The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 8: A Witch's Curse

Today's theme I found to be an interesting one, here is what I did with it.

Write about a witch’s curse:

The woods next to the village of St Aubrens were dark and oppressive.  Sadness and pain seem to radiate out from the branches of the trees themselves and whether it was summer or winter, the leaves were always black.

The village itself was also a strange place.   There was a section in the village with rows of cottages that no one wanted to pass.  Misery seemed to hang in the air like an ever present cloud and the residents always looked like the weight of the world rested on their shoulders.

Whenever there was a celebration within the village, the festivities never reached those cottages.  Decorations were never hung, the brightly coloured lanterns were never lit, the people never seemed to smile.

Newcomers to the village never stayed long.  People were actively discouraged from buying in the area and the children who lived there moved away as soon as could.  This was not a happy village.  Because decades earlier, the village people had made a mistake, they had crossed a witch.

The villagers had always known about the witch who lived alone, or so they thought, in a tiny cottage in the woods.  Uneasy at the thought of a witch in their midst, the unspoken rule was that they left her alone and in turn, she would stay away from the village. 

After several years particularly bad harvests, the villagers started to mutter about the witch and about how she was bringing them bad luck.  One night, fueled after a night at the local tavern, those mutterings turned to anger, and the anger turned to fury.  The men of the village tore through the woods with torches alight, intent of burning the witch out of her home and getting her well away from their village.

It was only when they had set fire to the witch’s cottage that the villagers heard screams of “My children! My children!” coming from behind them.  The witch raced through the trees towards the cottage which was now fully ablaze.  There was no way anyone, even the witch, could have saved anyone inside.

The men had raced back to village, horrified at what had just occurred. 

The next day, the witch had appeared in the village square, stricken with grief at the loss of her children.  The smell of the fire was all around her and black smoke seemed to follow in her wake.   She proclaimed that every man who had entered the woods that night would suffer, that he would never know happiness again without pain.

The witch was never seen again.  Too afraid now to pursue her, the villagers never entered the woods again, and with good reason.  All the men who had entered the woods that night soon felt the consequences of her curse. 

Any feeling of happiness was followed by strong physical pain.  The sensation was described as having your heart pulled from your chest.  From a chuckle from a joke to a feeling of love or happiness caused hours of excruciating agony. 

The men soon realised that in order to survive the curse, they had to cut all happiness from their lives.  Their loved ones were sent away, they chose their food from the scraps left by others and they now each lived alone, on the same row of cottages in the village.

No one in the village knew exactly how long the cursed men had actually lived.  The years and decades passed and yet they still lived on.  Some said that they would die when the witch did. When her pain had died, so to could theirs.  

No one ever entered the St Aubrens Woods again.

Swipe Left on Love: How Phones and the Death of Nightclubs Killed Dating

I honestly am coming to the conclusion that there are two realities.  There is the reality we walk around in and see with our own eyes; and there is the reality that we seen and read about online.  Often the two seems to be at odds with one another.

Dating for example.  There are a lot of problems with dating these days.  This is going to be a two part post and I will link that post when uploaded.  

For this post, instead of talking about the usual issues (dating apps etc), I want to bring up another reason why dating is so much harder now.  You simply cannot meet people like you used to.  

I come from a regular size town.  Growing up and through my 20s and 30s the nightlife scene was amazing.  The local pubs for example.  There were three options within walking distance of my home, always guaranteed to have people in them and not just a couple of retired old men having a pint.  

I spent many a Saturday afternoon in one of the local pubs playing pool (badly) and having a flirt.  Or on a Sunday, otherwise known as "hungover, need McDonalds then pool at the pub" in town.  There were always people there to have a laugh and a flirt with.  These were regular haunts that people went to and relationships were formed as a result.

I may sound 104 when I say this, but having no mobile phone also made a difference in that.  No social media to check, no selfies.  No checking text messages, Whatapp, emails.  You were present.  Fully present, not looking at your phone every five minutes.  Even now (and unfortunately I am guilty of doing this myself) I am turned off when I am having a conversation with someone and they keep checking their phone.

Then you had the bar and nightclub scene.  You could go out on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday if you wanted.  You did not have to drink, although most did to be fair.  I still remember the route that we used to take.

You got off the bus at 8.00pm and hit the bars (fake names used for anonymity).  Firstly, The Side Bar.  From there, Yates, The Duck & Cover, The McMillan.  Then Pink Paradise, BBs.  By 11 - 11.30 ish you were heading to one of the five nightclubs available.  Remember, this was just a regular small town.  Five nightclubs to choose from, with a line that could take 30 minutes to get to the front of unless you knew a bouncer.

This was also a time when you could do all of it, plus a takeaway pizza and a cab home for £25.

There was so much choice in where to go.  And with that choice, so many people to meet.  Two of my good friends met their husbands in one of those night clubs.  That was the thing.  You met people.  You enjoyed yourself.  You chatted, you danced.  You were not attached to your phone.  You lived.  You were home by 2.00am.

I remember once saying to my best friend while we played pool on a Sunday "God I am glad that there is no evidence of last night".  By that by the way, I meant drunken dancing, a snog with someone that I regretted, or telling a boy that I thought that he was cute when sober, I would not have dared.

Now, it is different.  Our lives are recorded and put online.  Photographs, selfies, videos.  "Funny" stories told about your friend who did x, y or z.  There is no escape.  And more, instead of losing yourself on the dance floor for two hours dancing, now the idea of fun seems to be posing and posturing for young men and young girls with a bottle of prosecco and ten thousand selfies.

The art of conversation has died.  Banter has died.  No one knows how to flirt properly any more. 
Now, my town is dead.  There are still bars, one nightclub.  But due to the licensing laws changing, no one goes out until midnight anymore.  When they do go out, they stay in their own circles.  Selfies, group photos.  Posing. 

Or worse.  I went to a party recently for a 25th birthday and all the attendees went home at midnight.  Not even to a house party.  Home.  At midnight.  They didn't even seem to be having fun.  Girls, looking identical with their contouring and perfect outfits, but sitting their taking pictures of themselves.  Only when they got drunk did they dance, for the last hour.  Then home.  Home?

Bring back the nightclubs.   Change the licensing laws that close the clubs by 2.00am.  Stop taking your mobile phone out on a night out.  Talk to men. Talk to women.  

Live.  Have fun.  We have stopped living, except for the 'Gram.

Butter, Bodies & Backlash - When Indulgence Breaks The Rules

 I have just finished reading a book called “Butter” by Japanese writer Asako Yuzuki.

 The central character is a female Japanese journalist, Rika, who is attempting to interview a woman, Manako, who is currently awaiting a retrial for the murder of several men.  She needs to find an “in” with this woman where all other journalists have failed.  In doing so, she ends up discovering so much more about herself.

Manako is a cook who is accused of murdering several of her previous boyfriends.  The authorities allege that she seduced these men with her food to lure them into being her boyfriend, before killing them in various different manners.   

One of the themes running through this book is that the lady is fat and as such, she is far from the accepted norm to be able to get a boyfriend in Japanese society.  What seems to fascinate the Japanese press and the public in this book is not so much the why/if she killed them, but how she got them to be with her in the first place.

The crimes committed in this book are not the main focus.  Neither is whether Manako is guilty, or not.  Indeed, they are a side note to it.

Food is the language of this book.  The writer talks about simple ingredients, such as butter, as being filled with meaning. Meals are not just to fill you up or for fuel; they are expressions of the way that you enjoy food, indulge in it, give yourself permission to have it.  The way that it makes you feel.  The control, the intimacy, and the rebellion of simply eating.

"When I'm eating good butter, I feel somehow as though I were falling"

As Rika delves further deeper into her interviews with Manako, her relationship with food changes and soon after, the way that she understands herself. When she starts to think about, truly take the time to enjoy the food and the start to cook herself, she feels at first liberated and then strangely, like every mouthful is an act of confrontation.  Yes, I am allowing myself to eat this thing.  And? 

It is a taking back of power that she did not realise she had lost.

It did make me think about the relationship we have with food and drink.  Simple pleasures, or big indulgences.  Taking the time to enjoy them.  Be in the moment.  Whether it is a icy cold glass of water that tastes like it has come from a mountain pass, or a piece of chocolate so divine that you do not want it to end.  Yet, instead of letting it sit on our tongue and luxuriating in it, we swallow and then feel guilty for eating it.  We do not pause to truly enjoy enough.

Butter focuses sharply on the societal expectations placed on women. Beauty, appearance, ambition, motherhood, each one is scrutinized and judged.  Manako is not the norm in Japanese society.  She enjoys herself, enjoys food, enjoys sex and pleasure and makes no apologies for it.  She does not conform and finds the idea repulsive.  This makes her fascinating, not just to Rika, but to Japanese society.  Learning more about Manako forces Rika to look at her own life and how those same expectations have shaped her, unseen and unknowing.

What I found interesting about the book was the accurate description of how much we unconsciously change ourselves to fit with the “norm”.  The accepted.  We are given goals based on societal expectations.  Goals that may not align with who we are and what we want.

The book looks at the female journalists on Rika’s newspaper who go on to have families.  Society expects them to juggle a career and be the perfect mothers.  They are judged heavily for both.  One who was blamed for the death of her son, because he went out to buy a meal at the shop instead of her being there to serve him.  You can have it all, but you will be condemned if you do not do both perfectly.

Then there was the male journalist who gave up his love of a band, because his favourite singer gained weight and therefore became unacceptable in society’s eyes.  It was no longer cool or acceptable to like her.  So he hid it despite his love for the band.

The idea that unless you confirm to societal expectations, you are a failure.  When Rika gained weight herself as a result of her cooking experiments it was shocking to those around her.  Because she had fallen out of her box and they no longer knew where to put her.

By the end of the book, Rika has managed to throw off the restraints of society and for the first time, in years, decades even, she is living for herself.  Rebellion is attractive.  Instead of her world becoming smaller, she bring more people into it, whilst throwing off the chains of expectation.  It is a beautiful thing,

There are many other things in this book that I have not talked about there, otherwise there would be no point in you reading it.  The story of Manako.  The story of Rika's best friend.

I recommend a read.

The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 7: Deja Vu

Story Prompt - Deja vu

Have you ever experienced deja vu? I think that most people have. A conversation you think that you have had previously or a place that seems known to you, yet you know that you haven't been there before.

For some reason, I feel like my life lately has become one long deja vu. I cannot explain it, but I feel like I am living the same day, over and over again.  

The day is a work day, so is already filled with the familiar and routine. I wake up, have a shower, have my coffee. I look through my wardrobe deciding what to wear, yet the outfit I choose, my hand seems to move towards it without thought. Like I already chose it.

I have the same breakfast every day. That has not changed for years, toast with jam and another coffee. I love the taste of the sweet strawberry jam with the bitterness of the coffee. But this day, I am rushing. I managed to sleep through the shrill beeping of my alarm clock and so today all I can manage is a slurp of coffee before I have to leave.  

I try to move quickly around the flat to gather my things, but my limbs feel heavy. My body will not move the way I want it to. I put it down to the gym workout the previous morning. I realise that I have still not switched off my alarm clock. I hear it still going off in the next room. Yet when I reach it, it is already off. Odd.

I think to myself "not again" as I run out of the door, yet I am never late. So why do I think that this is a habit? I feel like I am accustomed to the panic running through my body as I note the clock on the wall at the reception of my building. 8.19am. The train is at 8.25 and it takes ten minutes to get there.

I step out into the street. This is where I truly feel like my day is repeating itself. A car is beeping its horn, a man waving at a woman he has just dropped off. Rain, appearing as if from nowhere, starts to pour. A woman, walks past me shouting "Will you wake up, dammit!" into her phone as she rummages through her handbag for an umbrella I seem to already know that she will not find. Her voice sounds familiar, but I cannot see her face.

I check the time on my watch. 8.20. I am going to miss the train. I decide to get a taxi. My boss detests tardiness, even more than he seems to detest me. I cannot be late. Late at my firm means you are not at your desk fifteen minutes before nine.  

I book the taxi and the registration number of the taxi, RU01 NAT comes up on my screen. I stare at the screen. RU NAT. My name is Natalie. Nat to my family. What does the RU mean? Are you Nat? I shake my head. I wonder if I am going mad.

The taxi approaches and I wave it down. The driver looks, odd. He is all dressed in light blue. Whatever.

From then, the day gets fuzzy. Working at a insurance firm, days do tend to merge into one. The work is the same thing, day in day out. I get home at 6.00pm, eat a microwave meal, watch some Netflix and go to sleep. Yet the last thing I remember doing is walking out into the street as the taxi approached. This is what I remember when I wake in the morning. I have no recollection of what happened in the rest of my day. This is strange.

Another day. I wake to the alarm's incessant beeping. I swear, I can hear that beeping in my head all the time now. Beep, beep, beep. It is constant.

I turn over and look at the clock, already knowing that the time will be 7.35am. Late. Again. I feel like I have repeated this day for months. But no more. I cannot repeat this day again. Something needs to change.

I run my fingers through the rail in my wardrobe, my hand automatically going to the black pinstripe suit and cream shirt. I move along the rail, choosing a dress instead. More feminine. Something I rarely wear. Different shoes follow. A calm seems to settle in me.

I look at the time. 8.16. I could make the train if I ran. Yet the shoes I have chosen today aren't the kind you can run in. I think about booking a taxi, but I turn off the app as soon as it opens. There is another train at 8.35. I would get to the office actually on time. 9.00am. Do the expected fifteen minutes early actually even matter? Unpaid too, I think to myself. Why do I do that? To impress a boss who detests me anyway? I need a new job.

I walk downstairs and leave the building. It is now 8.23. This time, three minutes later than my repeated day has been, there is no beeping horn of a car. The rain is there, but has already started. I turn to the right towards the subway and see the woman, but not fumbling in her handbag. She is already soaked. I am not. Because I knew that the rain was coming and my umbrella is already in my hand.

I start to walk towards the station and then suddenly, there is nothing. Fog swirls in my mind and then a blackness that is all encompassing. I am conscious, yet I see nothing. I cannot feel my body. I feel as though I am in limbo. Terror spreads through my body like ice. Yet I can still hear the beep, beep, beep in my head; like my alarm is still trying to wake me up.

I wonder if I am actually still asleep. If this is just a nightmare. I try to open my eyes but it is difficult to do. Like my eyes have been closed for a very long time. What greets me when I open them is not what I expected. I am in a bed, but not my own. I am not waking from a nightmare. At least not one I envisioned. I am in a hospital bed. Machines beep around me. I try to sit up, but the movement is slow. My limbs stiff as though they have not moved in a long time.

A male nurse light blue scrubs passes by and spots my movement. He runs into the room. "You're awake! I can't believe it! Let me get the doctor".

So reader, here is my story.  

That day, that very first day in what would become a repeating cycle in my head, I was late for work. When I ran out into the street to get my taxi, I did not notice the motorcycle heading straight for me. It was a head on collision. I have been in hospital in a coma for four months.  

My injuries healed after a couple of months and there was no medical reason after that for me not to wake up. Yet I didn't. I stayed in limbo. That day replayed on repeat in the depths of my brain. Until I chose to be different. Chose a different path. Now I think that I was waiting there, in limbo; to save myself.

The doctors think that I am a medical mystery. My nurse thinks it was my sister, who visited me every day. She talked to me all the time apparently. Asking me to wake up. The nurse said that she got quite angry the day before and shouted at me.

What I think is that I was not happy before. I had not really been living. I had a job I hated, friends I never saw and life was simply passing me by. I needed to make a change. I see that now. A chance to make a change. Be different. A new life.  

I write this to you now during my lunch hour at work. Not the insurance firm. I quit. I am now a junior editor at a publishing firm, actually using the degree that I studied so hard for. My wounds are healed and the scar on my head is barely noticeable under my new hair cut. I am meeting my sister later for drinks in the city. I have a date on Friday. I am living. Not existing.

All that it took, was being late that day. A change in my routine. A chance, to change everything. All I needed to do was take it.

Stop Pouring Money Down The Drain: How to Cut Your Water Bill

 I have another post for you today about the budgeting tips that I use in order to save money.  See my other posts here and here.

Today I wanted to talk about ways in which you can save money on your water bill.  This is UK specific for any non local readers.

You may, or may not, be aware that your water bill is both unmetered and is also tied to your postcode.  I was aware of the first, but not the second.

What that means is that no matter the size of your house and how much water you use, you are paying an amount tied to the area you live.

I help my mother out with her finances, making sure money is moved to her savings accounts, trying to lower bills where I can etc.  A couple of months ago I was shocked to see a direct debit come out of her account for £86.00.  That is £1,032.00 per year.  Bearing in mind that she lives in a small bungalow, on her own.  My own water bill is over £20.00 less per month.

On doing some investigating I came to understand that your water bill is tied to where you live, not what you use.  So I decided to do a test online with her water supplier to see how much less she could be paying if she had a water meter.

After asking her all the relevant questions such as how many showers/baths per week, how much times she used the washing machine etc, the test results came back that she could be paying around £35.00 per month.  Over £50.00 less than she is paying now.

We had been told by a neighbour of hers before that they had tried to get a water meter and were unable to do so.  As it turns out, my mother was not able to get one fitted either.

But here is the thing (which I found out from a friend myself).  If the water company cannot fit a water meter to your home, they are obliged to reduce your bill in accordance to what it would have been had you moved to metered water.  This is a very little known fact, but one which is available if you know to look.

So today, my mother got an email through confirming that despite being unable to fit a water meter for her, her bill was now being reduced to £34.00 per month.  Giving her a saving of £52.00 per month, or £624.00 per year.

So if you are looking at ways to reduce your bills (aren't we all!), this is one way to do it that does not take much effort and can save you a lot of money every year.

If You Can't Be Labelled, You Can't Sit With Us

 There have always been labels to describe people.  These were generally physical descriptors: man, woman, child, fat, thin, tall, short, brunette, blonde, redhead.  Then there were ones for personality, a funny man, a confident woman.  Or for your interests.  A bookworm, a rocker, an emo, a gym bro (or bunny!).  When you were in school, whether you were a cool kid, or not.

All of these labels were true to you and gave a good description of you should someone ask.  To describe me for example, a short brunette who loves writing and 90s dance music.  I have never been cool sadly.

But now, everything has changed.  In order to be cool, you must be damaged in some way.  If you aren't, make it up.  The more labels the better and they have become the forefront of some people's personalities.

Remember when someone used to joke that they were a little "OCD" because they liked to clean?  This exaggeration has now been extrapolated by a thousand.  

You like to clean?  You have OCD.  Your girlfriend cheated on you five years ago?  You have past trauma and PTSD.  You are never on time for anything?  You have ADHD.  You have a naughty child who is combative? Must be autism.  You are a moody teenager?  You have Bipolar.  Your 5 year old daughter likes trucks?  Must be transgender.

Yes, I went there.  And?

People are collecting these labels to represent them, the more the better and they use them as their personality and their excuse for not dealing with life.  Look at Twitter bios for example, you have the user name, then the pro nouns, then the long list of everything that is wrong with them.

I am a Reddit user and day after day I see the people that describe themselves in their stories.  "I (23F) have depression, CPSTD, Bipolar and my boyfriend (25M) has PTSD, past traumas and ADHD".

I am just going to come out and say it.  No.  You don't.  Many if not the majority of these people have not been diagnosed with anything at all.  Yet they collect them like charms on a bracelet.

Diagnosis itself these days is also getting more and more extreme and overused.  Especially with children.  The amount of children, especially boys who are diagnosed and then medicated for autism is through the roof.  Boys are three times more likely to be diagnosed than girls.

Over 224,000 people were on the waiting list for autism assessments in March 2025.  The numbers of diagnoses have risen 175% in the last ten years with researches suggesting that at least 30% of diagnosed children being on at least one psychotropic drug.

That is before we get to the horror of what has been and is being done to children and the transgender debate.

We are raising generations of medicated children who will never be there real selves.

More than the use of these labels though, is the way that using them is enabling people to check out of life and responsibilities, because "label".  The labels have also become weaponized.  The people become childlike.

You have a problem showing up on time to work?  Well I have time blindness so accommodations must be made.  Instead perhaps suggesting that you set more alarms and put more systems in place to ensure you do get to work.

You can't be bothered to clean, do your laundry or cook and want to get your partner to do it all?  Claim ADHD and you can get a hall pass into not doing anything.  Instead of setting reminders, putting notes in your calendar, opening your damn eyes.

You are a rude person?  Sorry, I am autistic.   You just have to accept me.

You want to do only the fun things and nothing you do not want to do?  You can claim depression. (This one is a personal one for me as it hits the closest.  Depression can absolutely hit in different ways, but for me, I got up, I went to work and earned money because I needed to live.)  Now some use the word as an excuse to not work and yet still manage to find the energy to do the fun stuff.

No.  No.

I know people who have depression, have autism, have ADHD.  All of these people work with their diagnoses, they don't rely on them for an excuse.  They have routines in place, reminders are set, they go to therapy, they work on themselves and look at their behaviours and see what they can work with and try to improve.  They do not sit back and simply say, I can't.

When I went to a counsellor a couple of years ago, she told me that she believed that I had PTSD.  I have never told anyone that before.  I have never used that label in connection with myself.  Because it is a private thing and something that I worked on, behind closed doors.  I did not celebrate it on Twitter or talk about it on Tiktok.

There is something wrong on a world where anything that can or may hold you back in life is something that you use as your whole personality.  That you rely on to check out of life and responsibilities.

Mental health labels in particular have become a competition.  How many do you have?  Well I have x, y and z.  Plus potential a, d and s.  The more labels, the more interesting you are.

I weep for Gen Z and the generations after them.  They have grown up with the internet, with influencers, through Covid.  Their whole lives are online and now, everyone has to have a thing.  As I have said previously in another post, when in school, there is no escape from the bullies now.  You used to go home and that was your sanctuary.  Now you go home and social media is ten times worse than what is said in the playground.

The only way around this is to conform.  Be damaged, be cool. Check out of life, but make sure people know about it.

It is funny really. no matter who is on top of the social hierarchy, conformity still matters.  There is no escape.  Conforming to anything you do not agree with is wrong, but creating issues about yourself to fit in is not healthy.  

The thing is, before, you could grow up and mature.  The bad choices you made, the way that you may have once acted, you can change.  But the choices being made now, including those choices that parents are making for their children (Tom likes dolls therefore he is a girl and I will now act like he is), can have lifelong effects.  Especially when those choices include medication.

In the end, if it takes a dozen labels to explain you, maybe the most radical thing left, is to be interesting enough not to need them.

Perimenopause and the Hormone Hurricane - Trying to Find the Calm in the Storm

 So as I have talked about previously on this blog, I had a full hysterectomy in late December, leaving my ovaries.

For the first few weeks my hormones were all over the place.  I wrote previously about the cat making me cry because he wouldn't leave me alone in the kitchen.  Full on meltdown....

But those feelings faded and up until the last couple of weeks, I have been fine.  Healing very well, no pain; getting on with life.  But then, the hormones hit again.

It appears that perimenopause is knocking on my door.  I have no other symptoms, no hot flashes etc.  But the mood swings are a killer.

My first indication was a couple of weeks ago on a Sunday.  I was sat on the couch watching tv when a sudden feeling of anxiety hit me and it felt like someone was sitting on my chest.  Then, sadness.  Then, tears.  

Another day, irritability, then rage.  I was a storm cloud that could not settle and woe betide anyone who crossed my path. 

My mood swings seem to go sadness, rage, sadness, rage.  I have continued on this cycle every few days ever since.  

I am grateful that I have done so much work on myself because it crosses off that there is something troubling me or making me feel this way.  Those days are gone.   But just because they are gone does not mean that I do not remember them.  And therein lies the problem.

The anger, the rage I can deal with.  But the sadness, the pain of it; that is hard to bear.  Because it is for me, an all too familiar feeling.   

I have experienced pain and sadness in my past to the point where I wanted to die.  It is a feeling that I have never felt since that period of my time.  It not something I dwell on or ever dip back into, but when you have been on the brink, when you have felt a pain that is all consuming, you never truly forget.

This is again why I am grateful that those days are behind me, because I know without a doubt that these feelings are hormones and nothing more.   But the familiar feeling of such sadness is a dog whistle for me.  It takes me right back to that time in my life.  Where hope was only a dream and pain was my reality.  

The feelings that I have from my hormonal swings are nowhere near how I used to feel.  But there is a glimmer.  There is a familiarity to it that I recognise instantly.  Because whether it was 20 years ago or yesterday, you never forget that feeling.

It terrifies me.

But I am not the girl I once was.  I was alone then.  Lost.  I did not seek help because I did not believe myself worthy of it.  That is no longer me and the feelings are not real.  The pain and the root of that pain has been purged.

So instead, I look for what I can do to combat.  I have started taking evening primrose and star flower.  I have been told that this helps a lot when your hormones go array.  If they do not work, I will look at other options.

I mainly wrote this post today because I realised that there must be so many other women like me.  Who have been to the brink and pulled themselves back.  Who have experienced depression and thought it long gone, only for that old familiar feeling to come back, like a ghost from your past walking right in front of you.

I rely on my partner to remind me that these feelings are hormonal when the sadness hits.   That I am not returning back to sadness, but am just moving into another stage of the physical life of my body and that this is temporary.

If anyone reading this has gone through, or is going through the same; I would love to hear from you.

From Hauls to Finds: Changing How I Shop

There is a moment—usually somewhere between your third parcel arriving in a week and the clothing bringing you no joy, when the shine starts to wear off fast fashion. For me, that moment came courtesy of shopping with Shein. 

One day I realised that it was nothing more than cheap thrills, quick fixes, and clothes that felt cheap and regretted almost as soon as I’d cut the tags off.

I started shopping with Shein for holiday clothing and cheap accessories.  For that, Shein is perfect.  A swimsuit that you will only wear for the holiday, cheap summer jewellery that is disposable and you don't mind losing by the swimming pool or a beach bar.

But then I started to buy more.  A pretty dress here, and there, and there again.  A pair of shoes.  Another dress.  More and more.  But what I realised was that “more” wasn’t actually delivering better.

The Fast Fashion Fatigue

Shopping on sites like Shein is engineered to feel like winning.  Every click is a dopamine hit, by design.  The clothing is unbelievably cheap, vouchers are applied in every basket. Everything looks good in the photos. The quality looks great and for a moment—click, buy, confirm—you believe it.

But then the packages arrive.

The fabric is thinner than expected. The fit is… optimistic. The colour isn’t quite right. And suddenly you’re left with a pile of clothes that don’t feel like you—they feel like a rushed decision. Yet each purchase is so cheap that half the time you no longer bother to send back.  You donate or lose in your wardrobe.  Never worn.  

The Shift: From Quantity to Curiosity

The move to second-hand was not an intended lifestyle change. It started with curiosity.  There have been items that I have wanted to add to my wardrobe for years.  Brands that I like but cannot afford but would like.  Something with a bit more character.  Some pieces that will last.

Enter Vinted

At first, it felt like work. You have to search. Filter. Scroll with intent of what you are looking for. But what I found is that the more specific I got, the more I liked the pieces that appeared.  I could narrow down to brands, and then again to whatever category of clothing I was looking for.  Not just reacting to what the algorithm picked for, but actually choosing pieces for myself.  My own taste.

The Unexpected Upgrade

Here’s the part no one really talks about: second-hand shopping can quietly upgrade your entire wardrobe.  On Vinted, you’re not limited to what’s currently being mass-produced. You’re browsing across seasons, styles, and prices. That especially works for me as I do not follow trends, I just like what I like.

That means, netter fabrics, better longevity and occasionally? A designer piece at a fraction of the price.

Shopping on Vinted has made me excited about clothes again.  About what I can find, specific to my need and for a great price.  There’s a story behind each purchase “I hunted for this and found it.”

The Financial Reality

Buying second-hand means that you are still getting a bargain.  It doesn’t always mean spending less on a piece, but it about spending smarter.

You learn how to shop more carefully.  Checking the photos, checking the description (designer pieces often have more information that you can double check online).  Checking the reviews of the sellers and the other pieces that they have available.

I make sure to only buy items marked as "very good" and so far, everything that I have received has been in perfection condition.

For cxample:

Michael Kors Large Cindy Bag - Retail £180   Purchased for £20

Marks & Spencer Blazer - Retail £70   Purchased for £6

Ted Baker Purse - Retail £70   Purchased for £13

Ted Baker Sunglasses - Retail £95    Purchased for £30

Little Mistress Dress - Retail £75    Purchased for £9

For £78 pounds I have purchased six items (that would have cost me £490!) that will last me a long time, are better quality and are still within my budget. 

Letting Go of the Old Habit

The hardest part isn’t learning how to shop second-hand—it’s unlearning the fast fashion mindset.  Shopping with Vinted is not a see and click buy within five seconds experience.  Shopping with Vinted takes time, but it is so worth it.

The dopamine hit of a £10 dress is real. The convenience is addictive. But now when I receive an item I have found on Vinted, I love it because I searched for it, because I have been wanting it.  The joy is back and I am discovering my taste again.  

When you start buying things that you really love, you stop needing so much.

Creative Corner 6 - A Hidden Getaway

Story Prompt - A fictional character describes their hidden getaway 

Let me tell you about my hidden place.  Hidden, yet in plain sight.

The Broughton Club has always been a special place for me.  It isn’t a gentleman’s club or a country club.  It is a members only club for those who want to, quite simply, disappear out of the world; be it for an hour or two or occasionally, a few days.   Numbers are limited and the waiting list is huge.

There has always been an air of mystery about the place.  The club has been situated on Granville Court for as long as anyone can remember.  No one knows who owns it or even who started the club in the first place.  The imposing double doored entrance gives no clue as to what or who is inside.

While most people who pass by think it is a gentleman’s club due to the number of well-heeled gentlemen you seeing entering the premises; the Broughton Club is in fact open for anyone who is willing to pay the membership fee (and sign the members agreement).

The members agreement is simple.   You must be introduced by another member.  You cannot approach other members who are in the quiet areas.  If you are looking for conversation, the bar and dining area is there for you to converse with other members there.  Non-members are not allowed, except for initial member introductions.  What you get in return is absolute peace, with five-star service and total discretion.  A place where you can go and have some peace, real peace, away from the hustle and bustle of the world.  No matter who you are.

Membership is expensive.  They make no qualms about it.    But this isn’t the kind of club where memberships are passed down through families, nor indeed is it the type of place that allows a family pass.  None of my family (except my husband) even know that I go there.  Once you have been introduced, you are vetted (not that they tell you that, but everyone knows that this happens) and you make an application to join.

Once you step through those doors, you get a feeling of home.  A very luxurious home, but home none the less.  Your exact tastes and preferences are noted down once your application has been approved, and they have everything that you could wish for. 

So what do I use the Broughton Club for?  Calmness.  Some time to myself to indulge in quiet moments.  My normal life is hectic.  My work and home life are demanding and time to myself without being bothered is a rare commodity. 

Whenever I get a few hours to spare, you will find me at the club, tucked into one of the large leather high back chairs in the quiet room.   I press a button discreetly hidden in the chair and the book I have been reading from the library is delivered to me.  I order a coffee or sometimes a glass of Dom Perignon from the butler who delivers my book, along with some lunch or dinner.   There is a menu you can look at, but truly, you can just ask for whatever is your fancy at that moment and they will bring it.   

No is not in their vocabulary.

There are others there in the quiet rooms, all doing their own version of peace.  We don’t talk.  There is no need.  That is not why we are here.  Some rooms are simple, quiet, with large fireplaces.  I enjoy watching the fire in the winter.  Sometimes I put my book aside and simply watch the fire crack and spark.  Other rooms have a similar set up, but quiet classical music is played.   

There also smaller rooms if you want to be truly alone.  All the comfort you could wish for, with a button to summon a butler.  You can do anything from read a book to have a full five course Michelin Star meal if that is what takes your fancy.

If you want to stay a few days, you can also do that.  Opulent rooms with huge four poster beds and twenty-four-hour service at the touch of a button.  But no visitors are allowed in the rooms.  Only members.  I suspect that they have previously learned that lesson.

There is a large dining room and bar area if you want to come out from your quiet place.  I have met a few members that way.  We don’t say much.  We talk about the rarity of such a place that allows you to step away from the world whilst sipping on a glass of Domaine Antoine.  We know how lucky we are to have found it. 

No business deals are done there.  Although connections are undoubted made and a personal relationship or two has been forged.  But this isn’t the place to carry out an affair.  You don’t go there for a date.  I should know.  It was my husband who introduced me to the place.  I have never seen him there, nor would I want to.  This is my sanctuary, just as it is his.

The Broughton Club is special because it is unique.  It is set up for isolation and a calm that you choose for yourself.  It offers conversation if you wish, but the quiet rooms are often more occupied than the dining/bar area.

One a year the club hosts a masked ball.  Chosen so that members who can attend can remain nameless if they so choose.  Black tie and ballgowns, with a mask.  If you didn’t know any better, you would think you had walked into the scene from Eyes Wild Shut such is the abundance of wealth on display.  Except there is (certainly) no sex, no orgies, just wine, good food, a quartet playing and good conversation.  The quartet are not blindfolded, but they are paid handsomely for their discretion.

Many reporters have tried to get into the Broughton Club, convinced that there is something sordid there, some story to tell.  They know that only those with money attend and with money normally follows scandal, power plays and deals done behind closed doors.  They would be disappointed if they knew. 

Like Fight Club, the members know that you do not talk about the Broughton Club.  You only bring someone for an introduction if you completely trust them, because any scandal or even breaking of the rules by them would result in you both losing your membership.

In a world filled with money and power, social media and the internet, secrets sold for profit and our time increasingly taken until nothing is left, the Broughton Club offers a step away from the chaos of the world, and exhale.  

And that my friends, is priceless.

The 1950s Housewife Lie - Why Domestic Bliss was a Myth

One in six people are now thought to be on anti-depressants in the UK.  That equates to around 15% of the population.  Women in their 50 and 60s are the highest demographic.  This information is used by some as “proof” that women were happier when they were in the home and not working.  That those women would not be taking medication had their lives been “as they should have been”.

I have to say first and foremost that the comment "as they should have been" irritates me greatly.  As if women have nothing more to offer than being in the home.  Have no interests other than cleaning and childcare.  As if there is no point in them inspiring for more.  Wanting more.

Yet those unhappy with their lot were stuck.  Until 1964 an employer could refuse to hire you if you were a woman.  You could refuse to sell a home to a woman until 1974.  You could refuse to rent to a woman with children until 1988.  Society then was not designed for women to have independence, whether they wanted it or not. 

So what are the actual reasons behind the current statistics?

Firstly, as we know, men typically do not ask for help.  They do not talk about their problems, and that includes not talking to their GP and getting help.  Women do.  Women also attempt suicide in greater amounts than men, but tend to do so in a cry for help way, whereas men tend to go for the option that will be fatal.

So the numbers are already not accurate.  We do not know the number of men who need help but do not ask.

But let us look at the supposition that the women were happier when they were housewives.  This is something that cannot be quantified.  Because the times and choices available were completely different back then. 

But we do know this. 

Antidepressants were first introduced in the 1950s.  Let's look at some of the adverts, targeted solely at women I may add, from that time.

You can't set her free, but you can make her feel less anxious

Housework is simple ladies!  Take Ritalin!

The food machine can cook again when you take Morndine!

Figures show that 20 - 30% of women were taking anti-depressants in the 1950s and this continued in an upward motion through the decades.  Valium, well known as "Mother's Little Helper" was brought to the market in 1963 and sales went from 500,000 in 1965, rising to 29 million in 1970 and peaking at a staggering 88 million by 1988.  That is just figures from the US.

So many women obviously were not happy.  They were depressed.  There are of course women who wanted to be stay at home mothers and thrived on it, or were at least happy.  

The issue we have is that women in general want more in life than being attached to a vacuum cleaner with a child tied to the hip.  They wanted more than just their lives to be in the home 24/7 with zero breaks.  While their partners get free time and indeed, days off work, the women did not.  Their money was controlled, did not have a bank account or in some cases, access to money that was not given to them by their husbands.  While some wanted this life, many were stuck in that life.

The fact that in the same decade that anti-depressants were introduced, that 20-30% of women immediately needed them, says everything.

I think now of the film Mona Lisa Smile.  Particularly Julia Stiles' character, Joan.  She was brilliantly minded.  She got into Wellesley.  Was offered a place at Yale.  But she chose to become a stay at home mother.  I do not judge her for that.  That was her choice.  It is more the reactions and responses of her soon to be husband that I noted.    How could she go to Yale but have dinner on the table for 5.00pm?  He may have thought that she was intelligent, but it was inconsequential.  Her role was cleaning the home and cooking, then raising children.  Her intelligence was amusing and fun for him, but not taken seriously.

But I hear you say, women started working in greater numbers from the 1960s onwards.  That is the reason for the increase in anti-depressants!!

Sorry, but no again.  The fact that is that more women did start working.  But the amount that they had to do in home stayed the same.  This has continued, although decreased slightly, into present day.

There are numerous studies that show that women do a far greater amount in the home then their male partners.  A recent study shows that 67% of the women interviewed said that they did a far greater amount in the home compared to their partners.  

Is it any wonder that more and more women turned to anti-depressants.  They thought that by working, the split at home would be equal/more equal.  But this was not the case.  They gained bank accounts and access to money, but their time was still regarded as the families while the husband's time was not.

Some men see the 1950s as a golden time.  It is plain to see that for women, it was not.

Creating Space, For Yourself

 I don't think that the work that you do to improve yourself ever really ends.  Nor should it.  It is important to reevaluate, reassess and dig a little deeper.

I am in a place in my life now where I am the happiest I have ever been.  I have worked on myself a lot over the years, especially for the last two years and it really shows.  I have reached a freedom, a peace and a clarity of mind that I never knew that I could achieve.

When you sort out the big things. the smaller things that were not noticeable before, appear.  Old behaviours or reactions that worked well at one time in your life, but are not needed now.  Some of them are so unconscious that you don't even realise.

I feel so lucky that I am at a stage now where I can see these behaviours and can work towards changing them.  For example, I have mentioned in a previous post that I unconsciously wait for someone's reaction, before allowing my own, which affects and changes how I react.  Now I know that I do this, and more importantly, why I no longer need to act this way; I can change it.

One of the things that I have realised is that I have always made myself small.  My needs and wants have always been put second, last or not even at all.  Other people have always mattered more.  I have never put myself first.  Said what I wanted.  What I needed.    

I think that that is why that I have always enjoyed and offered to organise.  Because then I can slip in some of my wants and needs.  But in general, I have always put others before myself.

This stems from a lifelong need to be wanted.  To be loved.  I have burned for years, keeping others warm.

But now, I no longer need to.  Recognising this to be true was a step that I reached recently.  I am loved.  I am wanted.  I deserve to be bigger.  To branch out.  To say what I want.  Ask for what I want.  I can allow myself that now.

I realise now that I matter too.  I have always mattered.  And I deserve to exist in a space in this world.  

The road ahead of me is exciting.  Because I am making choices now for myself, not just acquiescing to others.  Not just assuming that my needs are automatically smaller or inconsequential.  

This is my time now and anything is possible.

Shall I tell you a secret? One day, I want to write a book.  For now, I am practicing with short stories.  Because, why not.  

Tuesdays with Morrie - My Thoughts

I recently read “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom.  It was a beautiful book which made me think about and reassess my life.  That is the sign of a good book.

It started me thinking about what we have in our lives, what we need and what we want.  Which are of those are necessary to our happiness and wellbeing; and which are not. 

It also made me think about the people in my life, those I love, those I like, those I don’t like.  The reasons for this.  About what relationships I want to cultivate and grow.  Those I need to give up on or forget.  Those I need to work on.

It made me think about what I have, that is actually important and means everything to me.

I have love.  That is the first and foremost.  Nothing will ever rival the moment that I first felt truly loved.  To be able to spend the rest of my life with the person that loves me most is a gift that cannot be measured. 

Love cannot be taken for granted.  It needs work, care, consideration and give and take.  Working on my love is something that is a lifelong goal and one I need to remember.  Not to take love for granted.

I have a home.  A real home that is mine.  A safe haven.   That is something that I always wanted, and now have.

There was a line in the book that really made me think. 

You have to be ready to die, in order to be ready to live.

What does that mean?  For me that means no regrets, no things I put off till “insert date”, no chances I should have taken but didn’t.  To have lived my life as best as I can, be as good a person as I can, be as happy and bring as much happiness as I can.  So, when that time comes, hopefully decades from now, I am at peace.

Morrie talked about not worrying about getting old.  That aging means learning, and the older you are, the more you know.   That is a good thing.  The more you have experienced, the more you have lived and enjoyed.

One thing that you could tell about Morrie was that he truly lived.  He experienced everything and let himself feel it all.  He let himself fully enjoy life and completely immersed himself into whatever he chose.  He listened.  He danced.  He cried, when he needed to.  He allowed himself all emotions and did not worry about what others thought of it.

He talked about it being important to recognize when a feeling such fear came upon him.  He gave himself an amount of time to experience that fear, let himself fully feel it, immerse himself in it; and then put it aside.  By doing this it enabled him to detach from the fear having let it have its time. 

This is such an important lesson to learn and one that many of us, myself included, do not allow ourselves.   Pain, fear, anxiety, worry; these are all emotions that I have run away from in the past.  Or experienced some of and then thrown into a box in my head and buried.  But buried things in your head can find their way out.  It isn’t healthy.

Tuesdays with Morrie taught me that I need to say yes more.  Say yes instantaneously.  Before doubt or worry or planning sets in.  Maybes rarely happen.  We have one life to live and it is our duty to live them to the fullest.

I can still feel the glow that I had after reading this book.  I recommend it wholeheartedly.

Fifteen Years of Blogging!

I don't make New Year's resolutions.  I find that doing so just means that I end up actively ignoring them.  But what I did promise myself last year is that this year, I would focus more on doing what I love and brings me joy.  For me, that is writing.

Writing is something that I have always loved.  It is my passion.  My writing has taken many different paths and led me on many different journeys over the years.  Writing and sharing my posts out into the world has helped me grow as a person, given me confidence and also given me an outlet for my thoughts and feelings.

Over the years my blog has been many things.  A diary, a plus size fashion blog, a commercial posts blog and now, a place where I share my thoughts on whatever subject or current interest comes to mind.  I also have a continuing series of short stories, which I was surprised to find that I actually enjoy!

It is easy for life to take hold and for you to put passions aside.  I realised that last year I only wrote five posts for the entirety of the year.  I knew that that had to change.

Last year was a big year of chance for me.  Moving house and all that entails as well as working on myself as a person.  As a result of the personal work I have done on myself, I started this year with a happiness that I never known.  With that happiness, my desire for writing returned.

I have been so many different people during the lifetime of this blog and I think it shows.  What started as a diary of sorts to try and understand myself, changed into plus size blogging.  This gave me more and more confidence, where I had none before.  Sharing my journey into confidence, sharing photographs of myself and pushing myself out into the world, trying new things was a wonderful experience.

When I started plus size blogging, I wrote an email to the person who had inspired me.  A few years later, I received one of my own.  I cannot tell you how happy that made me and how it made me realise just how far I had come.

By this point I was working with clothing brands and I decided to branch out to writing commercial posts as well, which was a nice little sideline for a while. 

For personal reasons I decided to stop plus size blogging and commercial writing and for a few years after that, I lost my way a little with writing, with less posts every year than I ever had before.

I have been on a personal journey these past 5/6 years.  Some of this is documented on the blog, some not.  But I have taken more steps to find my own peace these last few years than ever before; and the result is the woman who writes this today.  Happy.  Fulfilled.  No longer plagued by demons of the past.

Now, I love my life, my partner, my job.  I sat down at my desk at work today and realising that I was smiling.  That is quite an accomplishment for a Monday morning!

So where will this blog go now?  What do the next fifteen years hold?  More of the same I hope.  More opinion and thoughts pieces, more short stories.  The world is open to me now, to take my journey wherever I wish.

I hope that you come along with me for the ride.

What Fictional Character Would You Invite For Dinner

 

Call me crazy, but Hannibal Lecter.  On the strict prior agreement that I would not be on the menu!

Thomas Harris’ character Hannibal Lecter is wonderfully complex and frankly, is someone who has always fascinated me.   He is a psychopath, undoubtedly.  Dangerous, absolutely.  But he is also one of the most interesting characters I have ever read.

Are psychopaths born or are they made from experiences that they had?  I think that the honest answer is probably both.  In Hannibal’s case, he was forced to watch his sister’s murder and then eat some of her body.  You could say that Hannibal’s lack of empathy stems from this very point.  He saw the worst thing in the world and never had feeling again. 

But there is more to Hannibal that the things he went through as a child.  He is extremely intelligent.  He is charming and can easily convince people to do his will.  He is fully aware of what he is and he enjoys it.  He luxuriates in who and what he is. 

He accepts into his world only what he wants, what gives him pleasure, even if that is human flesh.  He sees all other humans as either something to play with, or as food.  They are beneath him. 

But he has standards in who he chooses to eat.  Clarice interested him and he decides that the world is better with her in it.  He is more than likely in love with her, but that is buried deep.  He is capable of love but does not allow himself to feel it.  I think that may be the only safety net that he has.  Instead, he believes that he keeps her alive because she is a toy that he chooses to pick up and play with now and again.

What I find interesting is that Hannibal is not just a cannibal.  He also murders for pleasure.  He killed Benjamin Raspail because his playing displeased him.  But he had his fun by serving his organs to the Board of Philharmonic Orchestra.  Almost like serving up a gift to them, not only enhancing (as he would say) their meal but also by improving their orchestra.

Hannibal enjoys killing.  I have to wonder that if he had not given into these urges, the flamboyant killings, whether he would ever have been caught.   It is his need for admiration and showing off that gave him away in the end. 

He has to be noticed.  He expects to be noticed.  For all his lack of empathy, he has a need to be seen.  You will see me.  Look at me and wonder.   Almost childlike in that regard.

You can see why people flocked towards him.  Are intrigued by him.   Like I am myself.  He was created by both nature and nurture.  We will never know if he would have became what he did if his sister had not been killed in such a way.  But his tendencies for cruelty, sadism and his enjoyment of that, had to in some way been born with him.

I suspect that if you asked Hannibal Lecter whether he regretted his crimes, he would say no.  Because to him, he is above the law.  I believe that Hannibal would think of himself as no less than a god.   A god who did not need to explain himself, nor would he.  A god who made his own rules.  Lived above and beyond the rules and laws that us mere mortals follow.

There would of course have to be rules.  Many people would have to know he was invited.  He would not be the one cooking.  But I think it would be a chance to meet someone who is utterly unique.  One can only hope that there would not be many Hannibal Lecters in the world.  But it sure would be interesting to meet him.  With I knowing who he truly is and he knowing that I knew.  I think he would enjoy it.  A chance to once again, show off.

Who would you invite for dinner?  You don’t have to go to a weird angle as I did!

When Familiarity Breeds Complacency

 They say familiarity breeds contempt.  I say that it breeds complacency.

We are in an age now where job security is not a sure thing.  Where people change jobs every two years, chasing a higher wage, different benefits.  But what about those who stay in the same job for years?

You may be in a relationship for a decade or two, but are you happy?  Or is it just what you know and it is easier?  Are you making yourself unhappy because you are too scared of being alone?

In relation to behaviour, you may have grown up a certain way and you act in accordance with that, but does that not mean that you can change?  Questioning the way you have always acted can be intimidating.   It is has worked for you so far, why change?  But what if the change will make your life better?  Make you better.

The new can be exciting but also terrifying.  It is an unknown quantity threatening to enter into your space.  A space that you know well.  That is safe.  It is what you know.

I have experience with some of these.

I was with my previous employer for twenty-five years.  I had grown up there; it was safe and familiar.  I had a fantastic boss.  But.  The work had changed and was hurting my soul.  The business had moved to somewhere inconvenient.  The money was not what I wanted and was not likely to change.  My partner questioned frequently why I stayed.  My answer was always; it is home.  But the truth was, it wasn't anymore.

Then one day I was approached by someone from my current employer, suggesting a move.  Something in the stars that day made me think.  Made me question what I really wanted to do and what I wanted to achieve. 

My job then was a safe cocoon, but was I still happy?  I decided to make the leap of faith, knowing it was right and that I could do this.  I was ready.  Although there were many tears (from me) when I left, it was absolutely the right choice.  I do not regret it for a second and have been so happy in my new employ.

The second experience is how I act.  How you act and react is often formed early on.  Behaviours are learned that are not always healthy.  Now that I have reached a time in my life where everything is good, those behaviours need to change.

I apologise too often.  I put myself down too often.  I wait to see someone’s reaction before I allow myself my own.  I am scared of rejection and can be like a puppy begging for affection.  All of these things are learned behaviour, but I know are not what I was meant to be.  Who I was meant to be.

Hard wired reactions are hard to change.  But the answer is slowly.  Step by step.   Day by day.

I pause a lot now before I speak.  Before I rush out an unneeded apology.  Before I put myself down.  I have noticed since doing this that I even used to put myself down first, before mentioning something good that had happened to me or something I had achieved.

A prime example of this was this weekend.  I was at a spa with friends and I was talking about a post that I had written with my friend, while we were getting a facial.  She said that I was a writer and I was good at it.  I immediately tried to diminish.   Saying no, I am just a blogger.  I write part time.  Just bits and pieces.  It was an immediate reaction that I could not take back.

But I am a writer.  Yes, I do write part time, but it is my passion, my love.   It is my vehicle for words that may not come out of my mouth, but are in my head.  My words flow freely through my fingers when I write.  It is a natural.  It is freeing.  It is mine. 

If someone likes my writing, then that is wonderful.  But it is not why I write.  I write because I want to.  Because I need to.   It is in me.

Now, when someone asks me what I think, I try not to predict their reaction before I answer.  I also try not to give them the answer or reaction that I think will please them the most.  I am more honest. 

These are all things that I am still learning, still trying to do.  It is hard to rewire learned behaviour, but it is possible.

I don’t know about you, but I have been at so many stages in my life, and I am a very different person to the girl I once was.   Every step, every change, you do not notice while it is happening; but then you look at yourself one day and you are not the same person.

Courage.  Courage is key.  It is about giving yourself a chance.  A chance for more, a chance to be a better version of yourself, a chance to expand your life.  A chance to be happier.

I welcome new things into my life now.  Changing the immediate no, to a maybe, to a yes, to a hell yes.  When you open yourself up to new things, the possibilities and rewards are endless.