I’ve been quiet here on Substack over the past few weeks.

In truth, I’ve been struggling. Really struggling. Continuing my daily routine has been taking all of my energy, and having the space for writing has felt impossible. It still does, but I miss the community on here, and I have an itch to write through the main thing that’s been giving me grief. It’s funny, really; I find that no matter how far I stray from writing, for one reason or another, I ping back to it like an elastic band. I physically cannot stay away from writing. Since starting my Substack, it has reignited not only my love for writing, but also my dependency on it. It’s like a fuel tank. My fuel is on empty, and here I am, crawling back for another fix of words.

Anyway. Shall we talk about eating disorders? In particular, having an eating disorder where bingeing is the predominant symptom. I only got diagnosed with Atypical Bulimia earlier this year, and pretty much spent the next six months in an extreme state of denial. During that time, I continued to put on weight. In September 2025, I accepted that I do indeed have an eating disorder.

I won’t bore you with the details of how I came to acquire an eating disorder, but the boiled-down summary is that it is a shitty soup of trauma, poor coping mechanisms and easy accessibility to food. Food became my crutch when I was thrust into the eye of a mental health storm, and I haven’t learnt how to walk without it since. Sugar soothed - and continues to soothe - me in a way that no antidepressant could. It hit the spot instantly. For the briefest moment, my shoulders would drop and my jaw would unclench. Certain rituals of food became my refuge.

Chocolate, sweets, crisps. Often in that order. There is a desperation in the way I buy the three items from my local shop, sneak them into my room, and badly hide the evidence of the consumed food that has made me feel sick.

Let me not dance around the topic: I am addicted to food, and how it makes me feel in the very moment it lands on my tongue. What I am not addicted to is the way self-loathing and nausea hit me the moment I swallow my mouthful. The knowledge that I have followed this compulsion through, yet again. And didn’t I only say yesterday that the binge before was the last one in which I’d ever partake?

Then, feebly, I attempt to control my food intake to try to lose the weight I have inevitably gained after bingeing. The issue is that my bingeing will last for weeks at a time, whereas my restricting will last a maximum of a few days. As a result, I gain weight. Out of all of the eating disorder diagnoses, I expected to be assigned Binge Eating Disorder. It turns out, my attempt to restrict food and do exercise to compensate for my binges meant that I was, in fact, bulimic. An Atypical Bulimic because I don’t self-induce vomiting or take laxatives. This isn’t to say I haven’t thought about it, because Lord knows I have. There have been many, many times where I have considered just taking the plunge and becoming a True Bulimic.

Let me say this: I do take some umbrage with the title of ‘Atypical’ Bulimia. Because my atypical nature was the cause of my denial. I thought I couldn’t possibly have an actual eating disorder, because I don’t even make myself vomit or take laxatives.

Good, the NHS practitioner would say. You don’t want to go there.

Would you take me more seriously if I did?

I’m ashamed to admit I often thought that. I’m sure she did take me seriously. But I did feel rushed through the sessions, and like she was slightly disappointed in me every time she saw a binge on my food diary. I don’t think she ever quite understood when I said that even the sheer effort of having three meals and snacks a day would be enough to make me binge. This was Regular Eating. The Baseline. I couldn’t even do that. I felt like the biggest failure who had passed through those clinic doors.

I’m even more ashamed to admit that I lied through my teeth on my discharge session. She wanted me to be ticking all of the right boxes so that she could go on and help the next person on the infinite waiting list. I wanted that too. I desperately wanted someone who I felt was more deserving of help than me to get the counselling, so I said everything she wanted to hear.

Yes, I feel more in control.

Yes, I feel less of an urge to binge.

No, I won’t ever go near weight loss drugs.

So, I was released into the wild. My discharge letter praised my progress, and I felt like a fraud. Within a week, I had fallen back into my harmful cycle. I have gained a stone (14lbs/just over 6kg, depending on what metric you use) in the six months since my sessions finished.

I have hit rock bottom. Funnily enough, I thought I had reached rock bottom before. It turns out the floor just keeps falling out from beneath me, and I am finding ever more layers. Consider me an archaeologist of sadness. So, I will probably find a new place next month and call it rock bottom.

For now, it really does feel like the deepest layer of rock bottom, so I will explore the barren landscape accordingly. I have sticky fingers from the sweets, and my stomach groans from being overstretched once more. The scales creak beneath me. I can smell the shame from here. I’m not earning enough money to justify the therapy I am having, but I am going anyway. It’s my one light at the end of the tunnel. Each week, I crumple into that chair and cry my eyes out into the most expensive box of Kleenex I have technically ever paid for.

You look around yourself more than ever before when you’re at rock bottom. You take a long, hard look in the mirror, and you consider your options. My options seem to be:

1. Continue my yo-yo eating habits.

2. Carry on going to therapy and hope that something will click for me eventually.

3. Take a GLP-1.

I want to do option two for as long as possible, because good therapy gives you the strength to keep fighting. However, I am also scared of how much my body is changing. It’s bigger than I’m comfortable with, and I get out of breath easier than I ever have before. I used to be a dog-walker who would walk up to ten miles a day. I was still a UK size 16, but I was fit.

Essentially, I don’t recognise myself. Even worse, I miss myself. I miss someone who I am trying my hardest to get to, but she feels further away than I can reach. To someone who doesn’t have a bingeing-led eating disorder, you might just think: stop eating so much, then. God, I wish it were that simple. I wish I didn’t feel genuine fear when food isn’t in easy reach. I wish food at social gatherings wouldn't command my sole focus.

And there is something that will eliminate this. GLP-1s. Essentially: weight loss drugs. They are also, importantly, used to help Type 2 Diabetics control their blood sugar levels. I will refer to Mounjaro in this article, because that is the main and most popular GLP-1 available in the UK. The criteria to be prescribed Mounjaro on the NHS are incredibly strict, so the majority of Mounjaro users pay privately for it. There was a recent price increase, and the already expensive prices are now astronomical.

But desperation is an equally powerful drug, and I will happily spend my last penny on my wildest dreams. In this case, those dreams are having a healthy BMI. I have never been in anything lower than the overweight category, and am probably currently floating somewhere in the morbidly obese category. I am aware that BMIs are terrible for looking at someone’s overall holistic picture, but I am fed up with reading female, 24, overweight on my medical notes.

The temptation of injecting myself with something that will suppress my appetite and quieten the food noise is dizzying. You’re telling me that there is something that can win my biggest battle? That I don’t have to keep fighting alone anymore? Because I’ve tried it all. Apple cider vinegar. Slimming World. Calorie deficits. Drinking copious amounts of water. MyFitnessPal. NutraCheck. I think I’ve tried every gym in my local vicinity. They haven’t worked for me. Now, someone is dangling what feels like a miracle drug in front of me, but telling me that it’s more than I can afford and that it comes with side effects.

I am an anxious person who worries about her already dicey health. To suddenly be met with nausea, constipation and hair loss (amongst other symptoms) as my everyday side effects frightens me. What if the more severe side effects take hold? The ever-familiar thought process begins:

Surely the symptoms are worth the benefits?

But isn’t this giving up?

No, it’s not giving up. It’s recognising you need medical help. You take antidepressants for your malfunctioning brain. This is no different.

But this is different. You would be paying hundreds of pounds a month to inject yourself with something that is still so new, so unknown in the medical world.

I could have Emma back, though. It could give me everything back.

And on it goes. I do also want to say, I know Mounjaro isn’t really a ‘miracle drug.’ I know you still have to put in the work to get the results, but I have done extensive research that seems to suggest it makes that process an awful lot easier. I have been frequenting both medical resources and Reddit forums, all talking about Mounjaro. Most interestingly, there are people out there who also suffer from eating disorders, claiming that this drug has saved their lives. I dare to think: could that be me? This time next year, could I, too, be healthy and relaxed in a body I can once more call home?

However, there is the part of me that worries. An obsessive-compulsive, bulimic woman with chronic undiagnosed health issues going on a weight loss drug feels like a recipe for not only a disaster, but a hurricane. I also should be crowning my current body as ‘home’, but I don’t feel capable of that. Half of my clothes tantalise me every time I open my wardrobe. They scream of all the times I used to fit in them (yet I still thought I was huge then, because of course I did). They remind me of the last instance I tried to cram myself into their tight stitches. Of the ‘before’ videos in the hidden folder of my camera roll that actually document me getting larger and the life going out of my eyes.

As unrealistic as it is, I just want someone to decide for me. For the doctor to say, Emma, you need Mounjaro for your health, regardless of your eating disorder. For the therapist to say, Emma, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Instead, I have been lucky enough to have a therapist who trusts my judgement and believes I will follow the path best for me. A blessing and a curse. Every time I have made up my mind either way, I backtrack. I am all too aware that my loved ones will fret if I take Mounjaro, but I am equally conscious of myself crying out for help.

Do I look a gift horse in the mouth? Or am I turning my back on the devil? Some days, GLP-1s look like a friend. Other days, they appear as a foe. Most of the time, the line is blurred.

There isn’t really a summary to this article. I wish there were. Maybe a jaunty update saying, “I’ve tried it! It wasn’t for me!” or “I’ve given it a go and it’s incredible!”, or even “I’ve put the idea to bed.” Instead, it’s just me sitting amongst the rubble of my new rock bottom, staring at the scales that continue to show me numbers I haven’t seen before, and feeling like the petrified child all over again. I will continue to research Mounjaro in panicked detail, and I will make excuses as to why I shouldn’t start it. Simultaneously, I will look at Mounjaro before and after pictures in the wee hours of the morning, crying into my pillow.

I can’t think-piece my way to a conclusion on this one.

All my love,

Emma

P.S. I would love to hear from anyone who has been in a similar situation to me, be it that you’ve suffered from an eating disorder of any kind, or that you’ve taken a GLP-1. Your words mean the world to me.

Over recent years, I have been making a greater effort to shop ethically and locally. In the least threatening way possible, if you are a small business, I will hunt you down. I will find you (Liam Neeson in Taken energy, but sustainable edition) and support you.

Sustainability is incredibly important to me, and I believe the world will truly crumble if we stop caring about where and how we source our products. If anyone reading this has a small business, please let me know in the comments below! As and when money allows, I will try to support your incredible businesses.

Now my line of work surrounds sustainability, it matters to me more than ever. Our gorgeous planet is constantly being shit on from a great height, and I just want to hug it better. In light of this, I set myself a challenge this year:

Every Christmas present I give will either be handmade or ethically and/or locally sourced.

This sounds like it should be simple. It isn’t. Why is that? I have a total of one skill, and sustainable products often come with a juicier price tag. I don’t begrudge this, because I know people are getting paid fairly for their work, and I am doing my part in keeping someone’s business going. However, my recent stint of unemployment is making this challenging. Project Sustainable Christmas is also designed to make me confront my overspending, because I will do so massively at Christmas. It forces me to sit down and plan everything out.

This is part one, where I will outline my mission and offer some ideas of things you might be able to make yourself, or buy from small businesses. The lists below are made with creativity and sustainbility in mind. It also, equally as importantly, is designed by someone who knows all too well how tight money can get. Part two will be uploaded nearer to Christmas, and will be showing you my gifts I have bought and/or created for my loved ones.

So! Without further ado! My skill I can offer! Drumroll please.

I can knit.

Not well, but I can knit. I have been knitting for five years now, but I would still class myself as an amateur. I have made many blankets, scarves, wrist-warmers and a few jumpers. I want to improve, and that will be one of my resolutions for 2026. I tend to forget knitting exists between March - September, and only pick up my needles in the colder months. Those needles are about to be worked overtime. Nearly everyone in my life is going to be the recipient of a knitted good. You’re welcome in advance.

I have decided to launch this series early, so that if anyone is inspired by Project Sustainable Christmas, they can join in. In order to get organised for such a mission, I produced a list on my notes app (where all the best writerly ideas start, if I may say so myself). Also, I have changed the names for anonymity purposes. I’ve always wanted to say that; I can confirm writing it made me feel like a spy on a top secret mission. I’ve altered the names not because I’m famous, but because some of these people are subscribed to my Substack.

The ticked circles mean that I have already sourced or made the gifts. As you can see, I am about half way through. The reason I am already half-way through at the beginning of November is because gift giving - and in particular, Christmas - is my magnum opus. It is a personal point of pride. I take it seriously.

Gift giving is one of my love languages, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it means if you receive a gift from me, you can guarantee I have agonised over what to get you. A curse because I am a perfectionist, and will stop at nothing to find you The Gift. It gets expensive.

Don’t ask me why, when faced with coming up with a random selection of names, I picked this ensemble. I don’t even know anyone called Susan or Bill. I have also blocked out some more personal details, so if things look a bit odd, that’s why.

You can observe two key things here:

1. I am making an army of fingerless gloves. I bought some adorable buttons to sew onto them, which is making me even more excited about their construction.

2. I am a dark mode enthusiast.

Let’s get cracking with the list.

Charity Shops are the Key:

So far, I have sourced some of the things which I can’t (yet!) make, such as soaps and washi-tape from the gift sections of charity soaps. These ones in particular, I bought from Oxfam. For those not familiar with Oxfam’s charity shops, aside from second-hand things, they offer a beautiful selection of new, unused products, specifically inspired by their mission. For instance, they make these absolutely INSANE scrunchies made from material from leftover saris. I love what they do, and always try to buy gifts from there when I can. My money is actively doing good, and I am making the person I am giving the gift to happy.

Even the toilet roll was bought from that same section of Oxfam; it was one of those individually wrapped Who Gives a Crap rolls. I am not cutting any corners on this challenge!

Many other charity shops offer their own version of a ‘gift shop’; I know that Cancer Research UK also offer a beautiful range. Additionally, don’t underestimate animal charity gift shops. The RSPCA has its own range of clothing, which supports animals and you can look as cool as a cucumber. Win-win.

Where to find ethically made clothing:

• Lucy & Yak - a sustainable clothing business that takes pride in its ethics. It is known for its inclusivity, wide range of sizes and bold prints.

• Community Clothing - this is the place where I will be buying GOOD ASS QUALITY socks from for my brother. They are a UK business who don’t engage with the constant releasing with new clothes. They believe that clothes should be well-made and as affordable as possible. I can’t afford their larger pieces but will potentially treat myself to their socks. A pair of socks, made from 90% cotton, cost £9.50.

• Rewild Swimwear - this brand is quite pricy, but is on my dream list of swimwear. Each sale supports marine conservation work, which we love to hear.

• Passenger - every order means a tree gets planted! It makes you feel better about spending that money.

Explore your local town:

What business looks homegrown? Talk to the shop-keepers. What’s their story? That’s how I got my latest job at a refill shop. This particular shop has been family-run for fifty years, and they have devoted customers who keep them going. That’s the kind of place I want to support and spend my money in.

A recent candle business opened up in my town, and I made it my mission to go and talk to them. They were lovely people, and although I couldn’t afford anything expensive, I purchased a £3 wax melt for my sister-in-law. When they heard it was for a gift, they wrapped it to perfection. It’s the kind of care you don’t get anywhere else.

Where to find ethically made toiletries and cosmetics:

• LUSH - the classic is a classic for good reason. They have most recently impressed me with their shutting down of trade in support of Gaza, so I will happily continue shopping there after that.

• Love to b - a predominantly skincare-based small business, that was created in a mother’s attempt to cure her daughter’s eczema. Their products smell divine.

• Faith in Nature - a sustainable brand who creates shampoos, conditioners, body washes and hand soaps. They are natural, vegan and cruelty-free.

  

Knitting patterns:

I only feel qualified to link knitting patterns, so I’m sorry to all of my fellow crafters of other disciplines! I hope this list can be of some use.

• Firstly, I can’t go any further without providing the link to the free pattern I use to create my fingerless gloves. All credits go to Noble Knits: https://blog.nobleknits.com/blog/fingerless-mitts-flat-knitting

• I made my first knitted jumper with this free tutorial! It’s great, go and give it some love:

• Etsy has a wealth of knitting patterns for all abilities, so I highly recommend trawling through it. Make sure you’re purchasing from real people who have spent time creating patterns, and not those evil resellers who steal them.

  Pattern creators who I love and have used are Lauren Aston Designs, KnitFolkCo and ThatCraftyStitchUK.

• Scarf making is the best! I just cast on a random number of stitches on a random needle size, and see how it looks.

• This free beanie: https://www.lovecrafts.com/en-gb/p/the-easy-beanie-knitting-pattern-by-the-knit-mix

• A free pattern to make the most adorable fruity friends you have ever seen: https://www.lovecrafts.com/en-gb/p/fruity-friends-free-toy-knitting-pattern-for-kids-in-paintbox-yarns-simply-dk

• This free pattern for a gorgeous bubble cardigan: https://www.lovecrafts.com/en-gb/p/bubble-stitch-cardigan-free-knitting-pattern-for-women-cardigan-knitting-pattern-in-paintbox-yarns-simply-super-chunky

Gifts are such incredibly personal things, that this list can never be more than a guide. Having said that, I hope this can get your brain juices flowing! Let me know if you are doing a similar project this Christmas, if you happen to celebrate the holiday.

Part two will be out in December - I look forward to seeing you then!

All my love,

Emma

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Tired, wired but inspired.

I am certainly two of those things.

In case you are new here, welcome to Planet Sensitive! This is my Confessional series; once a week, I lay my chaotic life bare for you to consider It can either be something for you to relate to, or use as a crutch to think, God, at least my shit is more together than hers.

‘Abnormal, but expected’ is what was written on my recent blood test results. When I got them through, I genuinely laughed out loud, because of course they are abnormal, but expected. Doesn’t that describe everything about me? Abnormal, but expected? There was no further clarification on why this abnormality was expected, but I imagine it will be something to do with the fact that my heart is currently not on its best behaviour. The good news is that the rest of my results were normal.

In all, I’m feeling more melancholy this week. I always try to hide behind a certain degree of British dryness, but I am just feeling life even more deeply than I normally do. I sat in therapy this morning and fought back tears the entire session. The tension between me and the packet of tissues on the table was palpable.

My therapist asked me if I feel safe. The question hit me like a ton of bricks. Because, despite my beautiful family and friends, despite my incredibly fortunate life, my answer is not really. This is no one’s fault.

I was caught so unaware by a cataclysmic trauma at eleven-years-old, that I’ve never let my guard down since. I said as much to my therapist, whom we will call Sara. Sara encourages me to acknowledge this and to give it space. To hold that feeling. Not that I really know how to give it space or to hold it. The feeling feels like a fledgling cupped in between my hands. If I let it go, it will fly away and I will never see it again. Even if it comes back, it will be different from the baby bird that I once knew.

It feels shameful to admit, but there is something so familiar about the trauma that has built you. It verges on comforting, which feels entirely oxymoronic. I simultaneously don’t want my trauma to define me, yet I also don’t know who I am without it.

My jaw is always clenched. I have a hypertonic pelvic floor. My back, neck and shoulders are like rock to the touch. My body is riddled with the effects of trauma. I would really like to be able to let that trauma go now. I think I worry it will be like someone removing the bones from me, and I’ll just plop to the floor like a blob of jelly.

Like Jenga, but trauma version.

The Goods:

Highlight of the week:

I walked into a local business and asked if they were hiring. It is a lovely ethical skincare business, and their products smell like a spa day. Now, I was just angling for shop work, but the owner asked me what kind of work I do (what kind of work do I do?). When she found out that I do some writing, she explained that they have been looking for a copywriter/social media co-ordinator, and I nearly spontaneously combusted. After years of job rejections, someone is looking me in the face and offering me hope in the rawest form. She gave me a brief that she wanted me to write, so that she could see my writing style. I have now sent this writing to her, and am in the most agonising limbo of waiting for her to get back to me. Will she want me? Will this just be a taste of being so close - again - but falling short - again? I don’t think I can take it if it doesn’t pull through.

Also, I found a fabulous dress in a charity shop - IN MY SIZE. I am a UK size 18 (for dresses), and I never find nice things in that size. Well, reader, I found a Marks & Spencer dress. It shall be having its first outing soon, so I will keep you posted on how it fares.

Most humbling moment of the week:

The curse of subscriber number 107. I think I have hit the 107 mark about six times now, and without fail, someone unsubscribes. I even hit 108 subscribers, and then two people unsubscribed at the same time (I do have a sneaky feeling my post about leg nipples could have something to do with it); it was comedy gold. The unsubscribing itself doesn’t bother me too much, because I get it. I overshare a lot and probably scare a lot of men away. Everyone is welcome here; I just tend to write more about what it means to be a woman. A sensitive one at that.

Maybe me and the 106 of you who are here can hang out forever instead - I’m very down for that if you are.

But, as I said, I am sensitive. I feel I need to be honest and admit it does bother me a little bit. My account is growing at quite a glacial pace, and I can’t help to compare myself. All those posts that say something along the lines of how few subscribers they have, and then they promptly go viral and get hundreds, maybe thousands, of subscribers. I’m pleased for them, because they are finally being seen in the way that they both want and deserve to be. They can perhaps even bite the bullet and enable paid subscribers. On that note, when on earth do you know if it’s the right time to do that? Is there a certain number of subscribers you need for it? A hit note? An article with heaps of engagement?

106 people is no small number; the idea of 106 people being quite happy for me to clog up their inboxes makes me quite emotional. 106 people could change the world. For the version of me who used to hide her stories away from the world, finding my legs and my voice on here has been the greatest compassion I have ever given myself. To keep showing up, again and again and again - even when comparison is the thief that it so often is. To keep showing up, and to be met with 106 friendly faces. It means everything to this sensitive person. Thank you for being the kindest, most thoughtful readers. When I am more financially stable, I will be paying to read your articles. That’s a promise.

Photos of the week:

It’s been a heck of a week. Again. Tell me about your week and let’s have a chat in the comments. Thank you for reading!

All my love,

Emma

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I came second place in my tattoo artist’s giveaway, and won 20% off my next tattoo with her, so long as I redeem it by the end of the year. I am scrambling to come up with ideas, because a) my tattoo artist is lovely and I want to support her work during the quieter months and b) I want another tattoo.

I love tattoos. I love everything about them. When someone in my life gets a tattoo, I will sit them down for a full debrief. How was it? Did it hurt? Is it flash or custom? Did you get it for vibes (valid) or for meaning (also valid)? Most of all, let me see it. You think you love your tattoo? Wait until I have seen it and bestowed my love upon it.

I can remember being in school and doodling on my arms and legs with my black pen, and I would hold my design up to the sun and watch it dance. It was inevitable I would get tattoos. Much to my mother’s chagrin. Sorry, Mum, you were in fact right: it didn’t stop at one. I am at four so far, and that is with immense self-control. I have been getting tattoos for three years now, and try to limit myself to one per year (if you do the maths, four tattoos in three years doesn’t seem to add up).

I am fully aware that I do not have the authority to speak on tattoos, what with my whopping four tattoos. There will be people out there with beautiful sleeves, blackouts and body suits who will be far more qualified to talk on the subject than I am. Tattoo artists who have spent decades honing their craft. Not a twenty-something who just really like tattoos.

However, I do have freewill, a Substack account and opinions. So you will be hearing me talk about them all the same.

When researching for this post, I felt I had to go back to the beginning of tattooing. I soon discovered Ötzi the Iceman, and went on a large tangent learning everything that there is to know about him. If you have never Googled him before, please do. I harassed my poor Mum, telling her far more information than she probably wanted to hear about a man who has been dead for 5,300 years.

For your sake, I will try to be brief. Õtzi the Iceman is the name given to the man discovered in a glacier in 1991, who had, incredibly, been preserved since the Copper Age. Humanity learnt a lot from him; we saw the earliest known case of an individual with Lyme Disease for one. We also could tell that he had been murdered, suffering a fatal wound to the subclavian artery. He was also found with an incredible example of a copper axe, which us history nerds find very fascinating. I could literally talk your ear off for hours about this man and his journey.

The reason Ötzi is relevant to this article is because he is also the earliest known example of a tattooed person. He has 61 tattoos, all comprised of lines. They are not in places that can be seen when wearing clothes, so they are likely not for aesthetic purposes. People far more intelligent than me have realised these marks mirror acupuncture pressure and treatment points, so the tattoos were likely done as an attempt at pain relief. The tattoos themselves have not been done with a needle or ink, like we would recognise in our current day. Back then, an incision was made, which would then have been filled with charcoal.

People have been getting tattooed for thousands of years. For pain relief, as seen in Ötzi’s case, or for religious, cultural and spiritual reasons; history teaches us the lesson that no matter how many times we think we have done something first, there was someone one thousand years ago (or 5,300 years in this instance) who had already thought of it. I find that thought overwhelmingly comforting. We are descendants of people with similar wants and needs, feeling the same human range of emotions.

Tattoos have helped me connect to parts of my body with which I have previously struggled. Particularly my arms; this summer I had a lovely little baby owl tattooed on my upper arm and for the first time in my life, I actually wanted to have my arms out. So, I went on holiday and my flabby little arms wobbled around Rome with me. Showing your body some love after years of feeding it nothing but vitriol feels alien, but so very needed. The flashes of self-love that my tattoos offer me often leave me reeling. I don’t recognise it. It feels warm, and my instinct is drive out any warmth towards myself.

Of course, the second you become visibly tattooed, you seem to invite opinions outside of your own. People say, oh, aren’t you worried that they will age badly? Yes, Janet, I actually am. But I realised that if I spent my whole life letting my worry of aging badly stop me from doing things, I would always be frozen in time. Besides, my greater worry at age ninety is my pelivc floor and bladder control.

What if you’re in your forties then, and realise your tattoos don’t suit you anymore?

Then I will get them covered up with new tattoos, or laser them off. People seem to think that if they bring in the age where I am meant to be a high-flying professional into conversation, I will suddenly start grating the ink off my skin. I want to tell them: I hate responsibility, and like clocking out and leaving my work at the office. Do you really think I am ever going to be in a position of power? I want to sit in my campervan, watching grey waves batter wintery cliffs, with the love of my life and our dog next to me.

Ultimately, having tattoos helps me weed out dodgy people with dodgier opinions, who don’t like self-expression. When I see someone with tattoos, a little part of me relaxes! Also, I hope it goes without saying that I am entirely against offensive and/or hateful tattoos; I simply mean peaceful self-expression. Fabulous florals and chunky baby owls. That kind of energy.

Also, please help me decide my next tattoo. And tell me all about yours - I promise, I will be obsessed.

All my love,

Emma

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I’m like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Except I’m not half cool enough to be a phoenix, and ashes would be far too James Bond for someone like me. It feels more fitting to say that I am a pigeon struggling to take off, but eventually lumbering into the air once more.

It has felt peculiar to be away from the small yet wonderful community I have found here on Substack these past few days. Please don’t misunderstand, I haven’t been off galivanting anywhere (I wish) (also, humans really did a solid when they came up with the word ‘galivanting’). I have been fighting an old friend, who after months of being reasonably in check, decided to rear its ugly head. OCD traipsed back into my life with a panache (another phenomenal word) that I haven’t experienced in ages. Somehow, every damn time it reappears, it makes itself more convincing than ever before.

It sucked. It still does suck, because mental health flare-ups are not only three days long. I wish they were. It’s just that this is the first day I’ve been functional and not wanting to perform a self-lobotomy, and it also coincided with my Confessional upload day.

If there is one thing I take comfort in, it’s offering my life on a platter for Substack to consume. The good, the bad, the nipples.

On that note: the update on my leg nipples. If anyone is curious. For anyone who missed last week’s Confessional, I announced that I appeared to be growing spots on my legs that resembled nipples. They are not nipples, but it’s fun to laugh at your body doing strange things. Well, reader, you will be pleased to know that I am down to only three nipples. Two expected ones, and the other being the stubborn one on my leg that just won’t go.

In other good news, I am slowly but surely training myself to accept decaffeinated coffee. I hate to admit it, but the propaganda behind it is right. I do indeed feel less like a laxative-taking, jittery beast with a high heart rate. I am now simply a jittery beast with a high heart rate for medical reasons, instead of coffee-related ones.

A win is a win.

The Goods:

Highlight of the week:

Remembering the existence of a tiny knitting shop in my local town! Oh god, it was so cute. I must’ve spent decades in there staring at all of the beautiful skeins. And hanks, because apparently that’s a word to describe a ball of wool.

The owner of the shop was sitting in a corner knitting up a cardigan, and told me to “holler” at her if I needed anything. No one has ever asked me to holler at them before; it was rather exciting.

She was so cool that I accidentally lied to her. Does this happen to anyone else? I was buying some wool, and it wasn’t ball-shaped yet. She asked me if I had the equipment at home to spin the skein/hank/ball myself, and I just panicked and said “yes.” I don’t have any equipment, so I spent the evening getting an arm ache doing it manually.

Most humbling moment of the week:

I am forever being humbled by things. The King Humbler is getting rejected for jobs. I continue to get absolutely battered by the UK job market. I think I would stand a better chance of being thrown into a group of lions at this point. At least they won’t ask me to write a cover letter.

An honourable mention goes to me trying to drink a tea called ‘Women’s Balance’, and continuing to be as stable as a matchstick in a hurricane. I also don’t like herbal tea, so I admit I was somewhat setting myself up for failure.

There I was, taking a photo of the whole pink ensemble before I tasted it, thinking it was going to realign my life. The sentiment was nice. And the teabag had a motivational quote attached, so not all is lost. I will keep trying to force my taste-buds to submit to womanly balance.

Pictures of the week:

It’s just a short Confessional this Wednesday. Consider this me dipping my toe back into being a human again, and I’ll see you on Sunday as normal!

All my love,

Emma

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Welcome to Confessional #5! I am a day late in uploading this, so please just do me a solid and pretend that it’s still a Wednesday. Thanking you kindly.

What’s going on in your life at the moment? I would love to know! Let’s have a chat in the comments!

My life continues to be a treadmill of health issues and unsuccessful job hunting. I won’t bore you all with the details, but due to a rather scary incident that happened whilst I was driving, the doctors now think I might either have Diabetes or POTS. Amongst other things. If I am diagnosed with POTS, I won’t be allowed to drive anymore, which will be pretty catstrophic living in such a rural area.

On a more humorous note, my body keeps making spots itchy spots appear on my arms and legs. This doesn’t sound funny, but I promise you it is. Why? Because the spots look like nipples, and I am still a child who finds nipples funny. You should’ve seen the double-take I did when I first saw the spot on my leg. My brain short-circuited; I thought I had grown a nipple on my upper thigh. (Don’t worry, the doctors are aware of this too. God bless the NHS.) I feel like a shaky, light-headed, excess-nipple-having creature. What would they call me? Would they revere the Nipple Grower? Would they tell folk stories?

My body continues to raise the bar in how malfunctioning it is. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so shit.

But I’m not going to dwell on my health, because it annoys me and it probably annoys you.

So I will report back on other antics that happened this week:

• I had my first proper session with my therapist.

  I cried a lot. I still feel embarrassed. Crying in front of a therapist is perhaps one of the most natural things you can do - I’m literally paying her to watch me cry (and hopefully help me with my eating disorder) - but I just want to curl in on myself. We touched on my childhood trauma, which I said I should be over by now, because I am evil to myself. I am very much not over it. I definitely got my money’s worth from the amount of tissues I went through, though.

• I dyed my hair a shade called ‘Spicy Chocolate’, which is utterly thrilling just in name alone.

• It was nail week!

  I went burgundy and polka dots. Being basic and following trends and actually not being unique is so much fun at times.

• I didn’t impulse buy a coat!

  I am desperately attempting to adopt a more low-buy lifestyle, especially as I’m not earning much at the moment. Would anyone be interested in an artcicle about this?

• I have stopped trying to cram myself into my size 16 clothes. Emma, you are a size 20. Accept it and buy some clothes off Vinted. Get clothes that can fit you across various sizes.

• I have been offered my first ever bit of freelance work!

  I can practicaly smell my offgrid lifestyle, writing freelance from my non-existent campervan.

• I came second place in a tattoo giveaway that my tattoo artist was running! I have never won anything before, so I was and am DELIGHTED by this. Now I just need to decide what I want.

• I reached 100 subscribers on Substack! The fame is blinding. Is this how Taylor Swift feels? Am I, in fact, the second coming of Taylor Swift?

• Job rejections are beginning to bounce off me now.

  You regret to inform me I’m unsuccessful? Okay, babes. Don’t worry about it. Other candidates have more experience? Got it. I’m not the direction you’re going in at the moment? Fine. You’ve ghosted me after I did a literal trial shift for you? Okay, I’m still fuming about that one; at least have the decency to tell me no after you have interviewed me, and spent a day working with me.

• I got 12 balls of wool for £18 from Hobbycraft!

  (For my non-British readers, this is the equivalent of walking into Gucci and getting a handbag for £2.50. Hobbycraft is an unreasonably expensive craft store in the UK, but it is bloody lovely to browse in.)

The Goods:

Highlight of the week:

Reaching 100 subscribers on Substack. Without doubt. Despite all of the notes telling me not to compare myself with other writers on here, I have been acutely aware of how ‘slowly’ my numbers have been creeping up. I think writers have a built in ability to compare themselves to others, whilst simultaneously uplifting that person for their success.

I have now reached my only self-prescribed milestone on here. Everything else, as I said in a gushing note earlier this week, is a wonderful bonus. I am not going anywhere and I am completely locked in on here.

This will either please you or make you irrate, depending if you are the author of my first hate comment or not.

Most humbling moment of the week:

I nearly fainted in the wine aisle of a big Tesco. The world went very dark and I felt like I was going to crash straight into the Pinot Grigio. Luckily, my boyfriend is considerably taller than me, so I just buried my head in his chest and hung onto him like he were a tree in a typhoon until the feeling passed. Having invisible health issues is ridiculously humbling.

Also, imagine waking up in a puddle of wine. Maybe that is some people’s dream.

Pictures of the week:

As ever, this was a joy to write. I just love writing. Like, shit. It’s so fun. Why did I ever stop writing and convince myself that there was no point doing it?

See you on Sunday for more nonsense!

All my love,

Emma

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When Iryna Zarutska bled out on camera, I realised that the landscape of violence against women had changed.

As the horrified world looked on, Iryna was stabbed to death on 22^nd August 2025. She was travelling home after her shift at a pizzeria on the train. Iryna was a Ukrainian refugee who had immigrated to the United States with her mother, brother and sister in 2022. She was making a life for herself, and yet it was in the land of the free that she was brutally killed. By a man, I must add, who had been arrested fourteen times before this attack.

Things are different in 2025. Criminals can research their deeds on Google, and murders are caught on camera. It brings violence to the forefront in a way that hasn’t been documented before. We can’t shy away from the direct violence we are seeing, and the indirect violence that is being kept just out of sight of the lens.

Straight out of the gate, let’s acknowledge that this isn’t what I typically write.

Usually, I upload my silly little nonsensical articles, laden with self-deprecating humour, twice weekly. But I can’t not write about this. It’s the elephant in the room and the spectre that hovers in your periphery. Every autumn and winter that rolls around brings this to the forefront of my mind (not that it ever leaves), but Iryna’s murderer ensured the last vestiges of summer were painted in blood too. Whilst most people are talking about crunchy leaves and knitting scarves, I am dwelling on how this is the season of violence. Please don’t misinterpret what I’m saying; sadists don’t stop being evil in the spring and summer, but I do feel that the colder and darker seasons afford them more opportunity to commit their heinous crimes. As the evenings draw in earlier, the savages stay out later.

Being a woman, or female-presenting, apparently invites violence. This is a tale as old as time. Women are taught not to dress provocatively to not tempt men to rape them, instead of men being taught not to rape women. It’s worth saying that I won’t be shying away from the explicit words in this article, because it’s an injustice to my fellow women to be vague. Some men simply put their coats on, cram their feet into their sweaty shoes, and walk out their front door with assault on their minds. These men look like your next-door neighbour, as well as the demon from the depths of your nightmares. It seems to be down to women to work out which man is a threat and which is harmless.

I want to talk about two different types of violence against women in this article: direct and indirect. The common thread between the two is that they stop women from ever getting home, be it literally or figuratively.

Direct violence, as I have described above, consists of men making purposeful, physical harm against women. Indirect violence can manifest in many, many ways, but today I want to shine the spotlight on the stripping of reproductive rights. Since Roe v. Wade was overturned three years ago, reproductive rights haven’t left my mind. Before 2022, I was still clinging to some thread of faith in humanity. I feel as though that day took the last bit I had.

On the whole, people know about Roe v. Wade being overturned. A fair few don’t know that the origin of Roe v. Wade is rooted in violence against women. In 1969, Norma McCorvey (under the name of ‘Jane Roe’) stood in court and went up against the entrenched anti-abortion laws of Texas. She opposed the district attorney, Henry Wade. At the time, McCorvey was pregnant as a result of rape. Despite her pleas, the case amounted to nothing, and she was forced to give birth.

In 1973, alongside Sandra Bensing, McCorvey tried once more. Crucially, they argued that abortion laws at the time went against the US Constitution. With a vote of seven to two, the Court agreed that the state governements could not hold the power to disallow abortions.

The impact of Roe V. Wade was immense:

The case created the “trimester” system allowing:

• an absolute right to an abortion in the first three months (trimester) of pregnancy

• some government regulation in the second trimester

• states to restrict or ban abortions in the last trimester as the foetus nears the point where it could live outside the womb

Roe v Wade also established that in the final trimester, a woman can obtain an abortion despite any legal ban only if doctors certify it is necessary to save her life or health.

- BBC News

Essentially, women had autonomy over their bodies.

As a UK resident who has access to abortion services if need be, I am in a position of immense privilege. It’s not just my sisters in the red states across the pond of which I am thinking; I am also referring to the women who reside in any of the twenty-one countries where abortion remains illegal. The Center for Reproductive Rights website is an incredible resource and one I highly recommend you look at. The graphic below is from them. The blue shows countries who have legalised abortion.

The red shows countries who have revoked the right to have a safe abortion.

The idea of having that right, only for it to be stripped from you, makes me wonder whether there is any hope for humanity at all.

60% of the world’s women “live where abortion is broadly legal”, but this still means 40% of women are living under “restrictive laws.” There is a specific kind of ache I experience when I think about reproductive rights. It’s so personal. To have some man in a suit that his wife ironed, sitting in the Supreme Court and eating the packed lunch that his wife prepared, discussing my womb, my uterus, my rights - it makes me curl my arms over my stomach to protect it. Even worse, there were women in on that decision. Regardless of it being a 5-4 vote, it was enough to overturn Norma McCorvey’s vital campaigning.

The ‘lucky’ women can cross to state lines to receive the life-saving abortions they need. Women continue to prove themselves as nothing if not determined; since Roe v. Wade was overturned, abortion rates have actually increased in America. Even in states where it is illegalised, women are utilising telehealth to virtually meet a provider who can send them abortion pills. In the last three months of 2024, over 70,000 American abortions took place via telehealth.

As Ushma Upadhyay (University of California professor and co-chair of the #WeCount movement) pertinently says:

“Abortion bans haven’t really stopped people from needing abortion care. It’s just made it harder for them to be able to get it.”

However, the Trump administration has drawn up a blueprint called ‘Project 2025.’ Project 2025 is sickening, and aims to crack down on those using abortion pills, even in the states where abortion is still legal. Essentially, its goal is to make abortion even more inaccessible.

You simply cannot tell me that this does not constitute as indirect violence against women. Those with these beliefs may not be wielding the knife, but they sure as hell aren’t calling the ambulance when it makes contact.

I am sure there will be someone who will try to argue with me on that one. Something you certainly can’t dispute is direct violence. When a woman is harmed at the hands of a man, the news plays a sombre reel, says how awful it is, and the world proceeds to not learn its lesson. How close to home does something have to land before people feel the impact?

Maybe I am coming across as overly harsh, but I, like so many others, am incredibly sickened to see story after article after report of a woman who was trying to walk home and never made it.

The one that haunts me like no other is the brutal rape and murder of Sarah Everard, a 33-year-old woman who was abducted and killed whilst on her walk home. This case plagues me for several reasons, but here are the main ones:

1. She did everything ‘right.’ Women are taught not to dress provocatively, let people know where they are going and stick to the main roads. Sarah did all of this. She got it ‘right’, and she still paid with her life.

2. The fact that the man who brutalised her already had a reputation for his violent, misogynistic views – yet he was a policeman. He used his status, in a time when we were all still reeling from the COVID-19 storm, to manipulate her. Let me not mince my words: a policeman kidnapped a civillian.

3. Her family’s impact statements. I sobbed at all three of them, several times.

The vigils that followed, memorialising Sarah’s life, were filled with controversy. Women were arrested at the vigils for compromising COVID-19 restrictions, but were handled with a roughness that once more shot to the front of the tabloids. It left an incredibly bitter taste. At a place where women had gathered to commemorate someone whose life ended at the hands of a brutal police officer, it felt all too reminiscent.

Of course, Sarah is far from the only woman who has ever been killed while trying to get home. Writing that sentence feels reductive somehow; I want to clarify that just because someone is part of a devastating demographic, it doesn’t take away from them and their story. They are not a statistic. Every single woman had a life where they were a mother, daughter, sister, friend, wife. Someone misses them every single day.

But we must acknowledge the chronic issue within the media, where people of colour, Indigenous women and transgender people never receive the same spotlight that their white counterparts do. In a time where video footage is more available than ever before and social media can create widespread campaigns, a silence still seems to permeate the landscape.

I wonder if people know of Zara Aleena’s story. At 35-years-old, she was murdered by a man who shouldn’t have ever left prison. I won’t name him, because he doesn’t deserve that infamy. She was mere minutes away from her front door.

Henny Scott, a high school teenager on the Northern Cheyenne Indian reservation, vanished after attending a house party in 2018. Despite her family immediately reporting her disappearance, no action was taken by police forces until two weeks later. Eventually, she was found less than 200 yards away from her last known location, and the family were initially not notified.

Women, for hundreds of years, have been trying to make it home. Women, for hundreds of years, have been unsuccessful in doing this. There have been publicised incidents – Jack the Ripper probably being the most ‘infamous’, though I begrudge giving him that status.

As a matter of fact, please allow me to recommend The Five: The Untold Lives of The Women Killed by Jack The Ripper by Hallie Rubenhold, who gives the victims their stories back. The blurb encapsulates everything I have been trying to say so far:

“They died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time - but their greatest misfortune was to be born a woman.”

This sentiment is as relevant today as it was over one-hundred years ago. Women, as a fact, cannot walk by themselves when it’s dark. We’ve been taught this like we’ve been taught our ABCs. We go in flocks. The only difference between now and the 19th Century is that we can text each other when we’re home safe. We walk each other to cars. We don’t leave until the last person is in a taxi. We have each other on location-tracking apps.

When I was at university, I lived in a very dodgy part of town. It was the only way to afford to live on the outskirts of London as a student. Part of my daily walk to and from home was passing through Stabby Alley. This was the rather crude name dubbed by the students to describe a dark, narrow alleyway through which many of us passed. I don’t actually know whether someone was stabbed here, or whether it was more a symbol of the knife crime that was happening in that area. For my non-UK readers, knife crime is a big problem here. To put this into perspective, there were 262 knife/sharp object murders in a twelve-month window, ending in March 2024.

Either way, in my three years living in that town, there were stabbings. I was starkly reminded every time I almost sprinted down that alleyway, pretending to be on the phone. Each time I got home was one time closer to being able to move away. I am acutely aware that having the option to return to my family home after graduating is a privilege that not everyone is afforded. For this reason, I have listed the details for Strut Safe at the bottom of this article. Strut Safe is a UK-based, volunteer-run phoneline where callers can ring when travelling home at night. It is a phenomenal resource, but it’s not lost on me that it is a tragedy to even need such a thing.

But I am tired. Really, truly exhausted. Violence against women seems to be never-ending, no matter what initiatives are put in place. I carry the weight of Zaras, the Hennys, the Irynas, the Sarahs of the world. All of the women who have had their bright, beautiful lives extinguished at the hands of a violent man.

I carry the weight of the victims of indirect violence equally. Those who have died due to not being able to abort a dangerous pregnancy. I carry Norma McCorvey’s pain, who fought so hard for abortion laws to be reconsidered. Who still had to give birth after being raped. I often think that being a woman means being sliced in half by pain.

I carry all of this because I must, and because it is both my duty and my burden to bear.

All my love,

Emma

Strut Safe: 0333 335 0026

The line is open between 19:00 - 03:00 on Fridays and Saturdays, and 19:00 - 01:00 on Sundays.

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Hello!

Another week down, and I am more exhausted than ever. Does this ever change? I don’t know about anyone else, but I have chronic nightmares. I have always had nightmares since I was little, but they have really amped up to a new level in recent years. I am now having it where I am having one every single night. They always seem to be so gory, too, which I don’t understand. I would love to hear from anyone who has nightmares to this level and their experience.

I’m on medication, and I’m mentally ill, and I wonder if the cause for them lies somewhere between the two. I can’t help but wonder whether a doctor would take it seriously if I went to them and told them I’m plagued by violent, disturbing nightmares every night that leave me struggling to stay awake throughout the day. I don’t consume any media that could even contribute to this. At the moment, I am dabbling with the wholesome Paladin’s Grace (which is a glorious departure from my usual genres I read) and watching The Great British Bake Off (I do get admittedly very stressed watching this. My nervous system nearly snapped in half when Iain’s tart fell apart in the technical yesterday. Also, all hail Alison Hammond; she is the best thing to not only happen to that show, but to the UK. Ever). Not exactly the most brutal media in existence.

Anyway, I continue to drag myself out of bed because I have shit to do and employment to get. In case you missed last week’s Confessional, I will quickly catch you up to speed. For the first time in my entire life, I am currently unemployed. Ever since I have been legally able to work, I have done so, and I am at a loss as to what to do with my free time. Society has trained me to do things at all times, and I am floundering.

In all of my crazy applying to jobs, two local establishments came back to me offering trial shifts. One was at a family-run refill store, and the other was at a coffee shop that transforms into a bar in the evenings. I’m not entirely sure if I have the job at the refill shop, but I have been invited back for another trial shift, so I am hoping that is a good thing. I really liked it there, and the soaps smelled great.

I feel like you often land in one of two camps: a retail girl or a hospitality girl. My trial shift at the coffee-shop-cum-bar has reaffirmed for me that I am a retail girl. I am yet to find out if I have got the job, as the manager is conducting a few more trial shifts, but I felt extremely out of my comfort zone. It was a case of just feeling like I am constantly in the way, but that is pretty universal in any job. One thing I will say, it was nice to be busy at all times. It helps time pass, and as a chronic clock-watcher, that is something I deeply appreciate.

This week’s Confessional isn’t the most exciting. Think of it as a boar calling out across the plane. It’s not elegant, not attractive, but unfortunately, you hear it. I will try to live a more exciting life so I can report on here about it. Funnily enough, I have now got into the habit of considering whether the things I am doing could be interesting enough to tell Substack about. Perhaps I should try something totally new, like pole dancing. That seems very liberating. Hard as hell, though, and I definitely have abs in the minus figures, which will not stand me in good stead for such an ab-heavy activity. Has anyone done one of those bungee Zumba-looking classes? They look SO fun, but I am paralysed by the fear of one of the straps getting caught in an unsavoury place and being hoisted up like a beached whale. Oh God, imagine how many people it would take to get me down. I would move continent.

Here is my promise to you, reader: by the end of 2025, I will try something new and slightly scary out for the purpose of telling you about it in this Confessional series. We can laugh about it together and it will make me feel infintely better.

The Goods:

Highlight of the week:

I was strolling through a graveyard with my boyfriend, when an incredibly chatty cat made his presence known. Obviously, it would have been rude to leave without having a conversation and giving him head pats, so we sat down with the sweet baby for twenty minutes. In true cat fashion, he loved the attention until he didn’t. I’ve grown up with cats my whole life, so am quite familiar with feline mood changes. My boyfriend grew up around dogs, and has only been trained by my crotchety, ancient cat who moves at about one centimetre an hour. He wasn’t quite so lucky and got swiped. We took our leave and went for a pint in the local pub. Sometimes it really is great to be British.

Most humbling moment of the week:

Standing like a bloody plum behind the counter of the café/bar at my trial shift. Never have my hips felt so wide or my shoulders so broad. I wonder if this is how the Rock feels when he is at events. To be fair, he is usually at said events due to being the star of a film. Either way, I was not the star of the café and nearly slipped over in the kitchen. Luckily I managed to catch myself, otherwise that most definitely would have been the most humbling moment of the week.

Pictures of the week:

Thank you so much for being here. Writing on Substack is one of the greatest privileges I have, and engaging with you lovely people makes my heart so very happy.

Happy October!

All my love,

Emma

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You may be thinking: don’t be so hard on yourself, Emma. You were only young. However, you will change your mind after you have seen this. Without further ado, here is the reason I don’t write poetry:

Being sad is sad,

And to shatter is shattering,

But when we shattered come together,

A mosaic of lifetimes and stories are formed.

Profound. So, after establishing that being sad is sad, and being shattered is shattering, I carried on reading through my journal.

Unsurprisingly, it reads like that of a teenage girl. I have collages of fandoms I was in at the time (The Hunger Games and The Maze Runner being the predominant ones) stuck into arbitrary pages and magazine cuttings with things that so clearly resonated with fourteen-year-old me. I’ve also always been a sentimental person, so I have messages from cards carefully glued in. Also, someone needs to take metallic, glittery pens away from me. I can’t read shit on some pages.

In some ways, I haven’t changed one iota:

9th December 2015

I’m feeling quite ‘thought-filled’ today. I know I always try to keep this journal quite positive and happy, and I HATE recounting my thoughts. Like I don’t know why (and I know it’s meant to be ‘therapeutic’, but I hate, hate, HATE it), but I do. But, hey ho, must try new things and all that crap.

In the grand year of 2025, I am still thought-filled and struggle to recount my thoughts. I still try my best to engage in therapeutic practices - it would absolutely floor 2015 me to know that I do yoga now. I actually work on hip mobility and stretching my hamstrings. I have frequented a restorative yoga class, where I bring the average age down by about sixty years (but am by far the worst in the group. These crazy fit eighty-five-year-olds terrify me. What are they eating? Do they take cod liver oil capsules?). I now know that I need to have a strong core to support my back; I don’t think I even knew I possessed a core ten years ago. Though I did have considerably less joint pain then. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

I can’t talk about diaries without talking about crushes. It is utterly wonderful to read about my crushes. It was boys galore, with me choosing to be oblivious to those fruity feelings I felt towards girls. In fact, I can confirm that on Thursday 22nd October 2015, I recorded that “I think I am starting to get a crush :(" - the sad face is pretty understandable. I almost always had crushes, and I always felt them deeply. They never went anywhere. I couldn’t tell you who this mysterious boy was, but according to my entry, I talk about his dazzling, green eyes and the smile that made my day. Interestingly, I described him as “gentlemanly.” He probably just looked me, and I swooned. Apparently, I sat next to him in science class, the place from which every love story blossoms. The most hilarious part of the whole entry is that I list two other boys in my class who are also “hot and kind.” Jesus wept, Emma. According to my diary, none of these boys are ever mentioned again.

In a rather gay way, I later dedicated an entire double-page spread to a female friend of mine, detailing how I can’t wait to see her again, and how she is so kind and thoughtful and I’m so grateful to know her. In absolute poetic obliviousness, I write in the very same entry about how I have recently finished reading Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of The Universe, a story of two boys who quickly become best friends and fall for each other. My bisexual denial was working overtime. A postcard from her is lovingly stuck in on the next page with some pretty washi tape.

It is so endearing to read it all. It makes me want to embrace myself, whilst giving my past self a bit of a shake. I was lucky enough to be final generation to grow up in my teenage years without much social media usage, and I had never heard of AI. Nowadays, I wonder about the teens. Do they get AI to do all their homework? Do they use social media to post subtle thirst traps for their crushes? Do they even call them ‘crushes?’ Has that term gone by the by? Most adolescents I see these days frighten me; they look like they want to fight me. I do not want to fight them. They would win and then scurry away to their vapes and AI and not-crushes. I would go home and cry and describe the experience on Substack.

I hope there are teenagers who journal with pen and paper still. They will have an empire of dreadful words and funny feelings to look back on, and that is irreplaceable.

Looking at my own diary, I end it with a summary, highlighting the main events in the year of 2015. They are joyfully simple.

31st December 2015

Important things that happened during the making of this journal:

• I was able to put into words what, personally, anxiety feels like for me.

• I FINISHED A 15,010 WORD STORY IN 18 DAYS!!!!!!

• I set up 3 Instagram accounts.

• I joined a few new fandoms.

• I made new friends.

• I developed a new journal style.

• I finally found the name of the song I have been looking for for ages: Major Lazer - ‘Be Together’ featuring Wild Belle (Trap City)

I know that I’ve been prodding fun at myself throughout this post, but being able to see me just being a normal teenager after going through huge trauma at eleven years old warms my heart. I couldn’t tell you what that story was about, or what Instagram accounts I even made, but if they made young me happy, then I will take that. Also, does anyone else remember when Major Lazer was trending back in 2015? Why does everything coated in ten years’ worth of dust feel so much sweeter?

Although, that poem still isn’t excusable. Seriously, what was that? Don’t quit your day job, Emma.

All my love,

Emma

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Ladies and gentlefolk, I am in freefall.

If life could whoop my ass anymore, I would be without buttocks. I’m pretty amazed that I’ve even organised myself enough to publish an article today, but I do think that is the beauty of this Confessional series, where the requirements are the following:

1. write words

2. do those words make grammatical sense?

3. if no, edit lightly. if yes, hit publish.

It keeps me accountable to publishing on here, where I would argue that quantity over quality is helping me to stay consistent. If I only posted articles that I felt had ‘quality’ in them, I would upload once every three to four months.

So, I bring you the update this week that I am unemployed. Without work. No longer earning money. Sans paycheck. Senza dollar. This is a first for me, as since I have legally been able to work, I have done so. I am not good at being unemployed. In fact, I have been unemployed for a whopping five days, and I have spent most of those days with pure fear coursing through my veins and Indeed staring me in the face. I am lucky enough to still be living at home during this period, but I am stressed. I think my hair might actually be falling out? An unprecedented (I do love that word) amount of hair came out when I combed it this morning. It prompted me to go to the Grape Tree, where I spoke to a lovely lady who sold me some hair oil. Will it work? Probably not, but I’m desperate to believe in something and hair oil is a cheap antidote.

The word ‘unprecedented’ makes me laugh. I am reminded of all of the so-called unprecedented times I have lived through, and I am now wondering whether there is even a precedented state of existence anymore. Each year seems to bring some new situation where we are living in Unpredented Times. I am tired and in need of 5000 years of sleep. The last time I felt calm and rested was in 2001. Tuesdays scare me these days and I don’t like the tetxure of bananas.

Anyway, back to the elephant in the room. My unemployment. This is due to a combination of narrowly missing out on my dream job (seriously, I was one of the two final candidates), and my leaving my previous one as it was making me so anxious that I was becoming ill. I have had a couple of interviews, and and have a trial shift at a coffee-shop-cum-bar next week. I’ve never done barista work in my life, but I will try my best. In my head, I will be living out my cutesy coffee shop life. In reality, I will probably have a lady shriek at me because her latte has the wrong type of milk in it. Still, if it goes terribly wrong, at least I can post about it on here.

In light of having a life crisis, I have bought hair dye. I don’t need to explain my reasoning; all people who don’t cope with chaos normally have at some point bought a home hair dye kit. I am aiming to go a gorgeous copper that simulataneouly compliements my skin tone and makes me a 10/10, but have a hunch that I will look like a slightly orange broccoli.

I keep telling myself the chaos will end, and I will stop job-hopping and become a Sensible Settled Employed Adult (new acronym formed: SSEA). Once I reach SSEA status, my hair might stop peeling out in chunks and I might even form healthy coping mechanisms. People with SSEA status seem to emit this debonaire and mysterious air. Although, I am beginning to think that the mysterious bit might just be that they don’t really know what’s going on either. They just buy workwear and look put together. If I sound bitter, it’s because I probably am. I too want to look sexy and expensive and put together, and most of all, I want to wear one of those waistcoat things that cinch your waist. Every time I have tried one on, my boobs have made the buttons pop open. I can’t imagine that will go down very well in an interview, or when I’m consoling a client. I want to wear heels that click on marble floors as I elegantly sway from side-to-side in a pencil skirt, but then I remember in order to wear clothes like that, I will probably have to work in some soul-sucking job that hates joy and penalises laughter.

Thank God I have Substack. Whenever life happens, I retreat here and share far too much. I’d even go as far as to say that it’s more effective than cheap hair dye and hair oil.

As ever, here are a few of my photo highlights this week:

All my love,

Emma

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Recently, I sat in front of a doctor and wept. She was kind and gave me a tissue and her time. I do this really unattractive thing when I cry, when one half of my face wibbles about and my nostrils flare to the size of Jupiter. I was also bright red and horribly sweaty, due to September pulling an August on me. She also told me there wasn’t really anything she could offer me in the moment, but that I have shown immense bravery in how hard I have battled to get help. More than anything else she could have offered me in that particular moment, that was what I needed. Being told you’re brave brings out the same feeling as when you were a child and someone says how tall you’ve grown. Is that just me?

I feel like I’ve done a lot of that lately, the whole being brave thing. Being an adult is a constant sequence of bravery, and, if I’m being completely truthful, I’m exhausted of it. I want to be a small child again, hiding in a self-assembled pillow fort, watching the blinking fairy lights above me. I want to be young enough to think of days in terms of the things I will do, instead of in shifts. I long to be the version of myself writing at the table, at fours years of age, writing a story inspired by a pack of stickers I owned.

The other week, the twenty-four-year-old version of me sat at a different table in a different house and wrote an article for Substack whilst wearing a pair of jeans. (We’ll come back to the jeans.) Writing for Substack is my favourite thing I have done since… well, it’s the best thing I have ever done. It tethers me to my creativity amongst the violent sea of maturing. I overshare on here, which some could perceive as brave. For me, it’s the only way I can possibly be. I can’t be anything else other than entirely honest. I’ve had a couple of my family members say to me that they don’t know how I share such intimate details (looking at you, the Emma who had to shit in a forest) on the internet.

It’s so brave, Emma, talking as candidly as you do on there.

Is it brave, really? Is it my substitute for therapy? Is it slightly daft to share so much? Do I write something incredibly vulnerable, and then hide behind my dry, British sense of humour because that feels a bit too scary? Will I write about creating being my lifeline, and then make a joke about ill-fitting jeans? Yes, actually. That’s what I am just about to do.

So, I was sat there writing, and I was in a pair of jeans. This was my first mistake that day. The button of the jeans I cram myself into pressed into my stomach. When I adjusted the waistband, I saw the angry red creases against my soft stomach. My stomach, who is the subject of my greatest hate campaign I have ever waged. It’s funny how, writing here and now, I can only bring myself to talk of my stomach gently. These words are so different to the ones in my head.

I ran my finger over the deepest crease, which was my second mistake that day. It made me feel an unbearable tenderness towards myself and my body, and I didn’t know what to do about that. So I undid my button, threw down my zipper, and sardonically expressed to my mum:

“How can I be expected to write miracles when I’m wearing jeans?”

She laughed. I love making my mum laugh more than most things in the world. It makes being brave worth it. I carried on writing, and pushed that unwanted emotion to the back of my mind. It is easiest to live with yourself when you are letting hate lead the way; it is almost impossible to let gentleness have a say. Self-compassion is bravery. I will die on this hill. It is infinitely harder to be kind to yourself. To pick yourself up, again and again and again.

My partner compared me to a little spider the other day. He said that every time my web gets destroyed, I start again and rebuild it. It made me cry. Admittedly, most things make me cry. But this dislodged one of my internal Jenga blocks that keep me upright and stable. It’s one of the most beautiful things he has ever said to me. It is so very bright, and I am so very cave-dwelling.

My loved ones tell me that I inspire them with my strength. I’ve always answered that I don’t see myself as strong, not really. They shake their heads in disbelief. I tilt my head in confusion. I want to absorb what they’re saying, and tuck it into the weathered corner of my heart and keep it safe. I want to defy my expectations of myself. To be strong because I am strong, not because I’ve had to be. Maybe they are one and the same. Maybe I just need to wear jogging bottoms when I write.

Everything makes me think. It forces me to go to new depths of feeling. A doctor telling me I’m brave makes me long for childhood. Relentless appointments and self-realisations don’t allow me to stop trying. Jeans cause a crisis.

I am brave, but I have to be. The tune of adulthood rings on.

All my love,

Emma

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Welcome to Confessional #2! It is so much fun to have you here. There is no pressure to read these ones (nor with any of my posts). The pure joy of my Confessional series is that they aren’t meaningful, there isn’t a hidden agenda, and they have no linguistic complexity. They are just the virtual diary entry of a sensitive woman in her mid-twenties, trying to be consistent in uploading to Substack.

To kick things off, it feels important to say that I have eaten so much curry lately. Dare I say, too much. In fact, I just now put down the fork from eating the latest one. I have a tendency to eat an inordinate amount of something if I suddenly become obssessed with it. Nothing is safe from me, not even tomatoes. (Is anyone else here in love with sundried tomatoes?) This tends to be a bit of a theme with me; if I love something, it will consume me. For instance, I listened to Vodka Cranberry for weeks when the single was first released, and I am now doing the same with Sabrina Carpenter’s new album, Man’s Best Friend.

On that note, why has there been such a scary amount of hypercritical think pieces on that album, or on Sabrina in general? It feels like whenever a new woman emerges onto the pop scene, she must be turned over and examined like a pebble on a beach. Often, they will be cast back into the shale. However, in Carpenter’s case, she has been picked up and thrust into the spotlight. She has committed a great crime in the eyes of many: she is a beautiful, self-assured, talented woman who is confident in her branding. She loves writing and singing about relationships and sex - which many men do too - but she is criticised for this.

Oh, but Sabrina, what about your young fans?

Is that really the legacy you want to leave?

Well, maybe, just maybe, she isn’t responsible for who consumes her content, and is perfectly content with her kickass discography thus far. Have these people also considered how she is using her platform to promote trans rights on a very public stage?

I’m not entirely sure how we got from curry to Sabrina Carpenter. Like I said, there is no order to my Confessional posts. I feel sorry for you, reader.

Amongst other things, I had an interview this week. After two years of admittedly on-and-off job searching, this is my first interview I managed to secure in that entire time. It was a Zoom interview, as interviews seem to be these days. In light of that, I was selling my soul to the powers that be in order to have my WiFi last the call. Living in a rural area always finds ways to keep you on your toes.

I am delighted to say that I have got through to the second round of interviews.. But I can’t yet let myself hope that I could get this job. The role appeals to me so much, and the idea of getting this far, only to see it go to someone else is cruel. But, I also know that that is just how the job market goes. I have also been offered an interview for a job at a coffee shop, which I will eagerly accept. 50% off coffee sounds an elite deal to me.

A further update: anyone who read Confessional #1 will be pleased to know that I have indeed booked myself a doctors appointment to discuss my weight and eating issues. I also have used an extra smidgen of bravery to reach out to a therapist who specialises in eating disorders. She seemed absolutely lovely, but I am somewhat stressed about the financial aspect of it. As my dad has always said about money: hard to earn, but easy to spend. Having weekly therapy will cost me a small fortune, let alone if the doctors recommend that I do embark upon a weight loss medication. It’s all a bit intimidating.

I often think that bravery is far more an action you practice, than it is a feeling that comes naturally. So I do often try to be brave, but it is tiring. No one tells you how tiring self-improvement is; it’s why it feels so much easier to remain a cave-dwelling, sad goblin.

Also, major win of the week: last week’s Confessional saw me insert a picture of a book I wanted to buy. Guess who found that exact book for £7 cheaper in a charity shop? Me! I think that has got to be one of life’s best feelings when the charity shop gods smile down upon you.

Anyway, see you next week for more ramblings.

All my love,

Emma

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TW: Brief discussion of eating disorders

Hello!

I am going to be doing something a little different with my twice-weekly uploads from now on. My Wednesday posts will be a diary entry, rambling, stream-of-consciousness type, and my Sunday uploads will stay as my longer essays (can I call them essays? Perhaps elongated brain-farts would be more appropriate). I also think this will help me stop being such a perfectionist, and will allow me to get things online without doing an emotional deal with the devil.

Welcome to my Confessional series! My life seems to resemble that of a barely contained disaster - and I am a chronic over-sharer - so why not write about it on here?

(I would also like to give credit to the wonderful on here, whose beautiful work has inspired me to share snippets of my life. Please go and check her out - her writing is a balm for the soul.)

So, today I weighed myself. I know, I know, I know. Someone with an eating disorder weighs herself and is horrified by what she sees. It’s a tale as old as time. The thing with being The Heaviest You Have Ever Been is that you only have to put on a minor amount of weight to keep topping The Heaviest You Have Ever Been.

And, baby, I am an overachiever.

The scales and I perform the same ritual: I step on, as naked as the day I was born and with bone-dry hair (in case having damp hair might add a few extra unwanted grams), and watch the weight tick up in front of my eyes. Sometimes I don’t quite lean my full body weight on the scales, just so I can see what a number other than my one looks like. It’s a shitty routine, and it doesn’t make either of us happy.

Following this, I trotted downstairs, in my baggiest clothing, and promised myself it would be different this time as I poured myself out the recommended portion size of granola and Greek yoghurt. I’m now in a café, drinking a sugary latte to recover from that brief period of health. The world is right again. According to the NHS’ BMI chart, I am off the scale obese. How charming. Why does BMI exist? Does it benefit anyone? Is that just me being a sore loser?

Anyway, I know I probably need to go to the doctors to discuss my weight issues. It’s scary and demoralising in there, though, and it’s easier to hide behind a slice of cake. But, I will be brave. I will sit myself in front of the GP as he panic-reads my medical history.

My, Emma, what a long medical history you have here.

Why, thank you, Doctor. I earned it all myself.

Regardless of all the stuff going on with my body, my life is following a similar chaotic routine. Currently, I am job hunting. Notice how we always say job hunting? Because it is a hunt in this day and age. It’s pretty much a fight to the death just to get an entry-level position. My low point the other day was getting rejected from a farm shop job because, despite my six years of customer service experience, the fact that I have no barista experience for their coffee machine was a deal-breaker. Dear God, let me just sell your eggs then! I’ll sell them better than your coffees, just to spite you. There will be an egg shortage. Let me at them.

I sound angry. Maybe I should get back into meditation and yoga. In my previous yoga classes, I was the youngest by around sixty years, and I honestly loved it. All the lovely old women would swarm upon me when I arrived, fascinated by the young person in her twenties there at the pain-relief yoga. I would leave that session feeling incredible, and like how I imagine the regular youths feel.

I’ve been doing some research for local yoga classes, and I am going to get my stiff arse back in there. My gym membership is collecting dust. I’m going to admit something controversial: I hate the gym. I am tired of forcing myself to go. I find it so incredibly dull. I used to enjoy it once upon a time, but that time is no more. Today, I will liberate myself and cancel my membership. Then I can not exercise without feeling guilty!

As I am writing this very sentence, I just got emailed another job rejection. What a day. Oh well, on to the next! All of these people don’t know what a woman they’re missing out on, clearly.

On a more positive note, I was fortunate enough to spend the last two days with my boyfriend, who I don’t always get to see. We booked a little holiday in Cornwall, which will be my reason to keep chugging along for the next few months. He is a wonderful man and he drinks an astonishing amount of caffiene.

Whilst I finish up my own coffee in the café, it feels important to say that I am now a Coffee Drinker and have been for a while now. I bought my own ground coffee the other day to have in my French press (I know) at home, which just feels like I have taken a step over the threshold of adulthood in a way that I have never done so before. The coffee tastes of running a consistent blog and having more fun amongst the shit-show.

Here are a few photos highlighting my week:

All my love,

Emma

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If the world could stop writing a plus-sized person’s life story before they’ve even opened their mouth, that would be grand.

People look at strangers in the street and think, “I would never let myself get that big.” Equally as bad: when someone hasn’t seen you for a while and you get the infamous, “you’ve lost weight!” Because it’s never really a compliment; it’s more so a confirmation that people are aware of your weight fluctuations, and still choose to comment on them.

If I had a pound for every time I have written about body image, I would be rich enough to live out our collective dream and make a living off my work. I have created a variety of pieces, including commentaries on diet culture, articles about the joys of plus-sized swimwear, and reflections on my relationship with my body. I really don’t shut up.

However, I have not yet written about experiencing life as a result of your body.

I am fat. Plus-sized. A big woman. However you wish to call it, I am rotund. This is for a variety of reasons, but mostly thanks to having an eating disorder. I kept putting off writing this article; I only wanted to publish it when I was in recovery from my disorder. I didn’t know whether it was wise to put my disordered thoughts online, but it turns out life keeps on not going to plan, and I have a lot to say. It also felt that if I waited until I was ‘healed’ to post this, I would somehow be implying that big folks are only allowed joy when they are working on changing themselves. Shockingly, I am both fat and deserving of happiness.

So, here I am, writing again and posting this.

Akin to many big women before me, I had my moment of Fat Awakening. Mine was at the ripe age of seven. I partook in weekly swimming lessons, and this absolute turd of a child kept reminding me I was fat. In hindsight, the funniest part is that he used to ask me if I knew how big I was.

Well, no, small, ratty boy. As fate would have it, before you opened your unkind mouth, I was gloriously oblivious as to my size. I was one of the best swimmers in my class, and I was powerful there. I loved a sweet treat, but I had no major issues with food. I was seven, for crying out loud. Nevertheless, from this point onwards, I was Aware. This is no ordinary awareness – this is the Awareness that ensures every move you will ever make will be with your body in mind.

Will I fit through that gap without making a scene?

A new season has come around – will any of my clothes from last year still fit me?

Is the reason men don’t pay me any mind because of my size?

Talking of men, don’t they just do a number on the self-esteem? How could we not mention men when looking at how we perceive ourselves? That would be the equivalent of eating a meal without having a dessert.

Before I met my boyfriend at the age of twenty-one, I had two whole flirtatious interactions with the male species. My first was when I was twelve years old. I went on a few tentative dates with the boy I sat next to in French lessons. We shared a packet of Jelly Babies. He threw up on our cinema date whilst we were watching The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug. It was, quite clearly, true love.

The second was in a sweaty, strobe-painted nightclub and his breath stank of spirits. I had decided that night I was going to just going to get over my anxiety around men (okay, Emma, because that’s achievable in one night) and do what other girls were doing. He told me where he was from. I told him where I was from. He said I could dance.

Reader, I could not and cannot dance. I am as stiff as a plank, and I was not drunk enough to relax. This man had a very simple mission, and he was employing creative means to achieve it.

I went through the motions of the tedious small talk. The music got louder, and I wanted to go home and order a kebab already. Anyway, Mr. Where-You-From decided that attempting to grind on me was the next logical move. Maybe it was. Perhaps I just wasn’t cut out for hook-up culture. Either way, I ran away and had a panic attack. Very sexy and demure of me.

I had an epiphany that evening; to be plus-sized is either to be ignored or to be sexualised. This wasn’t a new realisation, but it had been building up for a while, until Mr. Where-You-From made it implode in front of me. During this stage of my life, I was very active on dating apps. It was the pits. Would you like a sample of some of the comments I was lucky enough to receive?

God, I love me a BBW. (I discovered what BBW meant that day. Another one for the books.)

Sit on my face.

Either you’re an angel or a devil.

Crush me with your tits.

It was brutal. I felt that the chances of actually dating someone decent were being thwarted by my tits; then I remembered that the men were the ones sabotaging themselves. It was still demoralising. Male validation had such a hold over me, which I feel shame in saying. I am bisexual, and still seemingly prized the male compliments on dating apps over female ones. Both a man and a woman could say I was hot, but I’d be more inclined to believe it when the man said it. It’s wrong that I felt this way, and it is a slight against my own sexuality. I am happy to say that I don’t feel this way anymore, and I do feel there was an element of coming to terms with my sexuality mixed in there. However, male opinions on female bodies seem to have the authority, even over women themselves. It’s one of those things that takes a lifetime to shake off.

It's also worth noting, it is my first time writing about my body since I was diagnosed with atypical bulimia earlier this year. I’m not sure how to write about having an eating disorder, since I spend half of my time in denial of having one. I tell myself that because I’m not actively making myself vomit or taking laxatives, I’m not a ‘true bulimic’. After a long time on the NHS waiting list, I received some therapeutic sessions. I carry guilt that I haven’t really improved since then, and am still in my binge and restrict cycle. There is a part of me that thinks other people who have more extreme eating disorders deserve the counselling that I received instead of me.

It feels so awful and so vulnerable to write that I don’t know what direction to move in. I have researched weight loss medications and been tantalisingly close to taking the plunge, but I can’t quite make myself do it. Not that they are shameful, but I doubt their helpfulness for someone like me. At the same time, I struggle to recognise the body my eating disorder has given me.

Recently, I have been spending a lot of my life standing at a crossroads and wondering which direction to follow. Do I pursue the darkness? The binging, the restricting, the ordering clothes in sizes too small because I am in denial about my weight? It’s a path I know, and the road is clear. There’s a path to the right that I have tried so many times before, and I’ve grown to loathe it. The road has hazards in the form of diets and calorie deficits. The mere act of peering down the long stretch of tarmac makes me want to go back to comfort, to the darkness.

I am acutely aware that recovery is not easy. I will keep trying, because I owe it to myself. In the meantime, my body is large and jiggly and doesn’t fit in 80% of my clothes.

My partner’s love towards me has not faltered, nor have my friends’ or family’s. They acknowledge a simple fact that I cannot seem to absorb into my brain:

My body is one mere aspect of me. I am beautiful, inclusive of my body, and I am beautiful, exclusive of my body.

To write this article through the lens of achieved body positivity would be a lie, and my blog is nothing if not honest. I am striving for that elusive self-love, but I also cry because I would give anything to be the weight I was when I thought I was ‘fat’. I want to love myself enough to not talk about my body and weight loss in the same sentence.

Being a big woman in a big world is terrifying, because no matter how many people have walked that path before, no one has been you. You have a unique thought process, and you feel things differently. Many large women strive to shift their weight. Others find acceptance in their current weight. There is the middle ground too, the avenue that leads straight ahead at the crossroads, which I haven’t been down before. It advertises not thinking about food every moment of the day and fuelling your body with foods that genuinely make you happy. It also doesn’t promise any weight change. I’ve never dared to go down there. Somehow, the idea of my body finally at peace scares me more than the constant fluctuation. I can’t let go of the boy at the swimming pool, who jeered at my weight. It’s impossible to forget someone in my school year group implying I was the least datable person in our entire cohort.

I do tend to forget one key thing: I am a different version of myself who experienced those things. I have learnt that the male opinion on the female body is irrelevant, even if they are loud enough to make you cover your ears. So far, I have lived life through my body. I would like to move on to life outside my body now.

I don’t know if I’m ready, but I am brave. That at least counts for something.

All my love,

Emma

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What is meant for me will find me.

Then why do I keep attracting arseholes? Why do people who take advantage of good-natured people insist on finding me like a bloodhound tracking a scent? These phrases annoy me; I see them online all the time, and my anxious mind interprets them as confirmation that I bring other people’s behaviour upon me. So, to anyone out there who is worried that their chronic worrying is putting ‘negative energy’ into the universe, I’m here to tell you that I get it. If we are doing just that, then I am your unwitting accomplice in it.

Reader, please understand that I have some utterly gorgeous people around me. I have radiant friends, a loving partner and a wonderful family. I’m not asking to be mollycoddled when I say “please don’t be an arsehole” and I don’t mean to depict myself as a victim. I’m just begging people to stop walking all over me and to cease their bloodsucking behaviour.

A less glamorous part of being sensitive: I struggle to stand up for myself and am a chronic people pleaser.

An even less glamorous part: I have so much residual anger from these things.

Anger doesn’t fit the gentle, soft aesthetic that people often associate with sensitivity. It’s ugly, awkward, and heavy. The irony is, I don’t know how to define my anger. I am cognisant that I’ve never been any good at expressing it, but I’m also acutely aware that anger is intertwined with sensitivity and that it comes from a combination of internal and external factors.

Such factors can be divided into the Holy Trinity of Arseholery:

1. The ‘friends’

2. The workplace

3. The self

Let me explain.

Friends:

Most of the time, friendships do what they are designed to do. They uplift you, they encourage you to reflect on yourself. They make you a better person. Good friends are a constant lifeline, and one which I often rely upon. I hope I can give them even half of what they give me.

But. But, but, but. There will always be the people dressed like a friend, who look like a friend and quack like a friend, but are in fact not your friend. These people are called arseholes in a wolf’s clothing, and their behaviour stays with you for a lifetime after they leave it. Friendship is inherently an unwritten agreement where you give someone a front seat to the chambers of your heart, and ask them not to tamper with it too much (and vice versa). There are people who will use this against you. They will learn the inner mechanisms of you, know where the most pivotal cog in your functioning lies, and they will extinguish it.

I should know - I lived with mine. They took their time unravelling me, just to use those parts against me. They would blow hot and cold, treating me to icy winds when I walked through the door and deserts of stretching silence in the evenings. They knew I was sensitive, and this worked out very well in their favour. Any scrap of false warmth they showed me, I would huddle close to it like someone sheltering from a storm. That warmth was addictive. It was so unpredictable, so brief. I wanted more, so I would bend myself to their whims. If I could contort myself like someone from Cirque Du Soleil, they would like me more.

It turned out that no matter how many nightclub outings I tried (and failed) to survive, no matter how many inauthentic chats I had, no matter how many drinks I drank to soothe myself, I still wasn’t right for them. Funny, that. Constantly attempting to exist as someone else is an injustice to everyone around you, and it caught up with me eventually. As one of them said one time, where I had a panic attack: “For God’s sake, I knew you’d do this.”

Indeed, they perhaps knew me better than I did by the end.

The workplace:

Two weeks into working my previous job, my manager told me she had hired me because I seemed non-confrontational. If this seems like an odd thing to say, it’s because it is. After spending two years at that job, I can confidently say she had the emotional intelligence of a slug and the empathy skills of a boulder.

It wasn’t just her that made the workplace terrible (though I would attribute at least 70% of that honour to her); she was helped along by the laziness of senior members of staff and the company’s inability to support people with chronic illnesses. When somewhere where you spend five out of the seven days of the week capitalises on your naturally sensitive nature to make you fit their desired team dynamic, and then fails to support you in bad health, it leaves a pretty bitter taste in the mouth.

The Self:

Perhaps the biggest challenge of them all is the self. The Everest of Arseholes. Of course, this doesn’t apply to you if you are someone who successfully practices self-love. I am pretty terrible at self-love. The anger that swims around in me tends to thwart any attempts; being tender to myself feels like something I don’t deserve. I am all too aware of the irony of this - arguably, the feelings I have towards myself prove the dire need for self-compassion. I am conscious that I don’t want to host a pity party here, but I would be remiss to not mention that a lifetime of your body and mind having health troubles, and people walking all over you, does direct the anger internally. You are frustrated that your youthful body can’t keep up with others your age. You are fed up with having to keep funding therapy, because surely you should be better by now. You are so used to people using you as a doormat that you don’t know if you could ever amount to anything else.

Tips for breaking the cycle would be much appreciated; I hate the fact that berating myself is easier than giving myself a break.

My thin skin irritates me, but nothing frustrates me more than finding myself in situations where people make my thin skin known. In an ideal world, having a thin skin means you can joyfully absorb art, support others with a unique depth of empathy and create great things. In a more realistic world, arseholes collect thin-skinned people like they’re designer bags. It leaves me exhausted, but more than that, it leaves me furious.

People say, “Put the anger down.” But what if you’ve been holding it all your life, and you don’t know what to do with empty hands? Where does anger go once you release it into the wild?

All my love,

Emma

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If you are a subscriber to Planet Sensitive, you probably know by now that I suffer from OCD and that I have done since I was diagnosed at 11 years old. If you are new here, welcome! I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Shocker! This isn’t the defining thing about me - as much as OCD would like to think otherwise - but it is something I write about a lot.

It’s the equivalent of saying, “hi, welcome to my family! This is my mum, my dad, my brother and my cat”, and just not acknowledging the 10-foot-tall furry beast in the corner, who is drooling from the mouth. I have to talk about it. I have other diagnoses that trouble me, but none such as OCD. I made a promise to myself as a young, scared girl to write about the terrifying, unknown thing that happened to me. Now I know its name, its shape, its form; so I write about it all the time.

I know that OCD will take absolutely anything you hold dear - if you let it.

Over the years, I have been the victim of just about any and all types of OCD. The infographic below shows just some of the subtypes of the disease. I promise you now, I have had phases with nearly all the themes on here. Even the scary, shameful ones. Crying whilst desperately Googling your thoughts is the only thing that remains constant.

Those of you who don’t have OCD may think, “If you know the OCD latches onto the different themes, isn’t it easier to detach yourself from the thoughts?” It’s a great question and a fair one to ask. The truth is, OCD will tell you that this topic is the most important one yet. Nothing has ever been as bad as this current theme, and nothing has ever been as true. For all the writerly desire in the world, I can’t put it poetically.

Just so we’re clear: I will never write scientifically about the hows or whys of OCD. I leave that to the experts. I simply write about my experiences with the disorder, and will sprinkle in quotes and pictures from those said experts. My eternal thanks to those who research and advocate for OCD – you saved my life, and I know that your work will continue to aid and empower others.

Allow me to introduce you to my arch nemesis, a.k.a the devil, a.k.a ROCD/Relationship-focused OCD. To give a brief explanation:

“Relationship OCD (ROCD) is a subtype of obsessive-compulsive disorder where a person experiences intrusive doubts and fears about their romantic relationship—and sometimes platonic ones, too. These unwanted thoughts often focus on questions like, “Do I really love my partner?” or “Is this the right relationship for me?”

ROCD isn’t simply about being unsure. It’s a clinically recognized pattern of obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviors that can cause intense distress.”

(Courtesy of the NOCD website)

Although this is a brilliant definition, ROCD is so much more than this. I could insert useful quotes for days; instead, I have listed some personal favourite resources at the bottom of this blog post that help to describe ROCD in its entirety. These are the resources that helped me realise that there was potentially something deeper going on, rather than just having doubts about my relationship. I encourage you to read them if any part of this article resonates with you.

For me, ROCD manifested just three months into my first (and, thankfully, current) relationship. I was a final-year university student, and many other personal matters were going on behind the scenes. I had met my boyfriend over the summer, and was experiencing the romantic dream that little Emma used to dream about. It was glorious, until I went back to university. First, it started with the numbness. I didn’t feel anything towards my partner, and couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. This was extremely distressing. I started confiding in a couple of friends, who quite rationally told me that if I had no feelings towards him, then breaking up was the most suitable option. It was kind to him. We could both start moving on.

Hearing that would make me want to vomit. I wouldn’t eat, I was ill, and I was perpetually exhausted. Every day was a battle, from start to finish. If it wasn’t my friends telling me to end things, it was social media. Now, dear reader, I am aware that I am currently writing on a social media platform. But let me tell you, I despise a lot of what social media stands for. Largely because it easily triggers OCD themes (do the algorithm and my intrusive thoughts team up without my knowing?), but also because it is a cesspit of comparison. I would look at other relationships and envy how happy they were, how in love they seemed. TikTok was the worst.

If they wanted to, they would. (My hatred for this phrase is worthy of a whole different article.)

Girl, life is short. Dump his ass.

All the things my boyfriend does for me without me asking.

Dating icks.

Reasons I dumped my ex.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t celebrate good relationships, because we absolutely should! But, Jesus wept. Can a woman not decompress while watching dogs inhaling hamburgers instead of having a panic attack? The thing is, I don’t blame people for posting this kind of content. It gets views. However, I hate the narrative that is inevitably perpetuated. Essentially, your partner should be a superhuman, mind-reading expert who never does anything wrong. Sounds fun, doesn’t it? But also, that behaviour doesn’t apply to you, the TikTok viewer. You are perfect and make no mistakes.

It’s exhausting just writing about it. If there is one thing I could beg of you to take away from this post, it is that it is crucial to form your own opinions about your own relationship, away from the prying eyes and scabby hands of social media.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have this insight at the time. So, I tried to break up with my boyfriend. This is a horrific memory, so I will cover it as briefly as possible. Once I had made the decision to break up with him (helped along by the opinions of anyone and everyone who would listen), I called him. He promptly drove nearly one hundred miles to me. In between sobs, I broke up with him. It all just felt so wrong, but being my first and only relationship, I had nothing to which I could compare this experience.

Enter, stage left: cold, lemony noodles. At one point, we both decided we needed to try to eat something. We shared the previous night’s noodle leftovers. I can remember how they taste. I can still recall the way they clumped together as I tried to spear some out of the tub. The unbearable intimacy of his helping me and feeding me a forkful. Throughout this, some salient ray of rationale peeked through the hurricane of OCD. I suggested we go on a break instead, and he agreed. He stayed the night, and I cried plenty more times. In the morning, he left. It was the worst being left in all the history of being lefts.

Later on, my beautiful, incredible mother made the drive to visit and comfort me.

We had allowed a two-week break. During this time, I threw myself into research like never before. By this point, I had already come across the phenomenal . I had subscribed to their membership to access their resources, which kept me sane in the early days. I cannot recommend them enough, and I will support Kiyomi LaFleur (the founder and creator of ) in any endeavour she embarks upon.

Most crucially, I came across a therapist who specialised in ROCD. This was revelatory. She single-handedly gave me the tools and advice that saved my relationship. Self-funding private therapy as a working, final year university student was tough, but I made it work out of sheer desperation. For the first time, I was telling her thoughts that made me break out into cold sweats, but she would simply nod sagely and smile.

She taught me many valuable lessons and guided me out of the absolute darkness in which I was stuck. Most of all, she taught me that I wasn’t alone. Her entire career was and is formed by people like me. I wasn’t a freak; I was human. I didn’t not love my boyfriend; my anxiety was just so high that there was no room for any feeling but numbness.

I shared so many intrusive thoughts with her. Some, I won’t write on here, because they are just too personal. I feel it is important I list a few, though, in case you find yourself recognising these words cropping up in your own mind:

• What if I don’t love him anymore?

• Nitpicking any perceived ‘flaw’ of your partner’s

• I can’t feel anything for him, so I must not love him

• We’re just not right for each other

• What if he’s cheating on me?

• What if I somehow cheated on him without me realising?

• If it were the right relationship, we wouldn’t have so many ‘issues’

And on it goes.

Ultimately, this article is a ‘success story’. A happy ending, if you will. Through a combination of my hard graft in therapy and a wonderful partner, we recently celebrated our three-year anniversary. I managed to truly enjoy myself. If ROCD is a wolf, special occasions are the full moon, which sends it howling. That day, I managed to keep the wolf at bay.

I am acutely aware that some relationships aren’t right for the individual and come coupled with ROCD thoughts. The lack of uncertainty makes everything so very challenging. In times like this, I encourage therapy as much as possible. I know it’s not an affordable privilege for everyone, so hopefully, some of the resources I have linked can help in the meantime.

Only recently have I been able to truly commit to long-term plans with my partner without fear taking over. I can book a holiday a year in advance and not privately meltdown about us ‘inevitably breaking up’.

Yes, there is always fear, but there is always love too. I have been lucky beyond belief with my boyfriend; he has never given up on me and has shown me nothing but compassion. On the days when I have sobbed into his arms, saying how I just can’t do this anymore, the thoughts are just too loud, he has held me and told me how he believes in me more than ever. I would ask “why? how?” through my snot, and he would reply saying that I beat OCD every single time, and so why should it be different this time? In hindsight, this is the kind of love of which my younger self dreamed. The steady, kind and patient love that leaves me feeling safe.

Don’t get me wrong, I have had my fair share of ROCD relapses. Some days I can hardly move for the weight of the thoughts, but I do now have a bit of vital knowledge on my side. It’ll pass. It all passes so long as you don’t engage with the thought. However, I know more than anyone that this is easier said than done.

Besides, who knows, my relationship could turn out not to be right in the end. It’s an awful and uncomfortable thought, but it is one I must sit with. I want to grow old and grey with my partner, but I have to allow the uncertainty in. Even if it is ten feet tall and dribbles everywhere.

My heart goes out to anyone who experiences ROCD; it truly is a special kind of hell. To meet someone so precious to you, but your brain seemingly aims to take away this joy. It’s not fair - you’re allowed to be royally pissed off. Get therapeutic help if you can. Chat to others who understand how OCD works. Keep talking about it and get the word out there.

It is a hard slog, but getting to be with my person is not only my greatest joy, but also the ultimate reward in itself.

All my love,

Emma

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Here are my resources that I recommend for both educating yourself about ROCD and giving yourself a community:

• NOCD

  https://www.treatmyocd.com

• International OCD Foundation

  https://iocdf.org/expert-opinions/relationship-ocd/

• The r/ROCD subreddit page - HOWEVER, and I cannot emphasise this enough, please do not use this for reassurance seeking purposes. Us OCD sufferers know that reassurance only feeds the beast. Use it to give yourself a community of people who understand. When I was at my worst, I used it sparingly, as I would often use it to subtly get reassurance.

Almost, save for the woman attempting to flee a zombie. Due to her soon-apparent lack of athleticism, the zombie easily catches up to her. As he goes in for the kill-shot, the woman headbutts him in self-defence. He looks up at her, stunned. No one has ever headbutted him before. He looks almost wounded. The roles have been reversed.

The woman peers up at him and says, “I hope you’re not feeling negatively towards me.”

They both stare at each other, dumbfounded, until the usual apocalypse business resumes.

Although an exaggerated example, I am the woman, and the woman is me. On top of this, I am British. This does indeed mean I will apologise to a table if I happen to walk into one of its legs (insider secret: all of the British stereotypes are true). Although over-apologeticness and courtesy are part of my culture, it is also the way my brain operates. I am just naturally predisposed to people-pleasing, apologising and overthinking.

If you are also sensitive this way, I understand. It’s why I made an entire blog surrounding sensitivity. It can be incredibly lonely to overthink the things to which others wouldn’t give any credence. Overthinking is not something that an individual can help, and they certainly don’t choose to do it. We lack the ability to ‘put a thought down’. The thought clings to us like a limpet. The cruel part is that we would far rather be putting our brain power towards more productive and treasured things, such as writing on Substack.

I expressed this dilemma the other day in note format, and encouraged me to write about this exact feeling. So, all credit for this article idea goes to ! Please do go and check out their fascinating history-based Substack.

The conversation made me think of a few things. Firstly, how lovely it is that there are fellow Substackers out there who are willing to uplift other people. Secondly, I think I can be too serious at times. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing funny about mental illness. There is no humour in making yourself ill from worrying about how others have perceived what you have said. I’ll be the first to hold my hands up and admit that my brain has been behind some pretty diabolical things, such as:

• Allowing ROCD (relationship-focused OCD. If you are unfamiliar with this, I will soon be writing a whole blog post about it, because it is the mental health equivalent of finding gum in your hair) to almost make me and my favourite human break up. My infinite appreciation goes to ROCD-specialist therapy - I owe you my relationship.

• Made me think that my body is grotesque and far too large, leading to an eating disorder.

• Been incapable of learning anything in the world of STEM.

But my brain has also done some wonderful things, like:

• Created an empathetic person who adores other people; I have time for anyone and everyone.

• Let me learn words with which I can write (also words in a foreign language! How fun is that!)

• Remember the names of many different dog breeds (did you know that there is a dog called a Lagotto Romagnolo?)

The human brain is remarkable and is arguably our greatest asset. Some brains become life-saving surgeons, and other brains become artists. Other brains aren’t sure what to do with their lives, and that’s fine too. But amongst all of this, I believe that levity can exist. For example, I was getting myself stressed about my scheduled blog upload today. I didn’t have a ‘perfect’ idea that I felt was up to my desired standard. I hadn’t planned it to within an inch of its life like I often do. I have seen so many fantastic articles this week that I feel almost embarrassed to put this one into the ether. But that thought process is a result of my overthinking; what matters more to me is my consistency in posting articles.

Then I remembered that life is short and I am sexy. I have a driving license and I write for fun. Once every four months, I make cookies that I genuinely believe are of The Great British Bake Off standard. Sometimes, I might even do a sum without a calculator present. It’s a euphoric moment.

My posting this article is the definition of finding levity in the chaos. Making art always feels so serious; I strongly believe it comes from a lifetime of having to prove to the outside world that a creative endeavour is a worthy pursuit. As a result of that, each post must be a make-or-break post, the one that hits the big time.

Dear Lord, can a woman not just write a waffly article and have fun whilst doing so? (In fact, I believe the internet has deemed this to be ‘whimsy’ behaviour these days.)

I find myself getting caught up in it all, all the time. Welcome to the land of The Brain that Never Sleeps! You’re not alone in that. Everything feels monumental, especially when mental illness is in the picture. OCD has given me the rather shoddy gift of seeing everything in black and white. This is right, so everything else must be wrong. Vice-versa. After much therapy, I have since learnt that a grey zone can and does exist. This grey zone is where we find the levity in it all - and that goes beyond OCD. The grey zone allows me to put down my perfectionist tendencies and just take a bit of a backseat.

Finding levity is like training a muscle - and let me tell you, I plan to become hench.

All my love,

Emma

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As we know by now, I feel everything. I can’t do anything by halves. If I’m sad, I’m sobbing. If I am overjoyed, I’m also sobbing. I am essentially a woman of infinite tears. My tear ducts are working overtime.

If you’re reading this, I’m guessing you feel the same, too. Please see this article as a warm hug – come on in, take a seat, and get a piping cup of tea. Grab the chocolate (or preferred snack of your choice) and nestle in for fifteen books and three poetry anthologies that understand strong emotions, and offer us a cosy bothy in which to escape from the storm outside.

For each book, I will let you know why I feel it is appropriate for the sensitive reader, and a stand-out quote that embodies the overall feeling of the book. Also, I will try my utmost to give you a very brief synopsis of the books – otherwise, we will both be here forever! There is a fairly even mixture of fiction and non-fiction, so please enjoy!

(Please note, the list is in no particular order.)

1. In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

Why? The exceptional reflection on human relationships.

A personal favourite quote:

“Heterosexuals have never known what to do with queer people, if they think of their existence at all.” (p. 157)

Enter, my annotated and worn copy of this book; I couldn’t not include it. Before I say anything else about it, it is worth noting that the subject matter surrounds an abusive relationship, so please note the trigger warnings before reading. As a queer woman, Machado chronicles the unfolding of this relationship through a mix of every genre imaginable. It is a work of art and is criminally underrated.

2. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf

Why? A classic lecture-turned-extended-essay exploring female creativity.

A personal favourite quote:

“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.”

Recommending Virginia Woolf is like recommending breathing to stay alive. I know everyone and their mother has read from this author, but A Room of One’s Own is exquisite. Woolf reflects upon the domestic and economic constraints on women who wish to write from her 20th-century perspective. She created conversations that are still pertinent today.

3. Anxious People by Fredrik Backman

Why? Backman’s ability to write humanity and their foibles.

A personal favourite quote:

“Empathy is like vertigo.” (p.343)

Here she is, my favourite book. Anxious People is a humorous read about a bank robber who accidentally holds a group property-viewers hostage. I read this book during the pandemic, which perhaps added to my love for the connections among the strangers in the book. It made me cry five times in one reading session. Backman has a very unique writing style, which I am aware is very polarising. I personally adore it.

4. The Place of Tides by James Rebanks

Why? Rebanks’ clear admiration of both nature and the women who make the world spin.

A personal favourite quote:

“When we were young, the old folk seemed to know everything. I had imagined that there was a moment when you felt wise, that you had learnt it all. She looks over at me, smiling, as though she can hear the thought. We are all just children. We never know enough, not even the half of it.” (p.258)

My most recent read has also become one of my favourites. I am a sucker for a nature memoir, and this one follows Rebanks as he spends 70 days following the life of a ‘duck lady’ (someone who houses and protects Eider birds in order to harvest their down) on the Norwegian island of Fjærøy. Inevitably, the experience touches his soul, and he documents the change in himself for us to see. It’s a beautiful read.

5. Sensitive by Jenn Granneman and Andre Sólo

Why? This entire book is about harnessing your sensitivity and not letting anyone dim your power.

A personal favourite quote:

“… all the yelling in the world didn’t make his kid less sensitive.” (p.38)

This book was a game-changer for me. It showed me that other highly sensitive people were not only out there thriving, but also educating others through science-backed research and lived experience on how to harness their sensitive nature. It’s a love song to people like us and gave me the kick up the butt I needed to start this blog. Being sensitive is synonymous with being brave.

6. Isaac and The Egg by Bobby Palmer

Why? Although the book uses the egg as a metaphor for grief, it can easily be viewed as a metaphor trying to hide your sensitive self.

A personal favourite quote:

“It is an egg. The egg sits resplendent in the middle of a clearing, bathed in a heavenly light which seems to defy the darkness of the night that came before it.” (p.8)

Grief is a theme that crops up in a lot of what I read (and write). In this book, a grieving widow stumbles upon a screaming egg that is incapable of looking after itself. They develop as a delightfully odd duo, creating an ultimately heartwarming read. It dabbles with magical realism, which I adore, but do note that if you’re not a fan of the genre. (Seriously, if anyone has any magical realism recommendations, LET ME KNOW!)

7. Things I Don’t Want to Know by Deborah Levy

Why? Deborah Levy writes every thought you’ve ever had and puts it into a singular book.

A personal favourite quote:

“I knew I wanted to be a writer more than anything else in the world, but I was overwhelmed by everything and didn’t know where to start.” (p.150)

Why this book isn’t screamed about all over the internet, I do not know. It is a book for the big feelers, the writers-to-be and for those finding their place in the world around them. Things I Don’t Want to Know is the first in a trilogy of Levy’s self-described ‘living autobiographies’, and they are all magnificent.

Deborah Levy is one of my favourite authors, and I would like everyone to read her work, please and thank you.

8. Notes on Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Why? In my opinion, this is the ultimate meditation on grief. Not a word is wasted, and it cuts to the bone.

A personal favourite quote:

“Enemies beware: the worst has happened. My father is gone. My madness will now bare itself.” (p.20)

This essay depicts Adichie’s experience of losing her father; already an established writer and impressive wordsmith, this book describes grief in a way that no one else comes close to. Anyone who has lost someone will gain so much comfort (and cry so many tears) from this book.

9. And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer by Fredrik Backman

Why? The nuances of family relationships are painted beautifully, all the while telling the story of a man with memory loss.

A personal favourite quote:

“‘How did you fall in love with her?’ the boy asks.

Grandpa’s hands land with one palm on his own knee and one on the boy’s.

‘She got lost in my heart, I think. Couldn’t find her way out. Your grandma always had a terrible sense of direction. She could get lost on an escalator.’” (p.58)

Oh, God. Even finding the quote in the book for this article made my bones hurt. I cannot look at this book without a lump getting lodged in my throat. I read it in one sitting and hysterically cried the whole time. It is beautiful beyond belief, and is why I can completely justify squeezing in an extra Fredrik Backman on this list.

10. A Month in Siena by Hisham Matar

Why? The deep appreciation of art.

A personal favourite quote:

“And hadn’t we always done this in our childhood, spent hours slinging pebbles at the stars, knowing full well that, even before we fired them, the stones would fall right back and probably on our own heads?” (pp. 24-25)

Matar spends a month in Siena admiring artworks which he has loved his whole life, and the account is a vivid one. It is a slow-moving book, but I believe that is the point of it. Love is also covered frequently in this book, be it talking about his deep love for his wife or art. It’s a wonderful, languishing read.

11. The Travelling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa

Why? A beautiful ode to the connection between animals and humans.

A personal favourite quote:

“How could I ever leave him, having experienced that kind of love?” (p.171)

A vital fact you should know about me: I am an animal lover. Even more so, I am a cat person (you have met Pud in this post, and will see his gorgeous, squishy face at the end of it, too). This book is a wonderful tale of the bond between a cat and his human, told from the perspective of a cat.

12. Zami: A New Spelling of My Name by Audre Lorde

Why? An intersectional feminist reflecting on her life - she is an inspiration.

A personal favourite quote:

“Our obvious happiness in our ‘incorrect’ love was so great besides her obvious unhappiness in her ‘correct’ ones, that the only response to such cosmic unfairness was tears.” (p.232)

Audre Lorde is one of those women with whom I would do anything to have a five-minute conversation. As mentioned above, she was an intersectional feminist, and she discusses these intersections of race, gender, class and sexuality in this book. Women, and her love for them, are what form the foundations of the book, but her tumultuous relationship with her mother is what makes it all the more absorbing.

13. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (featuring the most beautiful edition of the book you’ve ever seen!)

    Why? An iconic tale of sisterhood and coming of age.

    A personal favourite quote:

    “I like good strong words that mean something.”

    I don’t need to pitch Little Women to you, because I am sure you have read it. If you haven’t read it, please do! It is a really accessible classic book. I often am put off by the classics, as I deem them intimidating, but this one is a joy to read. Despite its age, its themes keep it relevant even in the modern day.

    

14. When the Cranes Fly South by Lisa Ridzén

    Why? A story of a father and son trying to reconnect.

    A personal favourite quote:

    “I know what I want to say, but it’s hard. I’ve been trying to say it for weeks now. They’re just words, but it’s so hard.” (p.306)

    This is a sparkling debut novel, exploring a strained father-son relationship as the father ages. As a carer myself, it’s also the first time I have ever seen a story involving carers! (I know, the irony of a highly sensitive person ending up in the care sector is not lost on me either.) It tells the classic story of trying to say

    the right thing before time runs out.

15. The Position of Spoons: and Other Intimacies by Deborah Levy

    Why? An author reflecting on the art that both inspired and affected her.

    A personal favourite quote:

“It’s hard, sometimes even absurd, to know things, even harder to feel things…” (p.7)

You don’t mind if I sneak a second Deborah Levy onto this list, do you? Good. In my head, this is the modern-day A Room of One’s Own, where a deeply respected author reflects on writing, and the people and works who have influenced her. I would read Levy’s shopping list. Even if she only needed bread and milk.

Last but not least, a bonus three poetry anthologies! Although I mainly read fiction and non-fiction, the poetry I do consume, I adore. Here are my ladies.

1. Collected Poems by Wendy Cope

Beloved writer of The Orange, this is a collection of Cope’s poetry spanning her entire career. She writes with wit and candour about life and love, and she does it brilliantly.

2. Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz (featuring my gorgeous boy, Pud, who wanted to see what was going on)

Why! Is! This! Anthology! Not! Talked! About! More!

It won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry back in 2021, so it blows my mind that I don’t hear more rave reviews of this collection. Diaz’s poetry explores what it means to be a queer, Indigenous woman, and does so with expertise. It is also a deep reflection on masculinity, violence and the ripple effects from said behaviour (a special mention goes to ‘The Mustangs’, my favourite poem in the anthology. It moves me to tears every time I read it).

3. Devotions by Mary Oliver

You really thought you would get to the end of a sensitive woman’s reading list without finding Mary Oliver?

My favourite poet has entered the building, and she is here to celebrate nature, the self and love in all its forms. Oliver has my eternal adoration.

Writing about books like this has given me more joy than I thought it would.

The last time I wrote about books in any capacity was during my degree; it’s good for the soul to rave about books simply for the sheer love of them. I hope you can find some helpful recommendations here, and can dip your toe into new waters. If you are already familiar with them all, please let me know your favourites!

See you on Sunday for another post!

All my love,

Emma

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The Three Billy Goats Gruff (De tre bukkene Bruse in its original language, because I am nothing if not a language lover) is a Norwegian folk tale, in which three goats attempt to cross a bridge to get to better grazing grounds. Underneath the bridge lives a “great ugly troll, with eyes as big as saucers.” He is known for eating all creatures that try to traverse the bridge.

The “tiniest Billy Goat Gruff” braves the perilous journey first. The troll soon hears the footsteps and threatens to devour the goat. Cleverly, the goat persuades the troll to wait for the next goat to cross, who is larger than he is. The troll concedes, and off young Billy Goat goes.

When the time comes for the second goat to cross, he promises the same thing to the troll. Our friendly neighbourhood troll accepts this deal and awaits the final goat.

Up trots the biggest Billy Goat, and the troll is ready to feast. However, before he gets the chance to do so, the goat gouges out the troll’s eyes with his horns and proceeds to, essentially, stone him to death.

The Billy Goats go on to lead a life of unlimited grass on which to munch, and live their happily ever after.

Now, I should be rooting for the success of the goats, but the majority of me feels sorry for the troll. He dwells in his habitat and gets frequently disrupted by the outside world, when all he wants is to just live a peaceful existence and stare out at the “cascading stream” that is his home. He is protective of his bridge. I get it, I really do.

Perhaps this begs some self-reflection; I feel an affinity for an angry troll who exists under a bridge. However, there are some startling similarities. I too:

• Get grumpy when the outside world threatens my bubble

• Am happiest when in nature; living in a waterfall sounds ideal

• Don’t like confrontation

• Have “eyes as big as saucers” (my boyfriend believes I am part owl, in fact)

Allow me the liberty to modernise this nineteenth-century tale, with myself as the troll and the three goats representing certain aspects of Twenty-First-Century life. Perhaps I can better explain that way.

We are constantly assaulted by a barrage of information. Whether we want to know the latest news or not, we will inevitably find out. Be it via tweets or reels or notes or posts or videos, there is an oversaturation of people telling us about the same stories in different ways. It’s repetitive at best, and disturbing at worst.

However, there is an unspoken dilemma in having infinite access to even more infinite information. Are we allowed to turn away from it? When the world is falling apart at the seams, what entitles us to be the ones who can be sheltered from the news? As much as we want to be able to protect our mental health and our sanity, that is a privilege.

You can’t choose to absorb the news if you are the news. What about the Palestinians who are facing famine that none of us could begin to comprehend? They don’t get a choice. Or how about the blood-curdling statistic that, as of the UN News article’s publication on 29^th July 2025, over 20,000 children have been treated for “acute malnutrition” since April of this year?

They can’t switch the news off if it’s making them uncomfortable.

What about when flight Air India 171 crashed back in June? Do we deserve to protect ourselves from the knowledge that everyone onboard – bar one person – died? When we find out there is a sole survivor, who has been through unimaginable trauma, is there an outpouring of support? Partially, yes. But the other half of the internet crucified Vishwash Kumar Ramesh, accusing him of being part of a conspiracy to crash the plane. It's the kind of vile behaviour that makes you think: you know what, maybe I do have the right to delete social media.

What about the unfolding tragedy in Pakistan, where the recent flooding and landslides have claimed hundreds of lives? Over two hundred individuals are still missing.

The disasters are endless. The exposure is constant.

So how do we cope? How do we strike the right balance between being well-informed but also taking care of our mental health? The truth is, I am yet to discover what that balance is. But this precarious relationship has taught me some things. For one, I am too fearful to ever bring children into this world; I would want to constantly shield them in a world where the shield doesn’t exist. It has also taught me that I crave simplicity; having people who love me (and I them), my health and my writing as an outlet are enough for me. Those three things are my raison d'être.

One thing I can confidently say is that everyone possesses a different threshold for not just tragedy, but also information retention. As an incredibly sensitive human, my capacity for immense sadness runs deep, so I try to look out for myself as best I can. In educating myself, I will choose to read a single, thorough article informing me of the particular world news – and then I put my phone down. I don’t go and search it on social media, and see what people are saying. I don’t watch people who haven’t verified their sources retell their version of the story; all content I read will be from a trusted news website.

In essence, I let the goats pass over the bridge, but also usher them out before nightfall. They know they can return in the morning, but have to be gone at my say so. I deserve to soak in the waterfall. I need to see the vibrant green of the grass for myself, too. Then, when I’m feeling brave, I will clamber up to the top of my hill and look out at the world around me. I will see it for what it is – churlish, naïve, but so very beautiful – and love it all the same. But it will scare me, as it always does.

As the fairy tale says itself:

“Snip, snap, snout.

This tale’s told out.”

All my love,

Emma

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Have you ever sprinted through a foreign country, your stomach threatening unspeakable things, whilst you wonder why you’ve been smited so as to not find a toilet? If you haven’t, I highly recommend it. It is one of the most humbling experiences a human can have, and arguably a rite of passage for an anxious person. Reaching the toilet is more euphoric than seeing any famous landmark. I promise you that.

Having a blog that centres around sensitivity is glorious; it offers a (hopefully) never-ending fountain of things I can share. Sensitivity affects more than the mind and heart – it has a domino effect on the rest of the body. Tension in the hips, tight shoulders, and a disgruntled gut seem to be the holy trinity of Big Feelers. In light of that, this article is an attempt at a survival guide for travelling whilst balancing bowel and bladder issues.

Some context for you, lovely reader: I have IBS and am one cystoscopy away from being diagnosed with Interstitial Cystitis. I also happen to have OCD; any intrusive thought I have goes straight to my bowels. They don’t tell you that when you get diagnosed. You have OCD and anxiety, and you will need to shit yourself every time you have a scary thought for as long as you will live. Glamorous, I know.

Before we dive into the guide, I should outline my medical conditions that make travel difficult. I am sure many of you are familiar with Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). If you aren’t, here is the NHS’ definition of it (please note, I always cite official sources for medical conditions, as I don’t want to risk misrepresenting them in any way):

“IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) is a common condition that affects the digestive system. It can cause stomach cramps, bloating and diarrhoea. It’s usually a lifelong condition but lifestyle changes and medicine can help.”

My biggest IBS trigger is anxiety – there is nothing that will send me running for the toilets quicker. Admittedly, diet does have some impact, with my body generally ejecting anything that isn’t homemade food as soon as I put my knife and fork down. That’s always a disappointing moment; still being at the restaurant, going to the toilet, and thinking to yourself: great, I’ve just shit £20.

On the flip side, Interstitial Cystitis is a lesser-known condition.

“Interstitial cystitis (IC)/bladder pain syndrome (BPS) is a chronic bladder health issue. It is a feeling of pain and pressure in the bladder area. Along with this pain are lower urinary tract symptoms which have lasted for more than 6 weeks, without having an infection or other clear causes.

Symptoms range from mild to severe. For some patients the symptoms may come and go, and for others they don't go away. IC/BPS is not an infection, but it may feel like a bladder infection. Women with IC/BPS may feel pain when having sex […] Some people with IC/BPS have other health issues such as irritable bowel syndrome, fibromyalgia, and other pain syndromes.”

Of course, I do want to acknowledge that I haven’t been formally diagnosed with it yet. I have been undergoing testing and relentless doctor’s visits for the last three years regarding UTI-type symptoms that are not UTIs. This is a story for another day, but as so many of you will have experience with, relentlessly advocating for yourself in the face of the medical system is exhausting. I finally saw a gynaecology consultant this year, who has referred me for a cystoscopy. This will either confirm our suspicions or be able to rule it out. However, I do match the symptoms of IC to a textbook level.

Now for the guide. I have been lucky enough to go abroad multiple times in my life, and essentially save any money I have to be able to travel. It is my dream to go travelling one day and see the world with my love at my side and a heavy bag on my back. There is a part of me that doesn’t feel well-travelled enough to write a survival guide, but my tendency to piss fire and shit ungodly amounts when I am out of my comfort zone perhaps suggests otherwise.

1. My girls, SCOPE OUT THE NEAREST TOILET.

   I cannot tell you how much comfort it brings just to know where the nearest toilet is. I was recently on a holiday in Rome and was baffled at the lack of public toilets. I come from the UK, where public toilets are a pretty common occurrence (as disgusting as they might be), so this was an unexpected culture shock. My partner and I spent a small fortune in cafes, just so that we could have access to their toilet. As I said earlier, it’s a glamorous life.

2. Carry a placebo kit at all times

   This is essential for me. As I often get myself into a state worrying about the mere threat of a sudden poo or a debilitating wee, having placebo medication with me is invaluable. Taking my bladder medication and simply knowing I have my trusty Buscopan in my bag can be the difference between me having agonising stomach cramps and having an enjoyable day, perusing the sights.

3. Travel with someone who understands your health conditions

   True love, to me, is my partner turning to me and saying, “Can you make it home, or do you need to go now?” Bear in mind, we were in the middle of the woods, and our accommodation was a twenty-minute drive away. He understands that I get anxious to the point of no return when it comes to my IBS (I can’t even begin to imagine how attractive I must appear to him). True love is my partner cheering me on from afar as I have to make an undignified decision.

4. Travel alone (though prepare for more bowel movements and panicked wees than you thought possible)

   Alternatively, go solo. Don’t get me wrong, I know how terrifying this is. I have only ever solo-travelled abroad once in my life, and I was petrified for the first eight days. I spent a long time hovering near toilets and crying. (I want to be brave enough to travel by myself again - if anyone has any tips for that, please do let me know. Although scary, it was very liberating.) However, if there isn’t someone who has your back, going it alone means you never have to apologise for having forty toilet trips a day again.

5. Have rest days

   I know it is so hard to let yourself have rest days when you have paid to be somewhere. You feel like you are wasting time, and the self-hating spiral is ready to swallow you up. I speak from experience when I say it is better to spend one whole day in bed resting than it is to miss the entire holiday for being in too much pain.

   

6. Learn to self-soothe

   If, like me, you have bowel and bladder issues that are often brought on by psychological causes, this point is particularly for you. Be the person who comforts the scared inner voice, place your hand over your heart and take an incredibly deep breath. You are safe, you are okay. Nothing is going to hurt you, and you have survived this discomfort before.

7. Recognise the self-fulfilling prophecy

   Again, this point is pertinent for those with stress as a trigger. When we stress about “what if I need the toilet as soon as we leave and there are no toilets in sight?”, our stomach goes into spasm, and the inevitable happens. I’m not saying I have the cure for this; I’m just asking that we engage with that unhelpful voice as little as possible.

8. At least you’re shitting yourself abroad

   I recognise that when we are in pain, all we want is to be at home. I am a prime example of that. But, I do believe that building mental strength in this specific situation is like building a muscle. The more you challenge yourself to go away, the more you will be able to cope with this situation. We work so hard to be able to afford to go away; if you both have to speed-walk back to the hotel after a romantic dinner in Rome because your gut is roiling, so be it. (This incredibly specific example is purely fictional.)

9. Allow yourself your trigger foods, but be prepared for the aftermath

   You will be gutted if you can’t have the Ultra Chocolate Tower of Ice Cream Dreams - have some of it. You are hot, young and abroad. Follow this experience by drinking water; this is my solution to a lot of things. Water especially helps dilute the acidity of painful urination.

10. At the end of the day, it makes for a funny blog post.

    When the unnameable incident in the woods happened, I was mortified. These kinds of chronic illnesses often strip us of our dignity and we have to choose how we cope with that. I choose to write about it on my blog and hope to make someone else chuckle at my misadventures.

Travelling is a privilege. Health is even more of a privilege; I am acutely aware of this. If you are someone with a chronic illness reading this, my heart goes out to you. I see you. I know it’s not always easy to look at the funny side of things. Some days, we need to allow ourselves to curl up and cry at the pain of it all. If you are someone in good health but love someone who is ill, I encourage you to research their condition as much as possible. Feeling heard is a big part of the battle.

Be brave, gentle reader, and remember that there are worse things in life than shitting yourself.

All my love,

Emma

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