The car park smells like petrol and sun cream.
A midsummers day dream.
I drift across campus
longing for days spent filling paddling pools with mop buckets,
smoking roll ups instead of inhaling clouds
of watermelon and tangerine .

Cos when the air warms up like this
I'm 20 again.
Climbing through windows at 6am,
grazed knee’s and wide eyed,
glitter faced and time blind.

‘The girls are going on an adventure’
Engaging our double act as
we scanned tickets and kept it calm
or headed back from Nando’s flats.
Oblivious to everyone else around,
too young to know that
what goes up must come down.

I’m space buns and lost phones.
Away she goes,
off to bend the ear of anyone who’ll listen
while
you’re sunglasses indoors and a bass face.
Too busy dancing to make friends tonight but
if we get lost I’ll meet you at that pole.

Cos I can’t do without you.
You’re like a wildfire
and I want you in my soul.
Fuck me up spin me round,
I’m on a see saw up and down.
Take me to loud places then hold me in the silence,
sleeping in gardens after the afters.
Crashing out in cubicles
and swinging from the rafters.

I wonder if we met those girls now what we would think?
Would we find them annoying
or endearing?
Laughing in lecture halls in last nights clothes.
Their shrieks would probably pierce our brains
on trams where we’re suffering
from the combined effects of
being under-caffeinated and overstimulated.
Cursing their abundant energy and
their incessant need to seek dopamine.

I wonder what they’d think of us?
Hair brushed and mostly on time.
Would they see us as past our prime 
or on the brink
of an early midlife crisis?
Sporting a therapy vocabulary that
they couldn’t imagine in their wildest dreams.
They’d probably cringe to think how
we swapped dance floors for dinner,
our inner children only let out to play
every 4-8 weeks
dependent on our ever growing schedules
of weddings and half marathons.

I wonder if you could do it all again,
would you swap
early nights and reality tv,
long walks and all your friends having babies 
for morning ice poles and the freedom
of not knowing who you were?

Or does the idea fill you with dread?
Do you think we could still handle
handing out flyers and
being completely and utterly fucked in the head?
Cos when the air warms up like this
and brings it all back,
I long for an adventure with you at my side.
Fizzy brained and starry eyed,
making magic on the top deck of the magic bus.

I think we’ve still got it in us

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I belong here, but not really.

Like a sheep in Labrador’s clothing, all smiles and boundless enthusiasm. Hide my discomfort behind applause and laughter. Imposter. Teeth bared. Disguise deep breaths with delicate sips of air, when what I really feel when I’m up here is:

My words are not as meaningful as yours and I don’t know when to pause for breath. Bereft of poetic technique, might have peaked with my first piece.

My mum says I’m good but I’m too Northern; “You swear too much, you’re too broad, you sound common”. I can’t memorise my lines and I’m shit with rhymes, but I try.

Try to blend in, to stop the inside thoughts from bursting out when I wanna be the one to unironically call the pizzas ‘scrumdiddlyumptious’ and for you to think that’s cool. I wanna take up smoking again so I’ve got something to do with my hands when we take a break, heart racing, trying to think of something of substance to say to you.

I tell myself “poets are people too”, that you all started somewhere and you felt this too. But, the overwhelm bulldozes me and when I leave, tucked tail between legs, I’ll ruminate on this night too.

You see, I am someone who is never enough, yet somehow, always too much. Riddled with ADHD and anxiety, I self-deprecate to control the narrative. Weaponise my insecurities to keep you laughing at me. I take up space to keep myself small; too loud, too busy, a sensory assault. Divulge without hesitation, lost in translation, desperate for validation. A brain doing overtime. I think too much about myself, self-indulge all night and then wonder why I’m tired.

I hate my own company but I have this need to push away my friends before they can begin to hate me, because I worry if I let you form your own opinion you’ll see I’m not all that I’m cracked up to be. I hate pianos in train stations, get road rage and I binge eat. I hoped the meds would take away that tendency but here we are, six weeks later and I can still eat for three.

I live in Didsbury. If you know where that is, you’ll probably think I’m fancy but what you don’t know is that I can’t save money to save my life. Knee deep in debt, I’ll probably be renting until I die. And when my dad dies he’ll be disappointed because how can the daughter of a working class man spend a lifetime paying rent to another’s hand?

But I’m not working class though am I? Not really. I straddle the divide between my roots, my history and who I’ve grown up to be. ‘Mines a decaf oat flat white!’, so far removed from the life I left behind.

My Cancer moon gives me emotional depth. I see in others their need to be held and I’ll hold you. I’ll hold you with all of my might. Gripping so tightly. My astrologer says I give too much, too freely, that I nurture others in some desperate attempt to feel needed, when all I really want is for someone to hold me.

To unwrap me from the bow I’ve been strangling myself with, to make myself palatable, to be seen, to be known. I wanna unironically call the pizzas ‘scrumdiddlyumptious’ and to not care if you think that’s cool. Because it isn’t my role to fill up the room, but when I unintentionally and inevitably do, I wanna give myself grace.

I’ll embrace my hate of train station tunes and treasure my accent. Say screw it to my debt and make peace with the war in my head. Put some of this self-loathing to bed. Let down the walls, let you see the real me.

I am a therapist who needs therapy.

But I guess that’s good because it shows my humanity. And maybe, I’ll always be a poet who cannot click. But one day, pretty soon, I hope that I’ll be ok with it.

A recent piece of spoken word translated to the page. If you’re new to performing spoken word, take heed! No one cares that you can’t click your fingers. No one thinks about you half as much as you do. Just go for it. You’ve got this.

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You're embroidered on my heart.
A tapestry of us,
woven by divine timing
& cosmic chaos.
Torn apart by a storm
we couldn't weather.

I guess our luck ran out.

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There's a void inside of me,
hollowed out by feral screams
on a kitchen floor,
the world spinning,
shimmering,
eyes like saucers
and arms like vines,
a tangle of limbs
and laughter.
Alive amongst the dust,
you, me, us.

Happy New Year! I sit here on this sunny Saturday, listening to 6 Music and wanting to write about resisting the new years sprint we find ourselves in year after year. The trees seem to be whispering to be “slow down, you have plenty of time”. There’s a poem in there somewhere, but first, I needed to honour the beauty and pleasure of spending New Year’s Eve with my people.

Spending Christmas with my family is both wonderful and challenging. For me, New Year’s Eve is a big release, a shaking off of the frustration that can easily build from spending a week in my childhood bedroom at 30 years old. I get to surround myself with people who allow me to fully remove the mask and who have me roaring with laughter ‘til my sides are splitting. As Lucy Dacus say’s, “it feels good to be known so well”, and the people I ring in the new year with are some of the people who know me best.

I woke up on January 1st a little tender. I returned to the kitchen floor to sit with the dog while friends cleared up bottles and brewed coffee. I filled the void inside of me with hashbrowns and homemade cookies, before the Stranger Things finale split me in half and left me emptier than before. I did a little embroidery, watched the Eras Tour and slept hard. It was the perfect New Years Day.

I’m starting a new job this coming Monday, which is more than enough change for me this month. Instead of transformation, I’m choosing softness and nourishment. I’m working with the moon, journaling and taking gentle walks. I’ll return to yoga classes that ground me and help me feel at home in my body, not lacing up my running shoes and battling the elements. I’m listening to the trees, to the rot and decay. January is the time to rest, to shed, to reflect.

My calendar is bare, except from a few cinema dates. I might bake some bread, I might not. There are no rules. Maybe I’ll start thinking about intentions when the new moon arrives later in the month, but for now, I’ll be here. Writing when I can.

Love,

Caitlin x

‘Alive amongst the dust’ has been lovingly quoted from Antony Szmierek’s ‘Rafters’.

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To whom it may concern,

I’m handing in my notice. It’s time to clock out. I’m tired of the 9-5, head down, don’t make a sound, rat race, we call life.

I’d like to thank you for the opportunity, but this no longer works for me. Every day starts the same; snooze, scroll, running late. Dashing down streets, headphones in. Drown the sound of everyone around. Avoid eye contact with those bravest of souls who dare to raw dog their commute. Scared to be their newest recruit. Scared to admit that they’ve got it right; that life just might be more than a list of to-do’s and waiting for your next holiday. No time for play. Ignore your attention spans screaming demands to just fucking STOP.

I’m sure I’ve learned a lot of undeniable life skills; like the ability to scroll my way through a crisis, or hit buy now without caring what the price is. But what I’m noticing 
is
there’s no time
to smell
the coffee brewing in the pot
it’s instant
or nout
rushing out just to blink through another day
crawl back home
ready for more of the same

Please advise if there’s anything I can do to make this transition as smooth as I can for you, but I’m moving on to pastures new.

I don’t want autopilot

I’m taking my blinkers off

I want

f
a
l
l
i
n
g

             leaves 

                            and trees

and to feel the b r e e z e
on my skin as we walk
hand in hand
and


I want stillness.


I want soft.


I want dirt between my toes
I want sand
I want moss

I want to put down the screen
and lean in-to life

I want wild, I want free,
take me back to being five

let me run

let me SCREAM

cocoon me in blankets,
suffocate the need
to always be on,
yet never to see

I want to finish out my notice period
with a semblance of peace

I just want to notice.

Period.

Please just let me be.

In accordance with my contractual notice period, my final day will be today.

Kind regards,

Caitlin

This is a spoken word piece imagined on the page. Big up my writing group for helping me see this through!!

You are my personal hell.

What once was a space to eat, break bread,
is now buried under displaced belongings,
anxiously waiting for me to decide their fate.

A monstera plant yearning for a pot to call home
has been squatting here for two weeks,
while crumpled up receipts for clothes
I'm too late to return seek refuge in the fruit bowl.

The desperate search for my passport
leaves old travel documents
and expired bank cards strewn over you,
like fallen leaves in the bleakest of autumns
- piles upon piles left to decay.

Every day I add to your strain,
your legs groaning under the weight of my inattention.
A notebook full of big ideas is as worthless
as a sweet wrapper from a late night hypo.
You are a graveyard of all the versions of me.

In public, I am linen napkins, fresh cut flowers and tapered candles.
But in private, I am that goddamn kitchen table.

On a good day, light refracts from the disco mushrooms
reminding me that golden hour exists
and it's fucking spectacular.
Their brilliance illuminates a fridge
covered in polaroid's, old wedding invites
and magnets from a life well travelled.
A glittering reminder that there’s more to life
than a tidy home.

But then the light fades,
and the dust settles.
It falls onto you like paper and wrappers before,
and we both sigh under the weight
of our personal hell.

This piece began taking shape in March during my first ever writing class. Over the course of five weeks, I combined lines from several pieces that centred around my ADHD and I performed the original version of it at the end of that class. Since then, I’ve grown as a writer and the original format doesn’t quite hit the same for me. I have been meaning to go back and edit it for some time, as it’s a piece of work I very much want to give to the world. Enjoy.

This time last year,
I didn't like green beans.
Their bitter squeak
reminiscent of being forced
to finish my plate
before fun could be had.

On the way home,
we stopped at the services;
our bodies deprived
of sustenance and salt.
A giddy squeal
escaping from my mouth
as we spotted the noodle bar.

She ordered salt and pepper potatoes.
Glistening, golden nuggets
interspersed with precious gems;
crunchy red peppers
and those abhorrent green beans.

"Try one", she coaxed
and I took a deep breath,
witnessed its blistered skin,
slick with oil,
peppered with salt
and bit into it.

This time last year,
I would have told you
what happened next.
You see, this was not
the massacred green bean
of childhoods past.

No. This crunchy spear
was as sweet as it was salty;
teaching my tongue
a new lesson in flavour.
Reminding me that everybody
has capacity to change.

This time last year,
I wasn't a writer.
My ambitions nothing but
a secret dream I hadn't
even shared with you.
Carefully kept close to my chest,
waiting for the right time to do
the thing I'd always wanted to.

I wasn't a student or a runner.
You weren't a wife and I
wasn't just another name
struck off on your long list
of people who dared to care
about what happened to you.

You see, this time last year,
things were different.
Because this time last year,
I still knew you.

I’ve been working on this poem for a while and think it is finally ready to enter the world. I encourage you to listen to the voice over. Thank you as always for reading my work.

On the forest floor,
nestled amongst the ivy,
lay hundreds of damsons.
Purple-blue pearls
punctuating the green carpet,
an obstacle course for my feet.

I tiptoe between them,
carefully choosing the ones
whose skin has not yet succumbed
to their fall from grace;
juices oozing from their
punctured flesh,
calling to the circling birds above.

Unable to wait, I dust one off
and pop it in my mouth.
The tartness transports me
to a summer long ago.

From the field with the horses,
we plucked the damsons from
their trees, and carried them home
to our mothers, expecting them
to accept our bounty with grace;
unaware that they did not have
time to make jam that we would
never eat anyway.

Regret is a dilapidated barn,
the walls rotten and crumbling
with no horses in sight.
The grass grows wildly,
consuming the foundations
and telling the world to keep out.

The tartness fades and I am 
back in the woods,
my arms full of damsons,
and I wish I had the time
to make the jam that no one
will eat.

I finally found the time to complete Joy Sullivan’s ‘Writing Gold’ masterclass and this is my result. I’ve also recorded a voiceover for the first time! I hope you enjoy hearing me read my work (cringe).

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I wrote this piece earlier in the year. It’s a sort of stream of conscious rant, and I think it works better as a spoken piece but non-the-less, I wanted to share it here, as it’s one that I’m deeply proud of.

I started running recently. I don't know why, I've always hated runners. Their arms flapping mindlessly as they bound down the pavement, "like a stupid t-rex" I think.

Every Saturday morning, I walk the dog. My route overtaken by a horde of park runners, racing themselves for a personal best. Jostling to be the first one to the bakery, a well earned croissant in their sights.

Maybe I've started running because I want a way to justify all the croissants I've been eating lately. "A little treat" I've come to call them, inspired by days spent scrolling through instagram. "Girls will say they needed this and it's just an oat flat white and a pain au chocolat".

I know my dad thinks I'll never be able to afford a house if I don't pack it in, and he's right. But everything's so fucking bleak these days that my little treats help me get through the week without my head exploding.

Maybe I've started running because I want to get my shit together. A weekend away in the Yorkshire dales; eighteen adults and one baby. Half of us still up shooting the shit at 4am while the other half slept to prepare for their casual morning 8k. "Psychopaths" I thought as they laced up their shoes and stretched while I popped another paracetamol; sunglasses shielding my bleary eyes from their glow.

Maybe it's an early midlife crisis. Maybe I'm bored and it's just my new flavour of the month. Maybe those £140 trainers I bought after a spontaneous gait analysis will be giving me the same looks in three months time as my dust covered pandemic roller skates, wasting their life away under the stairs.

Maybe I want to lose weight, maybe I want to be a part of something - or am I running from something? Maybe I've really lost the plot this time. At least that's how it feels as I'm gasping for air, lugging myself up a tiny hill, desperate for the timer to tell me it's ok to walk again.

But then it's the last ninety seconds and a new song starts and out of nowhere I'm flying and I think "I can do this, I've done this". One more week in the bag, one step closer to sticking something out. I read somewhere that telling people your goals makes you lose interest faster, but when the kudos comes rolling in I think "they were talking shit".

So I don't know why I'm running, but I am. And I think I'm starting to like it. Maybe in eight weeks time I'll be one of those park run wankers, smile plastered to my face as the sweat pours down it. Screaming "what the fuck you want from me", internally. Tears running freely.

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The signs at the side of the road call to me
"It's a cake!" they proclaim
Some marketing guru was paid well for that
I'm sure

People argue on twitter
Trying to settle this great debate
That we all know only started
For tax evasion purposes anyway

I don't know how to tell the signs
That I couldn't give less of a fuck
Why don't you ask a starving child
If it's a biscuit or a cake
And see what they say?

I’m writing every day in August using these prompts. On Wednesday, a random word generator gave me the word “unfair” and birthed this poem.

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If you were a pen, you’d be a fountain
Your ink flowing
All fine lines and smooth curves
Elegant beyond compare

If you are a fountain pen
Then I am a colouring pencil
Or perhaps even a crayon
Easily broken, carelessly discarded
Remnants of me forgotten
In a broken down cardboard box

Given the choice, most would pick you
The sleek, timeless thing
To my cheap, childish charm
My once sharp edges blunt
While you draw with such precision

But shiny becomes tarnished
Your ink runs dry
You desperately try to refill yourself
A new cartridge
An injection of life straight into your veins

You’re designed to last forever
But at what cost
Does your maintenance come?
You’re bleeding out all over the page
And you don’t even know it

So I may envy you at first
But when my heart stops
And I’m resting in my cardboard box
While you desperately cling to life
I’ll be glad that I knew when to let myself go

Every single time

Inspired by the prompt “What can you feel right now?” from my 31 days of writing prompts.

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I took a writing course in April, and one of the things I enjoyed most were the warm up exercises. The facilitator would give us random prompts, such as “write a letter to 12 year old you” and put three minutes on the clock. The spontaneity helped me get out of my head and the words just flowed. I wasn’t aiming for good writing, it was just an opportunity to flex my writing muscles and get me in a comfortable mindset for the class.

That said, some of the prompts sewed small seeds within me and I have found myself revisiting my notebook from the course, harvesting some of the offerings within. While I might not have gone on to write specifically about that prompt, I have lifted certain lines, from which a piece of poetry has bloomed. The joy of those prompts lay in the randomness. Without them, I highly doubt I would have written an ode to my favourite baggy jumper!

So to keep me writing, I’m going to use a different prompt each day in August. I’ll be posting them on my notes, so you are more than welcome to follow along. I mainly write poetry, but let the prompts and your preferred style of writing take you wherever they wish! Here’s the full list of prompts I’ll be using:

1. What can you feel right now?

Starting simple, think about what you can feel. Do a body scan - what is it in contact with? Write about the feelings and sensations you’re experiencing, or a particular thing that you are touching.

2. If you were a plant..

What would you be? Are you a plant that’s currently in existence, or is your imagination running wild with the possibilities? Where do you live? What do you look like? What is it like to be a plant?

3. A conversation you overheard today

Take notice of conversations around you. Did you overhear something funny in the supermarket? Or was it something disquieting in the train station? Write about what you heard, the speaker or extend the conversation.

4. How does your favourite possession feel about you?

Think of your favourite object. Is it something practical, like your phone or the kettle? Is it something sentimental? How do you think it feels about you? How does it see your relationship?

5. A holiday you’ve taken

Was it the best or worst holiday of your life? Is there a particular memory that pulls you in? What did you do, who were you with? Describe it in detail!

6. Random word generator

Use a random word generator for todays prompt. Will you learn a new word, or get something basic and uninspiring (or so you think..). See where it takes you.

7. The best advice you’ve received

Who gave you it? Why did they give it to you? Have you passed it on to anyone else?

8. A conversation you would have with an animal

If you could have a conversation with just one animal, which would it be and why? What would you want to know about them, and vice versa?

9. An item from the room you’re sat in

Look around and choose an object. Write to/from/about it.

10. Your least favourite chore?

What is it, and why is it doing the pots? Kidding! Why do you hate it so much? What would you give to never have to do that chore again? What would happen if you just stopped doing it?

11. If your walls could talk, what would they say?

Do they have questions or advice for you? What is their voice like? Are they kind, judgemental, sarcastic? What do they want from you?

12. The weather outside

Look outside (or check your weather app). What’s going on out there right now? How do you feel about it?

13. Water

That’s it, that’s the prompt!

14. Your favourite chair

Describe it in great detail. What colour is it? How does it feel to sit in it? Where does it live? What can you see from it? What do you do when you’re in this chair? Tell me!

15. You wake up and it’s the year you were born

And you weren’t expecting it! What do you do? What’s it like; the music, fashion, people?

16. The last thing to make you laugh

Was it a TV show, a friend, a text? Was it happy laughter, or were you laughing in disbelief?

17. A love letter to your favourite food

Confess your love to tacos/pizza/chocolate/mangos/delete as appropriate!

18. What can you hear right now?

Listen carefully. What can you hear? If you can’t hear anything, what is that like?

19. The street you grew up on

Write about the memories this street holds and what it has witnessed over the years.

20. What would you show an alien if they visited earth?

Is your first stop Taco Bell or a national park? Would you show them your writing? Do you want them to be impressed, or bored?

21. Mornings

What are mornings like for you? Perhaps you describe your ideal morning, your current routine or what you hate about them. Is there a smell you associate with mornings?

22. Random Wikipedia page

Click here to open a random Wikipedia page. Where does it take you?

23. Missed connections

Think of someone from your past. Maybe you had a conversation with them on a train but forgot to ask for their number. Who are they and where are they now?

24. The last picture you took

Open your camera roll and look at the last photo or screenshot you took. Why did you take it? What is it of?

25. Books by your bed

What are they? How did they get there? Do you like them? Do you want to live in them?

26. What colour are you?

Are you a soft pastel or bold neon? Do you play nicely with other colours, or do you clash? What feels are associated with your colour? What uses does your colour have?

27. At night I think of..

Dogs, what’s for tea tomorrow, world peace, taxes. What’s on your mind?

28. Questions you have for your phone

What are you dying to know? Are they big, existential questions, or do you just want to know what it’s favourite song is?

29. Music

Another “simple” one. Are you listening to any right now? What does music invoke for you?

30. Five years from now..

Picture your life in five years time. Where do you see yourself, or where would you like to be?

31. If you were a landscape

What would you be? Are you a turbulent ocean, a serene forest or a scorching desert? Describe yourself and show me why.

I’d love to hear how you get on. Whether you use the prompts as a warm up for your writing practice, or you go on to write something longer than a few sentences. Please feel free to share your work and I’ll do the same! Happy writing x

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Dear reader,

The last time I wrote to you, we spoke about my journey to becoming a writer. After I posted, I fell into the bottomless pit of rumination that is my brain. Were my friends rolling their eyes? “Here she goes again, another hobby she’ll be over in 2 months.” Don’t I need qualifications to call myself a writer? And why do I think I’m so special that anyone would even be interested in what I have to say?

Here’s the thing. To a new writer like me, these questions may be irrational, but they’re also completely normal. As Melissa Febos states in the incredible ‘Body Work’, writing about oneself is deemed to be the ultimate act of navel-gazing. In a world that suddenly seems desperate to brandish a person as a ‘narcissist’, indulging in a self-reflective piece of writing could have you heading straight to social media jail. But as Febos goes on to discuss, we often write about ourselves because we have to — because writing about oneself allows us to process our stories and reclaim our own narrative.

There is a line in my recent essay that I particularly like, which I discussed with a friend:

The lines began to take shape, cautiously forming stanzas.

The idea of writing cautiously particularly resonated with them. Although we like to think that we write from the heart, we often revisit our work, spending time contemplating the language we’ve used to describe a feeling. Sometimes the word we used initially doesn’t quite fit. In some cases, it doesn’t do the feeling justice, making our pain seem more like a bitch slap than a sucker punch. Other times, we might have denied our true feelings entirely, not only trying to convince our readers but ourselves that the grief we were feeling was non-existent.

While dissecting this process, I began to think about about the similarities between writing and therapy. As a (trainee) therapist, I demonstrate a deep understanding of my clients by responding to them empathically. Although it is my job to pick up on the emotions within their statements, my empathic responses are often tentative, presenting my perceptions to the client as a question.

Take for example a client being rejected for a promotion they’d applied for. They tell me they’re “fine”, but rant about the person who was offered the job instead for most of the session*. I might respond with something like “I know you were really excited about the possibility of a promotion, this must be devastating for you..?”. By responding in this way, I’m allowing the client to try on that feeling of devastation for size. Perhaps it’s too big; devastation, is after all, a hefty emotion. The fabric might feel funny — too soft or too scratchy against their skin. “I wouldn’t say devastated”, they say, and ponder for a few moments. “But I’m definitely disappointed”.

This process allows the clients to take ownership of their own emotions. Allowing them to choose the most accurate words to describe their experiences is a crucial part of them identifying their inner voice and empowering them to trust their own judgement.

So when we write and we consider our words, we are engaging in a kind of therapeutic process of our own. It is an act of gazing inwards, honing in on a feeling and holding it in that present moment. When trying to describe a feeling in my writing, I notice where I feel it in my body and the sensations that arise. Does my jaw clench or my shoulders soften? Does my heart quicken or does it fill? This subtle art of noticing not only improves my descriptive writing, but my relationship with myself.

I google synonyms when I’m searching for a feeling that I can’t properly articulate. This isn’t dissimilar to a therapists use of a feelings wheel in session. Maybe I want to describe a certain type of anger; not a red hot raging kind, but more of a simmering seethe. The more I write and explore my own feelings, the more equipped I feel as a therapist. I’m fine tuning my empathy meter and understanding the nuance between emotions.

Of course, writing isn’t a replacement for therapy (just as therapy isn’t a replacement for writing!). The fact I find it so healing is likely influenced by the years of therapy I’ve had, as well as my awareness of therapeutic processes. I wonder if, for some people, writing about themselves without any therapeutic challenge could solidify unhelpful thinking patterns. But with quality mental health care being inaccessible for so many, it is certainly a great starting point.

For those who aren’t interested in creative writing, brain dumping or worry journaling — the act of “dumping” your busy thoughts onto the page by freewriting without judgement — can be an excellent way to begin processing your overwhelming thoughts and emotions. If you’re like me, spending the time to craft a poem about a painful situation can be an act of healing. Creatively writing also opens up the potential for finding a sense of community, which has been shown time and time again to improve mental health.

So while some might see what I’m doing here as navel-gazing, I’m calling it an integral part of my mental health care. Sure, I could just journal, but writing publicly has opened up a whole new chapter of my life — one that I hadn’t expected in the slightest. The connections I’m building are bringing me so much joy. The feedback I’m receiving is helping me build my confidence and self-esteem. But most importantly, I’m doing it because it feels good and is important to me.

All my love,

Caitlin

*Disclaimer: the ‘client’ I have discussed in this essay is not a real person, only an example. I take confidentiality incredibly seriously and would not discuss a real client on Substack.

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I used to want to write about
The greatest of loves and the deepest of sorrows
Every idea as deep as the canyons
That cut through millions of layers of rock
So breath taking and unfathomable
That no words can do them justice

For years I was stuck
My lens permanently zoomed out
A wide angle attempting to capture
Those vast landscapes
Unable to notice
What was right in front of me

Until one day, I learnt to zoom in
And observe the flutter of a bees wings
When he dives into an open flower
Pollen clinging to his fuzzy shorts
As he drunkenly falls into the next.

I witness the tender moment
Between a mother and toddler
As she consoles her after a fall
While the sun dances across my face
And the dogs chase the squirrels
Back up their trees

I long to bottle these moments
And pour them out onto the page
No feeling too small
Every sensation, every emotion
Deserving of its own verse

And although I still gasp in awe
At those gaping canyons
I now realise
That the greatest of loves
And the deepest of sorrows
Can be felt
In the tiniest of moments

Joy Sullivan is one of my poetry idols; her ability to capture the details in every moment has been a huge inspiration to me as I’ve embarked on this writing journey. Here, I have attempted to capture the feeling that reading her poems gives me. I hope you enjoy.

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Steam rises from the plate in front of you
Golden crowns bathed in silk
Delicately placed
For your culinary pleasure

Outside, the rain patters
An open door inviting into the room
The sounds of rivulets
Rebounding on the cobbles

Passersby scurry past
Woefully unequipped
For the sudden downpour
That engulfs this little town

You watch as they duck for cover
Sharing a smile
Safe in the warm glow
Of this candlelight

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The smell of fresh laundry wafts from the spare room. A sign that you are home. You venture to the supermarket and return with not one, but two blocks of cheese. You don't have to do this, but you know that I'm a wimp who prefers her cheddar mild.

They say that romance is grand gestures, red roses and a string quartet. But I see it in the cupboards you close behind me and how you put my toothbrush on charge when I forget. It's how, on every flight, you take the middle seat without complaint and the cups of coffee you make me each day.

You're the quiet to my loud, the neat to my freak. It's walking the dog and changing the sheets. Cutting the grass and lifting luggage over kerbs. You're my daily reminder that sometimes, actions speak louder than words.

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At 14 I picked up my first guitar. I had the knack for perfecting a cover, singing at many a school concert and in local bars. But when asked to write an original song or my music GCSE, my stomach dropped. I’d spent so long singing other people’s songs, I had no idea where to start with my own! Everything I wrote felt too cheesy, too juvenile. Who was I, at 15, to write about love and loss? What did I know about the world? For weeks, I sat alone in the music room and stared at a blank page, until eventually, at risk of failing, my teacher chose lyrics at random and instructed me to write a new melody.

I finished high school believing that I just “didn’t have it”. Some people, like Taylor Swift, were born to be song writers. They knew how to tell stories, how to make us feel things. It was instinctive. Innate. My parents might enjoy hearing me sing, but if I didn’t have it, I didn’t have. I accepted my fate. A songwriter, I was never to be.

That was 15 years ago. And although I still sing and occasionally play guitar, I’ve never been tempted to try song writing again.

But then, my best friend broke up with me.

I had just begun training as a therapist and was beyond ecstatic to be starting this new chapter of my life. I was ready to embark on a journey of self-discovery, personal growth and massive change. I knew that my relationships were going to come into question; after all, I’d heard the tales of a counselling masters being the “divorce course”. But what I hadn’t anticipated was being dumped unceremoniously in the first week of my studies, by someone I once described as my “platonic soulmate”.

We met online around five years ago through a mutual friend. The three of us shared an alarmingly similar music taste and a group chat was quickly formed, where we began to speak everyday. We discovered that we shared more than music tastes. Our values and politics aligned, we listened to each other deeply and confessed that we’d never felt so understood. We shared the kind of private jokes you only have with someone that you’ve known for a lifetime.

Over time, the 4000 miles between us and the time zones we spanned became simultaneously more and less difficult to navigate. The closer we became, the smaller the distance felt. When we facetimed, it almost started to feel like we were in each others living rooms. Yet, we began to yearn for the day that we could finally hang out in real life.

That day came in March 2024, when I flew across the globe for a long-awaited girls' trip. We drank alcohol-free rosé by the sea, sang Noah Kahan and boygenius songs in the car, and laughed wildly all week. We swore we’d never been known so well and couldn’t imagine a life without each other.

So I never could have expected that, five months later and within the space of 6 texts, our friendship would implode. What followed were months of inner turmoil, arguments in my head and endless debates about whether it was worth attempting to repair things. What happened between us dragged my self-concept under an internal microscope. Was I cut out to to be a therapist? How did I, supposed master of communication, end up in this situation?

And then there was the pain. After several months of processing, I now understand what caused her to feel the way she did when she chose to end our friendship. But for the first few months, I grieved through those five stages like nobody’s business. I couldn’t understand it. How was I so disposable? I thought you loved me; I thought I was your sister?

Then I became angry. How fucking dare you treat me this way. I don’t owe you shit.

Next came bargaining. I tried to offer an olive branch, not once, but twice. When that didn’t work, I cried and cried and cried. Each stage tinged with the pain of rejection; the loss of one of the great loves of my life.

At first, I leant on my friends, but as with any break up, there comes a time when people get bored of hearing about it. No one says it out loud, but there’s an expiry date on how long you’re supposed to grieve a friendship. On a road trip with my parents, as a Noah Kahan song played, memories of our trip flooded in and ripped me open. “Don’t get upset about her”, they told me. “She doesn’t matter anymore”. And so I zipped myself back up and smiled for the rest of the day.

That’s when I began to write. At first, it started with the notes on my iPhone (like every aspiring substack writer!). A line or two, here and there, amongst the endless shopping lists, to do lists and attempts to rewrite my routine. The lines began to take shape, cautiously forming stanzas. On a whim, I signed up for Kate Ireland’s ‘Write Yourself’, a 5-week course designed to explore writing as a tool for self-discovery. Through quick fire warm ups, focused prompts and between-session reflections, I began to find my voice. I chose to read a piece out loud to the group and was moved by the feedback. “Beautiful, tender, I can feel the love you share”.

Could it be? Me, a writer?

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

But then I think of you
And the way your laugh fills up the room
Like sunlight pouring through the crack in the curtain

The makings of an ode to my favourite person

My confidence grew, I began to share more and take on feedback. I leaned in to the silly, writing questions to my phone and an ode to a baggy jumper. I wrote about running, a stream of consciousness pouring from my pen one evening after hitting a pretty important goal. The need to write about my recent ADHD diagnosis became apparent, and I saw myself in a new light. I pieced together ideas from the five week course to form my final piece; the eponymous ‘The Kitchen Table’. Reading this to our sacred group and the loving, genuine feedback I received will forever be a core memory to me.

So now, I write. I write when my boyfriend and I bicker in a crowded food hall over something stupid. I write when my friends piss me off but it isn’t worth the hassle of confronting them. I’ve written about rocks, washing machines, airport lounges and home. Some of these musings go on to be developed, some remain as notes on my phone, waiting to be pulled upon and others are simply scribbled down and forgotten. And although it’s nice to publish something new, the outcome of these fleeting thoughts remains largely irrelevant, as I mainly write to make sense of my busy head.

I recently attended a Noah Kahan concert with my partner and family. I danced with my dad, hugged my mum, smiled at my brother and sang with my love. I made new memories and reclaimed the songs that, a few months ago, would cut me deep. Yet, I couldn’t hold back the tears as he played The Great Divide; an unreleased song that feels, at least to me, about a broken friendship with no hope of saving.

Some people might wonder why I’m still writing about someone who I haven’t spoken to in 10 months. I’ve come to realise that friendship breakups aren’t afforded the same grace as a romantic breakup. But although I can hardly remember my last romantic heartbreak, I promise you that the pain of losing anyone you love so abruptly will hurt like hell.

You’ll hear them in the songs you used to play. You’ll see them in the tv shows you watched together, or taste them in the food you both loved. You cherished them, trusted them, knew them. That never goes away, no matter how you knew them.

So, I’ll write about her when I need to, because I need to. I’ve also realised that there’s no timeline on grieving the end of a friendship, and there’s no right or wrong way to do it. Sometimes I don’t think about her for weeks and other weeks, everything reminds me of her.

All that’s left to say is, that although I’ll always miss what we had, I’m grateful for everything that her departure left room for in my life. 10 months ago, I wasn’t a writer. There were friends who I adore now, who I hadn’t even met yet. I didn’t run, or journal, or even eat green beans! All is not lost.

And perhaps one day soon, I will write that song, for you.

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Driving home, a bag of gifts in the footwell
Green olives, rare plants, bear prints
Proof that someone knows you well

10 years ago, you could never have imagined a life like this was possible
Vitamin water you pretended to like, desperate for approval
Always searching for something more
You're on your own kid
Is that really what your twenties are for?

You once heard that turning thirty is an invitation to stop caring what anyone thinks
You've been waiting for this day for what feels like a lifetime
Permission to love yourself
Accept yourself
Be yourself

But now, as you stand in a room full of friends
United by you
You realise you're already there

The raucous laughter you share over a bad joke
Dog spotting from the window

Car karaoke
Awkward hugs
Gentle walks
We're in love

Pizzas split down the middle
A new years feast
Books swapped
Dancing feet

Lost in the memories
Stories shared
Forward folds
Souls bared

Airport reunions
Park swings
Supermarket playgrounds
A life worth living

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