I have the capacity to say and speak a lot of words. Journaling recently, trying to think of just one word to sum up where I want my life to start heading was so much harder and complicated than I expected it to be…

Simplicity. After running my nervous system into the ground for the past—shit, over three decades—the chaotic, stressful, unstable, toxicological states are no longer for me. I want an extraordinarily pastel life.

Some people think slow paced mornings and small steps toward action sounds like the worst thing ever; I’m always being asked by friends of friends if I find my life boring because I like to sit and read instead of going out to speed date forty different men for three minutes at a time. Why waste one-hundred-and-twenty precious minutes of my life on that when there are so many wonderful books to read? I don’t think the connection I’m looking for is sitting in a sticky, wooden, fold out bingo chair that just last week hosted the Edna and Janice brawl over who shouted “House!” first. Edna really is a cantankerous old bitch.

Take dogs for example. I’ve never seen a dog be ungrateful or depressed about eating the same thing each day, having the same routine, being loved on and loving their people back, having some play time and ultimately sleeping for a good majority of their day. How many times has there been passing comments in conversation where people say they’d love a dog’s life? Then when someone tries to live that life they get called boring and mediocre. I can’t make it make sense. I know the dogs I’ve loved lost their minds multiple times a day for the life they were living. Same meal twice a day you say? Yes-fucking-please human, serve that good shit up and don’t dilly or dally. I hope there is, or at least will be, something in my life that gives me the same overjoyed glint in to the eyes, that borderline tearful look of awe and magic, of a dog seeing you pull out a tennis ball from your pocket.

Chronic illness can really shift your perspective of life, there’s day where I cry uncontrollably in my bed because why can’t I just get up and brush my teeth or do adult things? But then, when you’ve got a dog around, they think you’ve done amazing things that day. You gave them breakfast and dinner, you gave treats, you talked to them, you laughed at their antics, booped their snoot, and maybe even got them exercised before falling asleep together on the couch, fur on human safety. You were one busy and awesome human!

I get it, we are conditioned now more than ever to hustle, to live at a pace our bodies can’t keep up with and to just keep going no matter what. We are now in constant transmission to receive, to take on more information, advice, tasks, and to try and figure out how to balance it all. Of course we never can. The older we seem to get the more rules we’re asked to follow. My body unsubscribed from that a long time ago, it just took the rest of me a little longer to catch up. I don’t want a life that I need a constant holiday from. I want to live a life well lived and it’s taken me a really long time to understand what that means for me. What I realise even more, is that it will constantly change, adapt, evolve. To live my best life I have to live in the present, because it’s only here and now I know how to live my life for where I am. Sure, I can have dreams, send hopes out into the ether for a future vision that I hope aligns with me by the time I get there but to be honest, right now—I’d just be satisfied if future me has a home that doesn’t have growing stained coastlines on the ceiling and taps that don’t need a beating to give me water.

Like I said, simplicity.

Thanks for reading this new era of Rochelle Writes Wild. If you’re enjoying Caddie St. James and her entries, it would mean the world if you could take a few seconds to like, share, or leave a comment.

Haven’t subscribed yet? Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber — there’s a free gift waiting for you when you sign up, plus exclusives for paid subscribers. If you’re able, please also consider making a donation to help me keep writing these posts. As a chronically ill and neurodivergent writer, every like, share, subscription, and donation means more than you know—thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Support my work

Not going to lie, bumping into Zachary (Zac) Taylor after #PaniniHeadJosh wasn’t at all ideal. In fact, it was so not ideal that I’m putting out a request for the universe’s sense of humour to be put on time out. How would ‘Super Nanny’ Jo Frost handle that one? I wasn’t about to let it derail me—We see that all the time. Powerful, magical, intelligent, and beautiful women who are capable of honours degrees, holding down jobs and houses simultaneously, who handle business and figure out life —crying— over these fuck boys who have but a birth certificate to their name. I have done it too many times before and I refuse to do it again; especially over the same fuck boy. So, I put my trust not in man but my ‘Pros and Cons’ lists to remind myself of the fact and not the fantasy…even though the fantasy is very, very…Nope. Nope. The list.

Zachary (Zac) Taylor - Pros and Cons

Pros

Six foot three, heavily tattooed, built like a brick shit house.

Those dimples when he genuinely smiles at you.

Once took the time to hand-make me a woven bracelet.

Excellent musician.

Never pushed me for ‘adventurous sex stuff’ but also shared my ‘fuck-no’ intolerance for missionary.

Secretly enjoyed cross-stitching in the evenings.

We have a ‘meet cute’ story (Can’t count this really, not anymore as he later told me, down the line, that his want that night (and now regret that he hadn’t) was to get me backstage and end the night by fucking me in a tour bus)

Loved sitting in bed with me doing puzzles.

Shared love of music and animals.

Could name all three Brontë sisters (Charlotte, Emily, Anne)

Used manners. (A bare minimum shouldn’t count)

Gave the best hugs.

He remembered little details about me.

Very ample package. (too shallow a reason to actually count but worth honourable mention)

Made me laugh so much I cried and could hardly breathe.

Still wears the hoodie I bought him for his thirtieth birthday.

Told his dad about me (also called his dad a heartless bastard who he wanted nothing to do with weekly so…yeah that’s not really as impressive as it sounds)

Had more than 10 books in his home and none of them were humorously titled, written by toxic masculinity affirming people, nor unused.

We had a genuinely good friendship and bond. He had been a best friend.

He had a lot of love to give but he was scared (As much as this may be true, you can’t count nor love potential only fact. Mustn’t minimise his shitty behaviour)

Hangouts were always fun.

Cons

Avoidant detachment style with a heavy side helping of narcissism.

Kept me a secret in general.

Didn’t have any consideration for the feelings of others especially women (once told me he was so angry at a message he received he’d like to find ‘a random’ and go balls deep)

Said he had once moved in with an ex because she was easy rent money.

Turned his feelings off easily and had no problem blocking me (Ego was hit, don’t think he actually stopped feeling, still shitty behaviour)

Didn’t give a fuck about trees but also said he liked being out in nature.

Tried to steal my dog.

Called me ‘Gloom and Doom’ when I’d suggest he take some accountability.

Didn’t have many friends (that weren’t online) (I’m not a social butterfly either, I like small circles but the way he portrayed himself he probably should’ve had more actual flesh friends)

Drank a lot despite a flagged liver issue, smoked a lot despite having asthma, and was once addicted to hardcore substances.

Had a lot of trauma/wounds that he let bleed on others.

Once messaged me after eighteen months of no contact with a ridiculous story about how he’d thought he’d spend a recent night at a gig with me… (far too many loopholes and inconsistencies.)

Not Vegan (Doesn’t need to be but dinner dates and then future living situation would become difficult)

Has trouble controlling his internal emotional thermostat: hot, cold, hot, burning, cold, freezing; shoo out the penguins!

Had a ‘I’ll do what I want when I want’ attitude that was borderline petulance.

Mixed signals constantly. (Goes with the Avoidant attachment but worth mention)

Didn’t watch movies that weren’t Marvel or Star Wars nor many tv shows.

Subsequently, didn’t understand my random quoting of movies, tv shows, and lyrics.

Created storms and bitched when it rained far too often.

Suspect that he Googled a lot of things I was interested in and made it sound like he knew something about it. (This can be both Pro and Con. Brown flag behaviour.)

Life always had drama but said it was everyone else who was crazy and dramatic.

Openly flirted with people whether I was involved with him or not and then gave me detailed accounts about the exchanges.

Too many double standards.

Called other people narcissistic. (Classic behaviour of a narc)

Didn’t really care when a man tried to drag me out of my car in a supermarket car park…in broad daylight.

In the six years I’ve known him, he’s never stuck around longer than a month at a time.

Didn’t really know me, he saw the fantasy too.

When we spoke, very briefly, the other day there was a look of shock/guilt/oh fuck never thought I’d see you again, on his face before the smile came. Yet he promised I’d always mean the world to him.

He got under my skin but was very clearly aiming for between my thighs.

Thanks for reading this new era of Rochelle Writes Wild. If you’re enjoying Caddie St. James and her entries, it would mean the world if you could take a few seconds to like, share, or leave a comment.

Haven’t subscribed yet? Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber — there’s a free gift waiting for you when you sign up, plus exclusives for paid subscribers. If you’re able, please also consider making a donation to help me keep writing these posts. As a chronically ill and neurodivergent writer, every like, share, subscription, and donation means more than you know—thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Support my work

I have been single now for five months. I don’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a man…before today. This, is possibly, the weirdest, ground-please-open-and-swallow-me-whole encounter I’ve had in a long time. Let me tell you a little story, and this one DOESN’T start with ‘Once upon a time’.

I couldn’t stay in the house any longer. I had painted fifteen flower psychometry orders and their energy was making me think far too much about things that should remain pushed way down until I find the right therapist. I didn’t think about my attire—a Briar U hockey sweater with ‘Graham, 44’ on the back (of course!), leggings, sneakers and my hair thrown up in a messy, high pony. I grabbed my phone, my card, my wallet, and my latest read and raced my demons to the door.

I had found this amazing little bistro, Boule & Butter, three weeks after I moved here and I don’t think I’ve gone more than a few days without visiting it—much to my dwindling bank account’s dismay. Thankfully, I found it relatively quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, outside of this—on first impressions I’d file him under douche— having something of a quarrel with Dorlene, one of the younger but sweetest girls on the staff. I don’t know if it was hunger, hormones, or a momentary aneurysm but it just happened. I got involved in the argument, one that had begun, as most good ones do, over something monumentally stupid.

“Dude, listen to the woman, it’s not a panini,” I said, “Not if there’s no press involved.”

“It’s got the lines,” the guy said. He had the kind of face that assumed it was owed things—Cheekbones like artisanal cheese wedges that are over-priced and disappoint to the taste. “The lines are the whole point.”

“The lines are a status symbol, nothing more than a garnish. You could draw them on with a Sharpie and call it a panini by your logic.”

“Okay, but would you eat a Sharpie panini?”

“Depends what’s in it frankly, and how long some douche has kept me waiting in a queue to obtain said Sharpie panini.”

He laughed—properly, not even trying to hide how much he knew we were being completely absurd—and something in my chest did an unhelpful little flip, the kind I generally try to negotiate with before it gets any ideas.

“I’m Josh,” he said, holding out a hand like we were closing a business deal instead of finishing a fight about bread products.

“Caddie.”

“Caddie. Like the golf thing?”

“Like the golf thing,” I agreed, in the tone of someone who has had this exact conversation four-hundred-times “Or a Cadillac.”

“So, Caddie-like-the-golf-thing-or-Cadillac. Since we’ve clearly established you have strong, deeply held opinions about sandwiches—d’you want to get dinner sometime? Somewhere without paninis, ideally, so you can be right at me some more about other edible things?”

And here’s the part I will explain to absolutely no one, because it makes no sense even to me: I was going to say yes. I’d gotten as far as the shape of the word in my mouth, while awkwardly shuffling my feet and looking around to see who was listening when a woman appeared at his elbow, kissed him on the cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world, and said, “Sorry, love, the bloody queue was mental.” Josh (the-now-not-quite-so-douche) without a single moment of hesitation, declared, “Mum, this is Caddie.”

Wait. Mum. His mother? Are you shitting me, I’m meeting his mother right now?

I tried hard to tell my face to be very still—that same way you suppress yourself when you’ve stepped off a kerb you didn’t know was there and you’re trying not to let your body register the fall while simultaneously not letting out a scream.

“Lovely to meet you, Caddie!” Josh’s mum says—delighted I may add—like this was a thing that happened to her son with any regularity. Women appearing beside the pastries to be introduced to his family. I noted that she had his exact laugh. Moments too late, I managed to stammer out a “You…too.”

Josh, lead by the arm by his mother, took his order, and went to sit down like this was completely normal, like he hadn’t just—functionally—skipped four months of dating and landed us both at Christmas dinner. He gave me a look over his shoulder that might have meant, ‘I’ll come find you’ or ‘please rescue me from the concept of time’ and then he was gone, back of the room at the little table by the window. And I was still standing, alone, with a coffee that I didn’t remember ordering in hand and the distinct sense that something had happened to me, though I couldn’t have said what. I sat myself at a table at the opposite end of the bistro and picked up my book. Didn’t read it, words had become a very foreign concept to me in this moment. I took out my phone instead, opened the group chat with Keisha and Bridie and typed, visibly panic-stricken:

Caddie

Some guy just asked me out and introduced me to his mum within the same 90 seconds, is this a record, is this normal dating protocol now?

I put the phone face-down, picked my book back up, and still didn’t read it.

Bridie

Don’t panic babes. Is he hot enough to overlook this, obvious, lack of awareness?

I looked up from my phone and toward the table as suavely as I could, carefully assessing this question. That’s when I noticed the sister had arrived. You could tell she was the sister immediately—same laugh gene, evidently a family trait—deployed here at a woman she’d never met who I could only assume was being described in real time because the mum leaned in and said something with her hand cupped near her mouth, and then both of them looked. Not subtly. Not even a little bit subtly. Directly, unblinkingly, at me, the way you’d look at a nice bit of art in a gallery, or a small fire in a bin in someone’s back garden.

I couldn’t do this. Once again, I found myself needing to leave a room. I gathered my things with the calm, unbothered dignity of a woman who was one more direct look away from combusting. “Right then” I said, to no one really, but maybe it was to the universe generally and left.

Behind me, I heard it—the mother’s voice, brightly down the entire bistro, “Nice to meet you, Caddie!”—and the sister’s, equally cheerful, “Bye, Caddie!”— as if I were a long-standing family friend departing after a fucking Sunday roast, rather than a woman who had known this family for the length of one, non-sensical, panini-based argument and a single unfulfilled dinner invitation. I don’t know why my body betrayed me but I turned —once—as I got to the door. Josh had the specific look of a man actively willing himself out of existence. He mouthed, very clearly: So sorry.

I gestured something back that I hoped conveyed ‘it’s fine’ and ‘you’ll never see me again’ and ‘your mum seems nice actually’ in roughly equal measure, and pushed the door open, stepping out into the sort of grey afternoon that has an opinion about everything and shares none of it. I didn’t see the other guy until I’d almost walked into him. “Sorry—” I started, already halfway past, already thinking about the walk home, already composing the second half of the group chat message. And then I looked up.

Zachary-fucking-Taylor. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Thanks for reading this new era of Rochelle Writes Wild. If you’re enjoying Caddie St. James and her entries, it would mean the world if you could take a few seconds to like, share, or leave a comment.

Haven’t subscribed yet? Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber — there’s a free gift waiting for you when you sign up, plus exclusives for paid subscribers. If you’re able, please also consider making a donation to help me keep writing these posts. As a chronically ill and neurodivergent writer, every like, share, subscription, and donation means more than you know—thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Support my work

Let me take this opportunity to say a huge thank you to you all for the interaction, support, and wonderful feedback on this new journey with this series. Caddie St. James is already such a big part of me and my writing journey and I honestly can’t wait to see how far we go together.

I’ve always wanted to keep an open and honest approach to my Substack, no matter what topic I was writing about nor what direction I went in. I think it is important that you know me, the writer, and not just through the lens of the wonderful—even though I do say so myself—Caddie St. James. That’s why I’ve had an idea to give a little more interaction with this series and to give an opportunity for more connection.

Here me out…

I’m exploring the idea of starting a once or twice monthly companion podcast episode that gives a little bit of behind the scenes into the topics covered in the series, where the ideas have come from, and to connect with you on a human level.

Why do I feel this is important? Well, in a world that is being infiltrated by AI, I want you to know that there is a very real person behind this. I’ve been doing a lot of work in my personal life for over a year now in therapy, in shadow work, and other healing methods and I’ve gotten to a point where I want to start living as a healing, healed, and still flawed human being. I’m ready to actually experience being fully human. This is one of the main reasons behind Caddie St. James coming into my writing life and I don’t believe it is a coincidence that she has…timing is everything.

To keep in my boundaries for my own health and wellbeing, I’d make this a once or twice monthly thing where I’d talk about recent posts and give you some of the true life moments behind the ideas. I’m currently in a good place with the writing, and they’ve been coming out every week but I’m never going to promise that this frequency will continue. There are times where I need to take breaks and reset.

I’d love your input of this. I always want to keep connecting with you out there—you’ve done me the magic of reading, subscribing, and seeing something worthwhile in my voice to which I can’t be more grateful. I’d really appreciate feedback on this. Is this something you feel would enhance your experience with this series? Do you want to know more BTS and have content to that degree?

I really appreciate your time and for sticking with me through another metamorphosis. Caddie St. James will be in your inbox this coming Thursday, 20th August and she’s got one hell of a story to tell…

Still here and I’m fine, probably

Rochelle (And Caddie) x

I, Caddie St. James, am now a woman who has a fully fledged journal habit with a side order of notes app and list making. I don’t actually know if it is helping me in the slightest but if I can at least get the mania out somewhere and have a less cluttered head, then perhaps I’ll learn how to have a proper conversation with another human being.

Tuesday 21st July — Mood: Orange (medium)

Does grief have a smell? It feels like it should. Damp jumpers. Hospital hand sanitiser. Someone else’s washing powder. The warm, electric scent of dust. Unless this is the kind of thought that is a prime example of some sort of deficiency or dehydration. Maybe low iron or vitamin A, B12, or C? No, it’s probably vitamin D. I am in the long, harsh winter of my life after all. Why is it that, as I approach mid-life—thirty-eight to forty-two is actually mid life now as the average life expectancy for women is seventy-six to eighty-one—I’m facing more peer pressure now from randoms on the internet to eat enough protein or take collagen than I did as teenager with drugs and sex?

‘Self-care’ these days is such a buzz term and when you truly observe it in our now, very digital and disconnected society, you see that it is another pathway for consumption and information overload. Take the simple bath bomb for example. They are very lucrative as they have high profit margins of sixty to eighty percent which means a small, home-based bath bomb business could earn anything up to fifty thousand pounds a year. ‘Da Bomb’ (started by two teenage sisters) grew to over twenty-million dollars in annual revenue. Each year, the ‘self-care’ industry alone makes around four-hundred-and-fifty-billion dollars annually. I remember reading this in an article recently, while sitting on my half dilapidated sofa looking at the southwest damp coastline on my living-room ceiling—once again pondering my life choices. In summary, self-care is some sort of pyramid scheme and I am most definitely at the bottom, possibly even under the foundations of it. I don’t believe that a face mask and bath bomb is my type of self care. I’d like to think that saying ‘fuck off’ or ‘I don’t fucking want to’ more will do wonders for my wellbeing. Releasing the old people pleasing ways that have got me into a whole array of shit-shows that I no longer need to carry with me nor want to continue. Boundaries. Honesty. Being able to respond like; ‘ I can listen for no more than twenty minutes, and then I’m part of the furniture.’ ‘This conversation is closed—and I mean closed, like a coffin.’ Getting back to ‘No’ being a whole sentence and people not expecting an explanation like it is a gratuity.

That’s real self care isn’t it? The inner work. The messy shit, the shadows that beckon you often to explore them, like they believe that we can all be a Persephone personified. I sometimes like to picture myself as Florence Nightingale; venturing forth on a mission, trusty lamplight in hand, as I advance uncertainly into the dark of night in my soul. Florence herself, of course, lived with a severe, debilitating condition for thirty-two years of her life. Modern historians and physicians associate her condition of ‘Crimean Fever’ to M.E (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis) or Fibromyalgia. Two of the illnesses I was diagnosed with that became a litmus test for my life.

Maybe it is time to stop doom scrolling therapists and veto-ing them because of their websites. That’s probably a good indication that I need one.

Thanks for reading this new era of Rochelle Writes Wild. If you’re enjoying Caddie St. James and her entries, it would mean the world if you could take a few seconds to like, share, or leave a comment.

Haven’t subscribed yet? Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber — there’s a free gift waiting for you when you sign up, plus exclusives for paid subscribers. If you’re able, please also consider making a donation to help me keep writing these posts. As a chronically ill and neurodivergent writer, every like, share, subscription, and donation means more than you know—thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Support my work

Sleep and I are having some compatibility issues right now which means I’m writing more in my Notes app. Chronic illness is no joke but at four-am it seems to be the only company I have the days.

I now have burn marks all across my pelvis from how often I need to use a hot water bottle to ease the pain. It has painted the stretch marks that were already there and I now look like some sort of albino tiger. A pale grey, almost light blue in summer, with deep mulled wine striping. Some days they look like they are fading—I get my hopes up that my body is renewing—and others they commandeer my body’s space, remind me what it really is.

Albinism doesn’t actually occur in tigers, animals in general. It is leucism. A genetic condition that causes a partial loss of pigmentation. Unlike albinism, leucism doesn’t affect the eye cells. So I will now correct my earlier statement; I now look like some sort of leucistic tiger. White tigers are often kept immorally as pets—ultimately their predatory instincts kick in and they are fundamentally unsuitable as friendly companions. Another thing we have in common.

Don’t you ever get the urge just to bite someone, or claw at their skin? Or a really chunky little puppy? Tussle with them until you can pin them and go for the neck? I don’t mean a rando in Tesco at the self-scans or anything. Ew. I’m talking someone you know well, part of your pride, your pack, your clan. It is, apparently, called “cuteness aggression”. The ‘urge to squeeze, bite, or pinch incredibly adorable things without wanting to actually cause harm’. It’s a dimorphous expression—which is just a fancy as shit way of saying your emotions spill out at the same way exactly at the same damn time. I wish endometriosis, fibromyalgia, and EDS had cuteness aggression; the urge but not the actual pain.

I remember asking Andrew if I could bite him once—I think he thought I was having some sort of episode, or seizure, or maybe even daywalking. He thought it was absurd, something of a quirk to analyse and then curate data to fix. In the wild, bonded wolf couples who stop playing are said to be shifting responsibility and building a conservation of energy. This is due to their energy intensive environment. During difficult seasons especially, wolves prioritise resting and maintaining energy levels carefully; who knew chronic illness would make me a difficult season wolf for the rest of my life?

Thanks for reading this new era of Rochelle Writes Wild. If you’re enjoying Caddie St. James and her entries, it would mean the world if you could take a few seconds to like, share, or leave a comment.

Haven’t subscribed yet? Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber — there’s a free gift waiting for you when you sign up, plus exclusives for paid subscribers. If you’re able, please also consider making a donation to help me keep writing these posts. As a chronically ill and neurodivergent writer, every like, share, subscription, and donation means more than you know—thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Support my work

Therapists often suggest, in moments of anxiety and panic, to ground yourself by looking for sensory things around a room. Something you can see, touch, smell etc. Sometimes even naming the colour of things. I have taken that and made it my own in recent times. I like to name species of penguins, birds of prey or garden birds, and sometimes plants and flowers. I remembered this week how much I have a thing for numbers and patterns; not in a weird fetish—I get off on mathematics way—just I like listing the number of things. Here is my most recent numbers list that didn’t at all stop anxiety from reaching my eyeballs. How do you make your eye stop twitching?

Seven. The amount of times I’ve refilled my hot water bottle today. It is also the number of erogenous zones Monica Geller in ‘Friends’ says there are but actually, there is no magic number.

Sixteen. The age of the child I’d have if I hadn’t miscarried in my early twenties.

Note to Self: I like spelling out numbers, it’s more satisfying to me than the numerical number.

Twenty-seven. The date of the month of March I broke things off with Andrew.

Nine. The number of times my mother has reminded me—just this month—how much I’ve given up by breaking up with Andrew.

Four. Hours I’ve been sitting binge watching ‘The Golden Girls’ today.

Seventy-five (or there about). The times I’ve cried this week.

Three, thirteen and eighteen, my favourite numbers.

Thirty-three. The number of days I haven’t eaten chocolate.

Five. I haven’t had sex in five months. Shit. Let’s move along.

Ten. The age my soul dog was when I lost him.

Forty-six-thousand. The number of tabs I feel are open at any one time in my brain.

Four, again. The number of damp patches I’ve found in my shitty new apartment that look like different coastlines.

Eleven. The number of times I’ve wondered if I’m the shipwreck of those coastlines.

Two. The average number of orgasms I have during sex.

Eight. I’m on my eighth Bourbon biscuit.

Twelve. Coincidentally, the number of Bourbon biscuits in one side of the pack.

Twenty-two. The amount of orders I’ve had for flower psychometry this week.

Nine-hundred-and-twenty-three. The words I’ve added to a book I’m trying to write this month.

Zero. The amount of fucks I have to give about anything anymore and how many erogenous zones some people actually have. I’m beginning to understand that. The thought of physical touch right now is making me want to stop eating Bourbons.

Six. How many guys I’ve noticed since being single that I’d consider having a fantasy about.

Three-hundred-and-ninety-five (or there about). The number of pages that I feel didn’t need to be in ‘Iron Flame’. That one was a slog.

Forty. The amount of times I threw my copy of ‘Iron Flame’ across the room and swore I was going to DNF it. I didn’t. I suffered afterwards with readers burnout and pondered upon my life choices.

Five, again. The number of times my phone autocorrected ‘wit’s end’ to ‘clit’s end’ yesterday.

Eight-thousand-five-hundred. The number of steps I haven’t taken and have no desire to take today.

Thirty-nine. The age I’ll be in just a few, short, bastarding month’s time.

Twenty-one. How many times I’ve adamantly refused to look on dating apps to my friends.

Two, again. The number of friends I trust.

Seven-thousand-six-hundred-and-eight. My total to date catches on Pokémon Go.

One. The number of times I’ve allowed myself to say I still love him.

Thanks for reading this new era of Rochelle Writes Wild. If you’re enjoying Caddie St. James and her entries, it would mean the world if you could take a few seconds to like, share, or leave a comment.

Haven’t subscribed yet? Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber — there’s a free gift waiting for you when you sign up, plus exclusives for paid subscribers. If you’re able, please also consider making a donation to help me keep writing these posts. As a chronically ill and neurodivergent writer, every like, share, subscription, and donation means more than you know—thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Support my work

This wasn’t really what I expected to hear this week, especially while finally trying to get my new place in order. To which, I’m realising now, that you can’t put flowers in an asshole and call it a vase. This one kinda hurt, not gonna lie.

I start typing ‘What!!?’ and then delete it. I think of Shaz, a friend of a friend who once—I hope/assume— misread a text in a group thread when someone we knew from college died and she replied, “Oh my god! I hope they are okay!”. Well, unfortunately Shaz, I do believe that was not the case—or maybe they were now. All I know is that it was the only time I laughed— solidly, out loud—at a text thread about a death.

We have so many conditioned responses and I will always use that as a classic example except for when it comes to death. Sure there is the ‘Oh that’s such sad news’ solid, classic response usually tail-ended with ‘my love and thoughts are with you (the informer) and the family at this time’. Sometimes, a simple ‘Sorry to hear’ can suffice, all very dependent on the degrees of separation. I see myself as somewhat of a wordy indulgent soul and yet, not one of them felt right to respond to my mum’s text with. While we’re on the subject, why is it that I can guarantee at least two to three messages from my mother in a month will be about someone—usually who I have no idea about even existing in the first place—has died. Who’s age is it; hers, mine, or both that this starts to be a prerequisite in communication?

Maggie Carter. The only woman outside of my mother I ever knew to go on a short break holiday, travelling two-hundred-and-fifty-miles away and the only thing she brought home was wallpaper. She seemed to redecorate two to three times in a year. Maggie was the mother of my first boyfriend, Connor Carter, who I was with from the ages of fourteen to seventeen. Absolute definition of first loves—it remained pure, cute, and tough sometimes due to us leading very different lives before we met. He was an only child, quintessentially so—toast, cereal, a Kit Kat, and a cup-of-tea taken to him every Saturday afternoon once he bothered to get out of bed. I remember being affronted one of the first times I called him at a weekend, eleven-am, and his Dad said he wasn’t awake yet. I’d never slept passed 9am in my life at that point. I truly adored Connor, he was my best friend, and I felt this need to protect him and to guide him; like some sort of weird, unnatural mash of Yoda and Xena Warrior Princess. Maggie was always so warm and welcoming, she was a very traditionally funny woman. It wasn’t a dark or wry humour; it was built over experience and numerous good nights with Vodka and Coke. Connor and I managed to have some kind of a close friendship on and off after we broke up but ultimately the final ghosting came from him over ten years ago. The last time I spoke to him was at his dad’s funeral eight years ago, and that was simply a ‘You know where I am if you need me’. I hugged him and left.

My grandmother died before my own pet rabbit. She was the first physical death I ever knew and since then I have seen the death of everything in life; in relationships, in nature, in myself. Sometimes, I go into supermarkets and it hits me that all of the people I see, they will not exist one day soon. Even though after we pass, we will no longer exist to each other anyway. Just like Maggie. I re-read the text. Maggie Carter has passed away. Connor is now an orphan and he’s not even forty yet. I hope he knows how to cook now, unlike the time his parents left him alone when they went on holiday. He had to call me to go help him with his dinner after he had cooked chips for over forty-minutes and they were still raw and almost caused a kitchen fire trying to figure out Super Noodles. The instructions were on the back of the pack. A smile escapes across my face and for a moment I miss that version of him and me. The current one is okay too, the way it should be. Neither of us should need saving anymore.

Shit! How did it not occur to me that this would have to be a consideration? No. No. No. I can’t. My body knows it; this is not my jurisdiction anymore and for once I need to fucking listen. A card is the absolute limit. Via Moonpig. Condolences that keep our distance. Does that make me a bad person? Maggie had once told me she wished Connor and I had been endgame. She was at the same venue at the same time of Andrew and my engagement party. She was shitfaced and merry but it was still wonderful to see her. I wonder what she’d make of my break-up with Andrew. No. No. No. I open up Moonpig and close it again.

Thanks for reading this new era of Rochelle Writes Wild. If you’re enjoying Caddie St. James and her entries, it would mean the world if you could take a few seconds to like, share, or leave a comment.

Haven’t subscribed yet? Consider becoming a free or paid subscriber — there’s a free gift waiting for you when you sign up, plus exclusives for paid subscribers. If you’re able, please also consider making a donation to help me keep writing these posts. As a chronically ill and neurodivergent writer, every like, share, subscription, and donation means more than you know—thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Support my work

I’m taking a quick interlude from ‘Fine, Probably’ the new Caddies St. James path here on substack to connect with you all on a personal, authentic note.

Recently, with the change has come a loss of subscribers. I get it, this new pivot for me isn’t going to be for everyone. I am not writing this for the people who left, I am writing this for you—reading this right now—who has chosen to stay and listen to my voice regardless of the change. I want to thank you for staying with me as I begin to find my feet and sketchbook out Caddie St. James here in full view for everyone to see.

Subscribe now

Yes, things are different—there is a lot of hot pink and a few more F bombs—and I’m not writing in the same tone but there are deep, honest reasons for that. I started this substack last year not sure what to write about; what came naturally for me at the time was to talk about my communication with trees and my witchcraft practice with my pagan beliefs. That then progressed into neurodivergent witchcraft with a good solid try to stop the gatekeeping that we see happening in the spiritual community all the time. I have never wanted to be another person giving content to consume—giving advice when I’m still in the thicket of it all has never been my style. I started to see nothing but regurgitation on here and all over socials the it came to witchcraft and none of it feel deep, real, or magical anymore. I got angry—I’m still angry—and I started to lose the point of it all for myself. I hate to see witchcraft has become trendy. That sentence alone would make ancestors roar. Mother Hecate is on the lips of so many people giving their two cents about working with her and the ways she shows up for them like she’s some sort of pantomime villain. Mainstream has taken something sacred and turned it into a mockery; this is the modern day witch hunt social media style—make it something that everyone does and squeeze every last drop of purity out of it. Would any other belief system ever be treated with such disrespect and turned into a mockery?

The aftermath of it all means I’m still in severe burnout and it has made me grow distant with my own practice. I feel like I am fuelling the fire if I turn up and declare myself as witch at the altar, invite Mother Hecate and the dark goddesses who guide me in as well as the rest of myself spirit guides. It has made me question so much about myself, what witchcraft truly means, and if what I hear is truly guidance or just my own mind playing tricks.

Something I have been learning on this journey, is that my spirit guides want me to follow joy and learn that I do not have to suffer to be worthy. More so, they want me to be fully myself. That is what I am trying to do here. This is still wild writing, it comes from the alchemy of experience and wisdom learned through grief, heartbreak, and struggle. It is still me, writing openly and honestly in real time, giving my thoughts and voice to someone fictional, a vessel, Caddie St. James, so I can push it further. It is me still showing up and howling into the void hoping that the people who will resonate with my voice find me. This is still a part of the craft. Mother Hecate is still guiding me, even in hot pink, because it is the colour of healing as well as being bold; hot pink stands up and is noticed and takes up space without apology. That is what I am learning to do through my writing right now. I am ready to learn to embrace the awkward, funny, intelligent, chronically ill little weirdo I am. I’m learning not to hold back, to say the weird out loud. I’m just doing it through Caddie St. James. I am messy still, but this is something I’m trying to be brave about. I want to find the joy in writing again and find myself within it, not leaving myself outside it.

There may be not altar talk or communication with trees here but the witchcraft hasn’t left because I haven’t. I’m just doing it the way my ancestors did; in my own fucking way. I truly hope you will come with me on another glitchy, messy adventure.

Rochelle x

Every week I convince myself I'm dying at least once. I've started keeping a running list, because apparently that's healthier than just screaming into a pillow, and because someone told me writing things down helps. It does not help. But here we are anyway — this week's evidence, ranked low to high.

Caddie St. James — Reasons I Thought I Was Dying This Week

5. My toaster has a vendetta against me. Seriously, I’ve tried googling ‘Can a toaster be resentful of you’ and I have become even more convinced. Crumb build-up, incorrect settings, damaged wires, and uneven slices; these are all reasons—apparently—for your toaster ‘playing up’ but that fucker is plotting my death. So, technically this isn’t a ‘thought I was dying’ more a ‘sure my toaster wants me dead’.

4. Softmints. I choked on one in my car—the minty flavour began to taste more like soap and it caught the back of my throat. My brain forgot how to breathe. I suppose it was confused as to why a confectionery shapeshifted to cilantro. I had to pull over and throw myself against my seat to try and dislodge it. Life flashed before my eyes and a dog taking a crap across the street looked really concerned for me.

3. WebMD. I knew it was wrong the minute I started typing in ‘chest’. Chest tightness at 2am looking for reassurance began a forty-five-minute-deep dive into obscurity and Latin phrases for the body where I self-diagnosed at least four major terminal illnesses. I’ve now rewritten my will on another note in Notes app. I’ve addressed it as ‘For whomever finds this phone at the end’.

2. A wasp got into my car on the motorway. I don’t remember the next ten seconds after that. I remember arriving in the hard shoulder with my hazards on, the wasp somehow fine, and a truck driver mouthing something at me that I choose to believe was the word ‘respect’.

1. Sunday, 4pm, doing absolutely nothing but watching ‘Come Dine with Me’ reruns. Just me, on the sofa, and this cold certainty dropped out of nowhere—something is wrong with me. I sat with one hand on my chest, the other clutching a cushion, as I tuned in to check I was still doing the thing hearts are supposed to do.

This post was the first in the new era of Rochelle Writes Wild here on Substack. If you enjoyed this post, I’d really appreciate you taking a minute and giving it a like, sharing, or leaving a comment. If you haven’t already, please consider subscribing, a paid subscription, or making a donation so I can continue this work as a writer. As a chronically-ill and neurodivergent creative, all of these things matter so much to me.

Support My Work

Subscribe now

I’ve decided to branch out and explore a new way of not only engaging with you but finding my joy with writing again. This is where I’m going to be building the voice of a Cadence “Caddie” St. James—a bit at a time, probably out of order, in public, before I fully know who she is myself. I will post with intention rather than frequency—what lands in your inbox will always be worth opening.

Caddie’s rebuilding a life she blew up on purpose: she’s a year into a chronic illness diagnosis, money is tight, her new apartment has opinions of its own, dating is a disaster, and everyone who knew the old version of her isn’t quite sure what to do with this one. Some of what you’ll read here is true experience. Some of it isn’t. The feelings mostly happened.

A taste of something Caddie wrote in her journal after a “casual” group hang she should not have attended:

Everyone there had a partner, a LinkedIn headline, and a working gallbladder, and I had a paper plate of hummus and a face that apparently reads as “recently widowed.” Someone asked if I was “doing okay” in the tone people use for cancer survivors. I said ‘great, actually, never better’ all the while doing the math on whether I could afford the Uber home. I could not.

What this means for you…

There will be no more essays or newsletter content every month. Some posts will be Caddie’s voice raw—journal entries, texts she shouldn’t have sent, her unhinged Notes app from silly o’clock in the morning, and posts to her community group. I may, occasionally, step out from behind her and talk to you directly about how it’s going however I don’t want to put any kind of pressure on this. Expect it messy, expect it honest, expect it worth the wait, and expect several ‘S’ and ‘F’ bombs along the way.

New free and paid subscribers will find Caddie St. James related free gifts upon sign up.

Subscribe now

I know this is very different from anything I’ve done here before but I truly think this is the start of something wonderful here. To read more about this and how I got here you can read my latest post .

For those interested in my other projects—poetry, gothic fiction, and more of me—visit Rochelle Writes Wild or find me on Instagram at @rochellewriteswild

More soon, allegedly,

Rochelle (And Caddie) x

You’re probably reading this and thinking, Rochelle…you’re kinda being weird, you're writing differently. That is exactly the point of this here article; so get comfy and get ready for a tale of therapy pondering, old projects, and the soul want to enjoy creating again.

Yesterday I had a gut-wrenching therapy call and something that landed for me was the realisation that I am still being quite closed off at times. I am still not taking up enough space and I hide myself away. I don’t want to use this space to digest the inner workings of my mind and all the wounded stories created from childhood trauma; there’s too much of that around these parts. As a neurodivergent person, I can take things in a very literal way and when people say phrases like “hiding away”, “need to take up space”, “closed off”, I can get quite confused. I’m a writer, I bare myself in everything I create; it’s possibly one of the most vulnerable crafts to date and yet I’m still told I’m not open enough? I think though, as I’ve processed it all, what is being asked of me is to share more of who I truly am—not just tell people my thoughts or how I’m feeling about something. In simpler terms; it’s time to fly the fucking freak flag high!

With everything I have been thinking recently about my writing life, I began to see more and more that it was about approach and environment—nothing to do with the actual writing itself per se. I saw two posts this week that felt like they might have been somewhat synchronous or me.

1. A daily quote from InsightTimer that said “Traveler, there is no path. The path is where you walk”.

2. A post on Instagram from Neptune that read “Are you creating from soul truth, or living someone else’s dream?”

Yep, both are gut clinchers right? These were added to the tabs already open in the old nog and the rumination process began on double time. I came to some heavy but necessary conclusions in the aftermath. I have unconsciously not been as authentic as I wanted to be on my writing journey, especially here. Now, I’ve been honest a lot of times—for me that comes pretty easily—but what didn’t was the realisation that pressure and fear were changing my path and the way I showed up. I haven’t been living my version of this writing dream. I’ve been trying so hard to make sure I was on the ‘right path’ that I, in turn, derailed myself from the truest meaning of that. I want to be taken seriously as a writer and, as I said earlier, my brain took literally. Everything I have started to write is a serious and heavy project because that is where I am in life a lot right now—no healing journey comes without a shit-ton of shadow work and dark feminine energy.

Share

I currently have, as always, multiple projects on the go at once. This is who I am—I need different ideas and genres to keep my creative brain feeling happy but it can easily lead to overwhelm and burn out. I haven’t fully figured out the balance of it all but I am a work in progress. I have a dark, gothic fantasy novel on the go which is psychologically and emotionally heavier that anything I’ve ever written. I have been slowly working away at this for a while but it is not something that wants to be rushed. Every time I sit down with the manuscript it doesn’t let me just slap words down; it wants to be literary of feel, more evoking of the classics and literary witches I have come to read and love. My next project was one that started out as an idea for an anti-anthropological prose collection about birds of prey. As these things tend to do, it has now shape-shifted and become a creative non-fiction style, memoir adjacent. There is more research and journaling to be done before the actual writing can take place but it is also mentally and emotionally taxing. I have just finished the final manuscript with my editor Catherine Balaq for my debut poetry collection ‘Wolf in the Nursery’ which is forthcoming with Black Cat Poetry in 2027. It is a pamphlet of illness, motherhood, neurodivergent, lineage, generational trauma, grief—all the good stuff you want in a poetry pamphlet. Finally, I’m working on my second pamphlet which as it stands, is becoming a threshold of its own. The Pupae of a caterpillar, the mush you become while you are between what you have been and where you are going. There is a lot of death and grief coming out and I’m here for it, but again, pretty lumbering for the mental wellbeing.

I’m building a body of work and that is what I feel is right for me, but I don’t want to be tied down to one genre or any kind of ‘niche’. I am a woman of multitudes: layers, ideas, tastes, thoughts, and feelings that can’t all fit into one nice, neat box or line. Like healing itself, I am not linear. Life and my writing path has become very serious and although I have a side to me that is serious of nature—deep conversations and takes care of business—that’s not all I am. I think for a long time I have been afraid to branch out to other aspects of me because they are so contradictory and I was afraid that those who know me for—what I hope— is quality writing and poetry would scoff if I reached for something different of tone. I know now however, that is the exact ingredient I’ve been missing for a long time. I have a pretty good sense of humour; it’s dark and wry at times of course, but I don’t show it enough. I get worried people will misunderstand me and think I’m just some sort of ‘try hard’. I find it easier to talk about certain experiences and aspects of my life and personality in different genres and registers.

For a long time I haven’t know what to do here. As said in my previous post, I don’t want it to be newsletter but I don’t want it to be essay after essay that people struggle to take on board because of the sheer volume of information and ‘advice’ forced fed to us on the daily. Well, I’ve now had an epiphany. Yep, your girl finally figured it out. A few weeks ago I started to think about some old short stories I started about five years ago. It was going to be a collection of them around different people’s experience with chronic illness—another heavy but very real topic for me and many here. These didn't go anywhere, but I read them again recently and that’s when it hit me; I need to make writing fun again and Substack is in dire need of fun, humour, and very real reading. No regurgitation, just something people can enjoy after a difficult day, to get them out their heads, or even to read at a break time.

Substack for me will now be a little bit of a sketchbook as I started to create the voice of Cadence “Caddie” St. James. A woman in her late thirties, rapidly approaching her forties, who has found herself rebuilding a life after blowing up her very stable and comfortable one. Dealing with chronic illness, money issues, dating, therapy, and those awkward social occasions after break-ups, you’ll get it all in a very weird, very honest, and very wry humoured way. Some of it will be purely fictional, some of it won’t. Mostly all of the feelings will be real. It won’t be chapters, more like blog posts or journal entries brought to you in Caddie’s register. It gives me a chance to find the joy in creativity again but also to write in a different way about things I’ve deal with and have experienced. Caddie is a work in progress and so am I.

Subscribe now

As a chronically-ill and ND creative, I think the best way to pursue this is without deadlines and restrictions, so there won’t be any promises of every ‘x’ amount of post in a week/month etc. I think writing when it feels honest and when the inspiration is there is the best thing. I know this is another turn away from directions I have been, but I still feel like this is me writing wild. I am building the voice of character in public, I’ve not idea what it is going to be, where it is going to go, or what is going to come out—although I’m sure there will be a few ‘S’ and ‘F’ bombs. I’m exploring parts of me that want to come out in a new and exciting way and I think all of that is pretty f•••ing wild! I really hope you’ll be with me on this but if it’s not your thing that’s okay too. I’m evolving and I understand that my writing and audience will do that too.

Caddie’s first post will be with you all soon—as well as a pinned post that will come to your inbox to explain more about it all.

From the wild and in-between,

Rochelle x

Leave a comment

Yesterday, I wanted to burn it all down. I wanted to give in to that ever elusive ‘fuck it’ moment and delete it all; Instagram, Substack, my website and disappear. Would anyone truly notice and would it benefit me more than I actually know? We’re in a Retrograde, and I’ve grown in the past year, so I didn’t do any of that. Instead, I turned off my phone and I sat with it.

For a long time, I have been struggling with balance in my life. Giving enough to myself and all that I want to nurture—making sure I live authentically as a chronically-ill and neurodivergent person but don’t use those as excuses or blocks on the way. As I’ve done the healing work the last 18 months, I’ve changed and evolved and so too has my perspectives, wants, needs, and my writing. Something that hasn’t really changed however is that I still find it easier to see the obstacles with writing than the possibilities. I notice now that when I sit down to show up for my novel or any kind of piece I’m working on, in the back of my mind the challenges are always there. Will anyone read what I’m writing, will anyone relate to it, where is this going to go, is it fit for purpose, and why am I doing this when everyone and their TikTok accounts are writing a fucking book these days. The publishing industry is even more diabolical these days than it was just a mere five years ago and so many talented, original writers are being overlooked because of following, presence online, or underrepresentation. Let’s not even go down the line of AI and the difficulties it brings along. These are hard facts to ignore when you sit at a manuscript that before it had even begun, is going to be against odds even if it turns out to the greatest book of our time.

I’ve no idea where to go with all this anymore. My intuition is telling me solitude, privacy, and removing the distractions are the best thing for me and my work right now. My projects deserve to be nourished, nurtured, and giving half a chance. It has been so long since I have felt joy in a writing session that I’m truly beginning to wonder if there has ever been any to begin with. On the flip side, I have almost 300 people here on Substack who at some point or another, saw something in what I was writing and voicing that they decided to subscribe to me. That’s incredible. Imagine, as terrifying as it may be, to think of 300 people in one room; there for the sole purpose of listening to you read what you have written. Yet, I’ve no idea how to engage with any of it anymore—has the care gone from my side, the other, or both? I’m not around here near as much as I was last year or the beginning of this year and it shows. Engagement has come crashing down and my notes seem to slip into the void unnoticed. Where I’m at, that is a red flag for an energy drain and I can’t keep losing really precious energy. I don’t want to write a generic newsletter every month that really nobody is interested in because we are on ‘receive’ all the time. I just truly don’t know how to show up here anymore; nothing fits.

I never imagined that trying to following this purpose would ever be so difficult and I think that is what is giving me cause for concern now. In my spiritual practice as a witch and pagan, it is said that what is for you will not cause issue, it will come to you in the right time, in the right way, without any kind of chaos or difficulty. However, I am also told that I am to blaze the trail on this writing path and not to give up. Perhaps, it is not the writing that is giving the concern but the environment? Maybe a sporadic online life is the right thing for me and my path and the majority of it is lived in the privacy of my projects and writing space. Have we become so conditioned to sharing our lives with social media that privacy now seems like both a luxury and an act of selfishness? We expect to be given access to anyone at anytime these days and when that is taken away we are punished; with no engagement, with unsupportive comments, and no connection. The act of writing used to be something liberating, something almost in the region of activism; look at Angela Carter, Sylvia Plath, Anne Carson, or Audre Lourde. Where has that literary beauty gone? Something so radical, inspiring, and original that you are left mouth agape; your soul screaming, ‘Yes, this is what I want too, I need to write my story’. So many things now, especially here, are regurgitation and it is beyond frustrating.

Yesterday, when I wanted to burn it all down, I wrote a note and in that note I realised that writing wild for me is not really about ecology or ecosystems, or about my relationship with the wild world. It is the wild in death, in grief, in the uncomfortable and the unrelenting; in the thresholds and darkness, in the body, in the systems that try to suppress us. I have been observing for the last few months, beginning to be curious about language, interpretation, and the conditioning we not only receive but put upon other living things. Maybe my want to burn it all down is about the system, about the bullshit gatekeeping and the same safe people getting the opportunities. Perhaps that is what is coming alive within me—the want to not participate in the circus and within the quiet of solitude I will find a way to make an impact. Maybe one day soon I will believe that writing is still a rebellious act and that we as writers, can make a difference. I think before that happens, I need to find a different way to write. Perchance, it is time to call upon the literary witches.

Between the wild and in-between,

Rochelle x

The Writing Desk

This month has thrown another curveball into the mix in regard to one of my main projects. For the last few months, I’ve been doing research for a book I thought was going to be a short prose collection book written with an non-anthropomorphic outlook and told from the perspective of selected bird of prey. Upon revisiting the idea after completing my final bit of research, something wasn’t landing for me as it had in the beginning. I had made the realisations early on that the birds don’t know our human words for things and to make assumptions was still giving them a human context. I could make a creative decision that some human named objects and phrasing could be used but try and keep it minimal but that didn’t feel like I was giving myself much to work with. Poetry prose, flash fiction, and short story depends on lyrical phrasing, arcs, readers want to be drawn into something fully and I just didn’t think that I could do that anymore with my idea the way it was.

It was nothing about skill, it was something deeper. These birds had become so much more to me than I had realised and I wanted to make sure the writing I did produce did something worthwhile and justified. I had a few bad days, I cried a lot, felt really low and lost; This project had been one that had already helped me grow as a writer and I felt like I was falling at a mid point hurdle. It wasn’t until I was sitting reading one of my current read that a line on the cover jolted something awake within me; finding freedom in a wild place. It occurred to me that ‘freedom’ was one of the many misconceptions put upon the birds by humans but in turn I realised I had lived by this most of my life too. We think a bird is free because it has wings, it can fly and ride the thermals, take off and flee, go anywhere it wants. That’s not it’s true freedom. In this knowing, I saw it, in observing, learning, and growing with these birds, I was also exploring my inner landscape in ways I had never done before. That is when the idea completely shifted and I got that moment of chills when things finally make sense; the book wanted to be something different all along. So the prose collection has now been renamed a re-routed as a creative non-fiction book.

I’m excited with the things I’m jotting down in my project book, the ideas are flowing and connections are being made almost upon accident. I bought myself a new project journal so I can spend time with observations, questions, memories or scenes of my life and write into the in pen and paper before moving to the screen. This is something I’ve never done before, once again this project is asking me to adapt and expand. I will keep you updated as this unfolds, but I want to make sure I am giving it the attention and peace it deserves.

Write Club Secret Summer sessions started again this month. We’re in for a treat with 8 weeks instead of 6 and I’m very much welcoming it in. I’m getting back to my novel and beginning to trust the process. I have been noting down some possible scenario additions to the early stages that I have, and I have decided to begin doing some research in the form of reading some incredible literary witches; Angela Carter and Anne Carson are going to be helping me along with this novel. I’m excited to give it my best shot and just show up each session without expectations. I want to let my intuition and trust guide me for a while, feel into the words, instead of my head.

Currently Reading

I’m really enjoying being back to reading on a more regular basis. Non-fiction has been the majority of what I’ve been reading outside of poetry so far this year and it has really done a lot for me. I’m currently reading ‘Hermit’ by Jade Angeles Fitton which, although it is a memoir and non fiction, another step into a new place for me in both reading and my own creative ways. As someone who has been in narcissistic abusive and toxic relationships, I didn’t expect this subject to come up from the get go; the blurb hadn’t mentioned anything like that, only “When Jade’s partner leaves’. This was quite jarring I have to admit and it almost stopped me, but the way it was written and the feeling it was giving me past the discomfort of my own wounds, made me reconsider. It’s a book that isn’t like many I’ve read this year and although I’m taking my time with it rather than devouring it, I am enjoying the journey.

Subscribe now

I’ve also started ‘The Bloody Chamber’ by Angela Carter. I haven’t read a lot of the lyrical classics from the literary witches and I wanted to make sure this year I changed that. It is truly an absorbing collection from the get go, and gives a dark, sensual, and fantastic new way of telling the fairytales for the feminist times. I’m excited to delve in more to the books on my book nook shelves; Carson, Nin, Plath, Jackson and more to inspire something different for me.

Birds, Beings, Botany

This month I want to take a moment and focus on a very overlooked little creature.

Bombus Hyporum - Bumblebee 🐝

Unlike Honey Bees, Bumblebee colonies have an annual life cycle. At the end of the season, the old workers and queen die, leaving only new queens to hibernate underground and start entirely new colonies in the following spring. Their colonies are relatively small, ranging for 50 to 400 individuals at their peak.

Worker bees only live for 4-6 weeks. They need to be constantly replaced which is why the queen lays eggs all summer. Bumblebees like comfortable, steady temperatures and will often not forage if temperatures get too high. This month, I had to step in to a lovely bumbler who was very much suffering due to the heat. Research shows that bees can sleep or stay still for 30-45 minutes in one place. If you notice the bee in the same place longer than that, help for food and shade in summer and winter particularly is helpful. If you have bee friendly flowers in your garden or near your area, that is truly the ideal place; a source of food and shade. If this isn’t an option you can give them sugar water— a mix of 50/50 sugar and water on a small spoon. Offer it to the bee’s head and then allow it to recuperate. Please only use white sugar, and do not use brown sugar or honey. Brown sugar is harder for bumblebees to digest and honey can contain pathogens which might make the bumblebee ill.

The bumbler I found seemed to be exhausted and dehydrated. I offered it the sugar water and then I put it in the shade of some plants and flowers in the garden to sleep.

Please also remember, bumblebees are docile by nature and they will only sting when they feel directly threatened.

You can find out more about how you can help bees in your garden via the RHS website.

Wild Card

The oracle deck I’m using for this month has become one of my favourites. It is by Asha Frost an incredible Indigenous Medicine Woman. It is ‘The Animal Elders’ deck.

The card is: Elder Snake - Release the old - 37.

I don’t find it coincidental that I should pick this card after finishing a new poem about Medusa. Shedding the old skins of our being isn’t always comfortable, they can leave us feeling raw and vulnerable. It is important to honour the stories and experiences you’ve gained, the pain you’ve lived and lean in to the choice of letting go. We always have agency; we can always step into our power. Remember there is always a liminal space between who you are releasing and who you are becoming. This part is probably the most important part of transformation but it can also be the most frustrating.

Snake is very much linked to Earth energy. Perhaps you’re going through something heavy right now and you are being asked to find rejuvenation and support in the earth; visit a tree, walk barefoot on your grass, plant some flowers or seeds in your garden or get a new house plant. As someone who loves being in nature but is chronically ill, I find my house plants really help me on days I need connection that I can’t go out to get. For me, having bird feeders in my garden also helps me reconnect. Give yourself the permission to actually feel what you are going through. The spiritual community is full of a lot of bypassing these days, it’s not all love and light, true balance comes from knowing and being comfortable in both light and shadow. Your feelings don’t have to stop you from doing, although, to stop for a while, have a good cry and nap can do wonders. Acknowledge the feeling, give it space to be, a lot of the time that’s all it wants—recognition and attention. Let the feeling be there without judgement or analysis, let it tell you and your body how it wants to manifest and what it is about in due course.

Share

Creative Prompt: Let the Snakes Speak

I have a large grimoire book, that I go to now and ask Medusa to help me with my sacred rage, to express wounds that have been with me for a long time; giving myself voice finally on these things. I also write letters to express grief and anger too in this book. How do you want to let the snakes speak? Do they want to speak in art, writing, music, poetry, journaling, or photography? What snake is the loudest for you right now that needs to be shed?

Take your time and take care of yourself, never push beyond your capacity with these. There is no need, it will all come in due time.

What I’m Making Beyond Words

This month quite honestly has mostly been occupied by writing and reading. I did do a little fun crafting project for my inner child and bought myself a DIY bird house kit. There are 4 different shape and sized bird houses to put together and then decorate as you like. I enjoyed it overall, but I did notice a lot of pressure and perfectionism kick in near the end when they didn’t turn out the way I’d planned in my head.

I will admit there has been a little bit of me that is wanting to get back to watercolour but I’m still riding myself apprehensive. Making excuses, telling myself I don’t have the time to set up, paint, and tidy in the window of opportunity I have. I know that is BS and it’s perfectionism holding me back. I know one day soon, I’ll just let my impulsivity win and I’ll do it—probably at the very least optimal time. I have also been gravitating towards the keys of my piano again. My grandmother was an exquisite piano player and she always said she’d teach me; however due to several strokes she never got around to being able to get back to playing and in turn, couldn’t teach me. I have named my piano after her and I ask her for guidance every time I go to it. Perhaps in the hibernation period of late autumn and winter I will give more focus to it; just me and Agnes trying to create together.

I hope this little round-up has brought something useful, something warming, or at the very least something that made you feel a little less alone in your creative life. This space, like all of my work, comes from a place of genuine love for words, wildness, and the people who find their way here.

As a chronically ill and neurodivergent creative, writing is not something I do alongside life — it is my life, and my only source of income. If this round-up has resonated with you in any way, any support you’re able to offer genuinely means the world and keeps this work alive. If you enjoyed it, please like, share, and leave a comment — it costs nothing and means everything. If you’re not already subscribed, I’d love to have you here permanently. And if you’re in a position to support at the paid tier or leave a small donation via the link below, I am more grateful than words can quite cover.

Buy Me A...

Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. Until the next one — whenever it’s ready.

In the wild and in-between,

Rochelle x

Here in the UK, we are getting ready to welcome in Litha—The Summer Solstice. We are hitting the peak of the year, the most light, the want for actionable ideas to make the most bountiful harvest, and seeing how much abundance has grown around us and within us. Unlike many others, my altar isn’t decorated for the turnings of the wheel; my altar stays sacred to who I am and honours my Ancestors, the birds of prey, Mother Hecate and my dearest Goddesses, and now I have a candle for myself too.

This week, I felt like I needed to do another inventory of my life and clear away any newer stagnant energy that had come along in the last few months. With that, I made a decision to downsize my altar and I have lovingly recycled and sold the majority of my oracle and tarot cards, alongside some ‘tools’—I am now a witch without a physical cauldron. I came into this journey as a witch with many preconceived and conditioned ideas about what witchcraft was and ‘should’ be; it was then reiterated by the social media presence and the books that I read—A witch needed crystals, divination tools, altar space, books, herbs, and a whole lot of other tools and ornaments to go with it. I have realised, especially this year, that I have always been a witch with or without those items, all I truly need is my intuition, my authenticity, a candle, and a pen and paper. I got really caught up in defining myself in my witch journey, always wondering what kind of witch I was and what that label meant for my practice. I didn’t fit fully in most, I have no interest in herbs or potions, I love our natural world, the moon, the animals of this world, and craft; the actual craft of it in painting, sewing, writing, collecting flowers, shells, and tree pictures. I am a witch (full stop).

My witchcraft and honouring of it comes through words; the words I speak to my Spirit Coven, myself, others, then words I write down in story, book, journal, essay, or poetry forms. I am a literary witch for all intent and purpose, like Angela Carter, Anne Carson, Emily Dickson, or of course Sylvia Plath. I take my experience, pain, and wisdom and I alchemise it into a creation; my soul has no notion of not writing or creating and often puts so much into it that it terrifies me to a point of freezing up. Ironically, no book out there is going to tell me how to be the witch I am. There is nothing performative about me or my craft; you won’t find curated pictures of me with the trees, dressed up and looking my best—I wear leggings and oversized sweatshirts to visit the trees mostly. When I am spending time in the trees, I no longer think about Instagram worthy material, it’s sad to me that I used to for a long time. I speak out loud, from the heart, never saying the same things to them, never holding back the truth. I have become very dismayed about the online witchcraft culture and I’ve spoke out about it often. I see these women, with incredible opportunities and platforms, posting up all of their beautifully taken pictures of their witch craft practice; their time out in our natural world, telling us how witchcraft should work—and yet, I’ve never seen any of them talk about how they help the natural world around them. When they post pictures of being in fancy places, exquisite picture-worthy Air B’n’Bs they never show themselves helping small, independent businesses in these towns, or what they did to help the oceans and beaches while in the area. They never talk about conservation, they only tell us how the natural world can help us. What do they give back?

I know it must seem I am getting a little bit salty at times about this, and there isn’t meant to be judgement but it’s definitely observation. I have seen a lot of online witches benefiting, especially financially, from their practice and their online portfolio but I don’t recall the last time I saw any of those witches actually do something to give back. Even in basic witchcraft we know ‘As above so below, as within so without’. You should always ask a tree before conversation or touch, you should never take from the natural world unless given permission, you should never take advantage; it will all come back however you put outward. I operate from a place of deep connection in my practice, when I think about writing in my grimoires—books where I note down grief, rage, letters to heal, moments with trees or in the natural world, I think about how many innocent ancestors died, carried it all in secret, so we can now have a place where we say loud and proud that we are witches. I often wonder, did our ancestors ever ponder that maybe one day, witchcraft can be bought into and material gain will be made from it?

I have always said, even when this space was ‘Author and Alchemy’ that your witch journey should be your own and I still stand by that. Where my issue lies now, is those who are jumping on a bandwagon and calling themself witch for anything other than an internal calling. Witch is not a trend; it is a soul home, it is a responsibility to the natural world, it is an expanse and growth of spiritual teaching, it is learning to dive deep within ourselves and sit with the shadows as well as the light, it is about generations of ancestors giving grit and strength so that we can break the generational traumas and blaze new trails. It is about connection; we are all connected, we are animals, we need the natural world more than it needs us.

This Litha, I won’t be decorating an altar nor will I be putting up pictures or tips telling you how you should celebrate or what you should focus on, what herb or crystal is best. That’s not my witchcraft. What I will be doing is showing up at my dearest fallen friend Shyla, giving her a fresh bouquet of flowers to thank her for our connection and to thank the network for all they do. I will sit in the lush green abundance of Summer, thankful for all around me and within me. I will listen to what comes up for me in that moment, I will write it down, and I will keep it sacred for me and my ancestors. That is all what I believe is authentic witchcraft, not performative spirituality.

I am thankful for the experience i’ve gained on my witch journey, all the awkward moments of feeling like I wasn’t a good enough witch or that I wasn’t showing up properly for my practice; that all gave me an insight into why it meant so much to me and reminded me that it was never a phase. My practice has changed, and is changing once again, but I know it will always be with me, the difference now though is that it is for me; I don’t feel the need to share it to prove I am a witch, I just am. The only advise I will give is that if you are truly considering your witch path, know yourself first; begin with the shadow work and don’t be too quick to buy into it; you don’t need books, tools, or any kind of herb to help you listen to yourself. I wish that was what I was told.

I hope you have a wonderful Litha however you celebrate and I hope this has given you some insight or clarity for your own journey.

In the wild and in-between,

Rochelle x

I’m in a spiritual crisis. Not the kind that comes from doubt—I have no doubt; My practice is genuine, my relationships with the divine are real, and the continued work I am doing is my own. The crisis is something different, something harder to say out loud because there doesn’t seem to be anything that can be done. It’s a particular kind of grief that has come along watching something sacred to you become aesthetic; Become content and a trend.

If you have followed me for a while, you’ll know that I work closely with Mother Hecate (I also walk with Freyja, Skadi, The Morrigan, Morana, Medusa, Persephone, and Lilith in this particular chapter of my life). These are not figures I chose from a list. They came to me—or more accurately, they called, and I learned to listen. Anyone who has genuinely worked with any of these goddesses understands that the relationship is initiated from their side, not yours. You don’t browse some sort of spiritual menu and select the ‘Dark Feminine’ because it seems powerful and mysterious and makes for a striking altar photo. They choose you and that choosing is rarely comfortable; it is an initiation into your shadow self and uncovering so much within yourself that you don’t want to acknowledge.

Mother Hecate does not show up to make you feel mystical. She shows up at the crossroads, in the in-between, when your life has fractured open and you are standing in the dark with no idea which way to walk. These goddesses are sovereign beings with ancient, complex natures, and working with them demands genuine surrender, reckoning, and cultivating an honest relationship. Which is why it breaks something in me to scroll through my feeds and see them reduced to branding. I do not give the goddesses herbs and crystals or food offerings—my offering to them is my truth each time I go to my altar, my gratitude, my struggle; showing up through it all and being open.

I want to be careful here, because I have no interest in gatekeeping spirituality. Before I changed my direction to Rochelle Writes Wild, Author and Alchemy was born to do quite the opposite. I understand that practice evolves and traditions shift. People find their way in unexpected places, and who am I to say how anyone’s calling begins?However, there is a difference — a real, felt difference — between someone being genuinely called on this path and someone performing a calling because it looks powerful on camera. Not every empowered female is a witch; not everyone who develops an interest in spiritually, astrology, or divination is a witch. Not every person who goes through a spiritual journey is here to be a witch. The performance has become so saturated that it’s genuinely hard to find the genuine people through the noise. The same phrases, the same altar layouts, the same language of ‘empowerment’ recycled endlessly by people who speak at length about authenticity while offering nothing original, nothing earned, nothing that bears the marks of actual practice. The irony is almost unbearable to me at this point.

Yes, I am aware that my frustration is partly a mirror. When the thing that grounds you becomes loud and shallow and everywhere, it can make your own practice feel destabilised. It feels like the frequency has been disrupted and the sacred space you’ve built quietly, over years, is suddenly being trampled by people who don’t know what they’re walking into—and worse, don’t know they don’t know.That’s where the spiritual crisis lives, for me. Not in disbelief but most definitely in grief.

There is something specifically disorienting about burnout that comes from the spiritual community itself. You expect cynicism from the outside, you do not expect to feel alienated from within.Here is what I keep coming back to: the dilution of the surface does not touch the depth.

There is a growing toxicity within the spiritual community and the true roots of witchcraft are being muddied throughout it all. It baffles me that we live in a time where people are asking to be more free to be all they are, for society to starts awakening and moving with the collective shifts; Yet, there are more labels than ever. How can we find freedom when we are trying to pick and choose what boxes contain us? That is not spiritual awakening. I do not want to have to label the kind of witch I am, the idea of it seems absolutely absurd to me; why does my practice now have to be categorised for convenience? ‘Baby Witch’, ‘Green Witch’, ‘Hedge Witch’, ‘Moon Witch’…there is a main take from it all, the word witch.

Do you think that the witches of our ancestry asked these things of each other? Do you think that they had little cliques, where one way was more popular than the other? They’d be affronted to even think such a notion would ever exist in their covens. Our ancestors kept Grimoires, sacred books of wisdom and knowledge safe and hidden to pass down to generations to be expanded upon. They did this even though it could risk them their lives. Now we’ve got ‘WitchTok’ and ‘Witchstagram’. It’s of course incredible that unlike those before us, we can now openly say we are a witch, or we have a belief style that not that long ago, would’ve been a death sentence. I have to wonder though if we’ve gone about visibility and understanding the right way. What the curated altars and ‘Messages from Hecate’ via tarot on camera isn’t telling is that shadow work, is a baseline in witchcraft practices. If you’re not doing the hard graft within, then you are not awakening or breaking cycles. The spiritual bypassing for this is immense.

I think what I’m grieving, ultimately, is the loss of a community I thought I had, or maybe the loss of an idea of that community — a place where people were finding their way in the dark together, genuinely, without an audience. Where the practice was allowed to be difficult, private, unglamorous and real. I know that space might still exist, but it just seems harder to find now.

So I’m writing this for the people who are also finding it hard. Who are quietly, sincerely doing the work and feeling oddly alone in it. Who have genuine and authentic relationships with forces far older than social media and feel vaguely exhausted to say so because the conversation has been so thoroughly hijacked by performance.

I don’t know what the answer is. I think for me, my practice now is going to become much more private again and the memories along the way will be made and recorded just for me, my ancestors, and the generations to come. Getting back to an analogue way of practice, just candles, journals, and quiet moments that are not for anyone but me and my spirit coven. I know I am not a ‘traditional’ witch and that my practice, like I said earlier, has evolved over the last few years but deep within me the lineage is sacred. I am proud to say I am a witch, I’m sure I always have been in every lifetime I’ve embodied it, but I believe there is a huge misapprehension now between speaking freely about who you are and criteria that ‘witch’ is now based on.

I know a lot of people won’t like this; I don’t give a shit.

Community is important in all walks of life, but I will never again sacrifice my truth and beliefs to try and fit in or for engagement.

In the wild and in-between,

Rochelle x

The harmful language around these kind of connections is where I realised how much spiritual bypassing there can be in the community. Even on a spiritual path, there are still people who confuse toxic love with sacrifice and reward; the belief that any suffering in a relationship is worthwhile because eventually the pair will heal and come together and break cycles. In all honesty, I can see now that this is why I have also backed away from a large majority of ‘spiritual’ spaces and conversations.

During this time, I wrote a three novel series to help me understand, process, and to find my creative spark again; my full focus on myself and what I truly loved had been so diminished in those years and I wanted to allow myself to remember who I came here to be. I pondered a lot about what to do with these novels but ultimately, I decided to put them on the back burner to maybe return to them at some point down the road. Recently, I got the urge to sit and re-read them; there was so much learning in writing them and I got so attached to these characters that making decisions was difficult along the way and I sometimes forgot these weren’t real people. I was truly invested in what I was writing and that, I feel, was the first time I’d experienced something like that about my writing; seeing it as worthwhile and actually finding enjoyment not just in the act of writing but building a world and having fun with dialogue. What I realised on re-reading was that the person I am now, and the person who wrote these books are very different. The writing wasn’t bad, there were actually sections where I was still really drawn in and I loved a lot of the exchanges between the characters; I loved that I saw I had the skill to bring characters to life in unexpected ways. What I also noticed was my rewired brain and dysregulated nervous system was flagged all over the pages; hypervigilence masking as devotion, someone not noticing her power and self-abandonment framed as romantic sacrifice. Abandonment wounds and unhealthy attachment was all there, in literal, black and white. I realised that I would now re-write it so differently; I would change so much not because of the writing or plot but because the beliefs underneath it all have changed exponentially.

This got my thinking in a broader sense about what I write, how I write, and also even bigger than that—what I read actually has such an impact. Around the same time I was writing these novels (over a six to eight month period) I started to reignite my bookworm ways and I gave new genres a try. I became wrapped up in the world of dragons, dark fantasy, and spice; Xaden Riorson became my book boyfriend and I was taking recommendations from BookTok a lot. With books like ‘Fourth Wing’ the world building in is truly immersive, the tension created is compelling, and that level of escapism was exactly what I needed at the time. I bought the recommendations, they’ve been sitting waiting in Kithra (my book nook) unread and recently I’ve been beginning to wonder if I actually want to.

When I started really looking with deep honesty and with more curiosity, I began noticing the dynamics in a lot of these books—the brooding, withholding male love interest, the woman who endures, who keeps trying to prove herself, who earns affection through suffering—wasn’t actually fantasy. It was the very pattern that not only had I been trying to heal from but the one I had written myself also. That recognition has changed things.

I don’t think the authors of these books are bad people or bad writers; I think in many cases they are brilliant story tellers who are—consciously or not—writing from their own relational blueprint. For many it can also be writing from a place of shadow or repressed sensuality, desire, or power. We all have the ability to do it and we, as writers, probably have done it more than we know; I certainly did.

There is however, a more serious note that goes very unaddressed, and that is how in BookTok culture, the emotionally unavailable male love interest has been thoroughly romanticised. The man who is cruel and distant at first, tender rarely, and whose eventual softening is treated as the heroine’s reward for endurance has become swoon-worthy. When you’ve lived that dynamic, when you’ve been hard rewired from the toll of that kind of connection, it no longer reads as romantic or tension filled.

One of the other things I have observed through all of this is that my viewpoint towards writing and reading ‘spicy’ scenes has changed as I feel like I can see what it actually teaches underneath the surface.

Now, I want to be clear; I have nothing at all against intimacy in fiction, I’ve written it. It is a part of our natural animal instincts and desires. It can be raw, honest, and in some cases necessary. The deeper truth I am beginning to understand is that the explicit scenes in this genre (dark fantasy type) are doing something subtler than titillation. They’re resolving tension that was created through control and emotional distance, through coldness and power imbalance—and framing the physical release as emotional healing. It makes it seem that there was never a problem in the connection, because look, they want each other. That’s not spicy or healthy intimacy, that’s an old story about what women should accept in exchange for desire. The performative quality of so much of this writing—the choreography of it, the distance between what's described and what an emotionally safe intimacy actually feels like—is something I can only see now that I know the difference.

This is not a moral decree about what anyone else should read or do in their own writing—escapism is valid, fantasy and dark fantasy are valid, complicated stories are valid. I do however, want to start writing and consuming as reader more intentionally.

My book nook had a good clear-out a few months ago but I am thinking about doing another pass of it in the coming days to as I feel there are still some on the shelves that are not in alignment with me. Do I still adore the Fourth Wing series? Yes, of course I do—I truly do think it is a great series that I loved escaping into, even though ‘Iron Flame’ was very much a slog for my neurodivergent ways. I came close to DNFing that one so many times and I feel that the first several hundred pages were quite unnecessary.

I never expected the healing I am doing to change so much about my life; I knew that the more your inner world changed, eventually the outer would catch up, but I didn’t expect that it would even change what I tolerate or notice in books, TV shows, and other entertainment sources. I now have devoured several memoir based books, bird related mostly, and I’m finding that in this cycle of my life, non-fiction/non-fiction memoir has been a great place to be. Healing has changed what I write too, and where I want to put my authenticity, energy, and focus on the path I am creating. There is nothing performative about my path, I’m learning to observe and to use my voice to no longer pretend to feel things or say I’m in spaces within myself I am not. I am, it would seem, learning a real kind of wildness.

From the wild and In-between,

Rochelle x

Welcome to the first Writing Wild Round-Up.

I have been thinking about how to show up for the wonderful people here who have chosen me and my writing to subscribe and who support and champion it all for a while now.

I’ve decided that I will do a new style of round-up/update but for now I’m not going to be putting a timescale or any kind of pressure on these. I will try and do one monthly if I can but that may not always be the case.

Let’s wander into the wild and in-between shall we?

The Writing Desk ✍️

I’ve been in the research stage of a new project that I mentioned a few weeks ago; a short prose collection which is based around the truth and anti-anthropomorphic viewpoint of bird of prey. I’m very excited about the project and I have been able to build some incredible foundations thanks to the kindness and time of some wonderful experts. I have spoken to Barn Owl Trust, Lynn Bowser and Ranger Tony from Argaty Red Kites, Head Keeper Trystan at the Scottish Owl Centre, and upcoming I’m speaking to Head Keeper Stuart at World of Wings.

These insights have been astounding for me, and the more I am learning the more I am cementing my love for these incredible raptors. I’m also finding that even before I start writing, observing the true nature of the them and the natural world is helping me within myself. It is helping me with radical acceptance in the self as well as within the world around me. I know this project has the potential to really change me and I hope, help these raptors be seen as they are too. I am not rushing this project, I am happily in the information stage and I think I’m going to hunker down in late summer and autumn and start writing this fully.

I have started edits now on my forthcoming poetry debut pamphlet, ‘Wolf in the Nursery’ which will be released sometime next year (2027). I can already tell that Catherine Balaq, my editor and mentor and co-editor of Black Cat is going to really help me with mastering new skills in my craft. I will keep you updated on this as it develop more.

Subscribe now

There’s some truth I also need to get out there; I haven’t been showing up for my writing sessions with WriteClub this time around and not been giving attention to my novel that it deserves. I am signed up for another 8 week bootcamp for summer with and I fully intend to kick myself into gear and just get lines going. I have been stuck in a place of overwhelm and perfectionism recently and it has meant that I’ve been in a place of operating from old stories and wounds. It can be disheartening to be a writer a lot these days; submissions are tough going, comparison and competition is in the air, and there’s not always the best support in the community because of it. I’ll get back to it and I will share more about the novel once I start to get words on the page again.

This month has been my best ever month in the five years I have been writing and doing poetry full-time. I have gotten several acceptances this month, one very exciting opportunity that I hear more about next month, and I’ve had a poem titled ‘Home Share’ released in an anthology by ‘Flight of the DragonFly’ press called ‘Destinations’. This anthology was a collaboration project with the MA Creative Writing Students at Brighton University and I am really proud that they picked this particular poem, as it is one of my punchier and fizzier pieces.

Currently Reading 📖

The past few weeks I’ve really been making more of a conscious effort with reading instead of scrolling and I am seeing the benefits even though it’s still early days. I have noticed that so far this year I have read more than I did the whole of last year. I’m happy with this progress, especially with being a neurodivergent and chronically-ill person.

My current read is ‘A Sky Full of Kites’ by Tom Bowser. It is a real-life, re-wilding story of how the Bowser family set about bringing the acclaimed Argaty Red Kites project to fruition and beyond that to re-wilding their farm with passion, and hope for Britain’s declining wildlife. I am really enjoying the book which is a mix of incredibly interesting facts and knowledge with the added humour and heart of the real-life story coming through.

I attended an online launch via Portobello Bookshop this month for the newest offering from one of my favourite writers and poets, Polly Atkin. Her new book ‘Swimming the Seasons’ is a freshwater almanac from May to May telling the love story between a person and place. I’ve had a little peek at it and I can’t wait to read it; it’s going to be a perfect palette cleanser as I have been reading a lot of non-fiction and non-fiction memoir of late, all bird related.

A book that surprised me this month was ‘Likeable’ by Fearne Cotton. It was such an enjoyable and easy read given the subject matter and I really liked the humour, warmth, honesty, and empowerment I felt throughout. I’m really glad I gave it a try and I’ve now passed it on to my closest friend.

Birds, Beings, and Botany 🌿

I want to bring focus to something from the bird, being, or botany categories in each edition of this I sent out. I want to help reconnect people with the natural world and their own animal body. This month, I have been feeling the need to go back to foundational methods in my practice and I’m being reminded of the elements. I have forgotten how easily I can relate to the elements each day, even in my writing. The element I have been drawn to most is, strangely, water.

Fun fact about me: I hate being in water and have an all consuming fear of swimming. Even though this is the case for me, I find the sound and presence of water very regulating and calming. I love a warm cleansing shower; I always go in with the intentions of flow, cleansing, and rejuvenation. Water can represent a lot of things, the most common are flow, emotions, and cleansing. It embodies the power to heal and adapt, and rest and strength when overcoming obstacles.

Subscribe now

Recently in my therapy journey, my therapist suggested that perhaps the call to water was so I could give the water some deep wounds, whisper it to the water spirits or simply scribble it out and give it to the water to take away. I will ponder this and see what the water calls on me to take to her.

Simple ways to honour water element in your life are: washing dishes, washing clothes, taking a bath or shower, swimming, yoga, dancing, or even conscious stream journalling. In creativity you can use watercolour paints, gouache, paper marbling, pen-walks on paper, or even start aromatherapy oil making.

Wild Card 🃁

I truly love to bring divination to my creativity as I feel like my kind of witchcraft is based around being a literary witch.

This month I’d like to offer a card to help you in your creativity too.

From ‘The Sacred Forest’ oracle, the card this month is:

‘Thicket of Thorns’ - Uncertainty - number 43.

This card indicates that you might be feeling stuck in an area of your life right now; perhaps you’re feeling that no matter what you do, what direction you go, you encounter blockages. It’s time to slow down and breathe, stop struggling and let the thorns open a path forward. Take a moment to accept where you are and acknowledge what may needs releasing. Timing can’t be forced.

In regards to creativity it may be calling you to see beyond the trees so to speak; don’t forget the forest also has butterflies, deers, natural light and shadow; it is a living, breathing, eco-system and is so much more than we sometimes remember.

To help you, I’d suggest making a list of everything that’s alive in your creative life right now that isn’t the stuck thing. Sometimes the inventory itself shifts something.

Writing prompts

• Write about a time you stopped fighting something and it resolved itself. What did the surrender feel like in your body before your mind caught up?

• Describe a thicket — real or imagined. What’s on the other side of it? What are you assuming is on the other side that might not be true?

• Write a letter to something you know you need to release but haven’t yet. You don’t have to send it anywhere.

Wider creative prompts

• Sit with one creative project you’ve been forcing. Write down three things about it that are actually already working. Just three.

• Go outside or to a window and find one small thing you’ve been not been noticing. Sketch it, photograph it, or just describe it in five sentences.

• Pick a colour that feels like where you are right now. Think of it somewhere in nature — a leaf, the sky, a stone. Spend five minutes creating the image.

  Thanks for reading Rochelle Writes Wild ! This post is public so feel free to share it.

  Share

Beyond the Words ✏️

Recently I got back to doing some sketching after not doing so for a few weeks. It really helps me in a lot of ways, especially in regard to processing things I’ve been realising within myself and show up consistently without perfectionism. I am able to view a sketch as raw, real, and in the moment.

I have the intention to begin learning more art skills properly; I’d love to be able to successfully bring something to life with coloured pencils. I also love the art that Hannah Bunzey creates with alcohol markers and I think I need a bit of that whimsy in my life.

I am still in a place where I am trying to learn to stay present in a balanced way online but to really focus on the real-life of things. I’m recovering for years of autistic burnout as well as trauma, so I’m trying to be much more intentional in my life. I think that is where my idea for wild world meditation has come in; using the birds of prey and natural world to allow us reflection time and learning our own bodies. You can read more about this in one of my most recent posts here.

Incase you missed them here is a direct link to my recent posts on Substack and on my blog via my website:

What The Oak Taught Me About My Own Body

If A Tree Falls…

Before the Poems: How Wolf found its way into my debut pamphlet

I hope this little round-up has brought something useful, something warming, or at the very least something that made you feel a little less alone in your creative life. This space, like all of my work, comes from a place of genuine love for words, wildness, and the people who find their way here.

As a chronically ill and neurodivergent creative, writing is not something I do alongside life — it is my life, and my only source of income. If this round-up has resonated with you in any way, any support you’re able to offer genuinely means the world and keeps this work alive. If you enjoyed it, please like, share, and leave a comment — it costs nothing and means everything. If you’re not already subscribed, I’d love to have you here permanently. And if you’re in a position to support at the paid tier or leave a small donation via the link below, I am more grateful than words can quite cover.

Buy Me A...

Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. Until the next one — whenever it’s ready.

In the wild and in-between,

Rochelle x

I was sitting down to begin a meeting about edits for my debut poetry pamphlet ‘Wolf in the Nursery’ with Catherine Balaq. The pamphlet is forthcoming in 2027 with Black cat Poetry Press; this time of my life has been dreamt about since I returned to writing and poetry full-time five years ago. It is the most surreal mixture of thresholds crossing; I’m not at all who I was when I first expressed this dream but I’m not yet who I am becoming.

As any good mentor or editor does, Catherine asked me about what I think this pamphlet covers in thematically as well as what it means to me; where did all of these weird and wonderful lines, words, and vision culminate from? It was then while talking that I realised within myself that the roots for this pamphlet go much deeper and wider than I ever realised.

I began physically writing this specific pamphlet after seeing Hollie McNish perform live at in Stirling on her ‘Lobster’ book tour. It was a very cold, dark, rainy October night; the usual for Scotland—especially in later autumn. I was inspired by how authentic Hollie; how she carried herself, how she wasn’t afraid to laugh at the stories behind her work, and she was didn’t have to ‘perform’ at anything. Hollie—like another of my favourites, Maria Ferguson—has always written motherhood well. She shows the tenderness, grief, and damn right ridiculousness without ever taking anything away from experience. I had always wanted to write about my experience as a chronically-ill and neurodivergent mother but I was aware that motherhood continues to be a very tetchy subject. On the way home that night an idea hit me, I wrote down one singular line—I used to be scared of giraffes until I birthed one. The next day I sat down with one of my many notebooks and scribbled down line after line until I was in a place to type it out. Then the real work of editing began.

Share

This was the moment that this entire pamphlet became something tangible; there was now a seed to nurture, a way beginning that I could tell motherhood from my perspective.

What I’ve been realising is that this pamphlet has actually been with me for many years; much further back than I could comprehend. I have always found it easier to relate to animals than humans. At times in my childhood it felt like I was more like a caged beast than a child trying to learn the ways of things. I was, thanks to unrecognised neurodivergence and small-town mentality, always a solitary kid; I didn’t really belong fully to any friend group or clique—I was branded a ‘lone wolf’. What I’ve come to realise in my reluctant sage years is that the lone wolf is not born a lone wolf, it is a made. From my formative years I was living a life akin to the very animal that would show me up in my life, time and time over. I have been writing this debut pamphlet within, storing experience and observations since I was primary school age.

Writing for me has never been a choice, it is something that is in my soul, my veins, the core of me. It is something that at times feels like all I’ve ever known—as Plath once said herself, there is a voice in me that will not be still. Animals have been my friends much longer than any other living beings. I remember talking to dogs and cats on the days I sat alone on the front steps of my childhood home, knowing they were better company than any other. It was another thing that the neighbours saw me as weird for I’m sure, but I never cared—I never really liked most of them anyway. These two things have always been there; writing and animals. My party tricks are being able to sound and make facial expressions like certain animals because I have observed them so much. It is also how I manage to sketch these beings at time now, by heart.

On my first birthday as mother in 2016, my husband took us and our eldest son (at the time our only child) to Highland Wildlife Park near Kingussie. Our eldest son was my ‘rainbow baby’ and I didn’t think we’d be able to have any others so I wanted our memories with him to begin as quickly as we could make them. He was nine-and-a-half months old when my birthday came around. One of the areas I wanted to go to witness at the park was Wolf Wood. Being in Scotland, I had never seen a wolf properly in my life, and I had always had a pull to be in their presence. My body wanted to know what it would be like; or perhaps it was a remembering. We made our way towards that spot for an early lunch for our son; it was a cooler, cloudy day in late September so it was pretty quiet. We were the only ones at Wolf Wood when we got there. Upon approaching the area, we could see the pack, some were eating their latest offerings, and a few were scouting the perimeter. There was a wooden platform you could stand on to have a slightly better view of the wood.

Subscribe now

We stood there, quietly, just observing, and I did what I always do; I quietly introduced myself and assured them I was only here to be a friend to them and ask to be in their presence. We stood for a few moments, my heart was racing, adrenaline and joy pulsing through my limbs and chest, when all of a sudden the alpha (Each wolf and their information was on a sign on the platform) stopped eating and made eye contact with me. He left his meal and started walking towards me, we were lower on the platform at this point. I didn’t feel threatened, I was drawn in to his presence, he came so close to me, as close as he could be within his boundaries, stopped and lay down. He was still looking at me, when the rest of the pack, all six or seven other wolves, made their way towards me and the alpha and lay down, all of them with their eyes directly on me. I didn’t move, I didn’t know what was going on, there was nothing aggressive about it, their movements had been instinctual and calm. The alpha looked at me once more and closed his eyes, the rest following suit, and they all went to sleep facing me. There were little cubs playing around the woods, and every so often one wolf would get up and patrol and then go back. My son watched the cubs with delight and I found a bench at the bottom of the enclosure, mouth agape, trying to understand and process what had just happened. It has never left me. It was almost like they knew me. This stays with me, even to this day, almost ten years later.

In November 2018 I lost my soul dog Vader; now reader, I’ve been through my share of hardships and heartbreaks in my life, I’ve experienced narcissistic abuse and worse; so when I tell you that this was the hardest things I’ve ever gone through, I mean it from the fibres of my being. It got to a point that I ended up having to go to therapy but that was after I had attracted some sort of karmic relationship into my life who turned out to be another narcissistic, avoidant who only wanted me to fill up their cup. During that relationship being in my life, wolf came to me in my dreams 4 or 5 times. The same dream, a pack of black wolves; they wouldn’t let me go where I wanted to go, they pushed me backward and lead me back through a forest instead, losing the blackness the further they got from where I was trying to go. It was at this point I realised that Vader passing was part of a spiritual awakening for me and that I needed to start healing in the aforementioned therapy sessions. During my sessions, the therapist I was seeing began talking about a book she had of animal archetypes and that she felt one passage would be a good read for me, so she sent me a scan of it over. It was chapter fifteen, ‘Wolf’ and the words ‘teacher, pathfinder, moon-dog of my soul’. It brought up something for me; wolf is the path finder who returns to the clan to teach. What was I here to teach myself and others? How was I being called to embody my inner wolf? It wasn’t long after this that I started to become curious about my path and uncovered my witch ways. In so many ways, I am more wolf than anything else.

Last year, I returned to Wolf Wood with my sons and husband. There wasn’t as many in the pack this particular time, but I was shocked to see that the alpha I had connected with the first time, was still there—although no longer the alpha of the pack. There were two other wolves in the enclosure , a breeding pair with cubs of their own. Old alpha made eye contact with me and once again slept near where my feet were above him. The breeding pair also came right up to me at the boundaries and stood and listened to me chat away to them. They also eventually lay down to the side of me and took turns patrolling and watching their cubs. I got the same feeling of home and connection I did the first time. Around the animals who represent wildness, I felt safe and calm, I only started to get nervous when more humans came our way. I said a heartfelt goodbye and wished them safety and good care.

Wolves, like women, have been misunderstood, judged, persecuted, and hunted for centuries. They are considered dangerous — as all things that carry wisdom, grace, strength, and intelligence tend to be. It is fitting then that in the times I have felt my messiest, my most wild, and desperate for escape, wolf has been there; a presence at the edge of the dark, reminding me of all that I am.

This pamphlet isn’t only about motherhood, or childhood, or even the grief we carry quietly as women. It is about the wildness within us — the part that has been told to be still, to be smaller, to be safe. It is about knowing that without that wildness, there would be nothing worth saying at all.

Atlas held me. We said nothing, this stunning Oak tree and I, not after asking her if I could lean against her like I have before. Everything had become too much; the constant consumption of social media and opinions from people who tell me they know how to solve the issues in my life better than I do. Every insecurity I have and doubt I had pondered for days had pushed me to a point of annoying myself…

I’d love for you to read the full piece here.

I'll still be showing up here on Substack, just a little differently now. You'll find fragments of new work here, glimpses behind the writing, and the occasional piece that belongs specifically to this space. It won't be as frequent as I'd once planned, but what I bring here will still be intentional and real. My full work lives on the Rochelle Writes Wild website— I'd love for you to come and find it there too.

Last week I spent the day at the Scottish Owl Centre — researching and interviewing for a new project I'm building about birds of prey and the wild world. I'll be bringing you exclusive glimpses of that trip and the work here very soon.

In the wild and in-between,

Rochelle x