As long as I can remember, I have been 'away with the fairies.' A chronic daydreamer, from a very early age I was constantly floating on a cloud of some kind of whimsy. Whether my fantasies be patched together from Alan Garner, JK Rowling, Eva Ibbotson or even Toy Story (at around 6, I had a thing for Woody the cowboy)…as a child I was always longing to be somewhere I wasn't. The everyday, mundane and minute details of everyday life bored me. Admittedly, they still do, sometimes. Whilst on the surface throughout my school days I'd be attentive and quiet, mentally I'd be an age way, in a liminal time, a faraway place. I'd be deep in an enchanted forest, running down the spiral staircase of a rich King's castle, hanging out in the Gryffindor common room with Harry (wishful thinking – I am so blatantly a Hufflepuff…), or living with Tolkien's elvish folk in Rivendell. My favourite film today, aged twenty one, is Labyrinth. I am in love with the fantasy art of Brian Froud, Jasmine Beckett Griffith. I own unicorn candles. I have a miniature, mischievous brass Cornish Piskie that I almost unconsciously rub surreptitiously everyday for 'good luck.' I wholeheartedly embrace the concept of the seven chakras, and fully believe in the life-enhancing and calming properties of crystals. I have been described as 'kooky' by friends. I'm not entirely sure it was meant as a compliment. Don't get me wrong, I'm not utterly spaced out 24/7, but I can get so lost in my own thoughts/daydreams that I am rendered oblivious to those around me. Whilst a vivid imagination can certainly be a blessing, it can also be a curse. I'm self-aware enough to realise that my chronic daydreaming can sometimes make me appear withdrawn, odd, or at worst, rude. I'm not. At least, I hope I'm not. I just don't always have the energy or the practicality reserves required to deal with some interactions, unfortunately. The left side of my brain has always remained firmly in control. Give me a cryptic poem to puzzle over rather than an equation any day. I might be able to think of something vaguely intelligent regarding the poem. The equation would be a lost cause -(Math is my Kyrptonite).
Although it's certainly got it's drawbacks, I think there are a few reasons that I should feel pretty okay about not being quite ready to hang up my fairy wings and plant my feet firmly on the ground quite yet. I think it's a sign of creativity. It shows hope – daydreaming is, to me, daring to believe that the world can be a different place; more magical, a place where anything can happen and dreams can be believed. I wrote earlier that the mundane details of the life bore me. In many ways, this is true. Most of us don't get a thrill out of online baking (unless your account looks like Richard Branson's), and to my knowledge I don't know anyone that particularly enjoys washing the dishes, dealing with energy bills, or hanging out the laundry. I am not a practical person. My head could definitely be screwed on a little more firmly. But crucially, it's the times that we are engaged with dull tasks that we can allow our mind's to wander, that give us the time for the spark of fantasy and wonder to be ignited. I once had a job, aged sixteen, where one of my main tasks was to lick envelopes. I'm not kidding, I was literally paid to sit and seal them up. Money for nothing, certainly, but soul destroyingly dull. I resolutely didn't care – it just gave me more time to daydream, uninterrupted. The rhythmic seal of the envelope, ceremoniously writing out the addresses in block capitals, acted as a kind of soothing backdrop for the riot of fantastical in my daydreams. I'm not suggesting that we all boycott necessary, everyday tasks or lose our grip on reality altogether. Daydreaming can rob us of just being present in the moment, and I'm a huge advocate of being mindful. I just think it's important that we sometimes allow ourselves occasionally to escape reality, to not be consumed by trivial annoyances of everyday life. I'm a firm proponent of the idea that there is magic all around us, inside us. We must make an effort to see it, to create it, to cultivate the creativity inside us and refuse to let that sprinkling of pixie dust in our souls to rub off during the (sometimes eroding) difficulties of everyday life.
I am the world’s worst decision maker. Or at least, I’m up there. In the top twenty, for sure. I basically need a flow chart to decide what socks to wear in the morning. I find having multiple options vaguely terrifying. If I were to psychoanalyse myself, I’d say it’s likely rooted in a deep fear of failure, of making the ‘wrong’ choice. The inability to make swift decisions can strike whether the choice is minor or major, life changing or inconsequential. Case and point: I once cried, age six, in The Disney Store, unable to choose between a Tigger watch with a green strap or one sporting Oddball from 102 Dalmatians with a blue strap. It just felt so incredibly vital that I made the right decision. Fifteen years later, this indecisiveness has, unfortunately, remained a resolutely unshifting facet of my character. Incidentally, I chose Oddball. Probably appropriate.
So yes, it’s fair to say that I find decisions difficult. But lately, I’ve been confronted with a hell of a lot of them. I’ve just finished my degree in English Literature, a broad degree that offers no firm direction. Everything is incredibly uncertain, career-wise. I’m unsure what to pursue, and having to decide what the hell I’m actually going to do with my life is, to say the least, pretty f*cking overwhelming.
A more pleasant decision and immediate decision to be made, as opposed to the foggy realm of my future career path, was going to choose a puppy this weekend. I nonetheless found it ridiculously difficult. I looked down at three beautiful puppies. They all had faces constructed by the angels. Big brown eyes blinked endearingly. Wet noses nuzzles, tiny sandy tongues licked affectionately. I loved them. I loved them all. I wanted them all. I needed them all. It took an age. I ummed and ahhhed, cradling each one, wanting whichever was pup I currently had in my arms. It seemed impossible. How could I possibly pick between them?! But pick I did. I chose a red pup – the one I’d held first. I cradled him like a tiny furry child and as he blinked up at me, I followed my gut instinct and said that this was the doggy for me. Signed, sealed, (and not quite yet) delivered, he’ll become part of the family officially in three weeks. I adore him already. I look at his picture and melt, reduced to a ridiculous, soppy mess – or rather, an even more ridiculous, soppier mess than usual.
In the end, I made a choice. I’m incredibly happy with the one I made. I’m happy with my judgement. Sure, in the case of the four adorable puppies, there’s wasn’t exactly a ‘wrong’ choice. There was no bad outcome, nothing major at stake. I was either going to get an incredibly cute puppy or an incredibly cute puppy. But what I feel I can take from puppygate is this: I was able to make, what felt at the time, like an incredibly hard decision. I was able to make a choice and not regret it. Often we just have to decide, and get on with it. More often than not, we’ll make the right one. Perhaps there aren’t even any ‘good’ or ‘bad’ decisions. Just decisions. Life will constantly present us with choices that have to be made. The trick seems to be not to panic when they do. I’m going to try and view having multiple options in a more positive light, follow my gut and just get on with it. Another positive note: all future life choices will now be made whilst petting a dog. It might also make me more decisive: ‘Right Pup – One Bark for Yes, Two for No – what do you think?’ The new puppy will be lucky enough to hear me rambling on incessantly, and will in all likelihood become the silent, furry, adorable equivalent of a life coach. God help him. He’ll get lots of cuddles, though.
Last Sunday, I wasn’t having a particularly great afternoon. The morning had started off pretty well, in all fairness. The weather was beautiful, a blissful, balmy 28 degrees, more tropical than typical UK weather. I’d gone to yoga for a particularly sweaty session and very much enjoyed it. The afternoon took a turn for the worst, however, when I learnt I’d been rejected for a job I’d been pretty confident I’d at least be elegible to be interviewed for. As usual when I feel inadequate, my thoughts inexplicably and uselessly turned to regulating my food intake and exercise levels. I felt uncomfortable – it was Father’s Day and we’d had a buffet lunch. I suddenly felt weak, out of control and greedy. I felt that I’d over indulged and old, restrictive thoughts started to swim menacingly, shark-like around the peripheries of my mental space. Altough I’d been lounging in the garden with my family, basking in the (rare) sunshine, I’m ashamed to say that I gave in to compensatory behaviours and sneaked off to excericse. My mother followed me and rumbled me in my attempts. I was embarrassed and annoyed with myself – as much as I feel I really have managed to forge a much healthier relationship with food on the whole, some aspects of my mentality surrounding my consumption and my body remain strange. Her calling me out on the ridiculousness of surreptitiously isolating myself in order to ‘burn off’ lunch when I should be enjoying relaxing family time made me realise how selfish I was being. It also made me realise how far I still have to go to feel ‘normal’ again in regards to my thoughts and behaviours. I let my insecurities get the better of me, yet again.
So I was feeling pretty subdued, on the whole. Tired. Tired of battling with myself day in, day out. Tired of job hunting. Tired of being afraid.
Things certainly got a hell of a lot brighter when my cousin casually informed me via text that she’d given birth, three weeks early, to her second child. A baby boy. She invited us to go and visit them in the maternity ward of the local hospital. We jumped in the car, eager and excited to do just that.
I saw him and thought immediately: he’s perfect. He has a dent in his ear at the moment (forceps – ouch). Perfect. He has a slight scratch. Still perfect. He’s healthy. Beautiful. I watched his chest rise and fall, watched his hands curl into into little fists. I traced the oval shape of his tiny fingernails. Perfect. So alive.Babies are the opposite of tired. They are so awake, so raw. They are painfully, stunningly, beautifully fresh. New. I sometimes wonder if that’s why they wail so piercingly. Why wouldn’t they? Everything is a first – every sight, every sound, a sensory overload. Baby L was patient as he was passed around like a beloved, tiny, precious parcel from one adoring, cooing relative to another. I held him in my arms and as he blinked those blue eyes open, peering into mine, the afternoon’s feeling of being irreversibly tired just melted away. He was placid and strikingly peaceful while we held him. He was so content, and holding him, a bundle of purity pernsonified and encased in a teeny babygrow, I felt content too. I looked at my cousin, who’d been so brave in what was, by all accounts, a pretty horrendous birthing experience. I watched her smile down at her first son, and got a reality check on what’s actually important in life. Love. Family.
Sunday was a day of gains, on the whole. I may have lost a job prospect. Lost some peace of mind, some perceived ‘progress.’ So what? Life is not linear. It has ups and down, and the day’s gains outweighed the losses. I gained a new member of my family. I looked down at him and saw the world through raw, fresh eyes. I gained perspective. I looked at him and felt love: I gained extra room in my heart, as corny as that sounds. A new person to love.
Last weekend we welcomed 7lbs of joy into our family and into the world. I hope baby L soaks up life. I hope he looks around at the simpering faces cooing down at him (I imagine we look simultaneously idiotic and fairly menacing), and that he is able to sense how much he is loved. I’ve only met him once, in the three days he has so far experienced. He has already made my life better. He has already made me appreciate life more. He has already made me less tired.
Life is precious. New life is the even more so. Here’s to living like the oversized babies that we all are – curious, soaking up new senses, surroundings, and experiences. Here’s to loving without limits. Here’s to family. Here’s to realising what the important things really are, and taking comfort in the fact that every day is a second chance; an opportunity to be born again.
Today is my last day of being 20. I’m not quite sure how to feel about it all, really. I know it’s just a number. It doesn’t really mean anything. Just time, jogging along, as time unavoidably tends to do. Saying that though, it’s undeniable that there just seems to be something symbolic about turning 21. More so than at age 18, I think, there seems to be some kind of auspiciously grown up connotation to 21. I taste the words in my mouth, and they feel slightly strange. Twenty one. A proper adult. Isn’t 21 just for…more responsible people?
Terrifyingly, I remember thinking as a kid that anyone over 20 was practically ancient. In case I wasn’t already feeling my age today, my yoga teacher informed me this morning that she’s concerned one of my hips is weaker than the other. I’m clearly already a pensioner trapped in an (almost) 21 year old body. Get me to the Mecca Bingo centre and let the good times roll. Admittedly, I always did feel like I was just a bit too invested in the daytime TV programme‘Cash In The Attic.’ Quite clearly, I didn’t choose the pensioner life, it chose me, fifty or so years too soon.
Twenty has been quite a strange year for me, to be honest. Not my happiest. I think it’s a slightly liminal age, 20. Not the heady, reckless, ‘look-at-me-I’m-of-age-and-I’m-going-to-drink-jaegerbombs-til-I-puke’ 18 and not the slowly-starting to get settled mid twenties. At 20, I feel like I lost quite a bit of confidence. I’m hoping to rebuild that, slowly. I’m much less sure, inaway, about everything really. Though maybe that’s not all bad. It’s good not to have a too rigid idea of the future. Frightening, but then we can never really know what’s coming round the corner, can we? 20 certainly wasn’t all bad for me – far, far from it. There was a lot of good. I’m so grateful for all my beautiful friends and family – I’m so lucky to have such amazing, supportive and inspring people in my life. I’m just hoping that in my 21st year I’ll be in a better headspace, able to make the best of whatever opportunities life throws my way.
Fingers crossed and touch wood, my 21st birthday is shaping up to be a lot better than my 20th, even though the forecast is, weather wise, abysmal. I’m hopeful that 21 will be sunny for me on the whole, however. I’m entering the year happier, which is a good start. On my 20th birthday I was caught in a rapidly spiralling and terrifyingly all-consuming calorie phobia, terrified of gaining weight and dreading eating out to celebrate. I point blank refused a birthday cake or even a solitary bun, and my mum half-joked that we’d have to put a candle in a strawberry. I was the only one that made my 20th birthday slightly sad – it was self-sabotage. I got beautiful presents. I was made a fuss of. I was surrounded my dear friends that celebrated with me on a night out, but I rigidly controlled how much I drank and tallied up the mounting calories in every celebratory cocktail I was offered. Not this year. This year I am getting a cake and I am going to eat it and I am going to enjoy it. I am going to drink as much as I want (though ideally, I’d like to still be fairly vertical at the end of the evening). I am going to be with loving family and friends, as I was last year. But this year I am going to celebrate with them. I am going to be in the moment. I’ve never really been a party girl, and am pretty reluctant to be centre of attention. I hate planning events, especially when they’re centred around me. But the driving force for my 21st plans has just been a sort of quietly defiant voice in my brain saying ‘f*ck-it.’ I’m going to soak up turning 21, and I’m going to milk my celebrations dry.
I’ve had a pretty lovely last day as a twenty year old so far. I went to yoga. I went and treated myself to new makeup I didn’t need. I got a spray tan, surprisingly. It’s my first one, and though the lovely lady that sprayed me with what she slightly unnervingly called her ‘gun’ has promised it will develop overnight, at the moment I’m looking releivingly unlike a) David Dickinson b) an Oompa Loompa, or c) the shade of a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. The full effect remains to be seen. I’m hoping tomorrow will be a good day. I’m feeling lucky that some of my friends can make it out to celebrate with me, and incredibly touched that people have sent cards and presents.
The overall mood tonight is: ‘hopeful.’ I’m quietly excited. I’m hopeful that tomorrow is going to be great. I’m hopeful that I’m going to love 21. I’m hopeful. Excited and hopeful. Excitedly hopeful. It’s nice to be excited about things again, even in a quiet way.
I’m sorry that this post is pretty uninteresting and slightly rambling, as ever. I just felt that I should document my last night of 20, in some small way. But now, I’m going to stop being so self-reflective, possibly pour a small pre-celebratory tipple, and ponder the big issues – i.e is my Burberry ‘Summer’ perfume strong enough to mask the pretty potent smell of my spray tan? If not, one thing is for certain is this – I will enter 21 smelling vaguely of digestive biscuits. There are worse things, I suppose.
I hope tomorrow is a wonderfully happy unbirthday (or birthday!) for you all. See you on the other side of twenty. ❤️
I was recently lucky enough to spend four nights in beautiful, bustling Barcelona. It really is such a vibrant city. It’s absolutely teaming with life and colour. I felt like I only scratched the surface during my time there – I could have happily stayed for weeks. Every side street held a new treasure, and so much beautiful architecture it was honestly impossible to take everything in. From street artists, to markets, to cafés, bars and shops, the city truly is a feast for the eyes. I want to emphasise right from the get-go that should you ever get the chance to visit Barcelona, you should vamos and take it faster than you can say Sangria.
It turns out that what was, in highschool, a seemingly passable grasp of the Spanish language in real life amounted to me just about remembering ‘hola,’ ‘adios,’ ‘gracias’ and ‘muy bien.’ As you can imagine, I hardly wowed the locals with my fluency. Surprisingly, the GCSE Spanish module on what our school uniform consisted of did not prove useful. I did remember the phrase ‘Dos cervezas, por favor,’ (although I’m not certain I picked it up at my very Catholic secondary school…) which certainly came in extremely handy. Incidentally, Estrella tastes even better when you’re drinking it in Spain.
I think as a tourist with a limited time schedule it can be so tempting to just rush around like a headless chicken, determined to ‘tick off’ sights on a to-do list, as it were. What was great about this trip was that with a ticket valid for ten journeys it was easy to zip about pretty speedily on the Underground. I feel like we packed a lot in to our short stay, but I never felt overly rushed. Over three days we visited Casa Battlo, strolled down La Rambla, wandered the Gothic Quarter, soaked up the sun in beautiful Park Güell, ate breakfast outside the art gallery at Montjuic and were awed by the epic (and still, unbelievably, a work-in-progress – it’s due to be completed in 2026), La Sagrada Familia. I adored all of these places, but La Sagrada is simply unmissable. I cried. Incidentally, if you’re planning a trip to the Catalonia capital it’s well worth booking tickets for both La Sagrada and Park Güell before you go – we had to return much later than we had originally intended as there were no tickets available when we first arrived. But go you must (young Jedi). At the risk of sounding incredibly cliche, the only way I can think to describe the glow cast by the stained glass windows is just a vision of pure magic. The entire basilica looks as though it’s been modelled straight from the pages a fairytale. I felt like I was in a dream. I’m a little iffy on heights, but if I visited again I’d pay the extra money and brave the winding staircase tower – there’s so much detail and intricacy to the entire cathedral I you see something new every time you glance in a different direction. Gaudi apparently explained that he wasn’t too fussed that he would never see his Magnum Opus completed, and enjoyed reminding friends that his most important client in the sky wasn’t in any particular rush. Like Gaudi, I’d say it’s best to take a slow pace in Barcelona. Leisurely soak up the ethereal beauty of the Sagrada and stop to smell the blossom in Park Güell. They’re stunningly beautiful experiences that are worth savouring. I will never forget them.
My dad begged me to get a snap of Camp Nou, which I cared about infinitely less. For those as illiterate in and as oblivious to football as me, Nou is the holy ground of FC Barcelona. I passed it only fleetingly from the confines of a rapidly moving bus, but was determined to get the snap for him. I got the picture, but unfortunately I don’t think it was quite what he was hoping for. I managed to capture the shiny silver ‘FC Barcelona’ sign, but unfortunately the ‘B’ is obscured by an unfortunately (or brilliantly?) placed lamppost. Upon closer inspection of the photo, I realised the sign proudly declares the site as the home stadium of ‘FC Arcelona.’ Excellent. I’m considering selling the photo to rivals Real Madrid, who could presumably use it as inspiration for some suitably pithy football chants.
I did manage to take a couple of pictures that I was more pleased with, however. In all honesty, everything was so beautiful it would’ve been hard to take a bad picture. The city is filled with Gaudi’s stunning architecture. His designs are so intricate and delicate yet at the same time not oppressively stuffy in the way that some ornate European cathedrals seem to me. He seemed to favour mosaic and primary colours over heavy gold. Everything he touched seems to have resulted in an explosion of a rainbow of blues and yellows and green. Even La Sagrada Familia wasn’t in any way gothic, and still invoked the underwater scenes I learnt that Gaudi was so fascinated by. Its curved lines and spiralling pillars made it look sort of similar to what I imagine King Tritan’s Palace would look like in a live-action remake of The Little Mermaid, but presumably with more crucifixes. I did a bizarre kind of interactive tour in Casa Battlo, a kind of stately home designed by Gaudi, in which Pokemon Go-esque figures appeared on a phone screen in front of you as you moved from room to room. All in all, it was a cool idea but I found it kind of distracting. The house is 32 metres of glistening mosaic, and the interior was so beautiful it seemed a shame not to just look up and soak in what was in front of you rather than staring at a screen. The audio segment of the tour was really interesting though, and explained that Gaudi was fascinated by the look of objects underwater, as well as being inspired by nature. This explanation into his aesthetic gave a really good context to his work. It was a happy accident that I visited Casa Battlo and did the tour on my first afternoon in the city, but I’d recommend doing that before you do much else (but after you get an Estrella!). As Gaudi’s architecture peppers the city – as well as Casa Battlo, La Sagrada, Park Guell, Casa Mila are among the most heavily visited spots in Barcelona – it was brilliant to see elements of his work that he drew upon time and time again to create such visually arresting aesthetics. I also noticed that he really liked Salamanders.
Another high point was watching the Magic Fountain. I wasn’t entirely certain that I’d get to see it – we rocked up and waited an hour and a half for the display to begin only to discover that we’d gotten the wrong day and that if we were waiting for the rousing chorus of ‘Barcelona’ to start up and the lights to come on, it’d be a hell of a long evening. Sitting at the top of Mont Juic with it’s panoramic views of the city and watching the sun go down, however, I certainly felt there were worst places to be. There were also lots of lovely vendors more than willing to provide Cerveza, Coke, Agua, or Selfie Sticks, which kept us pretty well catered for the duration of our wait. When we arrived the next day, the display was actually on. It was markedly busier than the night before, and the atmosphere was infectious, the crowd a sea of smiling faces and laughter. A particularly touching moment came when the fountain cast a blue and yellow light and Oasis’ anthem ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’ sounded triumphantly in what was presumably a tribute to the tragic events in Manchester. A beautiful sentiment for a beautiful night.
A coincidence that felt closer to fate was seeing an advertisement for the V&A ‘David Bowie Is’ exhibition. I am a self-confessed Bowie super-fan. David Bowie Is a lot of things to me, and I’d read reviews of the exhibit when it was being showcased in London a little wistfully, assuming I’d never get the chance to go. When we saw it advertised, we happily forked out a more than fair fifteen quid and booked tickets for the last day of our trip. The exhibition was incredible. I saw hand-written lyrics, diary entries, dazzling outfits (a personal favourite being the ‘Ashes to Ashes’ Pierrot clown suit). Indeed, I got huge outfit envy – a jumpsuit worn on the Ziggy Stardust tour was particularly beautiful. Sigh. That man had style. Watching an early 70s, orange spiky haired David singing ‘I had to phone someone so I picked on you’ was jarringly emotional for me. At the end of the exhibit, we were reminded ‘David Bowie Is All Around Us.’ An alien angel music man that pioneered the children’s right to boogie, flamboyantly and fabulously demonstrated the fluidity of gender and sexuality, and emphasised the vital need for self-expression, I found this thought infinitely comforting. David Bowie has been, for me, a shooting star in what has sometimes looked like a dark sky. I listened to Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide blaring alongside a gigantic screen of a montage of his live performances, and felt tears come into my eyes. Hearing Bowie emphatically remind us ‘oh no love, you’re not alone…’ in a room packed with other devotees was a pretty special experience. It made my Barcelona experience even more memorable and special to me than it would have been otherwise. It also made my trip a lot more expensive – I bought a miniature LEGO Ziggy in the gift shop for equivalent of about £20. An essential purchase.
All in all, I don’t have a bad word to say about this stunning city. I feel so blessed to have been able to visit it. My only complaint is that I could’ve done with another week, at least. I laughed, I cried, I sang, I listened to Ed Sheeran’s ‘Barcelona’ in a sun soaked Park Guell, I people watched in the Gothic Quarter over a jug of Sangria. I ate fresh seafood and drank too much wine. I didn’t go far off the beaten track – everything I did was a pretty standard tourist activity. It didn’t matter. It was extraordinary to me. I saw things I’d never seen and I was happy. That is the reason, I think, that we travel. We visit different places to experience the new. Hopefully, we gain joy from this widening of our horizons. The further we go, the wider we travel, the smaller the world seems. There are so many beautiful places to see, to give yourself over to. Barcelona is one of them, and it will always have a little piece of my heart.
This was initially intended to be a different, longer, more thoroughly researched post. I started a piece focused upon my belief that art – from contemporary pieces produced by artists today to work from the old masters – can help us to appreciate the beauty within ourselves and in the world around us. Art is, after all, a tangible record, a documentation and a visual depiction of an aestheticised subject. It’s an encapsulation of that particular artist’s version of beautiful.
Portraits are particularly useful in considering the ever transitioning standards of beauty. Body goals for Rubens are quite different to the #fitspo that populates the Instagram feeds of 2017. Botticelli’s Venus probably wouldn’t make it down the runway come New York fashion week. Picasso’s painted ladies would need facial realignment surgeries, but I’m actually not sure that having eyes in the side of your face was a good look back then, either. The point I’m trying clumsily to make is this; there’s no one way to be beautiful – there really is just difference, and that difference should be celebrated. I will write that piece eventually, when the time is right. It just isn’t right today.
Picasso’s ‘Weeping Woman.’ Hey, if you had eyes in the side of your face, you’d cry too.
Botticelli’s babely Venus.
Truth is, I started writing, and I felt like an utter fraud. I’ve been having a few rough days body-image wise, analysing my reflection in the mirror far too often. What kind of hypocrite was I? How could I possibly preach about the importance of seeing beauty in all things when I can’t even find peace or acceptance in regards to my own body? I haven’t weighed myself in an age, but I can see changes starting, slowly. As I’m trying to become less rigid in my eating habits and rules (I’ve documented my body/food issues in much more detail in an earlier post, in the unlikely event that you’re interested), allowing myself to eat delicious food with my family, and not documenting every single calorie that passes my lips, I’m slowly but surely becoming less bony, less fragile looking. The bones in my hands and feet are becoming less pronounced. I’m finding that I’m bloating in my belly after eating, but my rib-cage is still pronounced, giving me a shape that I feel is reminiscent of a pregnant stick-insect. Attractive. I’m still thin – too thin for my natural weight. I will undoubtedly gain more weight, and should. I know this, but these perceived changes, real or imaginary, unavoidably send me hurtling down a rabbit-hole of ruminations on my body fueled by self-doubt and insecurity. I find myself spiraling, ridiculously, annoyingly, for not much reason at all, into a pretty damn anxious state. I need to be drawn out of myself, distracted from my preoccupation with thoughts about my own looks. One thing that’s really helped these past couple of days has been photography.
My fabulous mum and dad bought me an DSLR Camera for my birthday, and they really generously presented it to me a little early. I really enjoy taking snaps while I’m out and about, but as of yet have been sticking with the trusty iPhone. Although a lot more cumbersome, there’s something just inherently more satisfying about hearing the click of a full-size, proper camera. I’m still very, very, very much an amateur photographer – I can barely even get the camera to focus. Yet it makes me happy. I’m finding myself looking at the world around me from a new perspective, thinking about something other than myself and seeing the beauty in the small details. Through a photographer’s eyes, I’m noticing the drops of dew on a spiderweb, the symmetry of a ladybird’s spots, the spectrum of colours in a magpie’s wings. I’m looking for beauty in places I wouldn’t have before and finding it. Although this is a slightly rambling, confused kind of post, (admittedly, I am often both rambling and confused myself), I hope it just conveys, in a kind of round-about-way, that we can find something lovely in just about most things. Photography is helping me to become less wrapped up in my own head – instead of wandering around outside, zombie-like and engrossed in thought, I’m actively looking at my surroundings, searching for a chance to get snap happy. Nature is awesome, and the universe seems to be generally pretty willing to provide some kind of photo opportunity. I’d encourage anyone to find an activity that keeps you mindful, even if it isn’t photography. It’s so necessary for our overall well being to be brought back to the present moment, distracted from incessant ‘what-if’s’ and worries. Sometimes, we just have to look up, view life through a rose-tinted camera lens, and appreciate a pretty goddamn flower. There’s so much beauty in the small things – we just need to be willing to see it.
Minds are messy. I sometimes find myself trapped in a tangled web of worries regarding how others perceive me. I’m often anxious that there’s a disconnect between who I am and who others believe I am. I rarely take an action without worrying what others will think of my decision. This results in me stalling and dithering, a ball of frustrated anxiety, trying and failing to find a solution that pleases everyone, and achieving only mass-dissatisfaction.
A technique that I’ve found mildly successful in silencing these worries is simply asking myself: does it actually matter? Does it matter what people think of me? Have I behaved in a way that I, personally, think is acceptable? If so, good. If not, I need to reconsider my actions and go from there. I must be my own judge and not let others’ perceptions of me haunt my every action and influence all of my decisions. Crucially, when we worry what others think of us, we project our own insecurities onto those surrounding us. We assume that everyone has noticed what we conceive as our ‘weak points’. We construct others’ perceptions of us. This is pointless and a waste of mental energy. It is all guesswork. Please yourself, do what you think is right. Make yourself proud and I believe the rest will follow.
We think that people think about us a lot more than they actually do. I actually find this thought incredibly comforting. I often feel incredibly conflicted – on a sensible, intellectual level, I know that no-one actually gives a damn if, say, I eat a muffin. But sometimes the mind is neither sensible nor logical. ‘They’ll think you’re greedy if you eat that,’ a nasty little voice occasionally whispers into my ear. ‘Disgusting, greedy pig. Lazy. You’ve barely done anything today. Of course they’re allowed to eat it. But not you, you don’t deserve it.’ And on it goes. This cruel, irrational, bullying self-punishment for a crime I haven’t committed. Unless, that is, I make a conscious and overt effort to battle against these thoughts, disregarding them as illogical. Would you ever think less of someone you love for eating a muffin? Um, no, me neither. I make an effort to pause, and halt this internal diatribe against myself. Eat the damn muffin, smile and be happy. None of this matters. Most of the time these days, I am able to do just that.
I worry. Who am I? Why don’t I have a clear perception of my own identity? How is everyone else so sure, soconfident of their place in the world and how they fit in to it? When I am able to think rationally, I wonder, is everyone quite as sure as I think they are? If they aren’t, we are alike and our struggles are similar. If they are, then their confidence has likely been gained through experience. If they are as unflappable and self-assured as I perceive them to be, then good. Life is not a competition. If we are not in competition with those around us, it makes sense that we cannot then ‘fall behind.’ The ‘but-they’re-doing-so-much-better-than-me-because-I-saw-that-one-post-on-facebook’ mentality is so draining and poisonous. I am trying to restrain myself from comparing my journey to the journey of those around me. Sometimes the answer to reducing our stress-levels is as simple as ‘don’t think too much.’ Many of us inflict unnecessary suffering upon ourselves by analyzing situations needlessly, hypothesizing on a future that we can never fully be sure of until it arrives. I am trying to stop sweating it about the small stuff.
This one is embarrassing to admit because it’s so shallow, but I think it’s something many of us worry about: on bad self-image days, I worry that others think I’m unattractive. I can see a bad photo of myself and still be thinking about it long after the camera has been put away. I’m ashamed to say that there have been times that I’ve been having fun, enjoying myself and not caring how I look and someone has taken a candid photo of me. I’ve afterwards looked at this picture, been horrified, and it’s spoiled the otherwise fantastic time I’d been having. This is obviously pretty sad, self-obsessed, and not to mention pointless. I could spend an eternity analyzing my own reflection for flaws. At times we suffer with negative self-image, I think it’s helpful to remind ourselves that we are our own worst critics. No-one else is critiquing our profile side on, obsessing over whether our bellies look noticeably bloated or not. If you spoke to a friend in the same way that you think/speak about yourself, would you have many friends left? Thought not. I know that these ideas are easy to say and much, much harder to put into practice. I know most of us would probably feel pretty ridiculous standing in front of the mirror telling ourselves non-ironically; ‘I love you. You’re gorgeous, you’re wonderful’ (not that you shouldn’t tell yourself these things – you are undoubtedly both!) Most of the general populous, however, aren’t going to be parading around Gilderoy Lockhart style, waxing lyrical about the wonder of ‘me, magical me’ anytime soon. I’m not suggesting that we all can or should take self-confidence and self-love to those dizzying heights. But just making an effort to silence the negative thoughts surrounding our appearance that subtly chip away at our self-esteem over time can make a significantly positive impact upon how we feel about ourselves.
Iworry. ‘Why am I such a coward?’ I think, desperately. ‘Why do I find it so hard to take risks? Will I always be so afraid?’ Yes, that’s right, I worry about worrying. Incredible. If they did a degree in worrying, I would graduate with First Class Honors. How do I quieten these thoughts? I’ll be honest – sometimes, I can’t. Writing helps. So does yoga, usually. A good book. Consciously releasing any tension I am holding in my body. Smiling. Fresh air. Looking up at the sky. Remembering that I am a spec in a vast and incomprehensibly wide universe. Reminding myself that I love and am loved in return. 9 out of 10 times (an unofficial stat, but still), the things we are worrying about are usually not that significant, even if they feel vital at the time. If I f**ck up occasionally, I am learning that that’s okay. The world around me will not collapse. It sounds counter-intuitive but, actually, sometimes thinking about why we’re worrying and getting to the root of the fear we feel can actually be useful. For example, when I stop and think about it, I am able to understand that two reasons I find it hard to take risks are that;
a) I have a perfectionist streak, am terrified of failure, and as such find it hard to take leaps into the unknown. I am afraid that things will go wrong and I will be unable to deal with it. I will not be able to be ‘perfect.’
b) I am afraid of making a mistake and looking silly.
After I’ve identified the root of this fear, I am able to deal with it head-on. Do I really want to miss out on opportunities and life experiences because I will be chasing the impossible construction that is ‘perfection’? As for point B), again – is it worth missing out on all the things that life has to offer due to a fear of looking ‘silly’? Every mistake is an experience.
I read an article recently about the importance of developing a personal manta. This can sound slightly hippy-dippy, but having a go-to phrase just to silence the incessant mental chatter of worries can actually be really calming. It doesn’t have to be fixed. Mine varies daily. One that often works quite well is just reminding myself ‘there are good things happening all around me.’ I also like; ‘this is not as scary as it seems.’ Sometimes I need to reconnect with the present, ground myself and touch back down to Earth after floating away on a grey storm-cloud of anxiety. When I hear my voice raised a couple of octaves (and believe me, my voice is already pretty high-pitched) and tightened with anxious energy, I exhale, pause, and remind myself ‘I am doing my best.‘ These five words continue to motivate me to try my hardest, to fight becoming sucked in to a vacuum of suffocating stress, and help me to give myself a much needed reality check.
The crux of this post is, I suppose, that if you’re someone that feels your mind is constantly whirring, writhing with what-if’s and worries at any given moment, you cannot simply indulge or give-in to this negative mental chatter. I hope that some of the techniques I’ve explored in this post prove in some way useful – I feel I can only really loosely call it ‘advice.’ These are just some methods that I use when I’m bogged down in a marsh-land of insecurity and worry. They work for me, usually, and I really hope that they work for you. I truly hope that you can find the serenity you’re searching for, and that, for the most part, you can regain control of your thoughts and tell your mind to STFU.
I was thrilled when my cousin gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. I was less overjoyed when I discovered that all of my name suggestions had been overridden, (and believe me, they were excellent – who wouldn’t name their child Prosecco?) but there you are. They went for the more conventional, but admittedly more classically beautiful, ‘Ava Sophie’. A year on from Ava’s arrival, a lot has changed. I am now unironically invested in the global adventures of an unflinchingly enthusiastic unicorn and a group of four plucky spherical beings dubbed the ‘Go Jetters’. I know the difference between a ‘Snuggle Muzzy’ and a ‘Dribble Cloth’ – spoiler – they’re both Muslin Squares. It’s been an education. Below I’ve listed something that I’ve learnt for every month that baby Ava has graced the world with her Go-Jetting attitude and her inspirational, magnificently unapologetic ‘if-you-don’t-like-it-chuck-it-on-the-floor’ mentality.
1) Babies change. Fast. I’m not kidding, you blink and they have an extra tuft of hair and a tooth coming through. Baby has gone from essentially just sleeping, crying, eating and pooing to giggling, smiling, chattering to herself in a language us mere mortals cannot yet interpret, crawling and toddling. And, you know, continuing to cry, eat and poo on a regular basis.
2) You need approximately ten eyes to monitor them successfully. Obviously this depends vastly on the baby, (it sounds obvious, but this was something I hadn’t really grasped – each baby has their own personality, much like their fully grown counterparts), but the one I know, you put her down and at once she’s speeding off like a small, determined, baby-shaped Ferrari. So what if she doesn’t quite have full control of her limbs yet? Minor problem, babe. Babies are intrepid explorers and any room will be their jungle. Baby Ava spots something, she wants to investigate, and she will scale any obstacle in her way to do so. Which brings me to my next point nicely.
3) Babies are clever. This also makes them super entertaining to watch. My family will happily set Baby crawling about on the floor and watch her like our own personal Television set. Certainly more gripping viewing than post-2010 ‘Hollyoaks.’
6) There’s a lot of weird sh*t you can take your baby to. I’m not kidding, this baby has a better social life than me. Some of it sounds awesome. Some of it sounds vaguely sinister. In order to avoid provoking offence, I’ll let you make up your own mind about which of the following falls into which category. Here are some of the events and phenomena I’ve been introduced to through observing the adventures of Baby Ava. These include: ‘Baby Raves,’ ‘Cake Smashes,’ ‘Sensory Stories,’ ‘Baby Yoga,’ ‘Baby Gym,’ and ‘Underwater Baby Photography.’ A packed diary seems to be the norm in the Under-1 social set.
5) The spectrum of emotions which babies can provoke are vast. The joy when you hear them giggle (incidentally, babies laughter is in my opinion the purest sound in the universe) is unequaled. When I manage to make baby smile rather than cry, I am filled with a warm glow of accomplishment. Babies love me, I think smugly. I’m practically Mary Poppins. I should probably pursue a career in childcare. That is, until the bottom lip starts to wobble and the wails start up, creeping in volume from plaintive whines to high-decibel, ear-drum shattering squawks. Other possible side effects of exposure to a child under 12 months for longer than a one hour period include: exhaustion, feelings of inadequacy, feelings of exhilaration, feelings of confusion and multiple other vacillating emotions. Possible queries you may have might include but not be limited to: ‘Where is the baby, exactly?’ ‘Was it me she was smiling at or the Rusk cookie I’m holding?’ ‘Does it smell funny in here?’
6) No matter how cool you think you are, you will transmute into a performing monkey in order to entertain a baby. You will lose all self-respect. You will not care. They will also entertain you in return. Snapchat is a blessing to immature aunts everywhere. Put the dog filter on your beloved offspring, parents. It’s funny and cute in equal measures, promise.
7) I learnt of the existence of the ‘voice.’ The ‘voice’ is cooey and I never thought that it or the approximation of any sound reminiscent of it would ever escape my lips non-sarcastically. ‘Who’s a gorgeous girl?’ I ask, grinning stupidly. ‘Who’s a gorgeous girl? Ava is!’ ‘Who’s sounding a little bit mentally deficient right now? Auntie Lorna is! That’s right!‘ And on it goes.
6) Every musical toy is annoying. Every single one. There are no exceptions. Baby Ava has a penguin creature I find especially infuriating. Conversely, 80% of the television output intended for toddlers and small children is oddly fascinating and I imagine would be vastly entertaining to watch drunk. I will save my observations upon the similarities between babies and drunks for a later date.
7) Babies have more carry-on luggage than Mariah Carey embarking upon a world tour. They go through clothes, fast. Mainly because they grow fast, also because they’re liable to attract any stain possible. I’ll leave it to your imagination what kind of stains a baby under 12-months may be likely to accumulate.
8) Every mother’s baby supplies bag is a bit like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. Except instead of lamps and coat-racks, they have 24 different bibs and stuff like sensory lasers. Or something. Probably nappies and formula, too. I don’t know, I’m just the childless observer over-here. A simple trip to the park is like packing for an Arctic expedition. And God forbid you forget something, because it will invariably turn out to be vital and you will have maneuver that deceptively hefty Mother Care pram back up the hill and head for home ASAP.
9) Number nine brings me to a more serious point and something that I never quite grasped the implications of before – there’s a hell of a lot of pressure on mums to be permanently perfect and unflappable. You must either be the archetypal, Fairy-Liquid-Advert-of-the-1950s stay-at-home mother or successfully enroll your offspring into an extortionate nursery that rears its own chickens and serves organic pureed artichoke and caviar. There seems to be an assumption among some of the ranks of MumsNet.com that should you deviate from either of these options, you are a Terrible Mother™. This is, obviously, insane. I was baffled. I thought that babies just needed milk, attention and, I don’t know, a bit of room to crawl about. It appears to be more complex than that. I am infinitely impressed by mothers. If you’re reading this and you have a child and are struggling under the inhuman pressure placed upon you to be ‘perfect’, just know that, unqualified as I am, I feel that you’re really great and you’re doing brilliantly. Keep muddling on. I get the impression that half of parenthood is trial and error. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s good enough.
10) There is no love in the world like a mother’s love. I kind of knew this already – my own mother still generously loves her overgrown and still vaguely incompetent baby (me) even though I am no longer cute and bald. (Yes, bald. I wore a lot of hats. I worked them, though). She loves me when I’m funny and happy and I’ve done something well and I’m a little bit proud. She still resolutely loves me when I am really annoying and anxious and overly-sensitive and grumpy and have done something a bit thick. So yeah, I was already aware that a mother’s love is something infinitely special. But the sheer magnitude of the maternal capability to love her child without limits or conditions was something that watching my cousin cradle a new-born baby Ava really reinforced to me. I watched her smile down upon a part of herself made flesh and knew that she was born to be a mother. I watch in awe as she seems instinctively to know what her wants, and is able to comfort her when nothing and no-one else can. She will protect that child like a lioness protects its cub. She will be overprotective and magnificent, like 90% of parents out there. Ava is one lucky baby. So am I.
11) Babies will fill a gap in your family you never knew existed. Even though the logistic difficulties of staging a seating plan for Christmas Dinner may suggest otherwise, the rewards of the presence of an extra tiny human outweigh the difficulties. You will kind of forget what your family looked like before the bundle of joy filled that baby-shaped hole. They make what already felt complete somehow more perfect.
12) You will love them unconditionally. To you, they are perfect. In fact, I am a purist, and would go as far as to say that I believe that all babies are perfect. Even the ones that are kind of ugly. My goddaughter is the cutest baby ever to have graced the Earth with her presence which is why, I assume, her favourite hobbies include looking in the mirror and getting her (usually sticky) fingers all over my Iphone and attempting to take selfies. Incidentally, if you’d like to hear a more complex theory as to why babies enjoy looking in the mirror, google Lacan’s ‘Mirror Stage.’ Not if you’ve got kids though. If you do, you’re probably too busy reading ‘That’s Not My Fluffy Cat,’ or something similar. I’d argue that by the fifth reading, that’s an equally grueling experience, if less intellectually stimulating.
So, all in all, I feel like I’ve already learnt a hell of a lot from watching Baby Ava’s first foray into this crazy little thing called life. I feel like I’m doing passably okay in my Auntie duties so far. I bought a fluffy rabbit teddy. I instigated the purchase of a Fleetwood Mac Lullaby CD, which I feel was really my most significant contribution to date. I truly mean it when I say that watching her grow has already been incredibly rewarding – not only that, but watching my cousin transmute from mate to mum (and a fantastic one at that), has been both unnerving and a gift in equal measures. I love to watch my own mum and dad play with her, seeing the joy in everyone that comes into contact with a baby that is purity personified. It seems that tiny humans bring out the best in most of us, and I can only say that I’m sure as Ava passes the landmark of her first year, I’m certain that the next twelve months will be as equally filled to the seams with love, joy, ups, downs, surprises, and change for all of us. ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ will probably be playing in the background.
SlimFast. Weight Watchers. Tea-toxes. We are bombarded each day with adverts informing us of the multiple sins our bodies are committing, and what exactly we should be doing to rectify these ‘problem areas.’ I am not saying that there is anything inherently wrong with diets, or with any of the methods I have listed above (the exception to this, in my opinion, is the ‘detox tea’ – as well marketed as these are, they are essentially laxatives in tea form, and are incredibly easy to abuse). If calorie counting, monitoring ‘syns’, or tracking macros enables you to feel happy and healthy, and helps you stay at a body weight right for you, then that is commendable. It just hasn’t worked out for me.
I fell into the trap of obsessively calorie counting. I gained weight at university, as many of us do. I drank far too much and comfort ate out of boredom and loneliness. A very understandable, human thing to do. I was still the same clothing size as when I arrived, but was certainly much fluffier and wider than I had been. There was fat where there had been no fat before. I took to pinching it whenever I showered or looked in the mirror, disgusted, feeling like a stranger in my own body. I was revolted and uncomfortable that there suddenly seemed to be ‘more’ of me. I’d always been insecure, with my body image and how I felt about myself varying from day to day. However,
things were becoming increasingly worse. The more I stared in the mirror, the larger I felt. I analysed my reflection, panicked, my heart thudding. Irrational thoughts would creep insidiously into my brain, spreading and taking root like poison ivy. What if I just kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger? I imagined myself blowing up to gargantuan proportions, ballooning in Harry Potter Aunt Marge style. I felt that Something Drastic must be done. And quickly. I would gain back control of my rebelling body.
So I turned to the unfailingly reliable source of information (ha!) Google, and started scrutinising Instagram ‘fitspiration’ accounts for tips. Most advised a strict diet of no more that 1,200 calories (what I now know to be the recommended intake for a six to eight year old child). I gleaned that I must exercise intensely as much as possible in order to achieve maximum fat loss. I must record everything I consumed on a calorie-counting app, so as to keep myself ‘accountable.’
I went about it with a vengeance. I lost my tiny little mind. I had dreams about vanilla cheesecake. The low-calorie aisle in the supermarket was my kingdom. Everything I ate was now low calorie, low fat, low flavour. This new ‘healthy’ lifestyle resulted in making me the most mentally and physically unhealthy I have ever been. I became fearful and stressed around food, and was undoubtedly a nightmare to live with. I can only give a sincere apology to my parents. It must be unnerving to watch your child, once not adverse to following an entire takeaway pizza with generous scoops of Ben & Jerry’s, almost cry when necessity dictated I must eat white bread instead of brown. Today, I still hear the tension in my own voice when I am faced with a food choice I am uncomfortable with. I anger and frustrate myself. I hate that I seem unable to just enjoy delicious food without worrying about the impact it will have upon my body. It’s irritating, and representative of everything I do not want to be as a person. I sincerely hope that the day will come soon when I can truly feel free in my food choices.
So, following this new punitive regime, the weight fell off. Sure, I was miserable, exhausting myself with hours of exercise and for a particularly dark weekend subsisting on unseasoned salad and reduced Sodium Covent Garden soup, but I was getting skinnier! I was also really f**cking miserable. I isolated myself on the off-chance that this sick regime might be noticed and challenged. I had panic attacks alone in my room. Even to the very few friends I eventually confided in, I found it difficult to be honest about how much I was struggling. I continued getting smaller. I was losing the love handles I’d loathed, the ample chest I’d been embarrassed by. I was hooked. My previously large chest was flatter, so looking down at my body, I only saw more fat that I felt needed to be erased. I couldn’t see how thin I was getting. I whittled myself down to a clothing size that wouldn’t have fit me at thirteen years old. I certainly didn’t feel any more attractive than I had previously. On days that I had a clear perception of what I truly looked like, I just got a sick sense of achievement from noting that the fragility I was feeling on the inside was finally being reflected in the mirror. I felt lost, and so my food intake became something I could control at a time I felt increasingly powerless.
Fat is not a four letter word. As much as our culture demonises being overweight under the self-righteous and dubious campaign of concern that ‘it’s just so unhealthy!’, the underweight body is just as unable to function optimally. My current lack of body fat ensures that I am permanently freezing, when others are shrugging of their jackets. I am embarrassed to shake hands with strangers because my hands are always icy. The health risks of being at a weight too low for your body’s comfortable ‘range’ are numerous and vastly frightening. Skinny is not always glamorous.
As a society, we need to work to stop the labelling of food as ‘good,’ or ‘bad’, and to stop proclaiming that we are so ‘naughty’ for eating that biscuit and that we must ‘work off’ that slice of birthday cake. I am trying to re-learn that food is just that – food. Calories are not insidious shadow demons. They are units of energy, designed to keep us alive. I deserve to eat whether I do a ten mile run or sit in bed all day, and you do too.
Lately, I have improved vastly, and am eating so many foods I would have deeemed ‘forbidden’ this time last year. I am attempting to regain to a healthy body weight. I will find it uncomfortable. I have become used to the protruding bones, the angled shoulders, the stick-like thighs, the lack of padding when I sit down. But I must, and I will. I am slowly learning to silence warped thoughts that whisper lies into my ear: that I must be small to be worthy of love, that I must control every aspect of my food and exercise regime or else I am a failure. They are not true. I would not hold anyone else to such an evil, f**cked up standard, so why do I punish myself with such unforgiving thoughts?
I want to be healthy, in its true, balanced sense. I want to get my period back, be more fun, more spontaneous, and live life to its fullest. I want to stop uncomfortable toe cramps from constantly numb feet. I want to stop feeling the chill that comes from the inside. I write this post not out of any desire for pity, but rather as a form of therapy. I must drill it into my psyche that I am more than a number on a scale or clothing tag. I deserve to be defined by more than my gravitational pull towards the Earth. As the end of my university degree will hopefully herald a new era of descreased stress levels, the easier I imagine it will be to gain, and to build a life and mentality that does not revolve around worries about the way I look. My new motto: Healthy = Happy. Happy is the new skinny.
In conclusion: I’d rather have a life over a thigh gap, and happiness over dizziness and fatigue and irritability and heartburn and lack of menstruation and all the other delightful things that come part and parcel of being at an unhealthily low body weight. If you’re reading this and struggling: please know that people don’t love you on the condition that you’re skinny, or that you can do ‘x’ number of minutes on a treadmill. They love you for you. For your laugh, for your kindness, for the light in your eyes that may have been duller, lately. Your life is for living now, not when you’re down a clothing size. Food is not something you earn, it’s a requirement to function. Love yourself now, as you are, and do what makes you happy. You deserve to. For the first time in a long while, I feel that I may be able to start following my own advice and live a life that reflects my beliefs. Life is precious, and we must make the most of it.