Good,’ Olivia said.

‘Do you want to say anything else about it?’ I said.

‘It was okay.’

Translate this to mean: ‘I loved it! A fantastic read and a brilliant series, and I’m so pleased Auntie Liz introduced me to Holly Smale.’

Love in the Fast Lane by Tyra Prince

This was a birthday gift from me to Olivia earlier this year. It’s the kind of book I’d want to read whether I was 14 or 47.

Olivia said: ‘I’ve only read a page; I’ve been on my phone.’

I said: ‘Well, can you hurry up? I want to read it.’

So, there they are. The family holiday reads. What have you been reading this holiday season? I’d love to hear. Hit reply or comment below. If I get enough responses, I might even do a post about it.

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer, reader and creative coach from Barnsley in South Yorkshire, who came home with more books than I went on holiday with.

I’ve written three collections of creative non-fiction, and my journalism has been published in various magazines and newspapers.

My last Make Your Writing Happen session of the summer is tomorrow. Join me from 10am to 12.30pm on Zoom for a couple of hours of uninterrupted writing time.

We’ll say hello and have a little chat before settling down to write. The sessions are free, and everyone is welcome.

My writing sessions are friendly, supportive and fun. Bring your own brew and biscuits, bring something to work on, and join me to make your writing happen.

I’d love to see you there.

Liz xx

Saturday 29 August 2026 – 10am–12.30pm

Register here

I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach from Barnsley in South Yorkshire. I love working with writers to help them achieve their creative goals. I’m a qualified life coach, specialising in working with writers but happy to work with anyone who is feeling stuck and wanting to make a change. I’ve worked as a writer for 25-plus years, which is hard to believe as I’m only 32!

How I help writers

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Being a morning person, I prefer and always try to book an early morning flight when we go on holiday. I love staying at the Radisson Blu at Manchester Airport the night before, having a meal and a few drinks, then springing out of bed at 2 or 3am to catch the flight.

While other holidaymakers are checking in, looking bleary-eyed and half-asleep, seemingly in pain at being dragged from their beds, I’ll be upbeat and full of energy. Annoyingly chipper, some might say. Those precious early hours are when I come alive, when I’m at my best and get things done, and when I will happily take on the world. Confident, sharp, positive, and with a can-do attitude, there is nothing I can’t do in the morning (if I do say so myself).

At the other end of the day, it’s a very different story. Often in the afternoon and early evening, I’ll be so exhausted from my early start that I struggle to string a sentence together. The brain fog moves in, focusing becomes a problem, and words elude me. I might be short-tempered, anxious, vacant, miserable, or all of the above. My body does not operate during the midnight hours. When I’m tired or hungry, I get impatient and snappy. I’m very self-aware, so I would never willingly put myself into a situation such as a night flight, which is guaranteed to bring out the worst in me.

Unfortunately, my sister was in charge of holiday bookings this year, and no matter how many times I said, ‘Please book a morning flight,’ it did not land (see what I did there). We had the worst possible return flight. It couldn’t get any worse than 11.55pm. Or so I thought, because we then had an hour’s delay, meaning we took off from Rhodes to Manchester just after 1am on Friday morning, missing a full night’s sleep after a disrupted night the previous night (due to holiday fun).

Despite the challenge of staying awake, I refused to give in, desperately trying to muster some energy. I can cope with this. I’m not even tired. Look at me pulling an all-nighter. It’s like I’m young again. On the plane, while my family and most of the other passengers nodded off, I stayed awake, the overhead light on, happily reading while tucking into a bag of mini Toblerone (what is it with airports and Toblerone? They’re everywhere.) I’m doing so well, I thought. Maybe I’m a night person after all.

When the tiredness crept in, I turned off the light, closed my eyes, and was soon drifting off. But it was a strange and restless sleep. I dreamt I was on a plane, whizzing over a European city (not sure which one) but flying so low it was in danger of hitting the high-rise buildings. The pilot was swerving left and right, doing Top Gun-style manoeuvres, but was quickly losing control. Red lights were flashing, alarms sounding. ‘Danger, danger. Pull up. Pull up!’ Just as the pilot was telling everyone to ‘Brace for impact. Brace!’, I jolted awake, blinking, startled, my heart-rate racing. Only to find myself on a plane that was low-flying over a European city.

I looked out of the window and could see every building, every light. ‘We’re not high enough! We need to go higher.’ The words lodged in my throat.

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I woke my husband, who was fast asleep, his head propped up by the neck pillows we’d bought from WH/TG Smith/Jones (two for £20) on the outward journey. I nudged him awake. ‘Chris, we’re too low,’ I whispered. ‘We need to be higher!’

Chris opened his eyes for a second, looked out the window and then fell straight back to sleep, not registering (or maybe ignoring) my panic.

Should I mention it to the cabin crew? They were busy serving tea and coffee, and I’d already annoyed one of the flight attendants by moving to the extra legroom seats just as we were taxiing for takeoff. ‘Be quick about it,’ she’d said, as I dashed down the aisle, closely followed by Chris and my mum. And then I’d annoyed her again with the duty-free bag fiasco.

‘Do you want your duty-free bag in the overhead locker or with you?’ she’d asked.

And I’d tried to communicate that I already had a duty-free bag in the locker and I needed that to come down, because it had my Toblerone and Twix in it, and the bag I was currently holding needed to go up because there was nothing edible in it. But being a sleep-deprived morning person, I struggled to articulate this and ended up pointing.

‘This one down?’ she said.

I nodded and smiled.

‘This one up?’

More nodding.

‘Are you sure?’ She said it in a polite, joking tone which really meant, ‘Just make up your mind, will you?!’

So, I was reluctant to call her over and suggest that we might be flying low. Instead, I took a deep breath and another, willing myself to be calm. They had air traffic control for this kind of thing. Everything would be fine. Except, we’ve recently watched the Apple TV series Hijack starring Idris Elba—where the plane and then the train are hijacked and, in both series, air traffic control goes out the window and it’s every man and woman for themself. I glanced around. There was no Idris Elba on board to save me. Only a sleeping husband and I’d have more chance of waking the dead than getting him to come to my rescue.

I took another deep breath, reminding myself that my panic was only happening because sleep deprivation was ruining my ability to think clearly, and not because I was losing my mind. Instead of causing a scene, I did the sensible thing and went back to my book. But only a few chapters in, the turbulence started. Not just a bit of shaking, but dipping and falling, end of the world stuff. We were going to crash. This was it.

Everyone in my family slept through it. ‘Were you okay with the turbulence?’ I asked when we had landed.

‘What turbulence?’ my niece said.

‘Did we have turbulence?’ my sister said.

Did we have turbulence?!

I felt every bump, and at one point when it got particularly white-knuckle and I had to stop eating my Toblerone, I was going to bang on the cockpit door and ask the pilot if he wanted some assistance. Not because I’m a qualified co-pilot and would have been useful, but because I’m a bad passenger and would have felt better and less anxious for doing something, anything, other than sitting and letting someone else be in control.

Anyway, we landed safely, but I hadn’t slept. The second I got into the taxi, my body gave in, demanding sleep, but it was impossible to nod off, and I found myself in a strange limbo where I was conscious but not fully. ‘I’m so tired,’ I kept saying. ‘So, so tired.’

When Chris pointed out the sunrise over Woodhead Moor, I could barely lift an eyelid. When he got excited seeing a family of partridges on the village green, ‘Look, Liz! Look, look,’ I fought hard to lift my head, but the tiredness was pulling me under.

We arrived home, quickly showered, then crawled into bed and slept for eight hours.

‘Chris! It’s half-past three,’ I said when I opened my eyes.

He jumped up, checked his watch. ‘You’re still on Greek time.’

Even my watch was struggling to catch up.

For the rest of the day, I felt like a stranger in my life. I emptied the suitcases, sorted the horse, trying to remember what that routine involved, and then, in an attempt to be productive, tackled the pan cupboard. This is unusual behaviour for me. Bizarre. I’m not a pots and pans person and rarely venture into the kitchen. Sleep deprivation can do strange things.

I soon realised it was no time for a pan clear-out, and I aborted in favour of a self-care evening which involved a long hot bath and a hair mask, getting into my pyjamas at 6.30pm and watching a film with Chris.

Netflix had a brilliant suggestion. ‘You might like Freefall: A Reckoning for Boeing,’ it said. A documentary alleging that Boeing’s culture of cost-cutting and coverups led to fatal aviation safety failures.

‘I don’t think that one’s for me,’ I said. ‘How about something with Hugh Grant?’

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach, and most definitely a morning person who will never again take a night flight. Unless it’s long haul and I’m jetting off somewhere exciting. In which case, I will have a rethink. Until then, mornings only. In case you’re new to my work, I’ve written three collections of creative non-fiction, and my journalism has been published in various magazines and newspapers.

If I’d been an organised type, I would have emailed you before my holiday, letting you know I was taking a break from writing my Substack. But, as we all know by now, I’m anything but organised.

I’d planned to send a piece on the Sunday that I went away, just in case you look forward to my weekly, sometimes twice-weekly, posts. I didn’t want you wondering why I’d suddenly gone quiet. ‘She was here last week? Where’s she gone?’

Sending out an ‘out of office’ email would have been the professional thing to do and was exactly what I intended. It’s just that the whole packing a suitcase challenge defeated me yet again. Ten minutes before the taxi was picking us up for the airport, I was in a panic, weighing suitcases, frantically running around the house, and despairing at my inability to travel light. If I’d started writing a Substack, I would have distracted myself and possibly missed the flight.

In my defence, I half expected to grab my laptop at the last moment and squeeze it into my bag so that I might write to you while I was in Greece. In the past, I’ve not taken a summer break from my Substack and continued writing while I was on holiday. This year, I’d promised myself and my husband that my focus would be on resting, recharging, and having fun. Plus, I already had a small suitcase as hand luggage, and my large Longchamp bag, which was so full I struggled to zip it up. There was a moment, five minutes before we set off, when I realised the laptop would really have to stay in the UK. And for a few seconds, the workaholic in me worried how I would cope. I could feel the palpitations coming on. But if the laptop wouldn’t fit in my luggage, that was that. I left for the airport with only a notebook and a pen, and my suitcase, obviously, which was only slightly over the 22kg allowance.

So, I’m emailing you today to say sorry for my silence and sorry for disappearing on you. My usual Substack service will resume tomorrow. Being away has made me realise how much I enjoy writing to you. It takes a lot of my time and effort, but I love it and I’m going to continue. In fact, I’m feeling so energised and excited to be back that I’m committing to writing two posts a week. Expect me to drop into your inboxes on Wednesdays and Sundays.

I hope you’re having a wonderful summer. I’d love to know what you’ve been up to. Hit reply or comment below. It’s always great to hear from you, and I always reply.

Liz xx

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach, who is happy to be back writing after a wonderful holiday in Rhodes with my family. In case you’re new to my work, I’ve written three collections of creative non-fiction, and my journalism has been published in various magazines and newspapers.

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What a summer. I’m going to look back on summer 2026 as one of the happiest times of my life. It’s been great. With the sunshine and positive energy, it’s right up there with the summer of 1995, which is saying something because 1995 was the year I left school when nothing else mattered except having fun (even my looming GCSE results).

Back then, the sun shone and the good times rolled, and life was full of hope and possibility. I was about to start an exciting new chapter in my life – leaving school and going to sixth-form college, which was momentous and exciting, like my life was just beginning. I had that ‘anything is possible’ attitude, with so much energy I thought I could take on the world. Really, I did.

The great thing is that 31 years later, this is exactly how I’m feeling now. Do you remember Pinky and the Brain, that kids’ cartoon from years ago? ‘Come on, Pinky, let’s take over the world.’ Hahaha. I’m a middle-aged version of that. ‘Let me at it!’ I’m 47, not 16, and well and truly in midlife, but I still have all that energy, positivity and ambition. It’s just a little more focused and realistic.

In the summer of 1995, I’d finished school and was waiting to start college. It was the in-between time when all I could do was enjoy myself, before knuckling down in September. It was a hard life of shopping, day trips and clubbing, but I endured. The summer of 2026 has gone the same way (minus the clubbing). It’s been a summer of transitioning from my full-time day job to my writing and creative coaching business. ‘Transitioning’ is a polite way of saying going wild. Let’s go absolutely and utterly wild. ‘Come on, let’s go!’

The sunny weather has been amazing, and for the first time in years, I’ve had some freedom and flexibility. No one was dictating my time. I was free. I’m going to say that again because it sounds so good. I was free. I am free. (Except on Mondays and Tuesdays, where I am still working a day job - hahaha).

‘I feel like I’ve been released from prison after serving a life sentence,’ I said to the husband. ‘Just let me at the world.’

He laughed. ‘You are dramatic.’

And I am. But still, I’ve needed this in-between time to come down from the chaos and stress of juggling a full-time job alongside writing, coaching and life commitments, and adapt to a slower and more sustainable pace, and let us not forget, to enjoy myself. I have always been an ambition monster – working, learning and striving relentlessly. At no point in my career have I ever eased off. So, yes, I needed a moment.

A friend told me I deserved some time off to rest, recover, and fill my creative well by doing things that bring me joy. It’s been time well spent. I would go so far as to say it’s been restorative. I’m happier, more relaxed, and my nervous system is thanking me. (My bank balance, not so much. In fact, it’s screaming at me to stop shopping and get back to work!)

It’s not like I abandoned work completely (I’m an ambition monster, remember). I’ve been thinking a lot, jotting down ideas, planning (yes, me, planning!), working with clients (because this really does bring me joy), and writing around the edges of my fun-packed days. I just haven’t been tied to my desk working nine to five for someone else, and that’s the important thing here. Going it alone is what I’ve wanted to do for years, and I can’t actually believe it is happening.

September will soon be here with its wonderful back to school energy, and I’m already feeling that pull to step things up. I have projects and books to launch, classes to host, and changes to make to this Substack. There’s so much work to do. Before then, I still have a few more weeks of fun to make sure, if I wasn’t already sure enough, that the summer of 2026 is one of my happiest ever.

How is your summer? What have you been up to? What are your plans?

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Thanks for being part of Midlife Without a Map. If you like what you read, I’d really appreciate it if you liked, shared, or left a comment. It makes such a difference, helping me to reach new readers. Thank you!

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach, loving summer life but also excited for the back to school buzz of September (even though I left school decades ago). I’ve written three books of creative non-fiction, and my journalism has been published in various magazines and newspapers.

Join me on Friday 31 July 2026 10am to 12.30pm for my Make Your Writing Happen session.

We’ll say hello and have a little chat before settling down to write. The sessions are free, and everyone is welcome.

My writing sessions are friendly, supportive and fun. Bring your own brew and biscuits, bring something to work on, and join me to make your writing happen.

Summer dates:

Friday 31 July 2026 – 10am–12.30pm (NEW!)

Register here

Saturday 29 August 2026 – 10am–12.30pm

Register here

I’d love to see you there!

Liz xx

I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach from Barnsley in South Yorkshire. I love working with writers to help them achieve their creative goals. I’m a qualified life coach, specialising in working with writers but happy to work with anyone who is feeling stuck and wanting to make a change. I’ve worked as a writer for 25-plus years, which is hard to believe as I’m only 32!

How I help writers

Every so often I get an overwhelming urge to run away from my life. It happened again on Wednesday afternoon when I was at the beauty salon having my nails done.

I was chatting to the beauty therapist about her boys, who are at an exciting stage in their lives. One has just graduated, the other has recently finished his A-levels, so they’re deciding on careers and what to do next. Both of them are interested in travelling. As soon as she mentioned the word ‘travelling’, I wanted to up and run. Never mind my pretty pink sparkly nails, I wanted to board the nearest Boeing and jet off on an around the world adventure.

‘I wish I’d gone travelling when I was their age,’ I said. ‘Rather than being so focused on my career. I wish I’d not been so ambitious, realised I had time.’

After three years at university in London, kindly supported by my parents, I’d wanted to be independent, earn my own money, and make a life for myself. I was ambitious to start my career in journalism, and because it’s a difficult industry to enter, I didn’t want to waste a moment. I finished my journalism degree and got straight to work. But at the back of my mind, there was always a calling to take an around the world trip. I often imagined myself on a beach in Thailand with a boy who looked like Leonardo DiCaprio and ‘Pure Shores’ by All Saints playing in the background.

Every time this idea came to mind, I’d remind myself that I should be striving and making something of myself, not frolicking on foreign shores, however fun that might have been. I had to do what was expected of me and what I expected of myself, and save my travel dreams for another time, sometime in the future when I was older and better established in my career.

Before university, after my A-levels, I’d had another ‘I want to run away from it all’ moment, where I’d considered becoming an 18-30 holiday rep somewhere glamorous like Tenerife. As a 1990s party girl, I had no doubt that I would have loved every minute of that job. But I stopped myself from going because what about my writing dreams, and going to university and building a career? They were important to me. So, I did the sensible thing and focused on my studies, which, looking back now, was the right decision. Going to university in London made me the person I am today. I’m not sure partying in Playa de las Américas would have had the same transformative effect.

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From being young, that pull to explore the world has been there, but I’ve always put work and ambitions first, telling myself the time for travel would come later. I even wrote a few travel features in the early days of my career, but pushed that aside to focus on fitness and health writing. The thing I didn’t realise is that once I was on the career ladder, it’s hard to step off.

I met my husband, fell in love, bought a house, which meant the commitment of a mortgage, and created a home with a menagerie of animals (so many animals). Then my niece was born, and home was well and truly where I needed to be. Rather than running away, I put down roots. I was happy, but sometimes, when ordinary life was pulling me down, I would get that feeling to run away, craving adventure and something more than a two-week holiday.

These days, now I’m in my forties, the thought of running away comes quite a lot, mainly in the summer when I am untethered, having fun and lacking the work structure that keeps me focused the rest of the year, or perhaps because I’ve been working so hard up to that point and desperately need a break. Whatever the reason, I value freedom and flexibility and want more of that in my life so that I can travel. Sometimes, I panic that I’m older and time is running out. That I have to cram as much into my life now so that I don’t look back with regrets.

Sitting in the beauty salon, thinking about the decisions I made at 21, I wondered if I was regretting my choices. I don’t think I am. I made the right decision, and I stand by that. But from my reaction, I realised I am craving travel adventures more than ever and I can’t ignore that.

‘That’s it then,’ I said to the therapist as I was paying. ‘I’m going around the world.’

‘And I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘So your nails will always look nice.’

Over the next few days, the idea of going around the world stayed with me. Even though it’s utterly ridiculous – I mean, how can I jet off when I have animals, a husband, a job, and have just gone part time to focus on my writing and coaching business? – I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

I thought about it for a few days, mulling it over, making sure it was exactly what I wanted before I mentioned it to my husband. I turned 47 on Tuesday and wondered if thoughts of running away were a panic response to getting older and, as my friend pointed out, edging closer to 50. Or do I actually want to find a way to do this?

It took me until yesterday (Saturday) to bring it up. I was at the kitchen table writing when Chris came home.

‘I want to go around the world,’ I said.

‘Right,’ he said.

‘What do you think of that?’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Do you want to come with me?’

‘How are you doing it? Backpacking or – ’

‘I’m not sure.’

After that, the conversation fizzled out. I got back to my writing, and he went into the garden.

We’re going on holiday soon, and that will help, but there’s still this longing to have other adventures. Maybe I need to stop thinking of it as running away on some big midlife adventure. Perhaps I can travel and come home, and it doesn’t have to be such a dramatic soul-searching thing.

So, sitting here, typing away, I’ve formed a plan. On holiday, I’m going to read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, a memoir about her journey of self-discovery following a painful divorce. Not that I’m thinking about getting a divorce; I’m happily married. It’s more for her year of travelling and discovery.

I will continue to think about where I want to go and what I want to do, and all the experiences I want to have. I need to be specific. Not just a vague notion that I want to go around the world, I want a detailed plan. I am also going to read more travel writing (books and journalism), and instead of thinking that feeling trapped and wanting to escape is a negative, I’m seeing it as a positive. The start of a whole new adventure. After all these years, maybe the travel time I’ve been waiting for is now.

Thanks for being part of Midlife Without a Map. If you like what you read, I’d really appreciate it if you liked, shared, or left a comment. It makes such a difference, helping me to reach new readers. Thank you!

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach, who regularly wants to run away to explore the world but often can’t get beyond the A61 in Barnsley. I’ve written three books of creative non-fiction, and my journalism has been published in various magazines and newspapers.

Today the husband (aka Chris) and I are celebrating 20-years together – 20 years! What an achievement. I feel I deserve a carriage clock for my long-service and Chris, the long-suffering husband he is, should have a medal the size of the moon.

No matter what drama is happening in my life, and there’s always drama, Chris is always so kind and patient. The calm to my chaos. He’s a keeper. Give that man a medal!

We’ve had some wonderful times together over the years, and thankfully, there’s only been a couple of occasions when I’ve wanted to divorce him. Mainly because of his spectacular fuck-ups with my fridge (link below if you’d like to read more). How anyone could be so incompetent with fridge maintenance is beyond me, but Chris really is. He is also a dishwasher dictator, who will not let me within 5m of the appliance for fear of me stacking a plate incorrectly, and a spreadsheet bore. In the excitement of planning our wedding in 2017, Chris went into Excel overdrive, and I had to put my foot down. ‘Chris, we do NOT need another spreadsheet in our life!’

As our twentieth anniversary approached, a few people asked what I thought the secret to our long and happy partnership was. I’ve always said humour, but actually, I think it’s because I stay away from the dishwasher and he stays away from the fridge. We know and respect our appliance boundaries. And yes, we laugh a lot. You can always count on Chris for witty one-liners. He loves making me laugh, as I do him.

Before he was my husband, Chris was my friend and colleague. I moved home from London to Yorkshire in 2005 and started a new job in Leeds where Chris was working in the accounts team. I worked upstairs, writing and editing the magazines, and he worked in the downstairs office, doing spreadsheets and sums. We became friends in the pub after work. He always made me laugh. One week, I was away with work in Birmingham and did not enjoy it as much as I usually did. ‘It’s because Chris isn’t here,’ I remember thinking. It just wasn’t fun without him.

Another Friday night after work, Chris, our friend Rich, and I headed to The Town Hall Tavern on The Headrow in Leeds. One of the boys in the downstairs office was getting married to the Director of Regional Services’ daughter, and the invitations had gone out that afternoon.

‘Who’s got an invite?’ Rich asked. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Not me,’ I said.

Chris smiled and pulled a beautiful but now crumpled wedding invitation from his coat pocket.

‘You got one!’ I said, laughing because Rich and I clearly weren’t in the club.

‘I need a plus-one,’ Chris said.

‘I’ll go with you,’ I said. ‘I love a good wedding.’ It was just a flyaway comment. I didn’t really expect to go. But in the coming weeks, Chris kept reminding me. ‘You can still make it, can’t you?’

It was the 22nd of July, the day after my birthday, so the timing wasn’t great, but if he wanted me to go, then I would. I even had a shopping trip to Manchester to buy a new outfit: a pretty cream dress with black trim detail from Coast.

The wedding was at Allerton Castle in Knaresborough, a beautiful venue, with a choir and the best mini-Yorkshire pudding canapes. We had an amazing day. My face ached from smiling and laughing so much, and I was so pleased I’d offered my services as his plus one. That night, we had our first kiss, and a week later, our first date. It wasn’t without drama. I’d spent the afternoon battling a 400-acre cornfield fire behind my stables. I’d evacuated the horses, just as the trees behind the stables were catching fire, and thought we’d lost everything. Thankfully, the fire brigade saved the day. I was just putting the horses back in the field when Chris phoned to see if I fancied a drink.

‘Make mine a large one,’ I said, filling him in on the afternoon’s events.

I met him at a trendy bar in Leeds and, being in shock from the trauma of a bushfire in Barnsley, downed several double vodkas, got completely pissed, and ended up dancing the night away in Flares nightclub, much to Chris’s amusement.

Then, a few days later, came the attack. Chris sent me a text message saying he was going for a run in Bramley Park after work and would call me when he got back. He never called. A boy saying he would call and then not calling. Did I think he was ignoring me? Absolutely not, because he’d been my friend for well over a year. I knew that something was very wrong.

It was that time when ‘happy slapping’ was a thing. A man approached Chris in the park, asked him for the time, before hitting him with a knuckleduster.

When I arrived at the hospital, Chris’s head had swollen to twice its usual size and his eye socket was broken (he needed several operations over the next year). I took one look at him and asked him if he wanted to come home with me to my flat in Barnsley to live happily ever after. Of course, he said, ‘yes’. Who could refuse that offer?

At home, I made him beans on toast, which he didn’t eat. I thought it was because he was in pain from the attack, but he’s since told me it was the worst thing he’d ever tasted. He has only let me cook for him once more, one Valentine’s Day, and that was also a disaster, ending with me almost setting the kitchen alight.

Anyway, after the attack, we were well and truly together. I adored him. He adored me. We’ve been so incredibly happy. He is my best friend and soulmate, and he supports me in whatever I do. If I said I wanted to fly to the moon, Chris would be the first to say, ‘You can do it,’ and he’d probably pack me up a lunch. I am chaotic, unhinged, and regularly want to run away from my life, but he loves me for being me. And I love him for being the witty, gentle and kind man he is. We make a good team.

On a beach in Barbados a few years after we’d been together, we sat in a bar, drinking beers and watching the sunset, and I knew at that moment that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and that one day I would marry him. Until that point, marriage had never been on my wish list.

Talking about our 20-years together recently, I told him all of this. ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘When did you realise you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me?’

He looked at me and smiled. ‘Can I let you know when it happens?’

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Thanks for being part of Midlife Without a Map. If you like what you read, I’d really appreciate it if you liked, shared, or left a comment. It makes such a difference, helping me to reach new readers. Thank you!

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach, who would like to dedicate this post to my wonderful husband. This Substack would not be possible without him.

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I needed grounding. This was the verdict of my reiki practitioner after a 30-minute session with her yesterday. As she was working over my heart and solar plexus, she felt an overwhelming need to bring me and my energy body back down to earth. ‘It was a really strong pull to ground you,’ she said. ‘To bring your energy down. I’ve never felt that before.’

This made perfect sense to me because for the past few months, I have been living life to the full. It’s been high-energy, fast-paced and fun. There’s been trips to London for The Self-Publishing Show, mountain adventures in Wales with Chris, trips to York with my colleagues and the Women Writers Network, lots of days out and plenty of tea and cake catching up with friends. While I’ve been gallivanting, I’ve still been working and writing, but not in a structured way. I’ve embraced the freedom and the flow, writing around the edges of my social life.

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This has only been possible because I am now working part-time in my day job, just two days a week (Mondays and Tuesdays, to be specific). After years of hard work juggling my writing and coaching business around my full-time job, everything changed in May. Deciding to leave the security of full-time employment to chase my writing dreams was not an easy decision to make. My heart said, ‘Go for it’, but my head said, ‘It’s too risky. You’ll not do it.’ In the end, it wasn’t really a choice. I had to back myself and my writing.

When I left my full-time role at the end of April, the ambitious, driven voice in my head wanted to launch straight into making things happen in my business. The sensible, kind voice said that I needed a break, that I should take my time, because after so long going full throttle, I was probably on the edge of burnout. I needed to rest, refocus, and just breathe before jumping into the next chapter of my career.

When doubts surfaced about money and not having a steady income, I pushed them out of my mind. Now wasn’t the time. It would work out, I told myself. But to get where I wanted to be, I needed some time and space. I’d promised myself that.

Whatever I am doing, I give it my all. So, I landed on Planet Party, and the summer of fun began. I even (shock horror) told Chris that I wouldn’t be taking my laptop on this year’s family holiday.

‘Who are you and what have you done with my wife?’ he said.

For the first time, working harder and longer wasn’t the answer. Instead, my diary was full to bursting with fun stuff; it’s been great.

My energy levels soared. I’ve felt excited about the future, and ideas for essays, books, and creative projects have kept on coming. But as time went on, I started to feel untethered, whizzing around at quite a pace, lacking direction or focus. When life gets hectic, it’s easy to get overwhelmed and distracted, and possibly, I was a little lost too.

As the weeks went on and the summer pace continued, I’ve been feeling more disconnected from my writing, from myself and from my ambitions. Then, when the enormity of what I was doing in my career hit me, as it was obviously going to, the overwhelm was on another level. But instead of doing what any sensible person would do and using that to refocus and get stuck into some serious work, I stepped up the fun.

My energy was excessive. I was being pulled everywhere except to my laptop, which is usually my go-to. However much I’d enjoyed the carefree summer, I knew I had to come back down to earth. Thankfully, the reiki made it a gentle landing.

The practitioner used her grounding techniques to calm my mind and emotions, to help me understand what was happening, and to focus. After the session, it was like I’d dropped several frequencies. I stayed at home and rooted my energy back into myself, my home, and my career. I had a book clear-out, which also helped empty my mind. Things suddenly seemed more manageable.

I’ve realised that however much I push against stability, routine and structure, I need them in my life. With everything being so uncertain in my career, perhaps I need them now more than ever.

Thanks for being part of Midlife Without a Map. If you like what you read, I’d really appreciate it if you liked, shared, or left a comment. It makes such a difference, helping me to reach new readers. Thank you!

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach, who now has both feet firmly on the ground, ready to make things happen in my writing career. I’ve written three books of creative non-fiction, and my journalism has been published in various magazines and newspapers.

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I was finishing work on Tuesday when one of my colleagues called me on Teams. ‘Just wondered if you’ve heard the news?’ he said, looking very serious.

I’d spent most of the day trying to secure press coverage for a photography exhibition we’re holding at Liverpool Central Library. After a lot of backwards and forwards with a journalist, I’d arranged a feature interview, so I was feeling quite pleased with myself. Was my colleague calling to say it’d been cancelled and that my hard work had been for nothing?

‘What news is that?’ I asked.

He said nothing, just shared his screen. On it was an email from the Third Sector Excellence Awards 2026, saying that our exhibition, the one I’d just secured press coverage for, had been shortlisted in the Breakthrough of the Year category.

I’d like to say I reacted calmly, taking this development in my professional stride. But no, I couldn’t control myself. I was off my chair, clapping and yelling like I was at a World Cup football match. ‘We made the shortlist! We did it!’

We dragged more of our team into the call to share the news and celebrate, because this was a very exciting development for all of us. A real career highlight.

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The exhibition, Developing in the Dark, is an analogue portrait photography exhibition. It’s a collaboration between my day job organisation and Little Vintage Photography. I should explain here that I work for Helplines Partnership, a membership body for helpline charities. We’re basically the charity for helpline charities, from big charities such as Mind, NSPCC and Women’s Aid to smaller specialist and local charities. We train the helpline workers and teams, share best practices and assess quality standards. Part of my role as communications and marketing manager is to raise awareness about helplines so that people who are struggling can find the right support for them.

My job is creative, fast-paced and fun. I love it and I particularly enjoyed working on this project. It started late last year – just an idea for something we could do to mark Helplines Awareness Day, which takes place in February. We had no budget. No funding at all. And not much time. It seemed impossible, but we knew that somehow we would make it happen.

The exhibition features photos and stories from people who have transformed their lives through helplines. Danni writes about how he wanted to end his life. Shelagh talks about losing her son to suicide. Khadija talks about abuse. Christopher talks about bereavement. Gill’s story is about ovarian cancer, losing her mum to it, and then her own diagnosis. Marian writes about how a life-changing diagnosis led her to becoming the chief executive of a national charity. These are just a few of the powerful stories. What unites them all is that everyone taking part found help and support when they needed it. Not knowing which way to turn, they picked up the phone and called a helpline. The participants all spoke about kindness and the amazing impact that being listened to by someone who understands had on them.

With the NHS as stretched as it currently is, finding support can often be a challenge. When someone is struggling to navigate the system, or on a long waiting list for support or treatment, helplines are there in the background, quietly supporting the NHS. Many are open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. For many people, they are a lifeline.

We wanted our project to reflect this. We found people willing to take part; we secured funding, and we spent January photographing and getting everything ready for a launch in February. The team worked so hard to bring this exhibition together. It wasn’t easy. Away from work, we all had other things going on. If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know that my father-in-law died at Christmas and we held his funeral in January. Working on the project was stressful but also incredibly rewarding and possibly kept me going during the dark days of January when I was grieving and trying to support my husband.

I loved working with Rachel, the photographer, as well as my colleagues, Gemma and Molly, and felt privileged to meet the participants and spend time with them. I am so grateful to them for trusting us with their stories.

From the off, this project has been special. The people, the process, the portraits. The next stop is the awards ceremony in London in September. Whether we win or not, I could not be prouder of what we’ve achieved and how far we’ve come.

The exhibition is currently on display at Liverpool Central Library until the end of July. After that, we’re hoping to take it around the UK and are looking for suitable venues. If you know any, please let me know.

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach, who also works two days a week as a communications and marketing manager. I’ve written three books of non-fiction essays and journalism for various magazines and newspapers.

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Forty Love by Jane Costello

I’m starting with Forty Love by Jane Costello. I went to a launch event for this in May, where Jane spoke about the story, about her love of tennis, and shared her writing advice. It was a great event and lovely to meet her. She’s an experienced writer who has won various awards for her romcoms. Forty Love sounds a lot of fun!

Here’s the blurb.

It’s never too late for a comeback!

Single mum Jules lives next to a tennis club but avoids it at all costs. Especially now her old school crush, handsome doctor Sam Delaney, has returned to the neighbourhood and is displaying a killer forehand in direct view of her bedroom window.

But when she’s hit by an unprecedented wave of anxiety - brought on by her 19-year-old daughter’s solo trip around the world - she’s in urgent need of a distraction and rashly agrees to join an amateur women’s tennis team. They are desperate for players. The fact that she can’t really play doesn’t seem to matter . . .

As rallies are hit and friendships are formed, Jules is astonished to find herself in the grip of a passionate, all-consuming relationship . . . and not only with the tennis. Problem is, will these sexy encounters she keeps stumbling into with Sam put her on course to a devastating double fault?

Carrie Soto is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid

I’m currently reading Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid, which is my book club’s choice this month. It’s great! I’ve also read The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo (another of our book club choices) and Daisy Jones and The Six, which I really loved. Taylor Jenkins Reid is very much on my radar, so when I came across Carrie Soto is Back, while browsing a bookshop in Wales a few weeks ago, I didn’t hesitate to buy it. As well as looking like a fun summer read, it hooked me straight away because of its themes of success and ambition. I’m saving this one for my summer holiday.

Here’s the blurb

Carrie Soto is the greatest player the world has ever seen.

But six years after her last match, she watches a young British tennis player steal her world record - and Carrie knows she has to go back and reclaim her rightful place at the top. Even if the world doesn’t believe in her. Even if it almost breaks her.

This is a story about the cost of greatness and the burden of fame.

The fight for a place in history is about to begin . . .

41-Love: A Memoir by Scarlett Thomas

I love memoirs and I love sports, so combining the two is perfect for me.

As part of my master’s degree in creative writing, I even wrote my own sports memoir (about running, not tennis), so this book has been on my wish list for ages. You might know Scarlett Thomas for her fiction. She’s the author of fourteen novels, including the global bestseller The End of Mr. Y (I read this years ago and recommend). Despite waiting a while, I’ve just ordered 41-Love because it is tennis season, but also because I’m thinking of taking up a new sport in my forties. Not tennis. I’m definitely not a tennis player – see the piece I wrote about this below to find out why – but whatever I take up, I will of course end up writing about my adventures so it’s great to see how other writers have written about theirs.

Here’s the blurb…

A darkly funny sports memoir about a mid-life crisis, exercise addiction, tennis, and how to grow up when you really, really don’t want to.

At forty-one, Scarlett Thomas was a successful novelist and a senior academic. She’d quit smoking, gotten healthier, settled down in a lovely house with a wonderful partner. She’d had all the therapy. Then her beloved dog died.

Of her three fathers (she’d acquired a stepfather at ten), one died of a heroin overdose and the other two were diagnosed with cancer. Her sister-in-law became pregnant at the same time that she realized that she really was never going to become a mother. For the first time in her life, maintaining her ideal weight had become nearly impossible.

She was supposed to grow up, but she didn’t know how. So instead, she decided to regress: to go back to the thing she’d loved best as a child but had inexplicably abandoned: tennis. Thomas knows she’s not the only person to have wondered if you throw enough money and time and passion at something, whether you can make your dream come true. 41-Love is heartbreaking but frequently darkly funny as Scarlett finds she’ll do anything to win – almost anything.

Anyone for tennis? A short piece by me

You might also enjoy my piece about tennis. It’s not as long as the other three recommendations, so if you’re pressed for time this weekend, it’s ideal.

Do you have any tennis or sports fiction or nonfiction recommendations? As always, I’d love to hear. And of course if you don’t like tennis, my book, Before Work and at Weekends, is out now!

I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach from Barnsley in Yorkshire, who would love to play tennis but is hapless on a court. (Read Anyone for Tennis to find out why.)

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If you’re hoping to make some progress with your writing over the summer, here are the next Make Your Writing Happen dates.

We’ll say hello and have a little chat before settling down to write. The sessions are free, and everyone is welcome.

I’m also trying something new (steady on!) and adding a Friday morning session into the mix, as well as extending the sessions by 30-minutes (to take chatting time into consideration).

My writing sessions are friendly, supportive and fun. Bring your own brew and biscuits, bring something to work on, and join me to make your writing happen.

Summer dates:

Friday 10 July 2026 – 10am–12.30pm (NEW!)

Register here

Saturday 11 July 2026 – 8am–10am

Register here

Friday 31 July 2026 – 10am–12.30pm (NEW!)

Register here

Saturday 29 August 2026 – 10am–12.30pm

Register here

There’s no pressure, no critiquing—just a welcoming group of writers, a bit of gentle accountability, and a couple of hours to get words on the page.

I’d love to see you there!

Liz xx

I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach from Barnsley in South Yorkshire. I love working with writers to help them achieve their creative goals. I’m a qualified life coach, specialising in working with writers but happy to work with anyone who is feeling stuck and wanting to make a change. I’ve worked as a writer for 25-plus years, which is hard to believe as I’m only 32!

How I help writers

‘Where are you from?’ people ask.

‘Yorkshire,’ I say. ‘Barnsley.’

‘Baaaaaaaaaarnsley,’ they say, emphasising the flat vowels. ‘Baaaaaaaaaaaarnsley.’ This time, they do it for longer, really dragging them out.

‘Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarnsley.’

Sometimes they follow up by asking if I’ve got a flat cap and a whippet, or they might throw an ‘Eee by gum’ into the conversation, just to make it clear—if it wasn’t already clear enough—that Barnsley, to anyone not from around here, is a joke town.

‘You’re from where? Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaarnsley.’

It’s a conversation I’ve had many times over the years. If I had a pound or even a penny every time I’ve heard it, I would be writing from a Greek island. I’d wake up every morning in my beachfront mansion, sit at my desk overlooking the Aegean, and write for most of the day. Life would be easy.

Obviously, no one gave me anything when they laughed at me for where I was from and how I spoke. If anything, each laugh was another withdrawal from my already limited bank of self-esteem. It was a reinforcement that because of where I was born and grew up, I was somehow less than them. That I wasn’t good enough.

It wasn’t until I was 18, heading to London, trying to make a career for myself as a writer, that I realised the extent of the class division. Before I left, my English literature teacher shared her advice with my A-level group. There was no rallying cry to go out into the world and do amazing things. No telling us to be extraordinary and strive for excellence. It was a simple, ‘Never be ashamed of where you’re from’.

‘Why would I be ashamed?’ I remember thinking. ‘Why would I be ashamed of coming from Barnsley?’

Then I took the M1 south, and the embarrassment and ridicule became very real. On my first day at journalism college, another student told me I’d been given a place—not because I’d worked hard, impressed at my interview and submitted an excellent portfolio—but because I was making up the northern quota. They were ticking boxes. He’d not even considered that I’d earned a place on merit, just that I was making up the numbers.

Another time, a junior editor at one of the big publishing companies listened to me talking passionately about a book I was reading, before laughing and saying to everyone in the room. ‘Coming from Barnsley, I’m amazed she can read.’

Every time someone mocked me, I’d force a smile, maybe even a laugh, desperate not to be seen as the northern girl who couldn’t take a joke. I couldn’t call it out because I didn’t have the power. They did.

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It became tedious. The same reaction—a laugh, a passive put-down. Nothing to get upset about, and I didn’t. But over time, it took its toll. The feeling of never being good enough—even though I absolutely was—stayed with me, shaping my life, career and my attitude towards myself.

I was an ambitious writer, trying to enter an industry that was predominantly white, male and middle class. There didn’t seem to be room for people like me. The London literary world could not have been more different to the one in which I’d grown up.

Barnsley in the 1980s was devastated by the miners’ strike, the effects of which rippled through the community for decades. Many people were struggling to make a living. Being a writer was so far removed from reality that it seemed ridiculous.

‘What would you like to be when you grow up?’ people would ask.

When I said, ‘a writer,’ they’d often react as if I’d said I wanted to be an astronaut and fly to the moon.

‘You want to be a writer? A writer?!’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Writers don’t make any money.’

‘You’ll have to do something else—get a proper job—and write for a hobby.’

‘You’ll not make any money from writing until you’re dead.’

The advice came from a good place but was based on the belief that people like us didn’t become authors.

The problem for me is that I didn’t want to be anything else. I loved reading, writing and storytelling. I wanted to fulfil my ambitions but was unsure how to even start. No one I knew wrote books, so I couldn’t get advice. I didn’t know anyone in the publishing industry, and unlike careers such as teacher or vet, there was no fixed path to follow. Quite possibly, I’d chosen the hardest career of them all, especially for a working-class woman. My solution was to make journalism my ‘proper’ job and hope that somehow the creative writing would happen along the way.

I wrote for a variety of weird and wonderful publications, including a building magazine where I wrote riveting articles about bath taps and cladding, before moving into communications and marketing. For 25 years, I have made a living from my words, and alongside it have been carving out a career as an author.

Juggling writing around a demanding job and home and family commitments is hard. Progress is slow, and often it feels like I’m not getting anywhere fast. I tell myself to keep going, don’t stop. I’ve had to work hard on my mindset, focusing on changing my internal voice from critic to cheerleader. For many years, my confidence and self-esteem were so low that I struggled to write a word. I felt a failure — frustrated that I’d not achieved my ambitions, but not sure how I could. The advice to ‘just write’ wasn’t helpful because, psychologically, I was blocked. Deep down, I think I believed people like me didn’t become writers, which only exacerbated my feelings of failure and worthlessness.

For me, the challenges of being working class have been less about money and more about mindset and the lack of opportunity. I grew up and went to school in one of the most deprived villages in one of the most deprived towns in the country. There weren’t any opportunities for writers.

I once heard a writer who went to Cambridge University talking about how the university had instilled in its students the need to be extraordinary always. It was ingrained in the culture of the place. It made me wonder about what could have been if only I’d had that mindset and self-belief at the beginning of my career. I’m convinced it would have made it so much easier, but without the struggle, I probably wouldn’t be the writer I am today.

When I was starting out, the gap from where I was to where I wanted to be was vast, overwhelming, and seemed impossible to close. So, I started small — committing to taking action (without knowing where I would end up), being patient, and enjoying the process. I refused to accept the barriers that society had placed around me and challenged the self-imposed ones I’d put around myself.

Growing up in a working-class community gave me an excellent work ethic, so I got to work. I was determined to achieve my dream of becoming a published author, and the only way to do that was to choose myself. I wasn’t going to wait for a literary agent or publisher to pass through Barnsley to tell me I was good enough. I was going to believe in myself and my words and make my writing dreams happen.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned as a working-class writer is that I am enough (you are enough, we are enough) and we have everything within ourselves to be successful. It starts with action—doing something, anything, to get closer to where you want to be.

I started with small self-publishing creative projects, learned from them, developed and repeated the process. I wasn’t afraid to try new things, to enter competitions, and submit to opportunities. I learned to be brave and bold and the thing that all writers need to be…resilient. When the rejections arrived, I rebranded them as a positive. However much they stung, they were proof I was getting my work out there.

I’m not an internationally bestselling author (yet, haha), but I’ve had lots of small wins that each time take me closer to my goal of making a full-time living as an author. I’ve been featured on BBC Radio, longlisted for Yorkshire Emerging Writer, and shortlisted for other opportunities. I was runner-up in a novel-writing competition, successful in a few mentoring competitions, had interest from literary agents, and made the quarter-final of a BBC comedy scriptwriting competition.

With each small win, I take time to celebrate the success. It’s all about recognising the achievements. Taking action and staying positive builds momentum and energy, which fuels self-belief and confidence. The younger me, the one struggling to write, never would have believed all this could happen. I call it the ‘no limits’ approach. Never put limits around what you think is possible. Anything can happen.

With the changes in the publishing industry and the rise in self-publishing, it is much easier for writers to get their work out and reach new readers. We no longer have to wait for the gatekeepers to give us the opportunities. We can take them for ourselves. Alongside this, the industry is recognising the need to champion diverse voices, including those of the working class. It’s an improvement, but until publishing is truly representative, more still has to be done. It can’t just be a token effort.

Traditional publishing is still London-centric, still dominated by the middle class and still, to me at least, a world away from the one in which I grew up and live. The difference now is that I am not looking to this world for validation.

It has taken a long time, but I am stronger than I’ve ever been. Taking small steps consistently over time has had a big impact on my mindset and confidence. I am proud of my working-class background and the values it instilled in me. The guilt and shame have gone—and if anyone mocks or discriminates against me because of where I am from, I challenge them. I have a voice, and I am not afraid to use it. There’s power in that.

I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach from Barnsley. As well as writing, I’m passionate about helping other writers. If you want to write more, develop good writing habits and make things happen in your writing career, I offer one-to-one affordable coaching to help you achieve your writing ambitions.

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Today I made a financial fuck up. I’m normally quite good with money and know exactly what’s what with my finances, both personally and in my business. But this morning, I lost control.

Here’s what happened…

It’s seven o’clock on Sunday morning and I’m in bed, enjoying a lie-in after a busy week. The husband makes me a cup of tea before leaving to clear out the garage at his dad’s house. (If you don’t already know, my father-in-law died at Christmas, and we’re sorting his house to sell it). I am sleepy and groggy, not my usual sprightly morning self, but I’ve never let that stop me, and I grab my laptop and get to work.

My brain is not yet firing on all cylinders, so I start with some admin and marketing tasks, which don’t require as much brainpower as the creative work. It’s all going well, and before I know it, an hour has passed. At this point, I get a pain in my back, which is my body’s way of reminding me that working in bed, however much I love it, is not good for my posture. Just as I’m thinking about getting out of bed, the power goes off on the street.

My laptop doesn’t have much battery charge, but I want to keep working. What can I do while I’m waiting for the power to come back on? I know, I’ll pay my Barclaycard bill.

This is something I do every month without drama. Most of my spending is through my Barclaycard, which I then pay off in full every month through the app. It’s quick and easy and is a good way to check in and monitor my spending.

This month, the card has seen some action (£6668.50 worth, to be exact). This includes our upcoming summer holiday, my recent trip to London, conference tickets, skincare, face maintenance, as well as several new dresses suitable for wearing on a Greek island, some new swimwear, a few pairs of shoes, a handbag, new jeans, and a Kindle. I’ve had a bit of a spend.

Paying the bill is usually straightforward, but this morning, when I open the app, something goes wrong. I’m trying to verify the payment code when a message comes through telling me it’s failed. So, I do it again, and the same thing happens.

The sensible thing would be to step away from the app, give it some time to right itself, but no, when I put my mind to a job, I have to see it through (stubborn, me?). So, I do it again. And this time, it works. I receive a ping on my phone, saying the payment has been successful. Then it pings again, saying the other payment has gone through and the one before that.

I log into my bank account to see that all three payments have gone through, and I am over £18k down.

I do not panic. Honestly, I don’t. I may be tired and hormonal, but I remain calm. I call Barclaycard. I go through various automated options only to find out that they are closed on Sundays and no one, not even a chatbot, is around to help. Still keeping calm, I call my bank. It takes a few attempts because they need some PIN verification numbers, and my brain does not function properly with numbers, particularly so early on a Sunday morning. Once they are happy, I am who I say I am (me) and not someone pretending to be me (who would want to do that?!), I explain the situation.

‘What an awful thing to happen,’ the call handler says. She is very helpful and says we have several options. Unfortunately, we can’t action any of them until Monday morning when normal services resume.

So, I hang up and call the husband (a problem shared is a problem halved and all that), trying not to get upset because he is sorting his dearly departed dad’s house and I do not want to add to his worries…

‘Are you okay?’ he says when he hears my voice.

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘The power’s gone off and I’ve lost £18,000.’

‘The power’s gone off and you’ve lost £18,000?’

‘Yes. The two aren’t connected, but they are sort of because I only paid the visa bill this morning so I could be productive while I was waiting for the power to come back on.’

‘Okay,’ he says.

‘The app said it wasn’t working, but it obviously was, so they’ve taken our money,’ I say, just to be sure he understands. ‘They’ve taken it.’

My husband, being the lovely man he is, does not raise his voice or seem shocked. He just listens and says it will all be okay. ‘They’ll refund it,’ he says.

‘I know, but —’

‘Are you okay?’ he asks. And because he is so kind, I burst into tears. Then I pull myself together and call them all fuckwits for not having their tech set up properly. Obviously, I do not blame myself.

‘It’ll be fine,’ the husband says.

And it is. Half an hour later, the money is back in my account. It is still in my account (I keep checking). And I’ve made a mental note that when it’s time to pay next month’s bill, I won’t be so trigger-happy or spend so much. One payment is more than enough.

Is it just me? Have you ever had money tech issues?

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer from Barnsley, who has a special relationship with tech, and by that, I mean there is always a drama.

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My book, Before Work and at Weekends, is free as an ebook until the end of today (Tuesday 30 June 2026).

Before Work and at Weekends is a collection of my Substack essays over the past few years.

I hope it captures what it means to be a forty-something woman who wonders how the hell she got here – to midlife – when she was always so young.

From stories of the trivial (mascara and work outfits) to more emotional pieces about loss, grief, and wanting to run away from my life, I am always honest, telling it exactly as it is, and always try to find the funny side.

It is a fun read for anyone navigating midlife, not sure where they’re heading but determined to enjoy the journey.

Hope you enjoy it!

Liz xx

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer from Barnsley, who has a mortgage and bills to pay, but is, for today anyway, giving books away for FREE!

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I arrive at the funeral early. I am never early, always on time or late, except for funerals. This is when I come into my organisational own. The fear of being late to an event of such importance fills me with dread. Imagine running into church, disrupting proceedings, ‘Hang on, Vicar!’.

Plus, there’s a tight turnaround. Arrive 20-minutes late for a funeral and you’re likely to end up in the next service. So being late is never an option, which means I have to work incredibly hard to stay focused, avoid distractions, and get there ahead of schedule. There’s always an air of anxiety about it, but today, for my uncle’s funeral, I’m one of the first here. I wait by the church gates, trying to stay cool in the shade when it’s already 29 degrees, and saying hello to friends as they arrive.

I watch as a very glamorous woman with long dark hair crosses the road. She’s wearing a beautiful black dress and dark sunglasses, and looks like she’s just come from a Vogue photoshoot. She smiles and chats to a few people and then gets to me. Not knowing her, I expect her to pass by without saying a word, but she smiles and says, ‘Hi, Liz.’

It takes me completely by surprise. Is she talking to me? I look around to see if there are any other Liz’s in the vicinity. But no, there’s just me. Who is this glamorous woman? How does she know me? And by the time my brain has done all this thinking, she’s walked off, and I’ve not even opened my mouth to say hello back. I just stood there, looking gormless.

A few minutes later, I hear her say that she’s looking for her mum, and as soon as I hear that, I know who she is. Of course I know her. She’s a lifelong family friend. I went to dance class with her when we were kids (she danced; I stomped). She’s also called Liz, and I’m named after her. (My parents were going to call me Sarah but changed their mind to Elizabeth when they heard her parents talking about their Elizabeth and thought it sounded lovely.) Despite knowing her all my life, I’ve just ignored her, not even said hello. I make a mental note to speak to her later and explain that I wasn’t being rude, just dense!

People continue to arrive. Some I recognise immediately, others it takes a while, but I do my best to be polite. I’m doing well until a tall woman wearing dark sunglasses and a black pencil dress strolls past. ‘Hi Liz,’ she says. And again, it takes me by surprise because I didn’t think I knew her. The thing here would be to pretend that I know exactly who she is. ‘How are you? So good to see you!’ But there’s no way I can be all gushy and insincere. Instead, I stand there looking vacant.

She’s half-way up the path heading to church before I work it out. She’s my cousin’s ex-wife; back in 2002 when they married, I was a bridesmaid. How did I not recognise her? Maybe it’s the sunglasses and the fact that we’re all wearing black. Or maybe it’s the heat. Whatever the reason, my brain isn’t at its sharpest today. The funeral has become a memory test, and so far, I’m failing.

Next to approach is a man. ‘Hello love,’ he says as he passes, and with that vague greeting, I’m not sure if he’s talking to me, or the group next to me, so I don’t reply. As he walks around chatting to others, I study his face. He’s so familiar.

I know you…but I can’t place you. I just need a minute for my brain to work things out.

And then his wife joins him, and despite not seeing her for 20-years, it’s like I saw her yesterday. I met her on a hen do in Dublin in 2002. For a few years afterwards, I hung out with her and her husband and my cousin and his then wife (the one I didn’t recognise—are you keeping up?) and a few other couples in their friendship group. They were all in couples, and I was young, free and single, but I never felt the odd one out. They were kind and so much fun, and also had the best garden parties. I rush over and throw myself at her for a hug. ‘It is so good to see you,’ I say, because it really is.

After this, I decide a proactive approach to conversation is necessary. So, the next man who looks vaguely familiar, I walk straight up to him. And he seems to know me because he takes my hand.

‘Just remind me who you are,’ I say, thinking he’s called Carl.

‘Simon,’ he says.

‘You’ve got a brother?’ I say, thinking that will be Carl.

‘Craig,’ he says.

‘Craig…’ A memory comes back. ‘You had West Highland White Terriers?’

‘Yes!’ he says.

I’m so pleased I’ve remembered something. Perhaps the dog was called Carl.

After the funeral, having a much-needed Diet Coke, my cousin reintroduces me to a table of his friends. ‘You remember Andy and Michelle,’ he says, and I nod and wave because I do. Then there’s Richard, and I recognise him because I’ve done a few sweaty spin classes next to him at the gym. ‘And Simon.’

‘Yes, I’ve been talking to Simon,’ I say, proud of myself.

‘And Phil. You remember Phil.’

I stare at Phil, waiting for the flicker of recognition. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘You know Phil,’ my cousin says, and I’m still staring, desperately hoping for some spark. And then, just like that, it comes.

‘Phil! Phil!’

Of course, I know Phil. I knew his mum and dad, Pam and George (lovely family).

I was hoping that would be it for the memory test, but then my cousin says, ‘You went to school with Simon.’

So, I look at Simon. ‘Did we go to school together?’ Because I certainly can’t remember sitting down to double maths with him.

‘I think I’m a bit older,’ Simon says.

‘I’m 32,’ I say.

And everyone finds that hilarious.

‘Why are you laughing?’ I’m slightly put out that I can no longer pass for 32.

Anyway, I did go to school with Simon (it came back to me) but it was primary school, and he was a year or two older and was naughty and always getting into trouble.

At home later, during the post-funeral analysis with the husband, I tell him about my memory problems. ‘I couldn’t remember anyone,’ I say. ‘It’s like the facial recognition part of my brain switched off. Do you think it’s the heat?’

‘Or age,’ he says.

‘Well, you say that, but I remembered all the words to “How Great Thou Art” without needing to look at a hymn book.’

‘Impressive,’ he says.

‘I know! I didn’t even realise I knew the words. That’s what a church school education does for you.’

I sing him a few lines to demonstrate my amazing memory skills and fine voice (hahaha), but by the time I go to bed, when temperatures are in the high thirties, the words vanish.

‘What’s the name of that song I’ve been singing?’

But the husband has already fallen asleep. I lie awake next to him, desperately trying to remember. But no, there’s nothing.

Have you survived the heat this week?

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I’m Liz Champion, a writer from Barnsley, who has an excellent memory for dogs and hymns, but not for people.

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My first Make Your Writing Happen session of the summer is taking place tomorrow (Saturday 27 June 2026). Join me from 10am to 12pm on Zoom for two hours of uninterrupted writing time.

We’ll say hello and have a little chat before settling down to write. The session is free, and everyone is welcome.

My writing sessions are friendly, supportive and fun. Bring your own brew and biscuits, bring something to work on, and join me to make your writing happen.

Register here

I would love to see you there.

Liz xx

I’m Liz Champion, a writer and creative coach from Barnsley in South Yorkshire. I love working with writers to help them achieve their creative goals. I’m a qualified life coach, specialising in working with writers but happy to work with anyone who is feeling stuck and wanting to make a change. I’ve worked as a writer for 25-plus years, which is hard to believe as I’m only 32!

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I’ve been reading along with the Women’s Prize for Fiction again this year. My plan was to read the six books on the shortlist and report back with my winner. And this year, unlike in previous years when I’ve attempted this and failed, I was going to do it before the winner was announced and not a few weeks afterwards when no-one cares less.

‘Here’s my winner,’ I’d say, and we’d have some book chat on here while we waited to see if the judges agreed. In my head, it was going to be wonderful, and so timely and organised.

If you’ve been a subscriber here for a while, you’ll know that organisation isn’t my strong point. Whatever I’m doing, I’ll always underestimate how long it will take. Write a novel? Give me three months (hahaha). Read a novel? I can do it in a day (if I cancel my life). Read the Women’s Prize shortlist? Just a week or two…I am chaotic, function on my own time, and always leave things until the last possible minute, which means I’m usually in a mad dash to be somewhere or panicking to meet a deadline. There is rarely any calm.

I’ve tried to read along with the Women’s Prize shortlists before, and each time, I’ve run out of time and not read everything on the list. This time, I told myself, it was going to be different. I started reading early, so early in fact, that when I read the first book Heart the Lover by Lily King (back in December last year), the shortlist and maybe even the longlist hadn’t even been announced. I was a book in before I’d begun. Now that’s organisation!

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Feeling optimistic that I could complete the challenge, I got to work. Kingfisher by Rozie Kelly was next, followed by The Correspondent by Virginia Evans and Dominion by Addie E Citchens, both read during the heatwave bank holiday weekend in May. I was ahead of schedule (if I’d had a schedule, of course). ‘Look at me whizzing through the shortlist! I’ll have this done in no time.’

But then, I had to squeeze in my book club’s read. Wild Dark Shore by Charlotte McConaghy. Next came The Mercy Step by Marcia Hutchinson, and at this point in proceedings, life did that thing when it picks up pace. I was racing about here, there and everywhere with trips to London and also working hard to finish writing my next book to get it to my editor and panicking that I’d left that until the last minute too.

Before I knew it, the Women’s Prize announcement was happening, and I’d not started the last book, Flashlight by Susan Choi (apologies, Susan), never mind written a Substack piece about it to share my thoughts with you.

So, I messed up again. But I tried, I really did, and despite being late and incompetent, I would still like to chat about the books. They were amazing, which you’d expect of a shortlist for a top literary prize. As I read, I picked a winner based on what I’d read so far. I loved Heart the Lover, so that set the bar but then, on that sunny bank holiday weekend in May, along came The Correspondent, which jumped straight into the top spot. I read it quickly. Couldn’t put it down. Sipped a Diet Coke in the sunshine and spent a wonderful day reading. This was my winner.

And it only went and won the actual prize! I picked the winner a few years ago too with Brotherless Night by V. V. Ganeshananthan. Based on picking two winners, I think I should therefore be selected as a judge for next year’s prize, and I promise (hand on heart promise) that I will read them all in good time so I can have in-depth book chat and not just share a few hastily typed notes. Given enough time, I can do this. I can…Next year, maybe. Until then, here are my quick thoughts on the 2026 shortlist.

The Correspondent

I wasn’t looking forward to reading this one because it’s an epistolary novel, and I haven’t read one of those since The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society in the 2000s. As soon as I started reading, I was hooked. Really enjoyed it. Read it in one sitting and afterwards, felt optimistic about life. Really, I did!

The Mercy Step

This one has a child narrator. Back when I was doing my literature degree, I used to love a child narrator. I had a thing for books with child narrators. Think I may have overdone it because nowadays, I avoid them at all costs. So I was reluctant to read this one too but couldn’t help liking the young Mercy. It was an emotional read at times, not least because I’d heard Marcia Hutchinson talk about it at a book event and lots of it is based on her own experience.

Heart the Lover

Adored this. Young love meets middle age. Just my thing.

Kingfisher

Messy relationships. A story exploring love in different forms. I enjoyed it, but didn’t love it as much as the others.

Dominion

Difficult, disturbing, but also witty in parts. Could not look away.

And obviously, there’s Flashlight, which I will get to soon, I promise.

Have you read any of the books? What did you think? As always, I would love to hear.

Liz xx

Other posts you might like…

I’m Liz Champion, a reader and writer from Barnsley in South Yorkshire, who cannot be trusted to read the Women’s Prize shortlist before the deadline. My latest book (not on the shortlist) is out now. You can order it below.

Order 'Before Work and at Weekends' here

I’ve been on holiday this week, climbing (well…attempting to climb) Snowdon. I haven’t had time to write a new piece so, I’m sharing an extract from my latest book, Before Work and at Weekends, a collection of non-fiction essays.

Hope you enjoy it.

Liz xx

Lessons in style

Learning how to dress myself

I arrive for the style analysis on a chilly Saturday morning, the first weekend in January, feeling hopeful that after years lost in the style wilderness, this will be the moment I finally find my way out. All the panicking and tiny traumas about what to wear will forever be a thing of the past. By the end of the day, I’ll know exactly how to dress myself. It’ll change everything. In a few weeks, I will have edited my wardrobe, invested in new pieces, and will be looking good. In a year? Well, by then, I might be a style icon, sashaying around town, perhaps in contention for ‘Best Dressed in Barnsley’, if such an award exists, or at the very least, getting a “you look nice” from the husband or a random stranger in the street.

Whenever I’m away for work or there’s some kind of occasion or family gathering, putting my outfit together will be a pleasant experience, no longer fraught with anxiety, desperately calling my sister for emergency fashion advice. I will be calm, happy and confident in what I wear and how I show up in the world because, let’s be honest, clothes are so much more than just looking good. They say something about who we are. Well, I think so, anyway. There’s a psychology behind them.

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Standing here now, on the stylist’s doorstep, I can’t help wishing I’d booked a consultation sooner. It’s been on my list of things to do for years, but I kept putting it off. Instead, I lost interest in fashion, bumbling along, getting by, and losing myself in the process. At least I’m here now, though. It’s a positive first step – investing in myself, taking action and, more importantly, learning how to cobble an outfit together.

The stylist is Karina Leacock from House of Colour, who I already know quite well because I had my colour analysis with her a few years ago, and I’ve kept in touch, attending her make-up masterclass, following her on social media, and once buying a beautiful multicoloured bag from her that is so bright it makes me happy every time I look at it. Karina is an award-winning and experienced stylist who always looks amazing, which I suppose you’d expect from a stylist. She’s also incredibly friendly, warm and welcoming. I trust her. This morning, I did not have any panic about what to wear, throwing on some M&S wide-leg jeans and a jumper, with trainers and a fitted quilt-coat because I felt completely comfortable in her company. I didn’t have to be someone I’m not. My attitude was very much, ‘this is who I am right now and I’m here for help to make the most of my style’. She asked me to come with examples of outfits I love, those I hate, those I’m unsure about, and lots of questions. I’m armed with a bagful of clothes and a head full to bursting with important questions such as, ‘Can I still wear skinny jeans?’.

Karina makes me a cup of tea, and we sit down and talk about why I am here, how I’ve been feeling about clothes and why they’ve become such an ordeal.

‘I’ve lost my confidence,’ I tell her. She listens and nods (clearly this is something she hears all the time), and suggests that perimenopause might also have played a part in my loss of confidence, which it absolutely has. We also chat about my career, lifestyle, and how I spend my time – all important factors when thinking about style and clothing choices.

‘The style consultation is the first step,’ Karina tells me. ‘It’s the start of the journey. Women dress to the ideals of how people expect them to look. This is about letting go of the chains and being themselves.’

She explains that style is like a triangle because it has three sides to it: colour, body architecture and character. Style confidence comes from knowing what suits you, including wearing the right colours for your natural skin tone, and understanding your body architecture and proportions. Then it’s about using colour and architecture to highlight personal characteristics that align with your personality. Basically, the House of Colour philosophy is about dressing for your shape, knowing your style, and wearing your ‘wow’ colours. And of the three, shape is the most important.

‘There are no wrong bodies,’ Karina says. ‘Only wrong clothing choices.’ She begins by taking my measurements. Not the ones I expected – like bust and waist – but measurements of proportions across the four quadrants of the body (upper, middle, top of legs, and bottom of legs). My body is sharp and straight. On the chart of body shapes that Karina shows me, I am on the far left – straight up and down like an exclamation mark. I have no curves whatsoever. The only slight hint of shape (if you look closely) is on my legs from running and spinning.

On the other end of the chart are full, curved bodies, which require soft structure, swish clothes, drape and movement. I have friends who have beautiful, curved bodies and wear long, swishy maxi dresses. I’ve always looked at them and thought, ‘I’d like to wear that’. But on me, these dresses look ridiculous. My body, Karina tells me, requires structure. I need tailored clothes with clean lines that follow the simplicity of my silhouette. They should be timeless, not baggy, and certainly not fussy. As much as I’d love to float about in a big, swishy dress with frills and acres of fabric, I just can’t. Curvier bodies can take more volume of fabric. I look like someone’s draped a duvet over my shoulders and sent me out for the day. The style I should go for, apparently, is simple, and this simplicity of structure makes it timeless – like a pencil skirt.

Karina gives some examples of shops that cater for the exclamation mark body style and, thankfully, they are all shops that I know and love. Karen Millen, M&S Autograph, Hobbs, Reiss, Jaeger, so I take comfort in the fact that I’m doing something right and at least shopping in the right places.

My height (5ft 10.5 inches) can make it difficult to get clothes long enough. I’ve always struggled to find trousers, but not only that, sleeves are often not long enough and waists not low enough. It’s a proportions thing. I’ve always enjoyed being tall, though, and love that in a big heel, I can be up there with my six-foot-something husband. Karina agrees I should make the most of being tall by wearing heels and owning my height. Not a problem. She also provides some options for brands catering for tall women (ME+EM, Holland Cooper) and suggests that I should broaden my shopping horizons and perhaps take a trip to Holland, the country, where they’re a taller nation.

I also need to be mindful that my height can affect the proportions of my four quadrants, which means that in a pretty little dress, I can look like I have too much body for the dress. My sister has always said that I have an excellent ability to ruin a good dress. She owned a boutique briefly, selling lots of pretty little dresses that perfectly suited her. When she asked me to model for her, she handed me a beautiful pink and yellow dress that fitted around the bust and flared to the knee. It was beautiful, and when my sister wears it, people stop her in the street to compliment her. When I put it on, ready for the photoshoot, she gasped at how horrendous I looked and declared that she no longer required my modelling services. ‘You really do ruin a good dress. No one would buy that if they saw you in it.’ My sister has a special way of making me feel good about myself. But Karina agrees. In the wrong dress, I will look like I’m in a pantomime. As much as I love a good panto, it’s not the look I’d choose for myself, so I make a mental note to avoid dresses that fit and flare above the knee for the rest of my life.

While there are restrictions with dresses, the good news is that I can have complete freedom with jeans, so long as they’re long enough, obviously. So, whatever the style, I can wear them (yes, even skinny jeans, if I want). Jeans can be my go-to, which is good news and a stroke of luck because they very much are. I can dress them up and down, and don’t need to overthink them. They are my thing. After all the jeans confusion over recent years, I feel like I’ve finally gained clarity (hurrah to that!).

Next up for analysis is my body geometrics. I have a triangle-shaped upper body with shoulders so prominent you can hang things on them. Not a negative. Apparently, my shoulders are my strength (although not physically strong). I have a tiny upper body and waist, but a low waist (I knew this already – get me!), which means I’m slightly long-bodied but also have long legs.

My lower body is more of an oblong shape, so when I’ve often joked that my arse is so big it requires its own postcode, I was wrong, which is nice to hear. It’s only because my clothing proportions were wrong – accentuating my backside and not being in balance with my upper body – that I made the assumption I was big-bottomed. Let me explain.

When it comes to swimwear, I have always longed to wear 1950s big-knicker style bikini bottoms. I love them, but every time I tried them, I looked terrible. I’d stand in the changing room, unable to understand why, and the only reason had to be the size of my arse. It looked massive in them. What I now realise is that it was just an illusion, all because of the proportions.

In order to wear the big knickers, I would need to balance this out with a bigger upper body, and because I have the upper body of a twelve-year-old child, I’m a long way from being anywhere near balanced. So, my proportions are completely skewed, and my tiny upper body makes the big-knickered bikini bottoms look enormous. It’s like standing in front of a mirror at Camera Obscura – never a good look. Thankfully, Karina confirms that halterneck swimwear is much more my thing, as are asymmetric styles, bandeaus and cut-outs. ‘There are no constraints with swimwear,’ she tells me (except the big 1950s knickers). ‘Try the interesting shapes and work those shoulders.’

After determining my body shape, we move on to necklines and jewellery. I have a long neck, an oblong face and a medium jawline, all of which means I can take medium-sized-plus earrings. But a word of caution with earrings, I should put the emphasis on length rather than width. If only I’d known this before my sister’s fortieth birthday party, I would have saved myself public humiliation. At the party, my sister – a few gins in – stared at my earrings (gold, pretty, newly purchased from Swarovski). ‘What’s with the massive earrings?’ she asked. And then a cousin, from the opposite side of the room, chipped in. ‘I was thinking the same thing. Your face is too small for big earrings.’ And then everyone in the room was staring at my earrings and my face and giving a running commentary. My friend sitting next to me leaned forward and said, ‘They’re pretty earrings and you have a pretty face.’ So that made the earring trauma easier to bear, but I couldn’t understand why I’d got it so wrong. Now I know what the problem was – too much width. It was as simple as that. One wrong earring move and an entire party will bring you down.

I learn I am medium scale with patterns too (good to know), that I have no constraints when it comes to coats, that my style is rooted in the equestrian (no surprise, I love horses), and that anything girly will just not work for me. This might go some way to explaining why my sister, who is very girly, can pull off a pretty little dress, whereas in the same outfit, I look like I’m auditioning for a part in a nursery rhyme.

So, what does all of this mean? Well, I’m a natural classic, a House of Colour style that is all about easy elegance, quality, smart / casual, well-groomed and casually classy. My personality is natural. My body is not – it requires simplicity, elegance and unfussiness. Karina says being a natural classic is about buying quality, too. Her advice to me. ‘Buy the best that you can afford,’ which makes me laugh because somehow, whatever I am doing or buying, I always end up choosing the most expensive item.

The other interesting thing about my style? Karina thinks there’s a little of the ingénue floating around too. By this, she means more feminine, which would explain why I love the pretty little dresses my sister wears. ‘You’re not an ingénue,’ she says. ‘But there’s something there, and you will need to experiment to find it.’ So, I’m a natural classic with a hint of ingénue. Wonderful. It confirms what deep down I think I already knew without knowing how to articulate it, and feels very much like me.

‘This is just the start,’ Karina tells me as I leave. And I’m not entirely certain, but I think she mentions something about now having the key, the secret. ‘Wasn’t that a song?’ I want to ask. But she’s already moved on. ‘There’s colour, architecture and character,’ she says. ‘Style is the cherry on top, and that can only come from you.’

I leave the consultation with a better understanding of what suits my body shape and personality. Things that I knew were wrong, I can now explain why they are wrong, which will be invaluable. I’m convinced I can make the right clothing choices for me, and while there’s still more work to be done on my style (it’s just the start, remember), now more than ever, I know I can find my way.

A year on, what’s changed?

A year after my style consultation and did I become a style icon and win an award for best dressed in Barnsley? Yes, of course I did. The editor of Vogue has just been on the phone demanding I’m on their next cover. Sorry, no. That’s not quite how it worked out. It’s been a slow process. Karina told me it would be, but there have been some significant steps forward. The main and most important one is my confidence with clothes and style choices. I’ve felt good in what I’ve been wearing, and that’s affected my mood, mindset, and how I show up in the world.

I know that simple works best for me and I don’t overthink it. I love wearing bold, bright colours, so I go with that, and for the first time in years, I’m excited about clothes again. Obviously, not as much as my sister (no-one could possibly be as excited about clothes as she is), and I’m still more excited by bookshops than fashion stores but I feel much more like the younger me, the one who shopped with her friends and focused on fashion. Now, though, it’s not about what’s in and what’s not. It’s about style. It’s about being me.

I’ve even had some compliments. ‘You’re looking colourful today, Liz,’ my colleague said when I met her in London recently. ‘You’re like Joseph and his amazing technicolour dreamcoat.’ I was wearing a bright blue jumper and indigo jeans with a brown belt, brown boots, a red mac and my multicoloured bag I bought from Karina, the one that makes me happy every time I look at it.

On the same day, another colleague told me I looked lovely. Another: ‘That’s a lovely coloured jumper.’

And my favourite, which happened on another day, this time when I was in a red jumper and jeans. ‘You always look very well put together’, which made me laugh because for a long time, putting myself together was an ordeal. Now picking outfits is fun again.

A year on, I am well and truly out of the fashion wilderness and finding my way. The confident twenty-and thirty-something who attacked the world and had her own style, well, I’ve found a new version of her, now forty-something, changed in many ways, but for the better.

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I’m Liz Champion, a very stylish (if I do say so myself) writer from Barnsley in South Yorkshire. My latest book is out now. You can order it below.

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