Most of us are susceptible to tagging positive disclaimers onto disclosures of pretty diabolical events. We lift the weighty lid on betrayals and disappointments, but leap back and let it slam shut if too much darkness leaks out. Why do we do this? Are we trapping the fingers of any helping hands in our hasty retreat from vulnerability?

We don’t want to dampen the mood, perhaps? In today’s catch-up culture, a negative situation may accidentally become the conversation’s headline, and no one wants to make the front page with a sob story.

Say you are somewhat socially aware: you don’t want to turn into an energy vampire? We all know a Colin. (What We Do in the Shadows, I’d recommend as a silly spooky season watch). If you’re making people leave the room when you skulk in, maybe keep that lid shut for a minute. 

Not everyone is a trusted source to be truly open with. You may hand them the key, and suddenly dozens of fingers are scratching at the sides, eager for scraps of information.

Others may be well-meaning, but not emotionally equipped. They say the wrong thing or misunderstand you, inflicting further cracks during your time of need. Or their focus is elsewhere, which personally makes me want to throw the box off a cliff and never bother opening up to anyone again. Just me?

But in the face of kind, understanding friends— why is it so difficult to say something wasn’t okay without a caveat? Do we want the other person to refrain from judging the party that hurt us? Do we think that it wasn't bad “enough”? Are we afraid they will judge us— that we were the ones who made a wrong call and put ourselves in this situation?

Unless they're not a solid support, these are probably your projections. You would want to hear and help your loved ones, so let them be there for you too, even if it’s minorly inconvenient. Sitting with you in your discomfort and agreeing with you that actually, “that wasn’t fine, it was a bit shit.” There will be bad times over and over again; we must learn to share the load. 

Running away from your feelings with a plastered grimace helps no one and, honestly, gets quite irritating for people around you. The house is still burning whether you acknowledge it or not, and we can all smell the smoke. Put out the fire, and ask a friend to help you hoist up the hose.

As I sat down in a beachside cafe to write this, the plan was to compile my thoughts after meeting several new people that fortnight. Funnily enough, the first half an hour instead consisted of a conversation initiated by two women sitting across from me.

At first, we bonded over a shared need for coffee “con hielo” on that particularly sunbaked afternoon. After a short while, we’d moved on to how we came to be in Mallorca, and I’d learnt about their successful careers, various holidays and lovely families. The more dominant of the pair told me I was young, with nothing tying me down, and “to go and see everything”. I left our interaction feeling pretty motivated.

This certainly won’t be the outcome of every conversation you have with a stranger. Not everyone is destined to impart wisdom upon you, then ethereally drift off into the distance, their final quest complete.

Some chats will be stilted, some will be frustrating and some will be the antithesis of inspiration. Example of the latter: during Spain’s Semi-Final match, a father from Romania told me he’d lived out the plot of “Breaking Bad” in his earlier years and was drinking in this pub to avoid seeing his children, who he described as “okay”. 

Location and situation are huge factors in getting to know people, and a holiday destination is naturally a prime setting. Not many people are desperate for conversation on their 8:20 am commute to the London office. I’m also not naive enough to miss mentioning that not everywhere is safe enough. Take care out there, people.

However, the perfect place for joyous interactions was watching the World Cup final, live from the winning nation. I, famously, do not enjoy the football. But it was a privilege to witness the place I currently call home seize the trophy. The streets quite literally exploded with fireworks, red and yellow smoke, and cheers and stamping thundered in our ears.

My friends and I held hands and weaved our way through a sea of smiles and sweaty bodies. Dancing with strangers, congratulating them over loud music and working our way through the language barrier.

I’m pleased to report that a group of boys from Seville rated my Spanish an A2 (take that Duolingo, keeping me at A1). One of them also thought I was nineteen though, so perhaps their judgement wasn’t the best. 

It’s a rare feeling to be living in a moment you know will be a memory, a feeling I’ll treasure. 

The other side of your comfort zone is unknown, and it isn’t always fireworks and festivals. But whatever you experience, it’s a step towards building your ability to navigate your place in the world. A young solo traveller spoke to us a couple of weeks ago, and I remember thinking how brave she was to be exploring the world by herself. After a recent visit from my parents, I think they thought the same of me. I liked how that felt. I liked how they saw me.

I turned twenty-seven last month, and it may have been my favourite birthday yet. Planned to perfection, I utilised my Type A tendencies to squeeze in all the highlights of northern Mallorca for two visiting friends.

It was honestly better than I could have imagined, especially considering that, back in February, happiness felt like a foreign concept. (Insert the cheesy, yet truthful, line about finding it in a foreign country.)

Whilst I'm a self-proclaimed birthday worshipper, I appreciate the perspective of the non-converted. The pressure to plan, perform, and please the sea of smiling faces singing "Happy Birthday!" in three different keys. I'd probably understand it more if I weren't such an attention whore.

Turning another year older piqued my curiosity about the people around me and how they "wear" their age.

Some people pin it to their shirt like a child's birthday badge: flashy, flimsy, and appealing to a certain type of suitor who will, of course, tell them how mature they are for their age. As they've done before, and will do again, in the style of Leo DiCaprio.

Others wear it like an oversized, shoulder-padded blazer. Buttoned up tightly, the stresses of being "so old" are stacked right up to their ears. I'm always astounded to discover these people are younger than I am.

Over the last month, I've met a few Peter Pans who refuse to embrace either their age or accountability. One thirty-seven-year-old proclaimed he "lived in the shadows" and suggested we could be "friends or lovers"—all unbeknownst to his girlfriend. I called him a liar and laughed in his face. Later, he said he should probably apologise to me. Or, get this, himself. Not his girlfriend, though?

Another man, exactly double my age then at fifty-two, called me sexy and asked me out. That's the same age gap between me and a newborn. Thankfully, that encounter also ended with a laugh and a swift exit.

Interestingly, both of them said they "liked my energy". Their attempts to drain it immediately brought Ursula and Ariel to mind. Women their own age are probably exhausted from having to mother them.

To my colleague's and my amusement, we also received attention from young men around seventeen or eighteen after one of our shows. The idea of being attracted to someone nearly ten years younger than me felt bizarre, but also hilarious. That amusement quickly gave way to mild concern when I realised the older men hadn't batted an eyelid while doing exactly the same thing.

There seems to be a healthy relationship with age somewhere between eighteen-year-olds who think you're practically dead at thirty and fifty-somethings asking out women young enough to be their daughters.

I'm pretty happy with where I've drawn my line. I'm old enough not to get caught up in messy situationships, and young enough not to feel the need to be tied down. I'm old enough to leave the party early when I want to, and young enough to stay until sunrise when I don't. I'm old enough to spend my birthday exactly how I want, and young enough to embrace the freedom and possibility that still lies ahead.

I'm also old enough to know that everyone's line will look different, and young enough to know there's no point judging yours.

Unless you're trying to have sex with people half your age. I'll happily judge you for that.

The clue’s in the name, love-bombing always ends in an explosion. 

You can probably guess my dating intentions for the summer. Recently single, fresh from a horrible break-up and living on an island for six months. Enough heartache, I wanted to have fun. 

However, unlike several of my friends’ exes, I was determined to avoid avoidance, as it were, and stay open to a connection.

One came up— too soon, too fast, and too much (he deleted Hinge during our first date). But in the moment, it felt good that he wanted me that much. I let myself get swept up by the tide. 

His intensity translated to multiple dates a week, planning the summer together, and proposing a winter UK visit. In a country where I knew no one, the comfort that he “liked me more” than I him and his desire to “take care of me”, felt like safety. 

An admittedly shaken sense of safety a couple of weeks in after he drove us in circles in a furious silence. My crime? Making a joke with an Argentinian man in a shop. At home, I’ll be real— that would have been the end. But here? I put it down to a one-off shut-down (and that’s on me, gang). A conversation was had, his sweet side returned, and on we went. 

Until of course, the inevitable, the tide pulled back. Asking to see me for the third time that week turned into “maybe Thursday?”. Sweet compliments and pet names turned into him ignoring the heartfelt content of my voicenote, only replying “that’s really good Spanish!!”. To be fair, it was- I’d spent twenty minutes practising that. 

Intuition (plus hormones) felt the shift, so I initiated a gentle, blame-free conversation to talk about it. 

He scoffed and called me a drama queen. Strike one. 

During a frustrating, circular conversation, I disclosed an uncomfortable situation from the weekend. At first, I received support (muy bien) but this turned into victim-blaming as I was called a “red flag” for being out with the girls in the first place as that “happens when you party”. Strike two. 

The cherry on top of the sour sundae came, as his demeanour hardened and I felt mine crack, I told him I didn’t want to make him angry. His voice raised: “If you think this is angry you should see angry, you’ve clearly never had anyone angry at you.” Wrong, and pretty dramatic. Strike three. 

Mr Cool, Calm and Collected then stormed off and didn’t speak to me for two days. We both knew it was done, but I wanted us to have a pleasant ending. Alas.

The final combustion occurred via a text argument, which I don’t think I’ve been a part of since a Year 9 girls’ group chat. I’ll admit that my own immaturity reared its head in response to this. 

However, asking for an adult conversation, not even criticism, and receiving that level of blow up? The drama queen crown certainly wouldn’t be bestowed upon my head. 

I think it’s time for me to walk along the coast for a while, unmoved by the tide. 

I know London. If you have your phone out in Central, you’ve essentially hand-delivered it to a snatcher on a bike. 98% of people in Leicester Square aren’t from London, and the resident 2% will push past you, late to their drinks in Soho. Stopping in the middle of the Tube barriers is a crime punishable by death.

If you’re smug like me, you’ll tap your Oyster (under-30s Railcard attached, of course) and glide through with your off-peak discount.

Beyond that, I know the people. I recognise the Surrey-turned-Chiswick girl whose nose wrinkles as I mention living south of the river. (She’d probably have to swallow rising vomit if she knew it was South East.)

I, and most of London, have dated the overworked lawyer in Wapping who has no time to see you this week, but just enough time to like your best friend on Hinge. 

I love my queer, creative friends who have open doors and fridges stocked with oat milk, ready for a warm drink and a hug. My people, I miss you.

In its imperfect entirety, I understand London. Like a pint in a Wetherspoons — I know what I’m getting.

Here, I know next to nothing. A difficult pill for Miss “I’m Always Right” to swallow, my limited Spanish evokes either a polite, knowing smile or a slightly irritated response in English. As someone who has worked several customer service jobs at rush hour, fair enough. Not to mention there’s Catalan, and another dialect unique to Mallorca.

A friend once compared me to the titular character in “Emily in Paris”, and I’m very much in Season 1 out here. Wearing brightly coloured strapless tops in May, I’ve definitely earned the tourist badge.

But, to quote Meryl Streep in “Mamma Mia!” (which feels apt): “We have time.” I’d like to not entirely fulfil the British stereotype and bulldoze through conversations in English. I’d like to appreciate cultural, etiquette, and experiential differences, and find unifying similarities — even if I’ve only reached Section 2 on Duolingo.

We form snapshot judgements within minutes, sometimes seconds, of meeting someone. Our instincts whisper to us, or in extreme cases scream, to run away or to stay a while longer. 

An exchange of energy reveals itself through the level of interest behind our eyes. One of two scenarios typically unfolds during an introduction—

Both begin with the obligatory pleasantries, social lubricant to ease you both in. 

Yes, I’m well. I also got caught in the rain. My tube was delayed too! Bloody Central line. 

Soon after the niceties, there’s an unspoken fork in the road. 

Scenario one: you don’t click. With or without tangible reason, you find yourself longing to leave. Either one or both parties are looking through, not at, each other, willing the conversation to a close. 

I’ll plead guilty here after one too many London gatherings. I’ve met enough Henrys from finance for a lifetime— minus points if they also play golf on Saturday afternoons. 

Have no fear: unless they were trying to sleep with me, the disinterest was usually mutual. 

Scenario two: you get a good feeling. The spark of interest ignites and your curiosity fans the flame. Be it platonic, romantic, or the joyfully confusing in-between, you catch their gaze and hold it. Not wanting to be pulled away by the slightest distraction around you, you are completely present. 

You want to know more. You gather pieces of information, asking questions that expand their life story. Putting together the puzzle of another person— how they came to be standing there, talking to you. 

This bubble of intrigue, or lack thereof, serves me well when I choose to honour it. Of course, British politeness has caused me to push through interactions, only for the outcome to prove my initial instincts correct. It’s hard being right all the time, but someone has to do it. 

Whilst I’ll agree that you shouldn’t judge someone fully until you’ve truly got to know them, I think I’ll always be a little hung up on a first impression. My intuition is loud and she’s tired of being ignored. 

On Monday morning, I packed my three massive bags (plus two shoulder bags hidden under a jacket—don’t tell Ryanair) and flew to Spain for a performing contract. It will probably be over six months until I’m back on UK soil again.

My last week was spent on a jam-packed farewell tour. I was worried I’d be exhausted by the end, but my lovely people filled my cup every time.

Here I am, saying goodbye to everyone I hold dear, starting a new job in a different country with people I’d never met—everything was unknown. A brand-new routine.

As a lover of order, the prospect of this filled me with equal measures of nerves and delight. Routine brings me joy. Just ask the inside of my food cupboard, always stocked with the ingredients to make the same breakfast nearly every morning for the last six years. Even just writing about it makes me a little excited.

(It’s such an easy recipe. If you have a penchant for protein and a sweet tooth, I’ll send it to you.)

As much as I adore that kind of structure, it hasn’t always loved me back. Craving that security has kept me stuck in relationships, jobs, and situations that no longer serve me. Perhaps they once did—and it’s okay to keep them in the past. I can recall several choices, dating all the way back to my teens, that I once believed to be beneficial.

There comes a point when your intuition raises its voice and can no longer be ignored. A deep shift in your soul brings you to a supposed crossroads, but you know there is only one path forward.

At first, it may look uninviting. The track twists, runs narrow, and is covered with roadside nettles scratching at your ankles. But after a while, the road clears, and it becomes easier to make your way to the endpoint. The path disguised as familiar may turn out to loop you right back to the start—never forward, only a circle of disappointment.

Choosing the unknown is difficult but necessary. After all, there are things I do know will happen: I’ll laugh, I’ll cry, and I’ll make amazing memories. I’ve already done all three—I had to climb over a balcony back into my apartment via the window, smashed two 5K runs, and had a moonlit kiss on the beach.

I won’t fall prey to limiting beliefs. Fear won’t paralyse me; instead, it will fuel me. I won’t choose a familiar hell over an unfamiliar heaven, even if the road to get there feels challenging. Growth is often a painful process that we must embark upon; otherwise, we remain stuck.

Vamos chicas.

If you’ve been here from the start of this Substack, you’ll already know I’m two and a half months single after a brutal break up. (Also, thank you for following along! This platform has been the best outlet.) 

If you’re new here (hey!), that’s a pretty decent summary so far. Oh, and I’m moving abroad next week for six months. 

As you can imagine, these factors have heavily influenced my approach to meeting new people before I leave. I know, you know- we all know- this is not the time to start something serious. It’s way too soon after “The Liar,” and I’m leaving the UK for half a year.

So tell me why I was practically skipping home after an electric first date. Our conversation could have lasted another three hours and our connection was instant. I was smitten after he swept in for a street-side kiss. 

And so, the humiliation ritual of liking someone began: smiling guiltily at texts; planning future dates and using his actual name instead of a codename. It’s a lot harder to admit you’re falling for someone if they’re still “Moustache Man” to your friends. 

I had my first real crush since the break up, and it completely knocked me off-course. 

I’d already mentally navigated the time before my departure, hands firmly at the wheel– the route set. Fantasy hijacked the helm and veered me on an unexpected emotional detour. 

Of course, it didn’t last. Logic performed a flanking manoeuvre, and it quickly ended. It really wasn’t the right time at all.

But it was lovely. Too short for my liking, but sweet nonetheless. It gave me a quiet comfort to know that, when the time is right, wonderful romantic experiences await. 

People can be “right” for a moment in time, or as a lesson to learn from. People you believe are “right” for you now may prove otherwise by this time next year. 

People with the “right” potential may be forgotten by next month, whether you meet someone new or not. Still, they can be thought of fondly, even if they weren’t “right” for you now.

This question often sparks passionate responses- much like any debate on the internet. I’ve heard strong cases from both those who embrace this belief and those who reject it entirely. I can also see how rigidly defending either end sounds insensitive at best.

Most of us attempt to control the chaos life throws our way. Spinning several plates, even those with chipped china, wobbling away on wooden sticks. An unexpected wind tilts your balance off-centre, and the fragile among them shatter across the hard floor. You sweep up, clear the debris and repair the damage.

With less to manage, and the cracks mended, your balancing act becomes stronger. Did that plate need to break completely? Some would say yes, the resulting improvement is the reason it happened.

Others claim these events are, and should be, left without meaning attached. They usually have undeniably awful cases to illustrate this point. After an unexpected loss, if someone told me “everything happens for a reason, sweetheart,” they’d probably have a stinging red outline of my fingers on their cheek. (In my mind at least- I should probably disclaim that I’m not advocating for violence on the internet).

There’s a time and a place for sharing your personal mantras and that would not be it.

But should we reject applying meaning completely? How far are we able to go?

Diving headfirst into a pool of nihilism will likely leave you drowning, gasping for a sense of structure in your life. However, taking positive elements of this worldview can be liberating.

From experience, remembering that “we’re all on a floating rock” has helped me to zoom out on small problems. Could the “everything happens for a reason” absolutists argue my new perspective is the reason a problem ever occurred? Or do I just want to revisit my A-Level Philosophy and Ethics essays? Maybe. 

Personally, I don’t believe everything happens for a reason. It feels unfair and can create blame in situations where there is none. I do think that, when you are ready, you can find meaning from most unfortunate events. I’ve recently learnt the lesson in love that if it feels toxic, it probably is, and to run far away— even if they beg you to stay. 

Not every event can be processed in this way: sometimes time makes it possible, sometimes it just can’t.

There's a proper time to take the reins on change and another to relinquish control. We’re all operating in our own time zones, and that won’t look the same for everyone.

Whatever you believe, I hope it’s working for you. If not, take a look from an alternative perspective and see if anything resonates. 

Maybe that’s the reason you’re reading this. 

Listen to new music.

Songs hold positive and painful memories for all of us. Those you associate with old relationships probably fall into that wonderfully confusing intersection. Press pause on the sound of old wounds reopening— that’s week one stuff, darling. 

Find an untainted melody and make it your anthem. “Rein Me In” (Olivia Dean and Sam Fender) has been one of my, and Britain’s, current favourites. It has an extra kick when you’re newly single, belting away about leaving people that drain you.

Speak to people in similar situations 

This one is so important. On the most basic human level, you’ll feel understood without over-explaining. Protect yourself by not engaging in conversations that leave you emotionally exhausted. 

Hearing about similar, shitty situations from friend’s exes helps you view unhealthy behaviours plainly. You quickly assess this is the last type of person your friend deserves and know they will be infinitely better off without them. 

Some of the crossover actions/ phrases used from several of my friends' nightmare exes are borderline verbatim. Do they all share a manual: “How to be a Terrible Partner”?

If so, can we burn it?

Enjoy the increased highs (and still cry when needed) 

You’re (hopefully) experiencing longer, consistent stretches of happiness. The line graph of your life is on a rising trajectory. But some days, the stocks are down (probably during your luteal phase- if you know, you know). Cry it all out. 

There’s no deadline to stop feeling sadness as there’s no deadline to stop being human. Reflect on how far you’ve come in just a couple of months, and be proud. 

Re-read/ Update “the” list.

If you haven’t already written down every reason that you deserve better: go and do it as soon as possible. (Well, maybe don’t storm out of your Thursday after-work drinks but put it top of your to-do list). 

Forgotten red flags have resurfaced in my mind this month. Mid-set during my upper body gym session, I suddenly remembered a massive lie. The dumbbells were set down and the ever-growing list grew even longer. It’s both laughable and horrible how many pages that document is now. 

Get it out of your head and onto the page. It’s not a constant source to study anymore, but a reminder of reality when it’s needed. 

Go on a date (or two). 

Right, this may be controversial. I’m in favour of going on dates. Not to dive into a new relationship but just to meet new people and have fun. You’ll meet people you don’t fancy, you’ll meet people that you do. It’s all experience, and who doesn’t love the humiliation ritual of having an early stage crush? 

As long as you’re honest and communicative from the start about where you’re at, I think it can be a great thing. 

Everyone in your life started on day one. 

I am fatally optimistic. That’s not a disguised compliment, or the “What’s your biggest weakness?” interview technique. This trait has landed me in some shitty situations.

I have deciphered halos out of horns through my admittedly black-and-white lens. I magnify every sunbeam my loved ones emit—as I’d like to think we should.

People who exclusively bad-mouth others unsettle me, particularly if they never communicate those concerns directly. That’s like standing under a flickering light, refusing to fetch the unused bulb across the room. Then again, at least they’ve been able to say out loud what I couldn’t.

Except on paper. I’ve had sporadic affairs with journalling throughout my life. I usually return for an embrace during emotionally exhausting or exhilarating episodes — exorcising thoughts from my brain to exist only in my Notes app.

My commitment to daily journalling began in January as part of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. (If you’re a creative person in my life, I’ve already given the recommendation. My message to you too, dear reader: do it!)

I undertook this venture with a friend (who even made us motivational star charts- what a gem). I had no idea how much I’d need it only a month later.

Everything I felt, I wrote down unedited. My friends, my future work, my creativity: most areas of my life had a net positive. I’d worked hard to get there, and I felt proud of that summary.

The only negative entries detailed my partner’s moods, actions, and how he made me feel. Having chosen to leave this part of reality on the page, my feelings collected dust in the file room while I prioritised ways to help him get better. He begged me to stay and promised me it was always going to be us over everything.

He may have lied, but the writing didn’t. The truth was there. “West End Girl” (Lily Allen) felt like an inspiration as I read back dates, events, and quotes that sickened me. I wasn’t “sensitive” or “silly”: my gut was right—this was mistreatment, laid out fresh from my cream hardback notebook.

Post-breakup, I donned my deerstalker and gathered the evidence, Holmes-style. Patterns of “objectively bad behaviour”; “lying again”; and actions that “felt like cheating.” Hearing my own confused voice: it feels like he’s trying to hurt me? Spoiler, he was.

Oh, and the two lines that broke me:

“I feel like I can’t talk to anyone about this. It feels like I’m in a toxic relationship again.”

If you’ve never experienced this situation, I pray to God you never do. It will probably make it impossible for you to understand staying though.

We had elements of a beautiful relationship. I loved him to absolute pieces. He was the absolute sweetest until he wasn’t. I should have been able to trust that it was genuine. But his words weren’t real—his actions were. It was all there on the page.

My journal changed my life for that reason: sweet clarity. (Too much of a stretch there, theatre people?) 

I didn’t know what to believe, and that was intentional. Manipulation came to him easily. My trust was both built and destroyed by it. Seeing the facts and reality written in front of me has been essential to my ability to move forward.

If you’re not ready to talk about it, write it down. Your future self might need it.

You’ll never be as young as you are right now. I’m not saying that to scare you or peer pressure you (that much, anyway). I’m saying it because it’s true- and it’s a gift.

During hard periods of our lives, the phrase “it’ll take time” can be agonising to hear. Time spent in pain feels endless. Days that normally fly by stretch out like weeks. The strain of minutes, perceived as hours, pulls on your already taut heartstrings.

Afraid of sitting in this state, you wish the time away- the precious youth that your eighty-year-old self is urging you to savour while you still have it. If you’re sitting at home complaining that you’re “so old” in your twenties or thirties, respectfully, grow up (or down, as the case may be). Your older self is gently shaking her head at your naivety.

I’m not encouraging you to make bad choices for yourself. If you know a sweaty techno rave is your personal idea of hell, don’t rock up there in nipple tassels, reeking of regret. If you’ve been sober, like I have for a few months, don’t make the choice to drink again as a reaction to adversity (more on this another time).

Ask yourself: what do you actually enjoy? We’re all different. The aforementioned rave might be your best friend’s dream night. Your cheesy club dancefloor suggestion might make her skin crawl. If you question yourself and don’t know what you want, go and figure it out.

Top tip: putting pressure on it will not make it fun. Trial and error is the way to go. I now know that I need an easy exit plan when overtiredness hits. My deadpan expression, once I reach this point, has recently evoked unnecessary concern from strangers. I’m an eight-hours-a-night girl - what can I say? I’ve infamously come downstairs in a dressing gown halfway through a party I was hosting.

My sleepiness aside, I recently experienced the joy that only a girls’ night out can bring. With fake names at the ready (that we forgot to use on anyone but each other), we danced the night away to live renditions of pub classics. Nothing beats a boogie in my books, so holding hands in a circle and jumping to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” was just what I needed- forgetting the weight of the world and living in the moment.

It felt like the lightness I’d been craving. “Mr Brightside” by The Killers brought out the British cheer-groan and shifted the energy on the dance floor. A sea of Guinness was raised as the energy in the room soared. People jostled into each other. Glances were exchanged; bodies inched closer.

The excitement of flirting, touching, kissing someone new. Melting into each other to the tune of “Iris” by The Goo Goo Dolls. The pride that followed as my friends started up a hoedown-style partner dance for a room full of strangers. Whatever tomorrow would bring, we were there, enjoying the night.

Dress up. Feel gorgeous. Go out. Have fun.

It is often said that all jokes are half-meant, or that at least a grain of truth exists. As the Spanish idiom “entre broma y broma, la verdad se asoma” roughly translates: between the jokes, the truth peeks out.

(Hopefully I haven’t butchered that completely, or I’ll never survive my upcoming move across Europe.)

Light-hearted banter between couples can be harmless, but when does it become a concern to flag? When the drop of truth trickles from an ocean of resentment, perhaps.

Personally, I have never been a fan of the “I hate my spouse” dynamic. In particular, hearing grown men guffaw about how much they hate their girlfriends and wives is far from entertaining. As both an unwilling participant and an uncomfortable witness, I can safely say that it’s not my cup of tea.

Receiving this type of public mocking in my first relationship made me want to vanish into thin air. Witnessing these lines being crossed in other people’s relationships similarly makes my toes curl.

It’s a unique kind of awkwardness, where you don’t know how to burst the tension bubble that’s been inflated around you. You’re holding your breath, waiting for a fresh topic of conversation—yet not wanting to be the person to pop the dome, for fear of the “sensitive” residue dampening both you and the room.

Imagine my relief when my next partner told me he totally agreed. We spoke in depth about how revealing we found these interactions, and I felt such comfort knowing that wouldn’t be us. It couldn’t possibly.

In fact, the whole idea of being cold to each other was so laughable to him that it became a joke in itself. Never one I initiated or particularly enjoyed, but one I at least felt like I understood. The ridiculousness of it was the humour, because he would never actually mean that, right? At the beginning, the absurdity of that cruelty was the joke. At the end, when that cruelty became real, my trust was gone.

These early jokes fell into the category of the “benign violation theory.” McGraw and Warren’s definition is that a violation must occur that is simultaneously harmless.

One of their ways to define harmlessness is that there should be distance in time, space, or likelihood. The famous example being “comedy equals tragedy plus time”: time removes the harm. In my case, it was his promise that he didn’t mean it that removed the harm. Another lie, unfortunately.

During the cold switches in behaviour, my body was telling me this wasn’t right. Torn between feeling mistreated and trying to understand his perspective, I negotiated my way back to his original promise every time—even over my gut instinct telling me this confusion was poison. Never again.

I felt unsafe, but he was convincing me I was being stupid for feeling that way. For want of a better phrase, my head was fried.

The truth poked out in all of this, but my frazzled, lovesick brain couldn’t see the pattern. It’s only by stitching it all together afterwards, like a fucked-up scrapbook of shitty behaviour, that I’ve been able to step back and see the full picture.

Jokes about making me feel anxious; jokes about manipulating me; jokes about him being a bad person; jokes about him not being a good partner. None of these “jokes” were funny to me, even at the time.

I’d ask him to stop—the line had been crossed, and what he claimed was benign just felt like an actual violation. But time and time again, he didn’t. Sensitive topics that I’d asked not to talk about for personal reasons magically came up again and again. At the time, I believed he’d forgotten, but I don’t believe a word out of that mouth now.

His behaviour confessed more to me than his words ever did. Someone who loves you shouldn’t want to hurt you. God, when you put it in plain words, it seems so simple.

It didn’t feel simple, though. It felt confusing, and he was telling me he loved me—so it felt like I was attached to something unhealthy. What he’d previously joked about doing to me in our relationship had been under the veil that the notion was absurd. That’s the trouble with an insult or manipulation tactic dressed up as a joke: there’s always a grain of truth.

The funny thing about it all is—if you’ll pardon that weak irony, which admittedly undermines my next point—I was far funnier. Given the low bar, I’d say it wasn’t that hard to be.

 He joined the ranks of several men who surprised themselves with how entertaining they found me: “You’re actually really funny?”

Girls, if you know, you know. Only to quickly withdraw the compliment and pretend I was nothing compared to his own “comedic genius,” which was actually just him being a miserable dick. He needed to cling onto something, I guess.

Just because you weren’t the hot one doesn’t mean you were the funny one.

Relax—I’m only joking.

Reference:

McGraw, A. P., & Warren, C. (2010, September 15). A brief introduction to the benign violation theory of humor.

https://petermcgraw.org/a-brief-introduction-to-the-benign-violation-theory-of-humor/

A mother’s work is never complete. 

She bounces her restless infant on one knee, frantically opening their snack and wiping an unknown stain from around their mouth. The father’s eyes are locked to his phone screen, thumbs swiping away. Worlds apart on the same park bench. 

She receives criticism from passing dog walkers when the child cries. 

“Why has she bought that ultra-processed shit? I’d never give my child that.” 

She steadies her pram on a tumultuous bus ride, begging her child to remain inside their seat. Her last resort is to hold the child with her one free arm, after their seventh escape attempt. The father’s eyes chase the skirt of a woman, easily fifteen years his junior. 

She is muttered about by commuters when the child screams. 

“That child clearly walks all over her at home.” 

She soothes her bleary eyed toddler, rubbing the sleep from the corners of her own tired eyes. She aids her little one in sipping a babycinno, her previously warm latte sitting cold and untouched. The father takes another leisurely glug, staring out of the cafe window: not a care in the universe. 

She is scoffed at by Sunday morning coffee drinkers when the child tips their cup’s contents onto her new linen trousers. 

“There’s no point wearing clothes like that once you’ve had children, they’ll just get ruined.” 

Before any of the meninists start crying, no it’s not every father and yes mothers can be neglectful too. But these are three real-life cases I’ve plucked from the plethora I witness on a daily basis. 

Which dynamics are a familiar sight to you in public? 

Which economic system benefits from the unpaid labour of mothers? 

Unless you’re the latest red-pill pusher on Louis Theroux’s “Inside the Manosphere”: I think you know the answer. 

Run far, far away from any man who idealises having sons and passing on his “legacy”. The world doesn’t need more of these pathetic notions, especially as the only legacy these types of men will pass down are insecurity, misogyny and narcissism. 

But today isn’t about that, as much as I’d love to amend a broken system in the twenty four hours of Mother’s Day.

It’s about appreciating everything our mothers do and celebrating them for the whole, complete human beings that they are. 

We can’t thank them enough as the every day work they put in to raise the next generation is incomprehensible. But we can take them out for a nice lunch and give them a massive fucking hug. 

To share, or not to share: that is the question. Is it wiser to suffer in silence until partnership conflict feels resolved, or to seek outside counsel for advice? I personally believe Hamlet wouldn’t consider his partner’s privacy for a moment, opting to trauma-dump via soliloquy on anyone who would listen. 

Walking a narrow tightrope, balancing your partner’s privacy and your own emotions can be a tough act. I myself leaned too far away from my intuition and misstepped. Tripped up by my self-isolating silence, I hit the crash mat alone. 

Hence why the shocked reactions from my friends stung me twice. Firstly, their disbelief mirrored my own on the night the promise of our relationship was suddenly broken. Secondly- and perhaps the greater blow- their complete unawareness held up a mirror to the self-abandonment I’d enacted. 

By keeping the change in his behaviour to myself, I waited too patiently for improvement that never came. In my attempt to hold my tongue, I’d bitten so hard I didn’t realise I was bleeding.  

Of course, my decision to prioritise his privacy wasn’t made lightly; it was based on a lie I was fed. After being exclusively reassured that our relationship was, “consistently the best thing” in his life, why would I not believe what I was told? 

These strange moods had nothing to do with “us”; he just wasn’t feeling right. Therefore, my mission became to raise his spirits and muffle that small inner voice whispering that this wasn’t how love should feel anymore. 

As anyone who knows me can attest, I am no wallflower. I wasn’t afraid to speak up when I felt hurt and initiate important discussions. Two individuals with their own, unique experiences will, inevitably, have disagreements and will, potentially, navigate that conflict differently.

If you’re looking for a partner that will nod along with your every word, then turn- as an alarming number of people have- to ChatGPT. You’re not equipped for a human relationship. 

If I was speaking with an honest and emotionally intelligent partner (must be nice), perhaps keeping conflict in-house would have been a wise choice to make. Both partners communicating truthfully and constructively. Not perfectly, not without emotion (as was expected of me, I’m realising), but with actionable improvements. No magic wand needed to miraculously “fix” everything: but real, tangible change. 

Avoiding conversations of this nature forms a bitter tablet of resentment. By initiating them, I was refusing to swallow this poisonous pill. My unwillingness to engage in unhealthy techniques didn’t stop the other party from over-dosing: choking on dishonesty and ignorance. 

Therein lies an important factor when contemplating seeking outside opinions: does the communication feel healthy? Perhaps you’ve tried and tried but see no improvements? Maybe it’s all started to feel confusing, even damaging? 

At the very moment you feel you have to hide their behaviour: you already have your answer. 

Disclosure to your friends is the moment it actually becomes real because you are really just admitting it to yourself. There’s no going back once you’ve conceded that they’re hurting you. I was nearing the finish line, though. I’d danced around the details like a prima ballerina but the coffee date of truth was booked in our diaries! (We later turned this into a post-breakup debrief.) 

I can’t, and don’t want to, pass judgement on my past self in a situation she was manipulated into. You can’t know what you don’t know; and my only source of “clarity” was the man actively deceiving me. But, I can write a reminder for my future self and any resonating reader: please talk to your friends. 

Your rational outside counsel has the clear perspective that your love goggles have blurred and distorted. Your attachment makes you see them as their best (as you should be able to) and trust their word, even past the expiry date.

But words without action are as hollow as the heart of a liar. Patterns of behaviour can’t spin such tales and a level-headed outside party has a higher capability to spot this link than you do. They have no emotional bond to the person and only your best interests at heart. 

You probably have experience in this role yourself, seeing others’ situations with the clarity only gleaned from an outside eye. You’d tell them to lace up their trainers and run for the hills. 

By not confiding the change in his behaviour, I was wearing his shame like an ill-fitting coat. A scarf of embarrassment tightened around my throat for daring to love so loudly. But his is not my shame to carry, nor my burden to bear. 

I shrug off the coat that weighed me down by talking to my friends openly. I loosen the scarf that strangled me by over-sharing on Substack. I refuse to become another weary woman diminishing her experience for a shameful man only capable of protecting his fragile ego. 

Speak up, tell your friends, and get the emotional support you’ve been denied in that relationship. The right people will listen without judgement and the right partner wouldn’t act in a way you feel you have to hide. 

It may have taken the ever-smug hindsight to do it, but talking it through with my loved ones is currently helping me to gain clarity after such confusion. Thank you to my wonderful friends for everything you’ve done- and continue to do- to help me heal. 

Happy International Women’s Day. 

There’s an unusually light atmosphere in East London today. People stroll past at a calmer pace; even the suited pedestrians appear energised, without stress. 

I’m writing outside for the first time this year, sipping a vanilla iced latte. My face is turned toward the sun, which beams back at me as if it knows how much it lifts my spirits. Wearing a light coat feels perfect during moments of a gentle breeze and weighs a fraction too hot when the wind stills. 

Just what I’m after. A glimmer of all the summer days yet to come. I overhear, with all the optimism of a tourist, from the table next to me,

“The sun is shining, I’m with my friends, what could be greater?”. 

I smile at their joy. I, too, am grateful for this peaceful moment. 

Two co-workers, seemingly on their lunch break, inquire if they may share the small table I’m working away at and I accept with a smile. It’s a lovely day after all and they also deserve a seat in the sun. 

The woman sits quietly, respectful of the intimate space she’s entered. To her- and my- dismay, the man starts loudly “singing”: shattering the peace in the air. (I use quotation marks because, honestly, calling it singing feels too generous.)

She is embarrassed, I am irritated and he is obnoxiously oblivious. 

I have two options: swallow my annoyance in true British fashion or ask him to stop. To even my own surprise, I hear myself light-heartedly remark that he’s welcome to stay only if he’s quiet. He laughs, we joke and then he stops: the peaceful oasis I’d created restored. 

Assertive to some, passive-aggressive to others, I harbour a little smile of pride as I return to my work. Being able to speak up when you feel uncomfortable feels fucking fantastic. As a female tube frequenter regularly disturbed by intrusive noise, I’ve imagined this moment dozens of times: the courage to ask for consideration of others. It isn’t always safe to do so, particularly for a woman, but today it was. 

Scribbling away, I reflect on other wins of the week: promising developments towards my next contract; a delicious dinner with a dear friend; positive feedback on a piece of work; sharing a kiss with someone new; and a compliment on my form during my Pilates class. (A double win, as she managed to scare us all initially). 

I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow. Next week, next month and next year all remain unmet. 

But today feels hopeful. 

Choosing to close a romantic chapter is a weighted, usually difficult decision. If deep love was ever shared then a level of pain is inevitable. To quote my beloved ABBA, “breaking up is never easy I know” but it should be compassionate. Communication, clarity and care given generously.  

One of us chose the opposite: a deceptive path of self-preservation. 

Despite the several unpaid sessions I conducted (is it too late to invoice?): I am not a qualified therapist. Nor should I have been playing one, deciphering and understanding why someone’s behaviour towards me had grown cruel. Therefore, I won’t analyse intention but only speak as the impacted party. 

I didn’t know who to believe. The man I thought I knew or the man that was right in front of me. 

Stroking my back in public turned into mocking me behind it at home. The affection given generously was now used to smother my protests after another snide comment. Lies covered with love-bombing; pushing me away then begging me to stay; wearing me down to future-faking.

In the space of a few weeks I became a tennis ball: bouncing between poor treatment and being convinced I was being “silly”. He was only “joking”, after all, I was promised I had nothing to worry about.

After about a month of raising his spirits and relationship check-ins; I admitted to my journal alone that it felt like he was ruining our relationship and trying to hurt me. But in the name of love and his word, I trusted he was a victim of the January blues. 

In one of the happiest periods of all other aspects of my life; I felt strong enough to carry him through his dark period. A few emotional scratches along the way I could handle, if it meant I could help him feel better again.

Offering all channels of guidance, I laboured over how best to communicate my love and support. The broken record played me back the age-old tune; promising me the relationship was always in my hands.

Until one night, for the first and only time, it wasn’t. 

I genuinely thought it was a sick joke. One we actually used to laugh over as it felt so ridiculous it would obviously never happen. 

The poorly rehearsed stock lines came thick and fast and the coward’s flee began. Even the departure felt false and baffling. I was told I’d done nothing wrong, he loved me and thought it was going to be me as his future- yet he’d been having doubts for months? That I’d been told nothing of? 

When I didn’t follow the neat script he tried to shove down my throat: I felt his mask drop. 

It was terrifying. 

In the space of one phone call my whole perception of the person I was with for a year and a half was shattered.

I felt a chill down my spine hearing his annoyance at my emotions: he was angered by my shock and upset. The inhumane expectation that I would politely return thanks for the relationship he blew up within an hour and a half conversation. Knowing he had planned this for months whilst promising a future together days before made me sick to my stomach. 

I was no longer to him, if I ever was, a whole human being with feelings of my own. This cold, manipulative betrayal was the closure I was never granted. 

The thing is, I know what a healthy break-up would have looked like. Last year, I was prepared to initiate one. 

We had a big discussion which revealed opposing ideas about the future. Upset as I was, I told him that I loved him too much to see him give up a dream. I gently asked him to leave if he thought he would be happier that way, as that was the most important thing in my eyes. 

If we’d separated then, I would have been sure I was leaving a good man. Our differences were human and respectful. Whilst it may have been harder in some ways, it would have been infinitely healthier. 

Knowing me, I’d have been kind. Knowing you, you’re incapable. Best to stick to your X-rated images in the future, they can’t talk back.

Accept that you’re still in the middle of it all.

One month is a drop in the ocean of your life. Remember, this is just the first chapter in the process of moving forward.

A few times in the last week, I’ve experienced wonderful days which I’ve wanted to last forever. I was prematurely lured into a false sense of security and feeling “over it”. When the inevitable moments of pain resurfaced, the emotional contrast felt starker.

It’s uncomfortable but necessary to avoid controlling either feeling, as they’re not finished with you yet- especially the amount of joy that’s waiting for you on the other side. The only way out is through, and bottling it all up only shatters you from the inside. 

Rest more than you think you need to. 

Going through the intense emotional cycle of sadness, anger and happiness is taxing on your body and mind. Having several cycles of these feelings each day is particularly draining.

Plan evenings where you commit to nothing but unwinding by yourself. Whatever relaxation looks like to you, prioritise it. Take a nap when you need to or get into bed at 9pm (I personally enjoy this regardless). Sleep is one of the best forms of recovery for both everyday life and this process. 

Notice your progress, however small.

On some days, you may feel as if you’re stuck on day one. The pain button may have been pushed, and the tears won’t stop flowing.

On other days, you may feel that bubble of excitement for life coming back. You feel present and whole whilst spending time with your friends. You feel your self-respect growing by prioritising your needs.

Each day is bringing you closer to where you want to be. The peace and calm that you deserve to feel? You will feel it again- even more deeply. 

Compare your journals. 

If you’ve been journalling (start today if you haven’t yet), a key way of seeing your development is by comparing your journal entries. Even if 90% of the days are filled with painful musings, let the hopeful 10% keep you going. Time and work will redistribute these numbers and tip the balance in your favour. 

For any regular diary users, I encourage you to look back at any lower moments documented within your relationship. This presented me with the reality of how that person’s behaviour was negatively impacting me. Reading my thoughts back helped to remove my fictional fantasy of that person, based on a highlights reel I’d mentally curated. Put simply, they aren’t as interesting as your imagination- or you, for that matter. 

Celebrate what you’ve achieved. 

Making it through the first month of one of life’s hardest transitions is something to be proud of. You’ve picked yourself up, cried it out and put the work in to start the process of moving forward.

Heartbreak is such a physical event that it feels like it impacts so much of your life right now. But it is temporary. Getting to the next level is never easy, but celebrating these first steps is a reminder that you are one step closer to your better days. 

There are certain onscreen characters every viewer recognises as bad news. Take Daniel Cleaver in “Bridget Jones’ Diary”. Unlike most of his earlier roles (“Four Weddings and a Funeral” being my personal favourite); Hugh Grant’s character is the embodiment of sleaze.

Manipulative, misogynistic and Mr Wrong all over. His lack of integrity would make him a completely unreliable narrator: the last person you’d want to walk you through the plot. I’m inclined to believe a retelling from Cleaver’s perspective would quickly turn the film into a Groundhog Day tragedy. 

The audience is gifted the outside clarity that our protagonist Bridget spends the first film clumsily searching for. She amplifies what little good qualities he possesses whilst we watch in pity; begging her to call it quits. 

Real life rarely provides you such insight until after you’ve left a relationship. Most people aren’t as morally corrupt as the fictional villains, especially at the start of your time together. We see each other for the complex, layered beings we are. We ask questions, we stay curious. 

“Would you want to live in the city or the countryside?”

“Are you close with your family?”

“Why, unless held at gunpoint, would you participate in camping?” 

(People giving up a cosy bed to lie outside in the mud scare me). 

Like any half-decent partner, I explored his inner world and held it at the forefront of my mind. It became second nature to think up small ways to brighten his day. Always understanding and supporting even if that included overlooking inconsistencies: because we’re all human, right? But I’d overworked my compassion for someone who was already planning my departure.

Our actions create our habits and as the people in my life know: I love a solid routine. Rewiring my brain’s pattern to no longer consider someone is proving a tough task. I’d be joining him in dishonesty if I said I wasn’t still trying to understand his choices. The thought process behind discussing future marriage then ending it all within the week would baffle anyone. My brain ran wild:

What was he telling the family he said that I was a part of? Were the friends he would lovingly show me off to now receiving information about me I wasn’t privy to? Would he evade, blame or invent lies to evoke their pity and false reassurances that he’d be better off now? 

Is he letting the misogynistic “friend” he never even liked call me a crazy bitch? (Probably). 

I’ll never know and I can’t wait for the day I genuinely don’t care. It’s not my business anymore. The truth is I was prioritising someone that, whoever they were, wasn’t me. 

Fuck that. All things considered, I’m glad both Bridget and I had pretty damning exit lines. 

Whether you consider your ex-partner morally questionable or pretty wonderful: they have left your life. It’s time to turn your empathy inwards and let them leave your precious thoughts. Pour back into your own cup until it overflows and there’s no room for even a drop of their influence. 

Good, bad or somewhere in between: their perspective will always be unreliable because they are not the protagonist of your life. 

Replace routines that involved them.

As some of the dust settles you are faced with new gaps in how you’d spend your unplanned downtime. Not your Thursday drinks with friends or the group 5k on a Sunday morning. The quiet Monday nights, the last hour before bed. Phone calls and nights spent together suddenly shift to silence.

Fill this time. Even better if it can be something that gently elevates you. Where you may have spent a lot of time together doing nothing, spend some of that time prioritising yourself. Read the book you’ve been meaning to start; call the friend you haven’t spoken to recently or even just watch the show you like (without anyone’s criticism). 

Your self-respect will bounce upwards. 

Spend money on yourself

Right, I’m not suggesting attacking your savings with a spontaneous five grand holiday. Unless you genuinely have it to spare then fuck it; go cry in the Maldives. 

Allocate an amount you may have spent on a night together to a solo indulgence. Buy that new book that’s been recommended to you; replace the gifted necklace you threw out or take yourself on a solo date. I’ve done this in and out of relationships and it’s a wonderful way to give that love back to yourself.

You deserve to be treated. 

Journal it out 

Write down everything. You don’t have to explain the ins and outs of what you think happened to a piece of paper if you don’t want to. You don’t have to edit or craft the perfectly diplomatic sentence: release it all. Miss them, pity them, rage at them. The paper doesn’t judge. 

If you’re a newbie to journalling, start when you feel an emotional tug. Putting pen to paper safely starts to detangle the web between your head and your heart. If this isn’t your first rodeo, I’ll challenge you to do little and often every day. One day you’ll feel the shift and thank your past self. 

You’ll find new highs and new lows. Keep crying.

I did say I’d repeat it. Cry it out. As life carries on around you, you will find new moments of joy as well as moments of sadness. 

“How great that I can meet someone who doesn’t drain me.” 

“Oh, that reminds me of us. Fuck.” 

You’re going to miss them, you're a human being. You can see their flaws and the reasons they’re not right for you and you can still miss them. Their absence is particularly highlighted when you stumble across old shared experiences. Breathe through the moment as that’s all it is. It won’t last forever. 

Try something new. 

Maybe even a bit of a risk. This one is also not in a self-destructive way (do think of your future self, please). Allow yourself to switch off from everything for a moment and do something that feels exciting. 

There are many benefits to both single and relationship life: slowly start to embrace the freedom that comes with the former. I enjoyed a little excitement this week more than I thought I would right now, I hope you do too.