Since the start of this year, I’ve written around 20,000 words. Many stories, riddles and rhymes buried across Substack drafts, Google docs, and my notes app. Stories for the most part that I’ve been able to share in snippets. A paragraph or two on an Instagram story or on the odd occasion, consecrated on a grid post. I’ve tried to post snippets of paragraphs all together in one post but I’ve found myself deleting these in a matter of minutes, not being able to stand the loose stitching of my sum of parts.

There’s something about the disassembling of oneself and mechanically sharing it externally that I thoroughly enjoy. It feels like a ritualistic shedding of the skin in preparation for new growth. Perhaps initially as a means of survival that began in my youth, I find it much easier to communicate my experience on this earth through broken chunks, consumed and digested over a period of time and then vomited out to the world when I’m ready.

Up until this point, it has been how I’ve written. I am a slow writer in the sense that I have to wait for the source before I can write. Especially in recent years, writing has often felt like a dissociative state I have fallen into, in desperation to be listened to. It is ironic that it is through my writing which has allowed me to be a voice that people somewhat listen to. My writing was a place I could speak. A place that was seldom afforded to me elsewhere.

Yet, I find myself at a crossroads. Now I’m being listened to, I can’t seem to speak. There is an oppressive force that pushes against my chest every day. I can’t seem to breathe. I’ve been having panic attacks, I tell my friends.

“I’ve been having panic attacks, but I don’t really know why.”

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When I was in school, I can’t remember exactly when (forgive me, my teenage years are a little blurry) in one Religious Studies lesson, we learnt of the term “Occam’s Razor.” In simple terms (no pun intended), Occam’s Razor can be understood as the principle by philosopher William of Ockham (1285–1347/49), that states, when presented with two competing theories to explain the same phenomenon, you should always pick the simplest explanation. It’s a principle that has been a guiding force for me since the day I encountered it. To me, William of Ockham was correct. Why must we overcomplicate things?

In other words, should we be listening to our gut?

In one of my buried essays, I spoke about my belly feeling funky, “there’s something wrong with my gut alright...”

I was speaking in relation to my ability to discern romantic propositions and the dance that I, and many women often do, between the safe and unsafe. Explaining it mechanically like this feels safer than sharing the intimacies of what that has felt like and does feel like for me; processed through my own unique microbiome. It’s much easier to distance myself through a lack of injection of me, than to share myself honestly with people in a way that leaves me vulnerable.

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At the end of last year, I was having a conversation with someone where they asserted that it was “easier” for me, in comparison to others, to be vulnerable. In essence, they were saying that I wasn’t empathetic enough to the fact that “not everyone finds [vulnerability] as easy as you.” In that moment, it stung. I felt like I wasn’t being perceived as empathetic and that perhaps, I had indeed overlooked the fact that my ability to be vulnerable stemmed from a certain supernatural ability that hadn’t been afforded to the common man. But it was mostly, the fact that it was blatantly untrue. I do not find vulnerability easy, nor has it been something I have fashioned due to having inherent mystical capabilities.

At the time, it was the former, not the later, explanation that stuck. Thanks to having a certain sort of brain, these are the explanations of Self I have routinely attached to. It was in a later conversation with a friend where I told her what this person had said that she noted,

“You’re literally a dark skinned black woman, so that literally makes no sense.”

At that moment, I detached myself from such a silly narrative.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how the dispositional lens in which people view Black women is stained by a too common belief that we possess supernatural abilities. The “Strong, independent Black woman” trope is one that I wish never existed. It has caused me to suffer in more ways than good. It has meant that throughout my life (and increasingly so in the current political climate), I have had to unnecessarily fight for my humanity in situations where others seldom have to. My “vulnerability” as it were, doesn’t come from special powers but rather alludes to the legacy of a history in which Black women have been made to unnecessarily fight for their lives.

Instead of my vulnerability to be recognised as a conscious effort in which always requires a level of emotional drain or sacrifice, it’s seen as something to berate me with, something to be used against me. That’s why, on the other side of the “Strong, independent Black woman” trope, there’s a vicious stereotyping of Black women as aggressive, mean or intimidating. Our emotions are not truly ours and if they are, we are simply expressing them, in order to cause harm or further distress to others. It’s an inherent othering which over time, systematically seeks to destroy Black women. Our very essence, our ability to express and be human is governed and policed constantly. And such, we can spend most of our lives having an acute awareness and hyper-vigilance over our thoughts, feelings and actions.

What people seldom remember, or struggle to understand, is that we are human. And therefore, to bear the weight of other people’s expectations of how you should be as a Black woman, how you should or shouldn’t express (and all the conditions this comes with) is fucking exhausting.

There is also an insidious nature to which our pain and trauma is extracted from us. Our energies, intravenously drip fed into the collective psyche without any credit. And then eventually, what this does to our bodies.

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Today, I spent my afternoon sitting in a coffee shop with women three times my age. I am yet to metabolise the extent to which this was such a joyous experience, which I’m sure, will be the catalyst for something greater. In the hot South London sun, off the corner of a busy road, there I was sat in conversation between two women who, by simply looking at them, you could argue were emblems of youth. Surrounded by symbols of African and Caribbean art, ornaments, coffee and the essence of our ancestors, I felt safe to exist. To be truly present amongst women who have seen it all.

When you are greeted with wisdom, you mustn’t run away from it, you must sit down and listen to what it has to say.

And so, I forgave the plans I had for my Wednesday afternoon to sit down and listen to these women talk about their lives, the hardships they’ve faced and how they’ve been able to metabolise them for healing and strength instead of their own destruction. Noticeably, how closely we’ll all inevitably tow the line between these two realities. Between life and death. I listened intently as they spoke greatly about their experiences of marriage, children, putting themselves first and what that has looked like for them throughout their lives. And what I loved the most about our entire conversation was how animated, exuberant and soft they were. Clearly hardened by the realities of life, illness, love and loss and yet they could still sit here on a sunny afternoon and be so full of light. An insurmountable light that compelled me to bin off my afternoon plans.

Whilst the intricacies are for me to digest and sit with, I’m left reminded of the importance of community. How far we’ve strayed from living in a society where women thrice my age can become my mothers for the afternoon. Whether that continues is for time to tell, but this should be how we navigate life on this planet.

We have to allow ourselves to be seen. I’d never been to this coffee shop before and yet, such a small venture, a following of gut and intuition, turned into a beautifully enlightening afternoon.

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I’ve been pondering a lot lately about what our responsibility is to the other humans (and living beings) we inhabit and share the earth with. But more specifically, how we work with other people to bring about the most love, care and nurturing for ourselves and our communities.

What does it take to be a good community member, a good friend, partner, sibling etc etc? What qualities must that person possess?

I haven’t felt like a good community member as of late. Perhaps harshly, I feel that when one becomes too concerned with the self everything around you starts to blur. Making it harder (or near impossible) to discern what belongs to you and what belongs to others. And that can become dangerous if it has nowhere to go or it’s not rooted in anything. The elements begin to swirl in front of you and now you have a tornado of chaos which you’re unsure of where it even transpired from.

That’s why I think that being a good community member comes down to having a profound awareness and assurance of self, a wisdom that is rooted in discernment. And this foresight can only really come from interrogating who, what, why and where our values, morals and behaviours come from. That process of interrogation is nasty and most people, in their descent, turn around very quickly. Inevitably meaning that they return to the same stumbling blocks. As life requires periodic growth, by always having to go further down the ladder. Our refusal to grow, our inability to question ourselves, our lives, the patterns or narratives that continuously show up means that we become stunted, writing the same stories into our lives. And if you tell yourself the same story over and over again, if everything has the same inevitable exposition, waning and ending, then good luck to you. Because it is rare that something new or truly beautiful will grow from this.

It’s like walking around in your toddler clothes, after a while your adult body will start to contort itself to the shape of a child…

In the last few months, I’ve had many an encounter with an older woman. One time in a coffee shop, another at an empty train station at 4:30am, another at the back of a panel talk, and even my own grandmothers and the nurturing time I had with them earlier this year. The thing about the old woman archetype is that it is seldom explored or valued in pop culture. The crone, the old hag, is a woman who society no longer regards as valuable, since her youth and beauty in conventional terms has dissipated, she no longer deserves to take up centre stage. Alas, she must have somewhere to inhabit so a space is reserved for her only in the corner of a room, in a rocking chair, chatting away to herself, perhaps. But she makes her observations, teachings and lessons known. Maybe it is dispersed through her comedic ramblings, that every so often you think “Huh…that was actually a good bit of advice.” Or maybe you learn it through the way she carries herself, the way she speaks to people, her sense of grounded-ness or no fucks attitude. Many women acknowledge or hope that with age, they will care less and less. What about? A host of different things, perhaps too many to list here. But the most important, is that this “carelessness” is rooted in a solid sense of self, one that can only be acquired through battle-scars and age. And that’s why ultimately, despite the small space society reserves for them, their voices and insights are essential to its functioning. We are taught to respect our elders, not for cultural fluffery but out of necessity, in order to carry the stories which have survived since the start of time. If we continue to stop listening to older women, our sense of grounded-ness, our ability to grasp where we sit in our personal and collective histories will continue to diminish into a nothingness.

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A special treat for you! - Below is an extra little subsidiary essay that came to mind one cloudy afternoon. I think it nicely compliments what you’ve just read. Enjoy!

The Politics of the Influencer

Recently, I went on a date with a man whose vocal tic for the duration of the evening consisted of periodically calling me an “influencer.” Before I continue, I’d like to say yes, I too will jump at any opportunity to Carrie Bradshaw-ify my life. It’s a rite of passage that I believe every young writer should embrace. So yes, on this occasion, this is where our story begins: on a date.

Whilst I found it equal parts humorous, annoying, and ultimately, ever so endearing (I am socialised as a woman after all, so I do find a man taking the piss out of me, ever so romantic), it did strike a nerve. If you know me well, you’ll know I have certain sensitivities about being referred to as an influencer. The chord in which it struck, played a tune so deep and familiar that admittedly, it did make me spiral. It was just the plucking I needed which prompted me to begin the unravelling of the immense feelings I have towards the subject.

In January, when illness was keeping me captive in my childhood home, I started making collages out of a desperate need to express myself and make art. One of the zines that I ended up making, explored the idea of the digital Self. As I was now sofa-bound for the foreseeable, I could no longer show up online in the same way I’d done previously. Initially, my main concern was the flow of income which I knew would inevitably stop due to my now lack of visibility. However, what was revealed to me during this 6-week period and has subsequently shifted much of my life since then, was how much of my life, my rituals and routines, had become intertwined with the projection of my digital Self. In essence, I couldn’t adequately distinguish which of my traits and behaviours belonged to me and which belonged to my digital avatar.

Yesterday, I sat on the phone with my little sister and explained my recent conundrum. I told her how I couldn’t believe that on this rare occasion, it was someone else’s autism which was making me spiral. And because my sister is the wisest 17-year old on the planet, she said:

“You’ve been saying this for the last few years now… How you hate being called an influencer and how you don’t like other people seeing you in that way. You should sit with that for a moment.”

And so, instead of sitting with it, I immediately asked why she thought it’d be something I reflect on.

“Well, it sounds like you care more about what others think of your job and the lack of respect people have towards influencers.”

One of the spreads of the aforementioned zine, explored the definitions of “The Influencer” versus “The Content Creator.” In short, I argued that the origins of the Influencer, a career / social position predominantly held by women, originated from a woman’s desire to create a vehicle towards an autonomous self that seldom existed elsewhere in society. The Content Creator is subsequently a capitalist bastardisation of this idea. Whilst I am not arguing that the original Influencer was never motivated by capital gain, at the heart of influencing is a desire to create a network of women (and gender expansive people) who share and communicate stories and recipes of the world. Perhaps this is why on a parasocial level, many people can often feel like influencers are or could be their friend.

Most pertinently, I was arguing that this disdain towards influencers was rooted in misogyny, which is paralleled elsewhere in society. Women artists, women writers, women thinkers have historically been, in one form or another, cast as too self-absorbed, too self-pitying, too desperate and too wanting. Thus, the projected Self in her work merely alludes to fragmentations which, put together, would colour this person as enormously narcissistic, as she is, pathetic.

And so, standing in the light of a somewhat beautiful man who was finding it particularly amusing referring to me as such, something within me felt deeply insecure that it was this pathetic image I was projecting.

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Charlotte Rampling has one of those faces where you’re never really sure what she could be thinking at any given moment, something is always being concealed. Whilst watching the film, I felt that her character (Kate Mercer) could burst or collapse at any moment but simultaneously, I felt never would because she understands her place as a woman in the world. I think it’s such a gift to have stories that centre older women because the plethora and depth of their experience is written on their faces and held in the way they move their bodies. I love Andrew Haigh’s films, I think he depicts a delicacy within people and in the human condition which allows for his actors to be fully immersed into the emotional landscapes of their characters. In terms of the cinematography, I find Haigh’s work to feel quite naturalistic and understated, more focused on the how the character’s tie the frame together, rather than a fixation of the frame itself. That being said, there are a few key moments in the film which are beautifully lit and framed and help move the narrative forwards. The part where Kate first enters the attic and is flicking through the projector is a masterclass in showing not telling.

Swimming Pool (2003) dir. Francois Ozon

I came across this film on the BFI player through a video on the setting of swimming pools in films. It also happens to be another Charlotte Rampling film. This film was definitely entertaining and I was invested throughout. Although…it must be said… the final 20 minutes and the ending… I was thoroughly unimpressed.

Hunger (2008) dir. Steve McQueen

There’s been a lot of conversations online recently about the intersection of art and politics, where film sits within this discussion and it’s moral and ethical responsibility. Steve McQueen’s Hunger is definitely an important modern pillar of the genre of political film. In McQueen’s own words: “Film can actually be important. What you do can have some kind of…impact.” In England, we are taught very little (if anything) about Irish history, so whilst I knew of Bobby Sands’ importance as a political prisoner and activist, seeing a reimagining of his hunger strike, actually prompted me to go and read and have a better understanding of the history either side of these strikes. After watching the film, I read somewhere that the film can be viewed as three short films stuck together. The middle section from this film, is from the still that I have chosen above. What I love about the way that this scene is shot and written is in it’s fluency and refusal to cut away to alleviate the tension between Bobby Sands (played by Michael Fassbender) and the priest, Father Dominic Moran (Liam Cunningham). Considering this was McQueen’s directorial debut (mental), it’s really refreshing to see that the film’s political essence doesn’t just start and stop at it’s content. The way that the story is conveyed through the layers of filmmaking and how us as the audience must also be fully committed participants in the grotesque and violent and painful conversations at hand is wonderfully courageous and inspiring.

Dreamers (2025) dir. Joy Gharoro-Akpojotor

I was initially hesitant to watch this film as I tend to steer away from anything that feels like it’s going to be some form of horrific Black trauma, but Dreamers is actually a beautiful sapphic film about love, hope and longing which happens to be set in a British immigration detention centre. Whilst the film doesn’t shy away from the monstrous reality of such an environment, it’s focus is on the relationships between women; the friendships and romances that inevitably form whenever women are in community with one another. I really liked the lighting choices and the use of colour in this film, as it adds to the overall narrative of the detention centre acting as a place of limerence between the past and the unknown future alongside the fantasies, hope and avoidance of truth that we can’t help but always indulge in.

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The Voice of Hind Rajab (2025) dir. Kaouther Ben Hania

This film completely broke me. Within the first five minutes I was sobbing and didn’t stop crying, even when it had ended. I think the most devastating aspect of this film is watching it already knowing the story of Hind Rajab. The use of the real phone audio was something I don’t think you can mentally prepare for. The emotional weight of this film is immense and I can only imagine how difficult it was to make it. However, it is a piece of art and historical (and present) story that should be screened and watched everywhere. Hind Rajab is one child, one girl, one life out of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians who have been needlessly slaughtered by the IDF. I think the thing that this film does really well, is that it visually sets up the impossible ethical paradigm that Palestinians continuously find themselves under. I think this is well aided by the choice and use of close ups. The reality is that even when Palestinians “play” by Israeli rules and follow strict orders, they are punished and killed for simply being Palestinian. Palestinians, in the West Bank and across the world are up close and face to face with these atrocities in an claustrophobic and inescapable way.

Another important feature of this film is the depiction of the call centre, operating at all times, which the sound design captures incredibly well. As the film goes on, as an audience member you can find yourself tuning these sounds out, in attempt to focus on the central story. I certainly found myself doing that. But again, the reality is, Hind’s voice, and her life, is one against / amongst thousands. Free Palestine forever and always and shame on us for continually failing Palestinians all across the globe.

No Other Choice (2025) dir. Park Chan-wook

I’ve seen some people say that they feel this film was snubbed across this awards season but I don’t know if I necessarily feel that way. I think the production design is incredibly impressive and very particular in how it helps contextualise the characters and new found enemies of the bloody-hungry protagonist, Yoo min-soo (Lee Byung-hun). Each character’s home seems to be a subtle reflection of their inner state and so the attention to detail here makes the storytelling and film much more engaging. If I’m honest, I am a bit bored of the poor-person-out-to-seek-revenge narrative that has been a through-line in his films. But who am I to tell a man to stop showcasing a story he clearly wants to keep on telling? And in all fairness, is finding new and adaptive ways to do so.

Sentimental Value (2025) dir. Joachim Trier

Joachim Trier is one of my favourite filmmakers. I love the way he writes and have often remarked his films reflect how I tend to tell stories: they sometimes go on mini tangents and give extra (some might say unnecessary) information to help set the scene. The house acting as a character, a vessel and metaphor for generational trauma, I found really clever. Trier is also a master in blocking, and this aspect of his work in particular does resemble Ingmar Bergman to me (perhaps why I love his work so much). Renate Reinsve (Nora Borg) is soooooo talented and just thinking about her performance in that opening sequence is enough for me to rewatch it again ASAP. I’m writing and rewriting this sentence because I want to say that my standout perfomances are from Stellan Skarsgård (Gustav Borg) and Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas (Agnes Borg), but upon reflection Elle Fanning (Rachel Kemp) does an incredible job of acting as the important emotional thread that pushes the Borg family together. This awards season is so stacked but I do believe that every performance in this film is worthy of the praise it is receiving.

Marty Supreme (2025) dir. Josh Safdie

I watched this like 800 weeks after everybody else and, for the most part, successfully avoided any major spoilers. That being said, my favourite part of this film was the cinematography (I watched it in 70mm) and the costume design by Miyako Bellizzi, was exquisite. I was personally not moved by the story itself because I think it’s a tale as old as time that men seek power and pain due to their intrinsic lack of and consequently burn, consume and eat everybody else’s essence in order to thrive. I came away from the cinema thinking that it was a vampire film more than anything else (I’m assuming this was intentional by nature of the amount of bloodshed), so I felt a bit jarred by the titular “dream big” messaging we’d been seeing everywhere for the last few months. All of this being said, I’m glad people went to the cinema to watch it and it had its moment.

Romeo + Juliet (1996) dir. Baz Luhrmann

The last time I watched this film was when I was in school so I think over 10 years ago. It is the campiest film and for that reason alone it does deserve a ceremonial watch every now and again.

The Chronology of Water (2025) dir. Kristen Stewart

I was so taken and blown away by this film. Initially, as I sat in the cinema, I thought “ugh, this is going to feel like the longest film ever” but in actuality, it didn’t feel this way at all. It just took me 15 minutes or so to adjust to the nature of the storytelling. The editing of this film is crucial in it’s pacing and I never once felt that I was being overly-explained to in regards to how and when Lydia (Imogen Poots) experiences her trauma. Traditionally, memory in film is captured with fading, but in this film, whilst the traditional use of flashbacks and flash-forwards help the audience understand where Lydia is in her body at any given moment, the manipulation of the film itself, making it bleached and blotchy (I don’t know what the specific name of this technique is called, forgive me) adds an extra layer and perhaps a more accurate depiction of how we remember. I want to watch this film again and again and most importantly, study it.

My Father’s Shadow (2025) dir. Akinola Davies Jr.

One of my friends loves to use the word “tender” and this is how I would describe this film. It’s evident that it was made with such care and love and the story itself is incredibly tender and almost raw. The intimacy between the two brothers, Remi (Chibuike Marvellous) and Akin (Godwin Egbo), who also actually happen to be brothers IRL, is evident from the establishing opening scene. I thought the cinematography and the grade in this film was incredibly beautiful but importantly textural, both in capturing the actors’ skin and the landscape of Nigeria (from village to city). At times I found the pacing to be a little slow, however, the film is told through the childlike perspective of the brothers and so perhaps the elongation of time, the intrigue in otherwise “minor” details, the savouring of a particular day and the inevitable grief that comes with holding onto a memory, all aids the film’s core essence.

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I wasn’t going to end it for her and there was something in the way that she handed it to me like I had an option that made me resent her. It meant that she was in total c…

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At some point earlier this year, I lost my ability to be truly vulnerable. As my career in front of the camera progresses and I am expected to be somewhat of a blank reflection for my interviewees, I feel myself both fading and somehow growing into myself simultaneously. An admission I will make, only because I can hide it in a dark crevice within this paragraph, is that when I am working, especially and mostly, when I’m presenting, I force myself into a state of dissociation. I got my first presenting job in March, and now in October, I can call myself and am marketed as “an intellectual presenter who makes people comfortable”. People like me, or actually, people hire me because I’m not trying to get “the bit”. I’m not saying something controversial to embarrass the VIPs. And it’s working. I’ve managed to make just enough money that I graduated and moved to London. Despite the fact that I am living pay cheque to pay cheque (and have done my fair share of sofa-surfing), i’ve managed to dissociate my way to safety. The loss of myself is a price I’m willing to pay. I have bills and rent to pay now and if I don’t act accordingly, there isn’t a home or place of safety I can go back to.

But what happens when that loss of self is an attempt to rid the ugliness that has been, and is, an integral part of who I am?

I often feel there is nothing to say when I appear polished and glamorous. It’s not necessarily because I’m not thinking about anything (I’m always thinking) but because rather, I haven’t yet learnt how to hold the two realities of my life in both hands at the same time. I feel as though there’s nothing valuable to say when you are neck deep in the world of faux opulence. I have gotten to where I am because of a certain grit and ugliness that has accompanied me my whole life. Yet, I work in an industry that rewards polished faces and bright white eyes and smiles with nothing behind them. I am of the belief that there is a specific type of ugliness that each person that pursues anything public facing possesses, but that doesn’t mean that this ugliness is necessarily bad.

People equate ugliness with evil. We see this in the way that people who are deemed unattractive by society are treated. We are taught to see ugliness and ugly people as a threat, something we should fear. In recent times, i’ve noticed the way that when people act in abhorrent and evil ways, ugliness is something that is immediately considered an inherent facet of their actions or themselves. We avert our gaze in the street when we see someone or something that is “abnormal” and we are told that this is the proper thing to do. When we are met with the ugliness that occurs within nature, whether that be certain animals like rats or pigeons or when we witness natural processes like decay and mould, we are told to pretend like these things don’t exist. And if we are to address them, they are merely temporary.

We are taught that ugliness is something that exists outside of ourselves, so much so that when we are confronted with our own ugliness, we are encouraged on a physical level to fix it and on an internal level to self-soothe by repeating ritualistically “I am beautiful” “I am worthy” “I am kind” etc etc. We stab our insides with imaginary crucifixes in order to pray the ugly away.

In doing so, we overlook the very nature of life and the world around us. Art and film in particular has become oversaturated with beautiful faces. Art is no longer about the story of the subject or object but rather how beautiful and charming the vehicle it came from is. People have pointed out that nowadays it’s rare to see a lead who has a natural set of pearly whites, ones that are perhaps a soft shade of yellow. Nothing is out of place. Eyebrows are meticulously plucked even when it doesn’t fit the character the actor is playing. Faces are lifted and pulled back. Filler plumps cheeks and outlines the lips of faces that we’re looking to for storytelling and fantasy but also representation. Everything is always about maintaining personal image, ensuring that the star’s branding stays on top. It’s rare to find an actor or actress who is willing to fade into the story. One that is willing to let go of personal branding and stop listening to the noise of their agents and managers who ultimately are motivated by money. Instead of harnessing ugliness to make authentically beautiful art and connect intimately to other humans, in order to relate to the masses, we’re told to conceal it as much as possible.

I am of the belief that to make art is to lose yourself to a higher power. Within that loss of self is to truly let go of how you think or feel you should be perceived. To me, that is where ugliness is found and that is where the most freedom is found. Freedom because you allow yourself to be fully human. In a world that constantly asks us to be as non-human as possible (this will only progress more intensely as we move forward into the future), we’re at a critical point where we must ensure that we push ourselves to be free. Vulnerability for me is found in accepting my ugliness. Of course, I am not at a stage where this acceptance is all encompassing. It is yet to take charge. But at the very least, I must ask myself if I am willing to be perceived as peculiar or ugly in order for my art to be art. How can I tell the best stories if I am not willing for my ugliness to be woven into the very fabric of what I am creating? How can I expect my stories to be real and true if it’s stitched together with artificial rubbish? Ugliness for me is holding up a mirror to the self. I might not like what I see but it is an integral part of who I am and how I connect with my own experiences and how I can translate them to others.

Ugliness is a language that mustn’t be disregarded or forgotten. It mustn’t be something that we regard with shame. If I am consumed with shame and self-hatred, I will never create.

What I failed to realise at 15 and at 17 and at 19, was that no matter how hard you try, you cannot wish away your mental illness. Some people exist in this world with an unshakeable darkness that circles them and will forever be their lifelong dance partner.

When I was 5 years old, I struggled to get to sleep. Laying in my grey sports-car shaped single bed, I was grappling with the concept of death. It fascinated me the same as it repulsed me. There was something beautiful about mortality, that I couldn’t yet articulate at a small and tender age. There’s a memory I have, where I’m looking out the window and up towards a moonlit navy-blue sky. Trying to catch a glimpse through the white sheer and lace voile which draped down and across the white wooden rail, I looked to the sky with deep angst. I couldn’t shake the fact that one day, I too would become the sky.

When I was 5 years old, I had a big fear of the giants in the English fairytale, Jack and the Beanstalk. At night, I would look out the window, through the white sheer and lace voile, and calculate what I would do if suddenly, the unfriendly giants fell down from the sky and started heading towards me. I knew wasn’t ready to die, I remember thinking that, but 16 years later I cannot recall the escape plan if such an incident were to occur. All I can remember and all I know, is the feeling of wanting to stay in bed. In that exact same position, sat upright, looking out of the window towards a navy-blue sky, watching the unfriendly giants coming towards me and simply accepting my fate. I knew, that at the very least, all I could do was to accept my mortality. All I could do was to look my fate in the eye. Even if it didn’t see me, I saw it coming.

Around the age of 7 or 8, I got a bunkbed. Although I would miss my beautiful, slick and grey companion, I knew that the top bunk would get me a better view of the night sky. Throughout my life, I’ve struggled to get to bed at a reasonable time. At night, the thoughts of mortality, and unfortunately for many years, my ‘suicidality’ have lovingly danced with me, each carefully wrapping me in their putrid scent. At 8, I had a fear of dying in my sleep, so I simply refused to sleep. If I could stay up, I could beat death.

And then, at 9 and 10 years old, although it had been lingering in my subconscious for a few years, it suddenly occurred to me, and I became consciously aware, that it was not only my mortality I should be concerned about, but everyone else’s around me. At night, laying there in the dark, I would convince myself that if I fell asleep, I would be giving death the red signal, to knock on my mother’s bedroom door and take her in the night. So I stayed awake, attempting to catch death before it caught me.

Periodically, each night, I would clamber down the stairs of my white and metal bunkbed, wave my hands in front of me to act as my guiding light, until my hand would hit the door handle. I would push down the handle, open my door and waltz across the landing to my parents room. Knock knock knock. After a second, the bed would creak, and I’d hear the faint breath of their sighs. Sometimes, they would whisper between them on who would open the door. Then their mattress would creak and depending on how loud or quiet the sound was, I could figure out who was coming. As they stepped down from the bed, the creaks of the floorboards followed. I would hear the sound of feet shuffling against the carpet and someone approaching the door. “Great! She’s alive,” I thought, screaming internally with glee.

Of course, I could never let my parents know the real reason why I was knocking on their door. I couldn’t say “Mummy, Daddy, I’m trying to catch death before it catches you.” So instead, when they would open the doors to the bright beaming light in the landing, I would say, “I can’t sleep. I’m thirsty. Can I have some water?”

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part one. - she couldn’t catch death even though she tried.

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Published in 1982, the book tells a tale of a young woman drifting across Europe in the late 60s and 70s, and is told through a series of one night stands, each story dedicated to one city or lover. The title was enough to convince me to purchase.

“Weird fucks? I’ve had a few of those.”

It also doubled as an act of manifestation. Upon first glance, the thought of travelling across Europe, exploring myself through encountering different men, felt like an expedition towards self-discovery I wanted to embark on. I had romanticised the idea of noncommittal desire, one which I had the power to switch on and off at my own accord. And one that I believed was available to me at all times. In my romanticisation, I forgot that the privileges that other women had, the apparent ability to pick and choose who, what, when, where and how they were desired, were not afforded to me as easily.

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Sometimes I am so adamant that I want to be in love because I want to experience the things others around me seem to have so easily, but not having romantic love in my life is a blessing in disguise. At least, for right this very second. When you don’t have anyone, you’re forced to accept that you can go forth into the world without holding someone else’s hand. You’ve got your own two hands. Two palms, which you can open up towards the world to receive blessings and to carve out the path you want for yourself. Sometimes, when your hand is wrongfully clasped with another’s, you fail to realise the power you have on your own. If your hand is wrongfully clasped, all sweaty, grimy and slippery, when you turn your palms out towards the universe, you hold the hopes and expectations of the other person’s; what they think you can or can’t achieve, how you deserved to be loved, and how you should be seen — none of which come from you. They can cloud your view of yourself. - journal entry 17/07/24

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“I wish you could see yourself how others see you.”

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There were two nights last week where I got back home from going out and cried. I had felt invisible and ugly, and felt bored and tired of the way that men scan past my face and my body. It’s hard to explain “the look” or “the feeling” to people who have never seen or felt it. To have lighter skin in a world that pedestals whiteness means that many are fortunate enough to not know that reality. Ironically, you become a shadow, and there have been many a time where I have watched myself from across the room become more and more introverted. “I’m too dark to be here.”

It’s not that people treat you badly, it’s just that you don’t exist. You don’t register as an individual worth talking to, or taking interest in. I’m not the first woman to explain that men are socialised to treat a woman with more or less respect on the basis of how attractive they perceive her. But few times is colourism brought into the conversation. Dark skinned women are expected to just deal with it. “Men treat everyone like this…we’re all in the same boat.” We’re not, and I’d like to acknowledge that.

Firstly, there’s a difference between not being someone’s type and not being registered as a person because of your skin tone. You’re not considered an option because you’re not considered a person. Sometimes, when I say this out loud it sounds extreme, but the best example I can give is through the “blonde/brunette” dichotomy. If someone’s type is blonde, and you are a brunette, the individual still acknowledges and recognises your being. Of course, this example typically pertains to white women. But even in more diverse examples where a woman’s features are broken down and assessed to conclude her attractiveness, there is a base understanding that certain bodies possess such features, whilst others don’t. When you are dark skinned, you are often reminded that because of your body, a different, separate metric applies.

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I know I’m funny. I also know that genuinely funny people do not call themselves funny. But I am, because I have to be.

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I can tell the sun is rising because the sky is now a softer blue. It must be around 4:30am, or perhaps slightly earlier because the darkness of the previous night hasn’t yet faded. The streets of Berlin are still alive. However, its usual crowd aren’t anywhere to be seen. Instead, burly white men adorning various white, red and blue shirts litter the streets. Some are in lilac and gold, sporting a new England kit, specifically for this tournament.

The street lights tinge a warm orange and right now I feel safe. The pang of anxiety and the constant existential reminder of my dark skin is no longer at the forefront of my mind. Instead, it is the lingering aftertaste of two tequila shots, two slices of lemon and the gravel-like table salt, which as I licked, gritted against the end of my tongue. Lemon instead of lime is objectively wrong and disappointing, but at least my attention has shifted to what I am consuming, rather than the way that others consume me.

Let me take you back a few hours. The chequered brown and beige carpet of our hotel room floor suddenly felt nauseating. Walking back and forth from my makeup bag, which lay at the end of our bed, to the bathroom mirror, felt like a battlefield; one riddled with hopelessness.

“I give up,” I thought. “What’s the point?”

Every time I lifted my head towards the mirror, the feeling of dread in my stomach grew. Red blush, tap tap tap, blend blend blend. Pink blush, tap tap, blend blend. Eyeliner, swipe. I stopped. My eyes were watering. Not because I had poked myself in the eye, but rather, my reflection staring back at me was causing me distress. It had suddenly dawned on me that nothing I do, no matter how well I do my makeup or my hair, will change the fact that to some people I will simply never be attractive.

My journey across the hotel room had made me exasperated. In my huffing and puffing, my friend turned to me and asked me what was wrong. “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered.

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The nine of us, awkwardly and tightly squeezed on a table, are situated on a busy pavement outside of a small bar. A dark oak-brown table, and two-and-a-half makeshift benches, have become a momentary place of rest. We’re laughing, and the mixture of different accents, languages, and voices, come together like an off-tune choir. I accidentally shouted at one of the guys, thinking that he had a problem with me. He didn’t. Now I feel bad. How do I explain to him that I’ve actually been on high alert for the last 5 hours, and my body was preparing for an oncoming threat?

Earlier, in the bathroom mirror, I had seen the reflection of someone who was preparing to spend the night invisible. I saw myself slowly retreating into my shell, even before we had gone down the lifts, walked through the lobby, and stepped out the front door of the hotel. I didn’t feel angry or frustrated, but exhausted. My skin tone, especially for men, is a barrier for them to see me. Yet at the same time, who I am is equally defined by the shade of my skin.

Now, sat outside on the pavement, I had become an object of desire. Perhaps, not sexual, but at least I wasn’t invisible.

At the same time, it constantly feels as though my personality is doing the heavy lifting. How do I explain to other women that all I want in life is to be desired on the basis of my physicality and not my personality? I know I have a good personality. To a large extent, it is all I have. How do I explain to other women that whilst the male gaze and patriarchal standards of beauty are destructive, being alien, or existing outside of the “set standards” is not quite as freeing as they dream of it to be.

How can I be free, when I’ve been told, like every other young girl, that I will only truly be beautiful once it is affirmed to me that I am an object of desire? How do I explain to people that when they call me beautiful it makes me feel like an alien, because many men (and women) will never consider me that way. What is objective beauty when you objectively exist outside of the beauty standard?

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I am yet to experience my summer of love. On Thursday evening, I ordered myself a pizza and sat in my room and cried. I felt incredibly lonely. I am the perpetually single friend. I leaned out my window to have cigarette and in my doing so, the faces of all the horrid men I’ve interacted with in the last year came rushing back to me.

“Why am I here?”

With my gut filled with pizza, a new sense of clarity appeared. I remembered what I had written in my journal the other day. At least for right this very second, it’s a blessing; my life isn’t determined by a singular man. However, this doesn’t change how I feel, and it certainly doesn’t change the actuality and pervasiveness of Western (and non-Western) beauty standards. I don’t want my invisibility to be met with more invisibility. I don’t want people to tell me that it doesn’t matter - it does. It may just not matter to you.

To live in a world where your skin tone and body is constantly dehumanised, means that every day is an uphill battle towards self-acceptance. I can tell myself that I am beautiful, but that doesn’t change the lack of options or barriers that I have in front of me.

I am yet to experience my summer of love, so until then…

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I seem to be going in circles with my people. The pit of dread in my stomach isn’t going away, the tightness of my chest hasn’t subsided, and I can taste a bit of sick in the back of my mouth.

I’ve never really been in touch with my b…

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I watched Earth Mama after a month of not watching any films, and I’m so glad I broke my film-fast with this wonderful debut. The film follows Gia (Tia Nomore), a pregnant single mother with two children already in foster care. Gia is a fierce woman who’s determined to get her children back, but she’s also incredibly …

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i feel like i have the same habit of telling you the same thing over and over again. sometimes i cry at night thinking that i will run out of things to say, or rather, that i will never feel inspired again. it’s hard to tell a new story when everything internally feels the same. so much has changed externally since i was a little girl, yet inside i feel exactly like her.

my body changes every so often. i’ve recently become even more attached to the idea that my body is exactly representative of who i am. our bodies signal so much. they are the first thing that the other sees before we open our mouths, and before they can enter our minds. as women, we are often reminded that we are not our bodies. this message is plastered on billboards that feature emaciated models, posing in underwear that fails to serve a functional purpose. we too, if we buy this product, will be part of a collective of other women who are more than just their bodies. there is almost always a contradiction between the image and the supposed messaging.

i enjoy packaged feminism. i think we all do. it’s a way that we can convince ourselves that our weird eating habits are part of a greater purpose. that we are all starving ourselves and watching our weight in order to join the collective. i must correct myself: “watching what we put into our bodies, because our bodies are temples.” our bodies are temples, none of that processed crap.

of course, this doesn’t apply to me.

we live our lives in hypotheticals, never truly being honest about what it is we’re experiencing or the common stories between us.

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i spend my life on trains. sometimes i eagerly observe others, pondering about their lives. often i use the time to self reflect. being on a train means i have an opportunity to be in my head. i wonder where everyone is going. sometimes, i just sleep. train journeys are me time.

when we go past the stations with names like “market harborough”, i am reminded how vast our little island is. all these big and little towns, all bursting with life, all with hundreds of stories to tell. yet, unless i visit them, will remain contained within my imagination.

as we passed market harborough, virginie despentes told me, whilst speaking from the realms of the ugly, that “motherhood has become the most venerated aspect of the female condition. in the west, it is also the sphere in which a woman’s power has increased.”1 about a month ago, my body dripping wet, about to step out of the bath, i stopped myself. maybe i do want children? huh? this thought wasn’t something i had considered. i’ve been known to vehemently dismiss any notion of motherhood. “it’s just not for me.” when i think of myself as a mother, fulfilment is the last word that comes to mind. motherhood seems to exist outside of me, in every aspect of my life. but now, i was suddenly confronted with the possibility of wanting to be a mother.

although alone, i felt incredibly exposed. not because i was naked, but rather because perhaps i had admitted something that i was hiding from myself. unfortunately, dearest reader, a month has passed and i still lean towards being childless. it’s nice to know that despite my stubbornness, i remain open minded.

you’re right, i told virginie, although she can’t hear me. in the modern sense, motherhood is seen as the only avenue which western women can gain respect from the traditional man. this year, i live with housemates who are adamant in reminding me that as a woman, it is my duty to be a mother. to them, their message is more than just a religious or philosophical doctrine, but a biological truth. “men are meant to work and women are meant to be at home.” they fear the direction the world is going in. “men and women’s roles are getting all mixed up.” “the modern woman is too concerned with working which won’t fulfil her.” “men are depressed because they aren’t allowed to be men.” “women were much happier in the past than they are now.”

oh really? did she tell you that?

it’s not only men who think this. online, tradwives have taken over, telling women how joyful their lives are since they stopped working, had children, and committed themselves to their husbands and the home. they tell us in detail how excited they are to name the child they’re expecting, “honey-bunny-rumpelstiltskin-sugar-plum-smith” and all the comments are filled with women proclaiming how they would “kill to live her life!” of course, hidden within these videos are various religious texts which are neatly showcased next to a colourful-looking journal or diary planner, situated centimetres away from a fruit bowl, or perhaps a bouquet of flowers. on display, yet unassuming, is the variety of treasures which they “recently bought at the farmer’s market.” in other videos they’ll cut up their farmer’s market apples, sprinkle them with cinnamon, and proclaim what a sweet life they have.

in many ways, they represent the perfect woman. young, beautiful, slim, softly-spoken, dedicated, and most importantly, a mother. they effortlessly balance motherhood and their relationships to their husbands, showing how their unwavering servitude has freed them from the chains of the depressing life of the modern, western woman.

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i closed the book and stopped listening to virginie. as the train rattled along, i thought about how many times in the last month i had listened to friends speak in earnest about wanting nothing more from their lives than being a housewife. they express their disappointment with capitalism, living from pay check to pay check, feeling unfulfilled, and stressed because of it. online, there’s a growing sentiment that previous waves of feminism didn’t acknowledge a woman’s choice to be subservient, and now, more modern types of feminism are giving women back their power to make their own choice.

i’m unsure where i stand. on the one hand, i want myself and my friends to be happy. i want people to wake up every day and not feel as though the weight of the world is on their shoulders. i want to visit people in the countryside. i want to frolic in fields and bask in the sun, and eat meals made out of food that i grew myself or bought at the farmer’s market.

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this section of the essay mentions rape.

i was sat in a pub, opposite a guy who i hadn’t seen in over two years. it was nice to catch up with an old friend. we spoke about what we had done since the last time we saw each other. his stories were riveting and i was hooked. at one point i interrupted to tell him that everything he was telling me, and this very interaction, i could see as a film. life imitates art: My Dinner with Andre (1981).

during our conversation we spoke about growing up. one day you’re seventeen and on the cusp of adulthood and the next you’re twenty-one, wondering when the fuck you stopped being a teenager. i told him that in hindsight, up until last july, i had been going through life with the mentality of a child. i told him that i was raped. i gave him the whole story, jokes, suspense, drama, and all. by this point, i had told this story a few times. i even wrote about it and shared it on this very platform the same day it happened. the essay takes the form of a sweet treat.

during our conversation, he affirmed me. we googled the guy, and my old friend assured me that i had nothing to worry about. “he doesn’t look like he’s doing that well for himself,” i was reassured. i sometimes look like i’m doing well, when i’m not. i gulped down my cider to wash away the thought.

although i spoke confidently about my rape, existential dread had taken over me by the time i had gotten home. sitting outside in the garden on our freezing cold, hard, wooden bench, i smoked a cigarette. not only was i significantly more drunk than i thought i was, i was also more devastated at the event that had now made me more/less woman2. It angered me that i even had to talk about rape. most of all, i felt shame. though i spoke confidently, i was raped. no amount of confidence will get me past this matter of fact.

a week later, sitting on a train to london, embarrassment engulfed me. what’s worse than being raped? perhaps it is telling and admitting to another man that it happened.

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after i left the pub that night, i crossed the busy street, passed all the students who were in various stages of their own ‘nights out’, and ran all the way home. the street lights became less bright and more distant as i ran towards the little close where i reside. i texted a friend to tell her i felt sad. once again, i had drank too much and eaten too little. my sadness felt profound.

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for me, one of the most horrible feelings in life is when i feel i’ve let other women down. if i speak honestly about my critique of tradwife culture, i am told that i am simply jealous and that my frustration is misdirected. if i suggest perhaps the reason why more women believe being a housewife and having children is the most viable path to a fruitful life, is because we are in the abyss of late-stage capitalism, so we benefit, and are rewarded (both societally and financially) by subscribing to it, i am simply branded a cynic. on top of this, i am single. the second worst crime a woman can commit (the first is childlessness). to speak critically, to speak against patriarchy and it’s subtleties in culture, especially as a single woman, is to be reminded that i “simply don’t get it.” an unloved hag speaking from the sour depths of bitterness.

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i keep falling asleep on trains. luckily, the last stop is my stop so i never have to worry about missing it. i’m never fully asleep anyway. for the last two years i have used the sound of white noise to help me fall asleep. at first, it was because the window of my first year flat faced the entrance gate to my accommodation. almost every night, in intervals starting from as early as 7pm to as late as 6am, there would be students screaming, shouting, talking loudly, in varying states of inebriation. i discovered very quickly that the only way for me to get a good night’s sleep was to completely block out the noise. if only we could block out the noise of everything. i have often found myself trying to do this.

when i wake up again, i am usually greeted by my reflection in the window adjacent to my seat. i stretch awkwardly, scramble to collect my bags and the unnecessary luggage i always carry with me (no one wants to be the last off the train), and head out the carriage. maybe in my head i will write an essay in the time it takes me to leave the station and get back home.

~ this essay is very personal to me, a little entry into the current state of my mind. if this resonated, share with a friend. i write to feel less alone, and i hope reading my words makes you feel less lonely too. subscribe to get my next essay or post straight into your inbox.

Films (2023 releases)

I don’t think i’ve really spoken about films and my love of film publicly, even though it’s a huge part of my life. I think it’s because it’s v…

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Where do you go?

This week, a therapist asked me where I go when I disassociate.

“Where do you go?” she asks almost instantaneously. I had never been asked that before, and so, I didn’t have an answer, or rather, I didn’t have one prepared. “I don’t know… I’ve never been asked that before.” After some thought, I replied, “I guess sometimes when I’m overwhelmed, my brain takes me to a place where there is a version of myself who is waking up on an early summer morning, in a nice house, the house smells sweet, but not musty, the air is light, the room, the kitchen, is spacious not empty, and I’m making a coffee.” probably a matcha or a herbal tea but it felt pretentious to say that. “That’s where my brain goes when I am overwhelmed, but I don’t know if that’s where I go when I dissociate.”

“I guess you’re not really present so you wouldn’t know.”

“exactly,” I respond.

I start to think about this version of myself in my bright kitchen. It’s not even the kitchen of my dreams, but I appear happy nonetheless. The kitchen of my dreams is some shade of green, my reference point is usually “Emma Chamberlain’s kitchen in her Architectural Digest video, but not quite, maybe darker green tiles.” Green is my mother’s favourite colour. Back in 2015 at her funeral, my father ordered these bookmarks to give out, with her face on it, and they were green because “that’s your mother’s favourite colour.” I wouldn’t have the kitchen green because I associate my mum with the kitchen, that feels problematic, but because I too like green, and it happens to be my mother’s favourite colour. Causation Correlation does not mean causation.

But in my happy place, in my imaginary world where I sometimes go, my kitchen is not Emma Chamberlain-esque green, but plain white. It’s basic. Nice to look at but merely functional. Somehow and somewhere in my subconscious, what I crave, is the basic. Even in the formation of this scene in my brain, what causes me to go there perhaps isn’t the nice, big house with the big (but importantly, functional) kitchen, it’s the mundane. Being happy with the mundane. The matcha or the herbal tea. Which both happen to be green. Maybe my love of green is subconscious too.

I never really pay attention to the scenes that play in my head. As a screenwriter, I’m used to random thoughts or prompts leading to the formation of scenes in my head. Some of them I keep note of, others I discard. For example, at the end of summer I went on a mini-trip with some friends to the sea. I couldn’t tell you where we went but it was around 40 minutes away from Bournemouth. After we had finished frolicking in the water, I started getting images of a woman, fully-clothed, and drenched, coming out of the water, at dawn, and walking from the shore, through the little town, past some shops, and to the car. I say ‘the car’ but I mean ‘her’ car. Oh and she’s bare foot. And her car is a Winter Blue 1969 Ford Mustang. Although I haven’t described it very well, the scene is very specific in my head, yet it has no meaning. I don’t know why I go there.

I often wonder if other people have places where they go in their minds. ‘Maladaptive daydreaming’ some call it, but I like to tell myself that it’s actually the gift of being an intuitive, super clever, very in-tune, visually gifted filmmaker aspiring filmmaker. I like to pretend that what I see isn’t a by-product symptom of a brain that needs mending but rather the burden of a god-sent gift. Am I joking? I’m not too sure, but I do know that this way of thinking is incredibly egotistical. But perhaps self-adulation is requisite to survival? Similarly, to how the image of some-me in a nice, bright, white kitchen being acts as a place of refuge, perhaps a big part of life is telling ourselves that there is a bigger, greater, better version of ourselves out there and all the trials and tribulations we face is just a means of getting there. If we can convince ourselves that this present reality isn’t the one where we are our ‘real’ selves, then it perhaps gives us a reason to hold on, and that things we go through, our torments and our troubles, have a purpose.

Perhaps the question isn’t “where do you go?” but “why do you go?”

Why are you in such a rush and why are you going?

internet culture leaves no room for being an imperfect…

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this week, my lectures were on grief. i didn’t go to my lectures and instead did the lecture notes from home. my bedroom is the place where all grief is contained so the lecture hall didn’t feel like the right place to sit and absorb that information.

i find it hard to think of grief as abstract because it feels like a cloak i wear and lug around every single day. in school, i was known and established as “the girl whose mum died” and now, out of school, i am still known as that. when i talk about grief, sometimes a lot of people resonate. and when anyone needs a story or a mirror to look into, something that reflects their own grief, i become that mirror.

i wouldn’t say that i feel tired from talking about grief, because there’s always so much to say, but i feel resentful. something which is often viewed as negative and somewhat taboo, is always attached to me. it makes me feel like i am negative or taboo. contrary to popular perception, i find talking about death very hard. which is odd because maybe to you, it looks like it comes easily to me. “grief is love with nowhere to go,” i wish i could talk about love, but somehow, always, the thing that sticks is the grief.

my resentment is mainly directed towards my mum. she didn’t choose to die but nowadays, i feel angry at her because she’d made a false promise that she wouldn’t leave, that she’d always be by my side, and she’s not. my resentment doesn’t have anywhere to go because luckily for her, she’s dead. and so, the resentment i have towards her, the resentment that fills my body like a slow and seeping poison, cannot be expelled, only contained. i feel angry not only because she left me, but because i have to deal with the effects of that every single day. when i am sad, i have to deal with it myself. when i lack confidence, i have to deal with it myself. when i feel small, i have to deal with it myself. i cannot go to her as a mother. she left me to mother myself, and for that, i cannot forgive her.

i wish i could write beautiful poetic pieces about grief and how it is merely just love and longing. i wish i could write long essays with beautiful metaphors about how much i love and miss her and despite it all, despite how tough it is, it’ll all be ok in the end. but for me, there hasn’t been an end and i don’t think there ever will be.

luna carmoon when describing her debut feature film ‘hoard’, has said that it is “a tale of how grief doesn't really ever disappear over time it simply disguises itself in things.” the first time i heard her say that, i felt completely understood. maybe grief isn’t just a cloak that we wear on the outside, but actually a poison or substance that seeps out of us unknowingly and stains everything we touch. even if that stain is invisible. grief, in many ways, is a way of being, because once you’ve encountered it you cannot go back to the time that you hadn’t .

i think so much of my resentment comes from the fact that my outlook of the world was completely shattered as a child. i wasn’t able or allowed to see the world from a childlike perspective as a child. it feels cruel, especially since most people would say that it’s unfair for me to blame that on someone who couldn’t control their illness. cancer survival often feels like the lottery. you either survive or you don’t. it doesn’t discriminate, but somehow, for those of us who are left behind, it can feel like a personal attack that the person we love is no longer with us.

i am roughly half the age my mum was when she died. recently, i’ve started to walk around with the feeling that i’ve lived half my life already. it is a bizarre feeling to explain to people. i realise now how young she was. i cannot imagine trying to fit everything i want to do ever, into the next 21/22 years. but this is exactly what i mean when i say that grief follows me everywhere. i cannot think about my own age without being confronted with the reality of hers. i do not exist with death and grief being an abstract thing. i cannot read stories and literature on grief without inserting myself into the narrative. perhaps that is narcissistic, i apologise if it is.

i’ve spent the last year trying to run away from myself and the events of my life, most specifically, trying to eradicate my grief. i thought that if i could shed myself of previous labels and perceptions, if i could reinvent myself ten times over, if i could meet new people who had no understanding or previous outlook on who i was, then things would start working in my favour. but somehow, in my attempt to run away from it all, i have managed to consolidate and establish myself as “the girl whose mum died” once more. the irony is, in my attempt to run and escape that label, and with the isolation and introspection that it has brought, i fell into the arms of grief. in my despair and longing for a new friend, i found myself in the arms of an old one. one, despite how far i would run, would never leave my side.

i haven’t necessarily been running away from grief, but rather external and internal perceptions of what that looks like. sometimes we trick ourselves into thinking that if we run away from the past we can somehow change it. we let ourselves believe that the further we can get away from it, through whatever means, that we are different, or it was different. life changes of course, and so does grief, but it is never linear or predictable. the people that i admire the most, are the ones that can look the past in the eyes and simply say “ok”. like, ok, it happened. that’s it.

i think for so long in my head and perhaps from what i’ve internalised from the outer world, that there is “good grief” and “bad grief”, when actually there’s only “grief”. it just exists, it’s just a fact, a given, it’s not something you can shape or mould. our perception or how we deal with it can vary, but that doesn’t change the thing itself. the past is unchanging. our perceptions or how we reflect on it can change, but it is simply just the past. grief is just grief. and i cannot change that.

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