Choosing yourself can be one of the hardest things to do. If you are like me, you may have a tendency to self-criticise and fall into negative self-talk any time you place yourself first – old behaviours that resurface every now and then, usually when you least expect them.

I often “push through” and ignore what my mind and body are screaming out for. I turn a blind eye to the way I treat myself and the behaviours I choose to use. I allow what I perceive to be other people’s expectations of me to drive me forward when, in reality, I know that what others expect from me is their business and not my concern.

Taking time to self-evaluate can be difficult, uncomfortable and unsettling but I believe the only way we can truly find ourselves is if we are willing to face the difficult, the uncomfortable and the unsettling.

We may not always like what we see when we do.

A number of years ago, I reached a point in my life where I felt incomplete, less than, unfulfilled and lost. In all honesty, I blamed the actions of others for my unhappiness. I lived in victimhood. I wanted someone to rescue me.

I don’t know if I thought waiting for someone to “fix” me was the easier option, but I can say with certainty that there were times when I considered it might be, because unlearning and changing is not pretty. I would go as far as saying it can be downright ugly.

However, once I had made the choice, albeit tentatively, to look inwardly, I had opened this bottomless box containing pieces of me I didn’t recognise. There was no closing it again.

I remember thinking, who the fuck is this person? Who have I allowed myself to become?

I felt a whole host of emotions – all negative. Frustration, anger, sadness, pity, shame. I berated myself. I blamed the world for who I had become.

I took ownership of nothing.

The negativity I felt towards myself was all-consuming. I was so conflicted that I couldn’t see straight and I realise now that much of what I was doing came from a place of fear. Fear of judgement. Fear of loss. Fear of failure. Fear of not meeting other people’s expectations of me.

I knew something had to change and that the only person who could change my circumstances was me. This is when I found Choice Theory and my life slowly began to change – and this time, I was in the driving seat.

It took me many years and countless hard lessons to fully digest the fact that the only person I can ever control is myself. Trying to control or coerce another person into doing what we want them to do can become deeply harmful. I would go as far as saying it is abuse. That realisation sat heavy with me.

I had to take a long, hard look inward – at my behaviours, my choices, what I accepted and what I allowed – and trust me, it wasn’t pretty.

There were many times when all I wanted to do was bury my head in the sand, but I had uncovered this information and it was up to me to do something with it. I asked myself more questions than I can remember. I posed scenarios. I excused myself. I blamed others. I held things that were never mine to hold.

I don’t think I was truly prepared for how I would feel when I began peeling back the layers of myself. I’m not sure you can ever fully prepare for something like that. Up until that point, I had considered myself a very “together” person.

Until I wasn’t.

My walk back to myself was filled with obstacles that challenged me in ways I had never imagined, but the road I took also led me to parts of myself I hadn’t had the opportunity to meet yet. These little nuggets of me that I had either ignored or neglected, once given the attention they deserved, held me firm in my quest to get to know Hazel.

I was afraid because I didn’t know what lay ahead. I was excited because I was choosing the direction I would take.

At first, looking inwardly was a conscious effort and, at times, a chore. Constantly asking yourself “Does this serve me?” “Am I reflecting my own wants onto another person?” “Is this meeting one or some of my needs?” can become tedious.

There were times when I reverted to old behaviours and felt frustrated, imbalanced and conflicted. Yet when I sat with those feelings and gave myself time to process them, I usually realised that I was either comparing myself to others, basing my choices around what I believed others wanted from me, or trying to control another person’s behaviour.

When I took the time to remind myself that I am in control of me – my actions, my thoughts, my feelings – I felt a sense of personal power and empowerment that became kind of addictive. I loved feeling in control of myself. My own space. My own choices.

The Dirty Dancing line “this is my dance space… this is your dance space” often sprang to mind.

The freedom I felt when I actively chose myself was exhilarating. So much so that it gave me the focus and drive I needed to continue along the path I had laid out for myself.

Fast forward a number of years.

Trauma re-entered my life and my Dad died suddenly. I found myself, once again, in no man’s land. I chose to ignore myself and reverted to old, self-deprecating behaviours. There is something uncanny about old behaviours – no matter how much they take from your life, they remain in there somewhere and will rear their ugly heads again if given the space.

This time around, however, I was no longer the victim… I became the rescuer.

I piled all my focus into everyone and everything that could take my attention away from myself. Maybe it was necessary. Maybe, without consciously deciding it, I needed to ignore the deep sense of loss and hurt because I simply couldn’t deal with it. Maybe I was inadvertently protecting myself. Either way, I know I did the best I could at that time to put one foot in front of the other and continue.

During that time, I can confidently and sincerely say that I did good. But the question I have had to ask myself lately is: who was I doing it for? Was I meeting my own needs? Was I meeting the needs of others while neglecting myself? In truth, I think it was a bit of both. Yes, I met some of my own needs while also, I feel, helping others. But in doing so I neglected other parts of my life. And I have learned that while we can put certain needs on the back burner for a while to focus on whatever feels most important at the time, we cannot neglect them indefinitely.

I once again found myself falling back towards a place I had been many moons ago and had fought so hard to get myself out of. I knew one thing for certain: I never wanted to be in that dark space again. So, I needed to use the tools I had learned and actively work my way out.

This time around, I came armed with knowledge I hadn’t had all those years ago. And the great thing about “new” behaviours is that, given enough time, they too become old behaviours. They become familiar. They become something we can find our way back to once we acknowledge the choices we are making.

A number of weeks ago, I once again set out on the road to meeting this new version of myself. This time, I was kinder to her. I was more open to change because I understood that, while difficult, it would ultimately be worth it.

I am worth it.

I had to sit with myself and the uncomfortable feelings. I spilled my thoughts out onto paper to see if I could make sense of how I was feeling and decipher some sort of workable plan. I knew I could do that. I didn’t like some of the realisations I came to. But when I gave them the time they deserved, I began to understand that once again I was making choices based on what I thought other people needed from me.

I was acting from a place of fear.

And I was slowly beginning to speak to myself with the same negativity I had twenty years earlier. Over the last few weeks, I have had to come to understand that not everyone will like the decisions I make. And I am okay with that. They are not their choices to make and their opinion of me is not mine to manage. Sometimes another person’s opinion of me may give me something worth reflecting on. Other times, it will tell me far more about them than it ever could about me.

To do that, I need to be my own cheerleader. I need to put my own oxygen mask on first because otherwise I will eventually have nothing left to give anyone else. My mental health and wellbeing are my responsibility. Yours are yours.

And so I find myself at yet another crossroads in my life. There are things lying ahead of me that are outside of my control. I have learned to accept that, safe in the knowledge that I do have control over how I choose to act and behave as I move through them. I am meeting myself again, and I am truly enjoying it. Is it a work in progress? Absolutely.

The day I stop learning about myself and the world around me is the day I leave this earth. I have come to enjoy the challenge of challenging myself, of pushing myself towards the person I want to be. I have found immense freedom and a personal sense of power in choosing me.

So I ask you: who are you choosing today, and is it serving you?

Are you listening to yourself? Are you challenging yourself in a loving and positive way?

And if not, maybe it is time to ask yourself some difficult questions. Because the only person who has control over the next chapters of your life – and I hope there are many – is you.

Write them for you… and if others want to join you, the choice is theirs.

You get to decide what role they play in your story.

You are the main character.

Unfortunately, being Irish does not come with some immunity from racism nor does being “progressive”, left-wing, educated, working-class, well-travelled, having Black and Brown friends or knowing all the words to a Biggie Smalls song. Being vehemently opposed to the far right doesn’t automatically make us anti-racist either.

I am a white, Irish woman writing about racism, and I am acutely aware of the limitations of that sentence. Because, let’s be honest, I don’t know what it feels like to experience racism. I can hear it, witness it, read about it, I can believe people when they tell me about it and I can challenge it when I encounter it but I cannot truly know it. One of the most important things white people can do when talking about racism is to resist what may be an overwhelming temptation to make ourselves some sort of authority on a subject we have never experienced ourselves.

What I can talk about, however, is whiteness, because I live that. I can talk about what it looks like to move through the world with white skin. I can examine the assumptions I have inherited, the biases absorbed and the advantages I rarely have to even think about precisely because they are just so “ordinary” to me.

The racism we don’t recognise.

White people, what do you picture when you hear the word “racist”? Most people hear it and they picture someone else. We imagine the person shouting at an “anti-immigrant” march, or maybe the person who leaves vile comments underneath a black or brown persons social media post, a far-right agitator, someone who openly uses racial slurs regularly or someone who commits acts of violence (or worse) against others purely based on their skin colour. We locate racism at the more extreme end of the spectrum and then reassure ourselves by comparison with self-reassuring statements like “I am nothing like them” ergo, I am not a racist.

But what if racism is not only found at its loudest, ugliest and more visible extremes?

What about the unconscious assumptions about whose name sounds “more Irish”, or the person we instinctively perceive as more of a threat? Maybe it’s the job applicant whose name triggers an assumption before we even read their CV or the person who is repeatedly asked where they are really from despite being born in the Rotunda. What about the tiny assumptions we are unconsciously making?

No white person who grows up in a society shaped by racial hierarchy can confidently and truly say that they are untouched by it – that includes me. Perhaps it is more useful to examine the behaviours, beliefs and structures that exists across a much wider spectrum than just two categories – racist and not racist. Because, let’s be honest, if our definition of racism begins and ends with “I don’t hate Black or Brown people”, the bar is so low it’s beneath the floorboards.

My first real life lesson about racism happened when I was 12 in my first year of secondary school. Up to that point, I had grown up in an overwhelmingly white, Catholic Ireland. Pretty much everyone around me was white and Irish so my exposure to Black and Brown people largely came through the magazines and books I read, the music I listened to that make up the soundtrack of my childhood and the famous people I idolised. At home, however, race was never presented to me as something that determined somebodys worth.

My Dad idolised Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King Jr and during apartheid, while working as a young man in Quinnsworth, he refused to handle South African goods. He would tell me stories of Mandela, King, Ms. Rosa Parks, Malcom X and so many others. His own family heritage, and in turn mine, contained different shades of skin and complicated histories that I would understand much better as I grew older.

My Mam judged people by something a lot less complicated; who they were, how they treated people and how they made her feel. “When people show you who they are believe them.”

One day, I handed in a Home Economics project in school. I had sat for hours cutting pictures out of magazines of families and children to illustrate whatever 12 year old me was supposed to be illustrating. Some of the families and children in those clippings were Black. I hadn’t thought anything of it… but my teacher did.

Said teacher became “concerned” by what she apparently interpreted as my love for Black people. Suddenly, something that I had never thought to be remarkable was being presented to me, by an adult in a position of power, as something I should perhaps be embarrassed about or that my parents should be worried about. She said all of this in front of a classroom of children. I wasn’t embarrassed, as she would have liked, but I do remember feeling so confused. Why wouldn’t I like Black people? What exactly was her problem?

That evening, when I went home, I sat down to speak to my Dad and un-pack what had happened earlier that day at school. That conversation became one of the first times I began to try to understand racism. One thing I find ironic is that my teacher inadvertently taught me more about racism that day then she ever intended to. She showed me how prejudice is passed down.

Children are not born naturally understanding some imaginary racial hierarchy – somewhere along the way adults, institutions, culture, media and society begin teaching us who belongs where. That teacher attempted to teach me something that, thankfully, my dad helped me unlearn almost immediately.

At my next Home Economics class, I challenged the teacher on what she had said to me in the previous lesson. As you can imagine, that did not go particularly well. I was, after all, attending an Irish Catholic school run by nuns in a time when 12 year olds where not encouraged to question the adults around them. Needless to say, I didn’t last particularly long at that school but one thing I can say, is something had changed in me.

I knew, even as a 12 year old girl, that I never wanted to become like that teacher. What I was yet to learn was that not wanting to be a racist would not be enough.

I have ancestry containing many beautiful shades of melanin – but ancestry is not lived experience. Regardless of my family tree, the woman looking back at me from the mirror is white. That is how the world encounters me.

While there are countless things I worry about when it comes to my white children, their skin colour has never been one of them. I have never wondered whether someone will abuse or harm them walking down the street because they are white. I have never had to have the difficult conversations with them regarding who might treat them as suspicious because of their skin colour. I have never worried, not once, whether their “Irishness” will be questioned all because their face does not match someone elses idea of what Irish is supposed to look like.

That absence of worry is something worth noticing.

Privilege does not mean your life has been privileged. White people can encounter poverty, misogyny, disability, violence, homelessness, trauma and many other forms of disadvantage. White privilege does not erase any of those experiences, it simply means that being white is not one of the things making them harder. That distinction really matters.

This… this is where conversations become difficult and uncomfortable because if racism required conscious hatred, most of us could wash our hands of the conversation. Systems don’t need every participant to hate the people disadvantaged by them, they just require enough of us not to notice and that’s why “I’m not racist” has never felt like an adequate destination for me.

It makes anti-racism sound passive as though racism is something happening somewhere else and being perpetuated only by terrible people. All the while, the rest of us stand outside it with clean hands and conscience – I do not believe we do.

I think that those of us who are white, come with inherited biases and assumptions and we need to really look at this because we often cannot see them.

I am not suggesting for a moment that all white people should walk around consumed by guilt about being white as guilt achieves remarkably very little. What I am saying is; become curious about our own reactions; listen when someone tells us something is racist instead of immediately jumping to explain why it isn’t. It is not the responsibility of Black and Brown people to educate us before we are willing to believe them – that’s on us.

Recognising that a person can hold racial prejudice regardless of their own race while also understanding that individual prejudice and systemic racial power are not always the same thing. It’s also accepting the deeply uncomfortable possibility that we can believe ourselves to be good people and still carry silent biases we are yet to discover.

I know I do and I am continuing to work on looking for them. I am learning and unlearning… and maybe that is the point. Maybe, “I’m not racist” is not something we get to declare about ourselves and then believe the work is finished. Maybe, anti-racism takes practice. Maybe it is something we repeatedly choose or something that occasionally requires us to discover something about ourselves that we don’t particularly like and would possibly rather not know.

I knew at 12 that I did not want to become my teacher and now, at 43, I understand that the task is much bigger than that. I don’t just want to be able to say that I am not a racist, I want to remain open and willing to discover the ways I could be doing better. Are you?….

The “traditional” midlife crisis stereotype is so male focused. Impulsive purchases like flashy sports cars, having an affair with a petite, perky breasted blonde, a newly found obsession with the gym and the illusive and seriously questionable leather jacket.

This cultural image of the midlife crisis tells us something – when you picture it, you instantly picture a man, possibly sporting a dodgy hair transplant from Turkey. A man who suddenly decides he needs to “find himself”. We may laugh at him but there’s often this odd cultural understanding underneath the banter. Bless him, he’s reached middle age and is confronting his mortality, massaging his ego and of course, questioning his life choices.

One question I have: where is the equivalent cultural story for women?

Is it so far-fetched to accept that women also have the same reckoning with some notable exceptions; womens dissatisfaction hasn’t been treated as existential – it’s been treated as dysfunctional. How fucking rude.

We constantly hear the same things over and over again. She’s hormonal. She’s so difficult. She’s having a breakdown. She’s a selfish bitch. God, she’s let herself go. Wow, she’s trying too hard. She’s embarrassing herself. Bless, she’s going through the change.

*insert major eyeroll*

There is something so deeply gendered about the fact that a 40-odd year old man who wants more from his life can be seen as “searching for meaning” whereas a woman of the same age who wants more from her life can be interpreted as abandoning her responsibilities. How beautifully misogynistic is that?

There are so many contradictions it would make your brain fizz. Ageing women make us uncomfortable yet we ridicule them for trying to look younger. We are told to “embrace our bodies” but not if you don’t fit the mould so often created by patriarchal systems. It’s funny, not haha, that women are expected to spend decades caring for other people yet we are questioned and ridiculed when we finally choose to prioritise ourselves – how ironic.

Maybe, a womans midlife crisis has been hiding in plain sight all along. Maybe, we just failed to see it because women weren’t historically given the freedom to have one. Maybe, what’s labelled a “crisis” is the collapse of years of conditioning. Lots of maybe’s I know, but when you think about it, from the time we are young girls we are trained to accommodate, be nice, not to make a scene and always think about how other people feel. Women become the administrators of their families, in their workplaces, in their communities. There comes a time in her life when something shifts. Suddenly, the woman who has spent 40 years of her life making herself smaller to fit the misogynist societal mould, decides she doesn’t particularly give a fuck whether everyone likes her anymore. Patriarchy might call it a “crisis”, she may call it a regular Tuesday, I call it a reawakening.

When we look back to the 19^th and early 20^th century, women navigating the inevitable physical and psychological changes we all face were deemed, by male dominated medicine, to be “hysterical”. A convenient way of putting women who stepped outside societies expectation of them into a box labelled “crazy”. There is no doubt that women of any age, but particularly during peri/menopause, can experience depression, anxiety, sleep disturbances and upheaval – all very natural, none of them “hysterical”. I find it fascinatingly hilarious that womens perfectly rational anger, resistance and unhappiness have been repeatedly labelled as hysterical, generally by men. If this is not a glaring example of rampant misogyny, I don’t know what is.

Before we start polishing our pitchforks ladies, we need to address the elephant in the room – us women. Patriarchy is not kept alive by men alone, women make some pretty enthusiastic soldiers. We police one another constantly, we are our own worst enemies. We do this in many ways, oftentimes without realising it. It’s the woman who calls another female desperate for dressing younger, the mother who teaches her daughter to be polite rather than teach her sons how to treat the women in their lives as equals, calling an assertive female colleague who refuses to bend on her boundaries a bitch while admiring the same qualities in her male counterpart. The list goes on and on – and I don’t say this from a place of innocence, I am guilty of this more than I care to admit. You don’t get to spend your whole life living in a society that subtly teaches you what a “good woman” should look like without taking some of it on board. It’s actually quite clever when you think of it; patriarchy doesn’t always require men enforcing it when women are “doing their duty” and holding down the fort.

I think, we become so uncomfortable when a woman takes a stand and refuses to play by the rules because somewhere deep down we are conditioned to live by those rules too. What have we sacrificed of ourselves to abide by the rules? Maybe seeing other women saying “fuck that” forces us to look at something that makes us deeply uncomfortable: some of those sacrifices weren’t inevitable after all.

Women are judged differently to their male counterparts – that judgement is glaringly obvious. My question is, why? One answer I have come to is that patriarchy depends on women to continue providing free emotional labour without ever questioning it. Hear me out – when a younger woman decides to set boundaries, refuses to “fall in line” society believes she will “grow out of it”. However, when a woman of a certain age decides she wants something different, something more from her life – maybe she starts finally saying “no”, leaves an unhappy and toxic marriage, changes her career – she becomes much harder to reign in. Because she has experience, she has confidence and she doesn’t seek the approval of those around her. Those women are dangerous because they challenge the systems that have held them down for their whole lives up until that point.

This made me think, perhaps society doesn’t just mock a womans mid-life crisis, it mocks a woman becoming increasingly difficult to control. Could this be why a womans midlife crisis gets such terrible PR?

I don’t think this is about ageing, hormones or about women “losing their minds”, I think it’s about women reaching a stage of their lives where they become more difficult to control. In other words, they are sick of this shit. And let’s face it, history has never been comfortable with women who stop asking permission. Maybe, what could be considered to be a womans mid-life crisis, such as suddenly changing their hair, changing careers, ending relationships and possibly starting to wear whatever the fuck they want isn’t them having an identity crisis. What if they are actually finding themselves, for the first time in decades, and they’re actually making decisions based on what they want and not based on what they feel society expects of them. How beautifully freeing is that!!! Maybe a so-called mid-life crisis should be something we celebrate – we are not changing, we are finally awake.

I’ve been here before, many times, far too many times in fact that it’s slowly becoming my new normal. I’m debating on whether to have another cuppa – tea always makes things seem a little brighter right? Although I have drunk bucket loads at this stage, enough to fill a small lake, and I am not noticing the miraculous effects they claim I should just yet but I will report back if things change. *if my hands stop shaking from the high intake of caffeine.

I have mulled over this for a long time and I am hoping that by writing and sharing, I will find some clarity, some direction, and maybe I’ll stumble across something I have missed. Maybe I am expecting too much but it’s worth a shot right?

Before I go on, I want to make it abundantly clear; this is not a cry for help nor is it a veiled attempt to invite sympathy from folk on the internet. This is simply me trying to make sense of where I am. If, in doing so, someone else feels a little less alone, then that’s surely reason enough to write isn’t it?

I want to write about the side of advocacy that rarely makes headlines in newspapers. The side that exists behind closed doors… the side that slowly chips away at those carrying out the work. Because, from the outside advocacy can look purposeful, inspiring, even glamourous. But the reality, at least from where I am sitting, is very different.

I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become an advocate, far from it. I don’t know of anyone who had dreams of becoming an advocate when they grew up, that’s not to say they don’t exist, but I am yet to meet one. Advocacy fell into my lap. Or maybe, it came to me at a time when I needed it most, who knows. Either way, it wasn’t a career choice, it came to me quietly and I welcomed it in with open arms.

Advocacy is a slow burn. It can start with answering an email, giving an interview to a newspaper, attending a protest or simply meeting someone who needs a listening ear for a cuppa. Slowly, you are having more conversations, getting calls seeking your opinion, being invited to events – and before you know it, you start to make time in your everyday life for advocacy. I won’t lie, I was at a loose end and lacking in direction (sound familiar?) so I genuinely believe I needed a purpose and one that more than aligned with my beliefs and experiences. Having been silenced for such a long time, I found it freeing and empowering. I felt seen. I felt heard. I felt I had an opportunity to finally do something good with the worst thing that had happened to me and that was (and is) my driving force.

People often assume the hardest part of advocacy is talking about your own experiences. But, in my experience, you learn to tell your story without having to relive every second of it. What nobody prepares you for is what comes next.

I quickly realised that advocacy is an invisible job. People see the meetings but fail to see the hours spent in advance preparing. They read the newspaper articles, but are unaware of the anxiety and panic that follow. When they see a campaign, a protest, or a “stunt” they are blissfully unaware of the many (many) emails back and forth in advance, the WhatsApp groups, the phone calls and the difficult decisions made. Advocacy is invisible labour and almost all of it is emotional.

The emails you receive from strangers with nowhere left to turn. The messages you receive just before bed that will stay with you long after you turn your phone on airplane mode. The phone calls you receive that leave you wondering if you have said the right thing. The stories that become names, then faces, then friends who are now a hugely important part of your life. For me, the hardest part of advocacy is not necessarily carrying my own story but the stories of those who have placed their trust in me.

Their stories stay with you when you’re making dinner, folding clothes, hoovering the floors, watching the tv. They are the silent passenger on the way to collect the kids from school. They find their way into your dreams and are there, constantly, in the background of your life. Why? Because their stories matter.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself what I needed. Instead, I continually asked what others needed. And because there is always someone in crisis, the answer will always be “them”. The background noise becomes so permanent, that you begin to forget what silence feels like.

There’s this strange misconception that advocacy is always empowering. That it “fills your cup”. That, somehow, helping others can prevent you from depleting yourself. Sometimes that’s true especially when a survivor reaches out to say they are still alive because they found someone prepared to listen. Those moments matter…. God, they really matter. But they don’t erase everything else.

“Everything else” is so much harder to explain. It’s waking up to dozens of notifications and wondering whether or not to even open them because you can’t foresee which one has the ability to ruin your day. It’s opening your emails to stories so painful and raw that you will undoubtedly carry them long after the laptop is closed. It’s the quiet, yet very heavy guilt you carry because you know deep down that you can’t help everyone no matter how hard you try. It’s reading comments from strangers who have never met you yet they feel entitled to tell you, and others, who you are, your motives, or why you should stay quiet.

It’s being accused of being an attention seeker, having your integrity questioned, your words twisted, your character dissected by strangers who fail to see the years of work long before they ever knew your name. It’s becoming accustomed to abuse from strangers that you brace for it in preparation. And the hardest part is, this doesn’t happen in isolation and it lands itself on top of everything you are already carrying.

A person’s life doesn’t stop just because they become an advocate. In my life, I still have bills to pay, children to care for, a home to keep, relationships to nurture. I am also trying to navigate the grief of losing my Dad suddenly, my own experience and days where getting out of bed feels like an achievement in itself.

There comes a point where you ask yourself a question I never thought I would “Is speaking out worth it?”

Not because you have stopped believing in the cause or because you have stopped caring – far from it. Instead, you begin to notice a pattern. For every stand you take, you prepare yourself for the onslaught of abuse, threats and accusations. You wait to see what version of yourself strangers have invented about you this time. It’s exhausting. You tell yourself not to read them, but you read them anyway. You remind yourself that these people don’t know you, but as a human being, it is very difficult not to absorb some of what’s said. No amount of thick skin or experience will prepare you for being reduced to something unrecognisable to you and those who know and love you.

Nobody tells you that advocacy can make you suspicious of kindness and overly wary of new people who come into your world. That it can make you dread seeing yourself in the newspaper because you have a fair idea of what the comment section will look like. In that vein, you soon realise that your anxieties are shared by your family and friends. They too worry about the “fallout” of public advocacy. They worry for your mental health and your safety. Side note: advocates have lives outside of advocacy. There are now times where I completely avoid interviews or commenting – not because I don’t have anything to say but because I cannot face the aftermath and I simply don’t have the space to absorb anymore hate fuelled comments.

What has advocacy asked me to give up?

Truthfully, a lot more than I ever realised it would and it happened slowly, not all at once. It wasn’t one single dramatic moment. It asked for tiny little pieces of me over and over again until one day, I looked around and realised there wasn’t much of me left.

Advocacy has asked for my privacy, for me to become recognisable, to accept that my story no longer belongs solely to me. That complete strangers would feel entitled to discuss and dissect me, my life and my story as if they owned it.

Advocacy asked for my peace but not just in the obvious ways like through threats, abuse and cruel comments. It asked for it on the quiet Sunday afternoons when my body finally stopped moving but my mind forgot how to switch off. The constant feeling that I needed to be reachable, to have an opinion and to be vocal.

Success, in however it looked, became something I needed to brace myself for. Instead of feeling proud of myself, I was worrying, waiting for what would inevitably come next.

Somewhere along the way I became many different labels - “the survivor”, “the advocate”, “they girl in the newspaper” – labels I know where given in kindness but at some stage I stopped being simply Hazel. The woman who wants to quietly spend a random Sunday half-dressed on the sofa watching random tv, debating on whether to brush her teeth.

Advocacy has asked for me to carry a heavy responsibility. It has placed me in a position where people see me as someone who speaks out and as a result, people expect me to keep speaking. Advocates are oftentimes expected to respond or comment on every injustice and every news story which results in every silence feeling like a failure.

What’s ironic in all of this is, advocates, myself included, began advocating for many reasons with one being we wanted people to understand survivors deserve peace. Amidst all of our work, we may have forgotten that we too deserve the same privilege. I want to acknowledge something before going any further; nobody asked me to do this work. I chose it, wholeheartedly and willingly and I have zero regrets. Choosing a path, however, does not make you immune from reflecting where it has led you.

It is very easy and understandable why some advocates feel that resting is selfish, that someone else’s crisis is more important then their own. That if we reply tomorrow, we are somehow letting someone down or that by saying “no” or “I can’t” we don’t care. It has taken me a long time to realise that having compassion without boundaries is not sustainable nor is it noble. It is simply another way of disappearing.

I don’t know what advocacy will look like for me going forward but I do know I won’t stop caring as I genuinely know that is not possible. I will never stop believing survivors and I will forever want to see a justice system worthy of the people it serves. I won’t stop speaking when I have something to say but I have learned that speaking less doesn’t mean caring less. I was very naive to think that I needed to say “yes” to every interview, every invitation, answer every phone call because this proved how much I cared.

I have come to realise that the person advocating also needs protecting. I have spent a long time encouraging survivors to treat themselves with the compassion they so freely give to others. Today, for the first time, I am taking my own advice. I am giving myself permission to stop, permission to take care of myself, the permission to place myself first – not ahead of anyone else, but on par. I have come to realise that the kindness I have fought so hard for others to find, that has to include me.

So, where does this leave me? Honestly… I am still trying to figure that out but one thing I do know for certain: I am no longer willing to sacrifice my own peace while working to create it for everyone else. Today, I am making a choice; I am choosing my family, I am choosing to be present in my own life, I am choosing my health, my peace, my future. Stepping back from advocacy does not mean I am stepping back from Éist. Éist is a firm part of who I am. It has introduced me to some of the kindest, strongest, bravest and most extraordinary people who I have had the privilege of working alongside. Watching survivors find their voice, seeing them stand strong in the face of adversity, challenge systems and most importantly, start believing in themselves has been one of the greatest honours of my life and nothing will ever change that. But perhaps my role in all of this has to change as sometimes the loudest voice isn’t always the healthiest one.

I am not choosing to care less, I am choosing to carry less, which are two very different things all together. So, if you see less of me, don’t take my silence for absence – I am still here, just with stronger boundaries, a little more gentleness and finally making room for Hazel too.

Consider this a bonus article as I normally only share once a week. I wanted to check something; I have been using AI to check grammar mistakes etc in my articles and it has resulted in all my posts showing “written by AI” – which is disappointing to put it mildly. This article has had zero input from AI. These are my own words and if the grammar is all over the gaff – apologies!

This Substack submission is one I find difficult to write purely because, outside of a select few, I have never spoken about my experience with a person I believe to be a narcissist. I was first introduced to this word over 20 years ago at a time in my life when lots of colourful words were being used to describe a certain person in my life. Adding another word to the mix didn’t phase me nor did it fully register with me. During my time in this “narcissistic bubble”, much of what went on in the world around me went unnoticed or did not register. Not because I didn’t care, far from it. I simply didn’t have the space in my mind for anything more that the person controlling me.

Fast-forward 20 odd years and the word “narcissist” has become somewhat a buzz word used to describe people – generally ex-partners – who are selfish mé féin-ers or people who are only focused on themselves. While selfishness is a trait most narcissists have, to be a “real” thoroughbred fully fledged narcissist, there are a lot more boxes that need ticking. I learned that the hard way and I still, all these years later, hold the residue of those difficult years.

So, what is a narcissist?

In the interest of fairness and full disclosure; I am not a professional psychologist (or “ologist” of any kind), therefore, I cannot diagnose or professionally characterise what makes a person a narcissist. The opinions shared are mine alone and purely based on personal experience and research I have carried out myself. They are by no means gospel and therefore should be viewed in such a light.

As mentioned, the word “narcissist” seems to be everywhere now. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t see a post (or 10!) on social media referring to this person or that person as being a narcissist. It has become the “go to” word to describe someone who is selfish, arrogant, self-absorbed, emotionally unavailable or simply someone we find it very fucking hard to get along with. Maybe some of the people being hung out to dry on social media are thoroughbred narcissists, who knows, but I find it hard to believe all of them are as, I have learned recently, not many people fully understand the true meaning of the word.

Narcissism is a lot more complex than just being a prick.

Having narcissistic traits is not the same as having Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). Let’s be fair, most of us will display some traits of narcissism; I know I certainly have, and I have no doubt I will continue to do so for the rest of my days. We can all be selfish. We can all be self-absorbed. We can all be assholes – such is life.

NPD however, is a recognised mental health condition which is very layered. It is complex to diagnose and to understand. Before I go on, I want to say something that may make me (more) unpopular but I can’t help but feel a deep sense of anger when I read the words “mental health condition”, because to me, someone living with any form of mental illness/condition deserves care, compassion, belief and understanding. And while I wholeheartedly believe we all need to understand narcissism and believe it exists, I would personally find it very hard to show a person with NPD compassion or care – maybe it’s just me?

A quick google search on NPD will lead you to this “Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is a mental health condition marked by a long-term pattern of grandiosity, an intense need for admiration, and a clear lack of empathy for others. People with this disorder often feel superior, expect special treatment, and struggle with deep relationship problems.” (Mayo Clinic).

When you read this definition, you could be forgiven for thinking “so, they’re basically a c*nt”, but the truth is, it goes so much deeper and is far more dangerous than a person simply thinking they are and needing to be king of the castle. A diagnosis cannot be made on social media or by friends and family. It requires careful clinical assessment of a willing “participant” by a trained professional. Hence the reason I say “I believe to be a narcissist” because the truth is, I cannot say for certain. The research I have carried out long before today would lead me to believe that the person who was in my world – was my whole world in fact – was and is a narcissist but maybe I am wrong, who knows? So I want to be clear, this article is not about diagnosing people… it’s simply about trying to understand behaviours.

For many people, like me, it isn’t the “label” that matters – it’s the experience of what it feels like. The total lack of control over your own mind, your thoughts, your actions and how you move through the world. It is the constant questions and apologies, the complete focus on another person’s feelings and emotions that you forget to stop and recognise your own. Whatever name you want to give it, does not take from the psychological and sometimes physical harm it causes.

Narcissistic behaviours rarely begin with anger or control. In my experience, they begin with charm, love bombing and a silent prey on vulnerability. Like waves crashing against the shoreline, it takes many years for them to create a dent in the cliffside but, sure enough, they do eventually leave their mark.

People who display narcissistic behaviours are slow, methodical and calculated. Very few people would knowingly or willingly enter into an abusive relationship. If manipulation was served on the first date, alarm bells would ring. Narcissists know this and they play the long game with skill and precision.

When people imagine abuse, most will automatically imagine harmful physical abuse, I get that. But not all abuse leaves marks visible to the naked eye. With “non-physical” abuse such as psychological or emotional abuse, the “telltale” warning signs for those on the outside could look like a person who constantly criticises, displays aggression regularly or someone who is considered to be controlling. In a narcissistic relationship, these behaviours don’t rear their ugly head for a long time. Instead, many onlookers, and indeed the person on the receiving end, see charisma, attentiveness, someone who is engaging, generous with their time and completely besotted. In my opinion, the narcissist does not only manipulate the partner, they also manipulate those who love them, which is all part of the game.

Many people who have experienced life with someone they believe to be a narcissist may say things like - “they made me feel seen”, “I never felt intense love like it”, “I felt chosen”- when they describe the beginning of their relationship. Some, if not all, of these statements could also be true in a lot of “healthy” relationships as intensity does not mean it is unhealthy. Most relationships are based on closeness and intimacy, however, the differences that exist in narcissistic relationships start to develop over time and become more noticeable – mainly to those on the outside looking in.

What is “Love Bombing”?

I want to begin by saying, not all forms of what could be considered “love bombing” is negative or unhealthy. Not all forms of overwhelming affection are manipulative. However, in my experience, the pattern of over-the-top affection and promises with the intent on creating a rapid emotional dependence are what constitute “love bombing” -with a strong emphasis on the word “intent”. When affection and attention are consistently used to gain control or prevent another person from leaving, that’s when it becomes something very different from love. It becomes control. It becomes dangerous.

There’s a misconception that survivors of narcissistic relationships stay because they don’t recognise the behaviours. But oftentimes, the reason they don’t recognise it because it is because it doesn’t happen all of the time.

Intermittent Reinforcement

I want you to imagine if someone – let’s say a romantic partner - criticised and picked every little thing you did apart, every single day. You’d possibly argue for a time and eventually you would get tired of it and potentially end the relationship, right?

Now imagine this is a person who has showered you with love, attention, gifts, time, adoration – you get the gist. First, they criticise you. Then they shower you with affection and apologies. Then they ignore you. Then they buy you a gift. Then they blame you. Then they cry. Then they promise to never behave like that again.

Psychologically, this behaviour doesn’t weaken the attachment, it can actually serve to strengthen it.

“Intermittent reinforcement in narcissistic dynamics is an unpredictable pattern of alternating between intense affection (love bombing) and sudden coldness, criticism, or withdrawal. This inconsistent reward schedule creates a powerful chemical and psychological addiction in the partner, making the toxic bond exceptionally difficult to break.” Shahida Arabi MA

Intermittent reinforcement causes the victim to consistently and perpetually seek the approval or forgiveness of an abusive partner. Often settling for mere shards of affection when they get them. This cycle, as outlined above, is not a once off – it is repeated over and over again until the narcissist has succeeded in creating a power imbalance and thus gaining control of the “relationship”.

I have often been asked by loved ones and indeed by myself, how I didn’t seen the signs – and the truth is, I didn’t. Many of us don’t until we are far enough away from it to have the chance to truly digest everything. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. When I reflect upon those years of my life I realise that I began to slowly fall into place. I began to cancel plans to avoid any fall-out. Change what I was wearing to avoid any criticism. Avoid talking to certain people for fear of an argument. Questioning myself and my memory of events. Not trusting myself or my decisions. Gradually, I became completely reliant on a person whose intention had always been to control.

The Invisible Shift

If the relationship changed dramatically overnight, I think (I hope!) I would have noticed it and reacted. But the truth is, it didn’t.

Instead, it was slow, methodical, calculated. One small, inconsequential change at a time. Nothing drastic – just small enough for me not to pay mind to. “When you wash the dishes, can you do it this way instead?”. Before long, life as you know it looks completely different to how it had before.

We’ve all heard of the term “gaslighting” but just in case you’ve been living under a rock, here’s the definition:

noun

1. the practice of psychologically manipulating someone into questioning their own sanity, memory, or powers of reasoning.

Gaslighting isn’t simply lying; it’s when a person creates enough confusion that you begin to question yourself and in turn lose trust in your own sense of reality. You start to question your memory of conversations had and promises made. Then comes the denial – “I never said that… you’re mad” or “You didn’t see that because it didn’t happen”. Another part of gaslighting is when the narcissist begins to use things from your past against you in order for them to continue acting and behaving as they wish – “I am only walking her home… you remember what happened to you when you walked home by yourself don’t you?”. I heard this one too many times to count.

There is oftentimes this “battle” where the abuser accuses the victim of acts they themselves are guilty of such as being manipulative or controlling. In my experience, I was consistently told I was trying to control another person’s life which made me, once again, question myself and the person I was. This odd reversal of roles, I now know, is what’s referred to as projection, and it tells us more about the accuser than the victim.

Definition: Psychological projection is a defence mechanism where a person unconsciously attributes their own unacceptable thoughts, feelings, or impulses to someone else.

Not all narcissists project on to others and, truth be told, most people at some stage of their lives will, in one way or another, use this “tactic” during, for example, an argument with a partner. Projection alone does not determine whether a person has NPD but, in my experience and based on my findings, many of those who have NPD will also use this form of manipulation.

Narcissists have a habit of moving the goalposts without any notice. One day, it’s one way, and the next, something completely different. It feels like nothing is ever enough and you find yourself apologising, oftentimes for unknown reasons and for things you never knew happened to begin with. You try to change your behaviours, quickly, to adhere to this recently enforced “rule”, but the change is never quick enough. As a result, you find yourself, once again, apologising. Eventually, you “catch-up” and successfully fulfil the task (without acknowledgement!) and once again, the goalposts are moved. It is beyond draining. There are very few words I can think of that would adequately describe the level of confusion and inner turmoil a person on the receiving end of this form of manipulation is going through.

I was often met with the silent treatment – particularly during times when I didn’t behave as expected. Today, if someone gave me the silent treatment for making a mistake I would tell them to fuck off, but when a person you believe you love and loves you, uses silence as a form of control and punishment it is something entirely different. The silence itself is the message and whether you are attuning to it or not, you hear it loud and clear. Whatever the reason, it is always your fault.

Without ever realising it, those living with people they believe to be narcissists become hyper aware of changes in mood, facial expressions, tone, the way they answer the phone, how hard they close the hall door. Ever little action, you scrutinise. It’s like consistently walking on eggshells. Your nervous system is on constant high alert preparing for the version of the person you will get on any given day.

One deeply impactful “element” of living with narcissism is the isolation many feel. Coercive control and manipulation work their magic and gradually you begin to shut out the world around you. No more coffee dates with your pals. No more nights out with family. You slowly begin to believe that it is simply not worth the inevitable consequences. Your world becomes smaller until the only person in it, is the narcissist.

There are many other layers and behavioural traits that could lead to a person receiving a diagnosis of NPD. All the above (and many more) alone are not signs that a person is a narcissist nor are they signs of an abusive relationship. However, when combined over months, sometimes years, they have potential to not only change the relationship, but the person living within it

.

The residue they leave behind.

I am happy to report that my relationship ended (queue fanfare) but the behaviours didn’t. The person was no longer in my life, but the behaviours had buried deep into the person I had become and changed how I moved through the world. I found myself expecting to instantly revert to the person I thought I was but that never happened – not initially anyway. The truth is, over 20 years later I still catch myself at times repeating certain behaviours. The difference now is I notice them and consciously choose differently but that self-awareness didn’t happen overnight. For a very (very) long time after I continued to question myself. I would read and re-read text messages before sending them. I would fold my clothes a certain way, clean the skirting boards “just so”. I remained hyper aware of the behaviours of others around me, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but hearing a person sigh or see them roll their eyes at something would send me into overdrive.

One thing I still struggle with is saying “no”. The guilt I feel if I have to say no to someone is still immense and I am working on that. I also struggle to ask for and receive help – in any form. That sense of helplessness or what could be perceived as “weakness” is a terrifying feeling for me, but I am getting better at it with help (ironically).

When I think back, I realise that one of the greatest losses in all of this was my belief in myself. One thing I found solace in, however, was my rediscovery, and that is what I hold on to.

I am happy to report that I finally found a healthy relationship. Initially, that feeling of peace felt foreign to me. Finding someone who simply let me be, was difficult for me to accept at first. I came with a lot of baggage… not all physical! But, in allowing myself to feel seen, loved, valued and cared for, for all the “right” reasons, has been one of the biggest, most life changing gifts I have ever given to myself. I have come to realise that “healing” isn’t only about leaving. It’s about finding yourself in the aftermath. For a long time, I carried the residue of those experiences into every corner of my life. I allowed for this person to continue controlling me, even from a distance. Trauma has a devious way of having us believe that our past will be mirrored in our future.

Meeting my now husband didn’t heal me – that work had happened long before I met him. But loving him and allowing myself to be loved by him, has taught me something I never believed was possible. To be loved doesn’t mean you need to shrink yourself. It doesn’t require you to earn their kindness or affection and it didn’t come with conditions.

Narcissistic behaviours can take many things from us, but one thing I firmly believe is they don’t get to decide how our story ends.

If you are living with a person you believe has NPD or is controlling, manipulative or abusive in any way and you find yourself reading this story, I want you to know this: You are so much more and you deserve so much more than what this person is telling you. There are many safe and supported ways to leave an abusive relationship and I would encourage you, when the time is right and safe, to reach out to one of the many organisations supporting people in this area. If, like me, you are living in Ireland, I can personally recommend Stop Domestic Violence Ireland. They are a survivor led organisation doing amazing work. Having worked alongside them, I have seen the truly life changing work they do. https://www.facebook.com/stopdomesticviolenceinireland/

I had ventured out of the house for the first time in months. Partly because it was the height of Covid, but if I’m being completely honest, I had also allowed lockdown to become a convenient excuse not to leave. Staying home felt safer than facing the world. Mostly, anyway. There were still journalists parked outside my house most days – a sentence that still feels surreal to write.

On this particular afternoon, a fresh feeling of stubbornness appeared out of nowhere. Before I had the chance to talk myself out of it, I grabbed my keys and headed to the local shop.

I had learned that hesitation was dangerous. If I stopped to think, I’d convince myself to stay home, as I had done so many times before.

As I wandered through the aisles, carefully keeping my distance from everyone else, I remember feeling two completely conflicting emotions. Part of me felt a small sense of freedom. The other part wanted to disappear.

For fifteen minutes, I tried to let myself enjoy something as ordinary as aimlessly browsing the shelves. It felt unfamiliar. Almost forbidden.

Eventually, I made my way to the checkout and it was there that I heard it for the first time.

“I know who you are... you’re that girl from the newspaper.”

The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t intended to hurt me. But they stayed with me.

“I know you.”

It’s a sentence I’ve heard countless times since that day, and every single time it leaves me asking myself the same question.

Do they?

The first time my name appeared in a newspaper, I experienced something I hadn’t expected. After sixteen years of carrying my story in silence – much of that silence not by choice – it felt as though someone had finally acknowledged that what had happened mattered.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt seen. Or at least, I thought I did.

It didn’t take long to realise that being seen and being understood are two very different things.

What I hadn’t understood then was this: once people know your story, they often stop looking for the rest of you.

That’s a painful realisation, and one I still struggle with today. It leaves me asking the same question over and over again.

What happens when people know your story before they know you?

I don’t blame people for thinking they know me. It’s human nature. When someone shares one of the most intimate and painful chapters of their life, it’s easy to believe you’ve been given the whole book.

But you haven’t.

Much of what people first learned about me came through newspaper headlines and online articles. Some journalists treated my story with care and humanity. Others reduced it to something sensational – another headline, another click, another story to be consumed before moving on to the next.

None of those articles could ever tell someone who

I am.

They couldn’t tell you what makes me laugh, how fiercely I love my children, how often I doubt myself, or how many ordinary moments make up my life. They couldn’t tell you about the years before that story, or everything I’ve worked to build since.

They could tell you what happened to me.

They couldn’t tell you who I am.

And there’s a world of difference between those two things.

Over the years, people have formed opinions of me based on the version of my life they’ve read about in newspapers or seen online. Some have been incredibly kind. Others have decided they don’t like me before we’ve ever exchanged a single word.

The truth is, I’m not bothered by the fact that not everyone likes me. That’s life. We won’t all connect with everyone we meet. What I do struggle with is the assumption that a handful of articles can tell someone who I am.

They can’t.

They can describe moments in my life. They can report events. They can quote words I’ve spoken. But they cannot capture the person behind them.

Like everyone else, I am far more complex than any headline could ever be.

People often meet me having already formed an impression. Sometimes that impression is of someone incredibly strong. Other times it’s of someone who must be permanently broken. Oftentimes, it’s shaped by opinions written by people who have never met me themselves.

The strange thing about becoming publicly known is that everyone seems to know a different version of you. To some, I’m simply “that woman from the newspaper.” To others, I’m the survivor who speaks publicly. To others again, I’m someone they’ve already decided they agree with – or disagree with – before we’ve even had the chance to introduce ourselves.

Very few of those versions leave much room for me to simply be Hazel.

They don’t see the woman who laughs too loudly at silly things, who worries about whether she’s getting motherhood right, who second-guesses herself more often than she’d like to admit, or who sometimes wants to spend an evening watching rubbish television and forgetting the world exists for a while.

They don’t see the person who still gets nervous walking into a room full of strangers, who overthinks conversations on the drive home, who carries portable locks everywhere, who dreams about the future, applies for jobs, starts new projects, loves deeply, fails often and keeps trying anyway.

Because that’s the thing about headlines.

They freeze people in time… Life doesn’t.

While the world continues to remember the day your story became public, you have to keep living every day that comes after it. You continue growing, changing, laughing, grieving, learning, failing and beginning again.

The public version of you often stays exactly where they first met you.

The real version never does.

There is another side to all of this that I don’t think people often consider.

The version of me that exists in the public imagination isn’t the only version I’ve had to make sense of. I’ve also spent years trying to understand myself.

The truth is, I am still living with trauma. I’m still learning how to navigate its impact on my life. Some days I feel grounded and certain of who I am. Other days, I still feel incredibly vulnerable.

Healing isn’t a destination that you eventually arrive at. At least it hasn’t been for me. It’s something I continue to navigate every single day.

What cannot be forgotten is that I did experience life-changing trauma.

That isn’t my entire identity, but it has shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined.

For a long time, it felt as though the person I had been before the rape no longer existed. Whether that’s because trauma changed me, or because life simply moved forward, I don’t know. I just know that I spent years grieving someone I could never become again while trying to figure out who I was becoming instead.

That journey hasn’t ended.

I’m still discovering parts of myself. Still unlearning things that trauma taught me. Still finding moments of joy, confidence and peace in places I never expected. Still questioning myself more than I’d like to admit. Still grieving.

When the world continually reflects a version of you back at yourself, it becomes surprisingly difficult not to wonder if they’re seeing something you’re missing.

Am I that person?

Or have I simply heard the same version of myself repeated so many times that I’ve started believing it too?

The longer I live, the more I believe those are two very different things. Perhaps that’s why I’ve found myself thinking so much lately about the stories we tell ourselves about other people.

We live in a world where we often mistake information for understanding. A headline becomes a personality. A court case becomes a person’s identity. A social media post becomes evidence of someone’s character.

We confuse familiarity with understanding.

We build versions of people in our minds, often without ever realising that’s what we’re doing. It’s something I’ve experienced from every angle.

Some people see me as courageous. Others see me as broken. Some think I’m outspoken, sometimes too much. Others think I should have stayed silent. The truth is, none of those labels come close to describing a whole human being.

The same is true for every person we encounter.

Over the past week, I’ve written a lot about hero worship and parasocial relationships. About the danger of placing people on pedestals, and the equal danger of reducing them to a single moment in time.

I think both come from the same place.

We want people to be simple.

Heroes.

Villains.

Victims.

Inspirations.

But people are rarely any of those things all of the time. Most of us are simply trying to make sense of our lives while carrying experiences that the world may never fully understand.

That doesn’t mean we should ignore people’s actions or stop holding people accountable for the harm they cause. Accountability matters. But accountability and humanity can exist together.

Recognising someone’s humanity doesn’t erase what they’ve done. Nor does recognising a survivor’s trauma mean that’s all they are.

Perhaps the greatest act of compassion we can offer one another is to remain curious enough to remember that there is almost always more to a person than the story we’ve been told.

I still hear those words from time to time.

“I know who you are.”

Nowadays, I usually smile, because perhaps they do know something about me. Perhaps they’ve read my story. Perhaps they’ve heard my name.

But they’ve only met one chapter.

I’m still writing the rest.

And if you’re reading this carrying your own story - whether it’s one the world knows about or one you’ve never spoken aloud - I hope you’ll remember something I’ve spent years trying to learn.

The worst thing that ever happened to you may explain part of your story.

It never gets to decide the whole of it.

People may know what happened to you… That doesn’t mean they know you.

Sometimes... we’re still getting to know ourselves.

And maybe that’s exactly as it should be.

For the temporarily lost.

For the people who secretly believe everyone else has life figured out.

For the seekers of contentment.

For the people who have spent years doing everything they were supposed to do, only to discover there is still a quiet voice asking, “Is there something else?”

And for the ones who, like me, still ask themselves:

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Yes, I’m forty-three. Yes, I’m a wife. Yes, I’m a mother of three. And yes... I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with admitting that. I assumed adulthood was a destination everyone else had somehow reached while I was still wandering around trying to find the entrance. I imagined that one day, I’d wake up with complete certainty - a career I loved, a life that made perfect sense, and an unwavering confidence that this was exactly where I was meant to be.

The older I’ve become, however, the more I’ve realised something.

Most people are wandering.

Some have simply become better at pretending they aren’t.

Whenever this conversation comes up, there is almost always someone who says, “Surely you’ve found everything you need in motherhood?” It’s an understandable question.

Motherhood has been the greatest privilege of my life. For twenty-one years, I have been somebody’s Mam. It is the role I am proudest of and the one that has shaped me more than any qualification, career or achievement ever could. There is a place in my heart that belongs only to my children, and there always will be.

But this isn’t about motherhood.

It isn’t about wanting more than my children.

It’s about wanting something for myself.

I think those are two very different things.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve become uncomfortable with the idea that fulfilment isn’t singular. We seem to believe one role should satisfy every part of us. That if we’re parents, parenthood should complete us. If we have a successful career, that should be enough. If we’re married, we’ve reached the finish line.

As though our identity should politely settle into one neat little box and stay there forever.

But human beings don’t work like that.

We grow. We evolve. We change. We become curious. Sometimes we even outgrow lives we once desperately wanted.

And that’s terrifying.

Because admitting that can feel ungrateful.

Maybe you’ve worked in the same profession for twenty years only to wake up one morning and realise you can’t imagine doing it for another twenty. Maybe you’ve spent years raising children and now they’re becoming more independent, leaving behind spaces in your day you no longer know how to fill. Maybe you’ve spent your entire life looking after everyone else - parents, partners, children, colleagues - and somewhere along the way, you quietly disappeared from your own list of priorities.

Or maybe you’re twenty-three and already wondering whether you’ve chosen the wrong path.

I don’t actually think this feeling belongs to any particular age.

I think it’s universal.

I think most of us spend our lives becoming different versions of ourselves while quietly believing we’re supposed to remain exactly the same.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve probably had hundreds of ideas. Some brilliant. Some ridiculous. Some that lasted a week. Others that have refused to leave you alone for years.

Every single time one appears, another voice follows close behind.

“You’re too old.”

“You don’t have the qualifications.”

“People will think you’re having a midlife crisis.”

“You can’t afford to fail.”

“Think about the children.”

“Think about the bills.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

So we park the idea.

We’ll revisit it when life settles down. When we have more money. When the children are older. When work becomes less demanding. When confidence magically appears.

When...

When...

When...

Sometimes those ideas disappear, and perhaps that’s okay. Maybe they were passing curiosities rather than genuine callings.

But what happens when they don’t disappear? What happens when they quietly wait What happens when, years later, they still whisper your name?

I often wonder how many people have become experts at abandoning themselves. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just slowly. One postponed dream at a time. One compromise after another. Until eventually they stop asking themselves what they want because they’ve become so accustomed to asking everyone else first.

The strange thing is, if you’d asked me ten years ago where I’d be today, I wouldn’t have described the life I’m living now, and that’s not a bad thing!!

Today, I’m building a survivor-led organisation. I’m studying again. I’m writing. I’m preparing to launch a podcast. I’m applying for jobs that excite me and terrify me in equal measure. I’m saying yes to opportunities that don’t come with guarantees and no to others that don’t feel quite right.

If I’m completely honest… I’m still experimenting.

Some days that feels exciting.

Other days it feels terrifying.

There are moments when I look around and wonder whether everyone else has somehow found certainty while I’m still collecting possibilities.

But perhaps certainty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Perhaps curiosity is more valuable.

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned over the past few years is that purpose doesn’t always arrive with a fanfare. Sometimes it introduces itself quietly. Sometimes it disguises itself as curiosity. Sometimes it looks like taking a course simply because it interests you. Sometimes it’s applying for a job you don’t think you’ll get. Sometimes it’s writing an article that only a handful of people may ever read. Sometimes it’s saying yes before you’ve convinced yourself you’re ready.

I’ve spent years waiting to feel certain before making decisions. I’m slowly learning that certainty rarely comes first.

Action does.

You don’t become confident and then try something new. You try something new, and confidence quietly catches up.

I wonder if we’ve been asking ourselves the wrong question all along.

Perhaps the question isn’t, “What do I want to be when I grow up?”

Perhaps it’s, “Who do I want to become?”

Because careers change.

Jobs end.

Children grow up.

Relationships evolve.

Our interests shift.

The version of ourselves we thought we’d be at twenty often bears little resemblance to the person we become at forty, sixty or eighty.

Maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be?

Maybe growing up isn’t about finally arriving.

Maybe it isn’t about becoming one fixed version of ourselves and staying there forever.

Maybe… it’s about giving ourselves permission to keep becoming.

To change our minds.

To start over.

To discover entirely new parts of ourselves long after the world has decided we should have ourselves figured out.

Maybe purpose isn’t a destination waiting patiently for us to stumble across it.

Maybe purpose is something we build.

One curious decision. One uncomfortable step. One leap of faith. One ordinary Tuesday at a time.

So if you’re reading this while feeling behind...

If you’re questioning everything.

If you’re considering going back to college, changing careers, starting a business, writing the book that’s been sitting inside you for years, learning the language, taking the risk or simply trying to remember who you were before life became one long list of responsibilities...

I hope you know this.

You are not behind.

You are not failing.

You are not the only person who still doesn’t have all the answers.

You’re becoming.

And perhaps asking ourselves, “What do I want to be when I grow up?” isn’t evidence that we’ve failed to find our purpose.

Maybe it’s evidence that we’re still curious enough to imagine another version of ourselves.

Still hopeful enough to believe tomorrow could look different from today.

Still brave enough to keep asking the question.

Because if we’re still asking...

Perhaps our story is still being written… And maybe that's the point.

And I think there’s something incredibly beautiful about that.

This weekend, my Dad would have turned sixty-eight.

I’ve thought about writing this essay for a long time. Not because I was afraid to share it.Because I was afraid to write it.

Writing has a way of asking us to sit with feelings we’d often rather leave untouched, and grief has a habit of refusing to stay where we leave it. Even now, almost two years later, I still find myself navigating it one ordinary day at a time.

If you’re willing, I’d love for you to join me while I try to make sense of a few questions that still don’t have answers.

The best way I know how to celebrate my Dad is to write about him.

Not in the “Kevin has a halo now and is an angel in Heaven” kind of way - Kevin was my Dad’s name - because that wouldn’t be truthful to the man he was or the life he chose to live.

I don’t think we honour people by pretending they were perfect. We honour them by remembering them honestly. Thankfully, I can say this with complete certainty.

I loved my Dad. And I knew he loved me.

Did I agree with everything he did? Absolutely not.

His halo, if he had one, was certainly tilted.

He made mistakes. Some of them difficult to understand.

But he was human. And perhaps loving someone “warts and all” is the most honest kind of love there is.

The hardest part about writing about him is that, to me, he wasn’t really Kevin.

He was simply... Dad.

Even though he spent years insisting I call him Kevin. (I politely—and repeatedly—declined.)

Perhaps we’re all different versions of ourselves depending on who’s looking. The version the world knew isn’t always the version those closest to us carry in their hearts. To many people, Kevin projected confidence. Intelligence. Fearlessness.

Those qualities were real. But so too were his doubts. His kindness. His insecurities. His softness. He struggled with how he saw himself, and I think that quietly shaped much of the life he built around him.

If I had to choose his greatest gift, though, it wouldn’t be his confidence.

It would be his mind.

He had a habit of casually dropping the most profound observations into everyday conversation, only for their meaning to reveal itself hours - or sometimes days - later.

His way of looking at the world fascinated me. Sometimes it frustrated me too. I always believed he could have done more with that extraordinary mind. Then again... isn’t it funny how the people who know us best often see our gifts more clearly than we ever do ourselves?

What must it be like to see yourself through the eyes of someone who loves the bones of you?

Truthfully, I could write forever about my Dad. About the contradictions. The adventures. The mistakes. The laughter.

But perhaps none of that matters quite as much as this.

I had a chapter dedicated to me in his story.

And that alone means more to me than I will ever be able to explain.

18:44.

22nd October 2024.

There are moments in life that divide time into two parts.

Before.

And After.

This was ours.

If I close my eyes, I can still see the word asystole glowing on the monitor.

I can still hear the final beep.

James Taylor’s Fire & Rain drifted quietly through the room.

I remember holding my Dad’s hand and noticing something I had never noticed before.

Warmth doesn’t disappear all at once. It leaves quietly. Almost politely.

We had spent days in that room hoping. Hope whispers; maybe tomorrow, maybe the next treatment, maybe one more conversation.

Then, suddenly... there were no more maybes.

Only silence.

I’m not a religious person. Yet, as my Dad took his last breath, I remember quietly saying,

“If there is a God... please be gentle with him.”

Grief has a strange way of making us reach for hope wherever we think we might find it.

People often ask what grief feels like and I’m not sure I can answer that. What I can tell you is that it feels strangely practical at first.

Forms appear.

People ask questions.

Someone offers tea.

Someone explains what happens next.

You nod.

You answer.

You sign.

Your body somehow knows how to behave while your mind struggles to understand the world.

Eventually, I had to leave the room. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t breathe. I walked the same hospital corridors I had walked countless times over the previous few days, only this time everything had changed.

Or perhaps...

Everything had stayed exactly the same.

People laughed.

Someone bought coffee.

Nurses chatted about their weekend.

Life carried on. I couldn’t understand it.

Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know my Dad had just died?

Of course they didn’t.

And even if they had... what could they have done?

Stop laughing?

Pause their lives?

Walk more quietly?

Grief isn’t rational. It’s the part of us that quietly believes the whole world should stop turning, if only for a moment, when ours has.

When I stepped outside the hospital doors, a sound came out of me that I had never heard before.

It wasn’t crying.

It wasn’t shouting.

It was something older than language.

Raw.

Primal.

A sound so unfamiliar that it startled me.

For a split second, I looked around to see where it had come from.

Then I realised... it had come from me.

Later, my therapist said something I’ve never forgotten.

“In his death, your Dad gave you the gift of feeling.”

At first, I hated that sentence. How could the worst day of my life possibly be described as a gift? It took me a long time to understand what she meant by that. For years, I had survived by becoming numb. Pain had become something to manage rather than feel. But grief refused to let me stay numb.

It broke through every wall I had spent years carefully building.

The pain I had known before came through violence.

Through trauma.

Through survival.

This pain came from love.

And somehow... that made it entirely different.

Love, it turns out, has its own language. Its own ache. Its own way of breaking us open.

A friend of my Dad’s once said something to me that I have carried ever since.

“Energy cannot be destroyed. It can only move.”

I don’t know whether he meant it scientifically, spiritually, or simply as a way of comforting his best friend’s heartbroken daughter… I never asked.

What I do know is that those words found a home in me. Not because they answered my questions. But because they reminded me that sometimes hope doesn’t have to explain itself to be helpful.

Grief has changed the way I think about many things… Including people. They say you discover who people really are when your world falls apart. Perhaps that’s true. But I’ve also come to believe that sometimes people simply cannot give what they don’t have.

If someone is carrying grief of their own, can they hold yours too?

If someone has never experienced loss, can they truly understand it?

I don’t know.

Maybe they can.

Maybe they can’t.

What I do know is that grief has made me gentler. Not only with others, but with myself.

I don’t think we ever really “move on.” I think we simply learn how to carry the people we love differently.

Sometimes in our memories.

Sometimes in our habits.

Sometimes in the words we find ourselves saying before suddenly realising...

“That sounded exactly like Dad.”

Perhaps that’s what finding life after death really means. Not forgetting. Not letting go. But allowing love to change shape.

The world kept turning after my Dad died.

For a long time, I wished it hadn’t.

Now...

I’m quietly grateful that it did.

Because somehow, amidst all of that movement... it carried me forward.

And every now and then, when I catch myself seeing the world through his eyes, choosing my words a little more carefully, or asking one more question than answering...

I realise something.

Maybe energy really does move.

Maybe that’s how the people we love remain with us.

Not because they never left.

But because they continue to shape the people we are still becoming.

Love you Dad - Happy Birthday.

-Hazel x

Different in more ways than one. But there was one difference that has stayed with me throughout my life: I never really understood the idea of winning.

Not the word itself, of course. I understood what it meant to cross the finish line first, to collect the medal, to hear the applause. What I didn’t understand was why it seemed to matter so much.

From an early age, we’re taught that winning the race, being top of the class, collecting the trophies, living in the biggest house, or even getting the most presents from Santa somehow means we’ve succeeded. That we’ve become... the winner.

But what if we’ve been measuring the wrong things?

What if success isn’t a competition at all? What if it’s something less tangible and infinitely more meaningful? What if success isn’t about having more than someone else, but about becoming more of ourselves?

I’ve often tried to fit the mould. I’ve even tried to manufacture a sense of competitiveness, believing that perhaps this was simply what adulthood required. That maybe everyone else knew something I didn’t.

But the truth is, I was never competitive.

Not because I didn’t enjoy trying.

Not because I was afraid of losing.

I simply never understood why someone else’s success had to diminish my own - or why mine should diminish theirs.

“Beating” someone never brought me the sense of accomplishment it seemed to bring other people. If anything, when I found myself on the winning side of something, I often experienced something quite unexpected.

Guilt.

That feeling has stayed with me for years, quietly asking to be understood rather than ignored.

So I thought I’d do what I always seem to come back to when I’m trying to make sense of the world.

I’d write.

What did I think success was?

Looking back, I realised I was paying attention to completely different things.

I admired kindness more than confidence.

I noticed the child who made sure nobody sat alone.

I remember the people who quietly encouraged others.

I celebrated the person who cheered someone else on, even when they themselves came second.

Those were the people I wanted to be like. The people I admired.

Did I ever feel jealousy?

Truthfully, no, I didn’t.

Envy? Absolutely - but jealousy, never.

To me, they’re driven by two very different things.

I was often envious of things friends had that I hadn’t, but I never begrudged them having those things. I simply wanted them too.

I’ve always believed there’s a world of difference between wishing you had something and wishing someone else didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, many of us begin to believe that life is something to be won.

We compare careers.

Relationships.

Houses.

Holidays.

Followers.

Salaries.

Even happiness.

We spend so much time measuring ourselves against one another that we rarely stop to ask a simpler question.

Who decided these were the things worth measuring?

There’s a part of me that wonders whether I’ve missed out on certain opportunities because of my lack of competitiveness.

Maybe I envy those who appear to have achieved so much because of their relentless drive to succeed.

Or maybe they’re pretending too.

Maybe, like I once did, they’ve convinced themselves that this constant striving is simply what success looks like.

Maybe the real “winners” are those who come to realise that winning has very little to do with beating anyone else.

Maybe it’s about contentment.

Maybe it’s about living a life that feels true to you, rather than one designed to impress everyone else.

Maybe it really is that simple.

And for the record, I don’t think ambition is wrong.

I don’t think achievement is something to apologise for.

I simply wonder whether we’ve confused achievement with worth.

Whether we’ve started believing that if someone else shines, our own light somehow becomes dimmer.

Instead of basking in the light of someone else’s achievements...

we’re quietly taught that we must, at all costs,

shine brighter.

Sometimes I wonder whether there can ever really be winners if we’re forever trying to outdo one another.

If contentment always lives just beyond the next achievement...

perhaps it remains forever out of reach.

I find that thought quite sad.

What if success was never meant to be measured against somebody else?

What if the people we should admire most aren’t those who crossed the finish line first?

Perhaps they’re the people who reached back to help someone else across it.

I don’t know.

But I do know this.

I’ve never stopped wondering...

When did winning become the point?

- Hazel