I’ve had phases of putting more effort into my appearance, which included more often basking in the glow of iPhone photoshoots. There have been other stages of my life where I’ve known mirrors as well as I’ve known the cashier I spoke to that day. I think – and I think I'm being honest with myself in this thinking – that I’m as content with feeling positively towards my appearance as I am with feeling neutrally towards it. I think this because beauty’s never been one of my highest priorities, and I reject the idea that it has to be a priority at all. Beauty is often seen as “taking care of yourself” but since I started running I’ve thought about how not aesthetically pleasing I look during runs – red in the face and dripping with sweat – while taking care of myself.

I’ve been getting familiar with the wonderful process of job-seeking, and I’ve thought about how certain jobs have exceptional standards that are reserved for women. You know the kind, where they require women to have manicures in order to be considered well-groomed (I’ve only ever had 1 professional manicure done and it occurred while abroad in Vietnam). There are hiring managers that would mentally dismiss me before letting me speak if I went to an interview of theirs with my hair in its natural form, even though that’s how I normally wear it. I rarely wear make-up and that would be unacceptable in plenty of workplaces – and don’t get me wrong, those aren’t environments I’d want to work in anyway, but it’s still frustrating that there are extra expectations placed upon anyone who lives reality as a woman – ones that can be really expensive, and ones that men don’t have to even consider. (I enjoyed reading ’s article recently: “Beauty is a class game”)

In the life I’ve carved for myself, I don’t usually have to think about my face or my body too frequently. However, not everyone has that experience, and living in a society with people who don’t share that experience means being exposed to their thought processes which are ruled by the patriarchy and their insecurities. This means having other people’s opinions about weight, style and dress sense projected onto you. This means having your TikTok fyp infiltrated with people validating you when you didn’t ask for it. There’s apparently been a rise in “SkinnyTok” lately, going hand-in-hand with the rise of conservatism, and I’m fortunate that I don’t actually see this stuff on my feed.

What I do keep getting fed against my will, is the well-meaning backlash against SkinnyTok. I’m seeing people “normalising” my body type as if I was supposed to think that it wasn’t already “normal”, even though in the real world I benefit from the privilege of being straight-sized and able-bodied. There are strangers reassuring me that it’s “okay” to consume calories and that I don’t need to overthink the facial features I was born with. While I appreciate the sentiment – and understand this is probably genuinely helpful content for people who are exposed to SkinnyTok and beauty trends, and are in danger of believing those toxic thought patterns – for me, it’s still just content that’s making me think about my appearance when I don't actually want to think about it at all. By the way, I know, I know – I'm adding to this problem by writing this. I’m feeding the conversation I claim to want no part in, and I hope my conclusion makes it worth it. The thing is, I can’t help existing in this society, or thinking about what’s in front of me, or caring about it, but I’m aiming to not care about my appearance the way society seems to want me to. I want to be genuinely, gloriously neutral about how I look. At this point, maybe I want to even reclaim being ugly – an insult I first received at 12 years old, when I knew I was supposed to be soaked in shame because of it.

Being ugly is perceived as one of the worst things a girl or woman can be. Those involved with the body positivity movement will tell us time and time again that everyone is beautiful – poets say that inner beauty and kindness will be reflected in our appearances. If I were to call myself ugly, my friends wouldn’t even stop to think before telling me this is crazy and untrue, and I'm obviously beautiful, because I’m amazing. I agree that all good people around me are beautiful, because although I’m unsure what beauty is supposed to even mean sometimes, I do know that beauty is subjective. I know we are all beautiful to the ones who adore us and are attracted to us. I also understand the good intentions in this validation. But I think I’m finally exhausted with women’s beauty being held in such high regard. I’m tired of how it’s continuously being perpetuated via our pure panic around the thought of being ugly. Maybe it’s time I realise I can be a bit ugly and that’s perfectly fine. Perhaps ugliness doesn’t even have to be a contradiction to beauty, and I can be ugly and beautiful and hot all at once – maybe that’s not something that has to only be reserved for men.

Maybe this is where lesbianism benefits me, but dating a wonderful woman who’s obsessed with you just as you are, shouldn’t be a requirement in knowing that you have worth outside of the patriarchal definition of beauty. I know I can’t reverse the effects of a deeply misogynistic society, not even for myself, but perhaps through writing these words, I'm getting a little closer to believing myself. The rational part of my brain believes these ideas but I’m still working on convincing the rest of me – the parts of myself that show up in anxiety, sometimes when I’m least expecting them to. The parts of my brain that are convinced I need to apologise for my raw existence, or justify not conforming.

If you want to be beautiful, be beautiful, however that looks to you. Feeling and being beautiful are wonderful things. But please don’t believe that beauty is the only currency worth having. And, if people feel like they’re without it, it’s worth considering whether they’re in need of tips on how to gain more currency, or whether they need to be reminded that they already have lots in the bank and they seem to just not be seeing it, or whether they don’t actually need this currency at all. They’re smart and loved and kind and funny regardless of how conventionally beautiful they are, and those qualities aren’t consolations, they’re the best prizes you can possess.

If you haven’t already come across this piece by lovely , I really recommend reading it:

if you get what i mean?

Masculinity, lesbianism, gender, and ME!

I took my last final of the quarter yesterday which means, you guessed it, I’ve officially graduated from Tampon University! No, I’m kidding — I have a few more years left there. No, that’s actually a joke too. There is no Tampon University. But maybe if Hillary had won things might be different. SHE WON THE POPULAR VOTE! What I mean by all of this, of …

Read more

4 days ago · 39 likes · 3 comments · ⋆⭒˚.⋆ grace ⋆⭒˚.⋆

More from me on body image:

Somewhere, Softly

It's 32 degrees outside and I have hairy legs

It’s 32 degrees outside and I have hairy legs – they’re hairier than any woman’s I know of and that’s not normally a problem. It’s still not a problem, it just feels like one. At the weekend, when I took a trip into London, I could get away with wearing light pink trousers I bought in Thailand. But this??? This is undoubtedly shorts weather. I want to w…

Read more

17 days ago · 42 likes · 25 comments · Em

Leave a comment

being in love <3

Here’s to more!

When have you felt proud?

Leave a comment

Somewhere, Softly

To be a lesbian...

To be a lesbian in Essex right now is to be struck by news that Reform’s banning libraries from promoting Pride. It’s to have the reasons you were afraid to be a lesbian regrettably validated by their hate – stare at your glitching TV with a heavy weight inside you, replacing yesterday’s cup you clutched that was overflowing with relief…

Read more

10 days ago · 26 likes · 22 comments · Em

To be a lesbian, sitting in the garden of your conservative town, wearing your girlfriend’s hug in a jumper, is to know you’re everything you’re supposed to be: loved and loving; making joyous queer art; appreciating home in life’s mystical findings that your heart can’t help but beat for. To be a lesbian is to ensure your actions are not in spite of things, but because of things – things like community, passion, and a desire to dance like gravity demands it. The ground shaking beneath you paints rainbows in its cracks and sees optimism in the clouds. Even while weighed down by what you carry, you know you’re still surrounded by forces that are strong, gliding, and good – resisting Reform and their detestable rhetoric, singing in the wind.

:

To be a lesbian in her early 60s, living in Portugal after leaving the United States, is to be profoundly disoriented in ways both daunting and exhilarating. My wife and I left careers and communities last year, refusing to stick around for the gathering fascism. Over decades as a journalist, it was an honor to cover the work of courageous LGBTQ activists in the conservative middle of America, witnessing and documenting our ever-evolving push toward freedom. My job was to know everything about the subject and I did.

Here, I know almost nothing of the organizations or the activists, where to meet people, where to dance, what struggle is most urgent right this minute and how I can help. I’m just beginning to assemble knowledge that took a lifetime to learn in America. I know that Portugal is among the world’s safest countries – for all humans, not just lesbians – but that politicians are starting to come for LGBTQ folks here, too. Holding onto our progress requires constant effort, and I know there’s a strong community of lovers here doing that work. I see it on the streets and on the feeds. It’s so beautiful, the way we find each other.

:

To be lesbian in heaven is to be surrounded by a broad, diverse group of people who are united through their love of women and lesbians. It creates an existence that is unlike any other, influenced by the desire to break the shackles of the patriarchy and create space that is uniquely lesbian. Lesbians are so diverse and so beautiful and it’s been so amazing building a community of lesbians who carry such diverse and broad definitions of queerness and gender.

:

To be a lesbian in healing, is to learn how to take my time.

I was always in a rush. Lock down the friend group, get the promotions, perfect my habits, solve all the trauma, find the wife and love her forever. I speed-built a tower on a quaking foundation, and when it crashed all at once, I was suspended in despair. Thank goodness for that. Since then, I’ve got to lovingly learn and repair myself.

As a lesbian in the diaspora, there was more to untangle than I’d realized. I picked apart the world’s messages about us. I am not mythical. I am not wrong. I am not an outsider. But even in recovery, I found myself rushing because I just wanted to feel better. I still wanted someone to love me into a rescue from my own loneliness.

But somehow, staying by my own side, I began to practice the dance of slow and steady. In the stillness, I saw. Past versions of me, the scared closeted ones, came up for air and I held them close. Today, pain has not disappeared, but now it moves through me. And I, soft and slow, finally know how to let it.

:

To be a lesbian in the suburbs of San Antonio, TX is to belong.

Hill country terrain, thick with wildflowers in Spring. Bluebonnets blooming brightly as the happiness they bring. The Texan sun is honey and gold, drenches the landscape and feeds my soul. Limestone, building block of my land, rock steady, stone sedimentary, both battleground and home.

My wife and I both grew up in the San Antonio suburbs during a time when being a lesbian was a secret to be protected. We left for more liberal living, but ached for the northside. We were afraid when we moved home. After all, Texas is infamously conservative. But last year when our neighbors put up a Pride flag, we knew we weren’t alone.

I drink sweet tea in the summer and eat marranitos in the winter. We buy our groceries from HEB, the store that does more. And the best part of all, the endless drives. Back roads, country roads, rolling hill roller coaster roads. Add in some honking – Go Spurs Go! – and I always know, this is where we belong. This is home.

:

To be a lesbian constantly wandering around, treading my footsteps around the world, packing up suitcases after suitcases, searching for the place that will magically heal my wounds, is to hold onto one stable tangent, one permanent parameter of myself and of my existence in the world which is that I, a woman, love another woman.

There is beauty in the wonder that comes along with discovering new cities and creating new routines in every corner of the world I let myself move through, but it is not even close to the exhilarating, yet soothing, magnificence of being a lesbian.

To be a lesbian at my very core is a part of my identity, so much so that I can’t even fathom another possibility. It is letting go of millions of voices and whispers, opinions that followed me through childhood, injunctions that were bestowed upon me in the hopes of making me someone different. It is also giving in to the songs of my heart urging me to embrace this truth. It is looking into my wife’s eyes and thinking they are the most beautiful, and that I am so lucky to be here, to be me as well as hers.

:

To be a lesbian in my body is to care for what once repulsed me. Strong shoulders, hips cut like a blade, she grabs them like a lifeline. Stop biting nails, picking at scabs, she bathes in cream, cools me through the sweat that endures on my palms. She holds my hand tight anyway. See the shadows under my eyes through her lit-up ones, lines deepen when she makes me laugh. Curve the contours of my biceps as I catch her staring. Perceived through the sapphic gaze, I’ve never needed to make myself small.

:

To be a lesbian in the sea meant that I lived life holding my breath and thinking it was normal. Everybody was able to get by around me, except me, because my legs couldn’t take me far. No matter how hard I swam, I never stayed afloat. The first time I remember breathing was at 8 years old. I was in year 3 when I met a honey coloured hair girl. I told her she reminded me of Bambi as we held hands and twirled round and round and round during lunch break. We became friends under the sunlight that day. Her light brown hair was in a ponytail and it glowed like honey in a glass jar. Our names rhymed like a song. We doodled in my hello kitty sketchbook, that years later now, I get to look back at it and remember the pureness of the love I held for her, and probably always would. Her name would always be signed under my own. Her handwriting was just as pretty as her smile.

I was given a ring once, and I ended up giving it to her. She was so happy. I loved making her happy. She disappeared after that year. I drowned for many years, and now, for the first time in my life, I know how to stay afloat.

To be a lesbian in this age is to get to meet other lesbians while not even being in the same room. To come together through words and feelings and discover more lesbians through words and feelings and… here we are. Lesbians, in your screen. In your head. In your mid-scroll stillness.

To be a lesbian, now, is to be more than they thought we would be. Like flowers and like poetry and like craved natural sunlight, we’re everywhere,

and we shine.

Thank you so much to , , , , , & for your beautiful contributions to this collaboration!

Reader, what does it mean to be where you are? 💜

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

Dear reader,

Hello!! How are you? Has it been as hot where you are as it’s been in Essex? I spent multiple days in May trying very hard to not be a British person who complains about the weather. I thought I’d be more adjusted to heat after my recent travels across Asia and Australia, however I’ve been reminded that the existence of AC makes a huge difference when it comes to dealing with a heatwave. Being outside and hot is one thing, but waking up in a house that’s already over 30 degrees is another. Still, the sunshine has been lovely!

I last left you at the end of April, so here’s the monthly letter from then in case you missed it:

Somewhere, Softly

Somewhere, Softly in April

Each month, I write a monthly round-up to catch my paid subscribers up on my life. If you ever want to show financial support for all my writing on this platform – and receive these letters as a bonus – you can upgrade your subscription any time. Alternatively, I also accept tips on…

Read more

a month ago · 3 likes · 2 comments · Em

And if you’re new to receiving these, welcome!!! Thank you so much for becoming a paid subscriber and being here for my writing journey – I feel truly privileged to have your support.

Read more

So, I could just shave my legs and part myself from this possibility. I have 4 plastic women’s razors in my bathroom cupboard because I always forget I may as well just buy men’s. I think my legs look more like men’s, when I think of women’s and men’s legs as I know them, but maybe that’s because women with legs like mine are also sitting in their homes, with their own equally ridiculous shame, debating raising a razor to their shins for the first time in months.

All these years of feminism and lesbianism and still I’m stuck in an insignificant thought spiral. Dark hair grows all over me – above my upper lip, under my chin, and certainly, on my arms and legs. I joke that I’m glad to be a lesbian because it’s more normalised for me to be this way. The patriarchy won’t forgive me for being a lesbian with hairy legs, but I do at least get to bring an excuse to the party. They can assume I’m the hairy man-hating lesbian of their nightmares, like I’m trying to be ugly, like I want to repulse men. Of course, by daring to look like this in public it couldn’t possibly mean that I’m just existing as I am. How awful is that? That if I were a straight woman and had these same legs – especially if I were single and dating – I’d probably feel far more pressure to conform than I do already. I wouldn’t have my joke, my excuse, the thing that separates me from womanhood as society knows it.

A feminist was most likely the first progressive thing I claimed myself to be, yet I think I’ve unfortunately taken a bit of a backseat in more recent years. I’ve been a feminist for as long as I’ve understood what the term meant but I’ve also subconsciously found myself fearing feminist spaces sometimes. Inclusive Sapphic spaces have been the safest spaces for me because I know all facets of myself will be accepted, and in my experience there’s usually an understanding of alignment when it comes to core values. These aren’t things I necessarily assume in a space that centres women, but that’s such a shame, isn’t it? Because I want to believe in feminist spaces that exist primarily for that cause, and the good that they do, because I of course believe in women’s rights. I’ve read/watched a lot of ’s content lately, and there’s something I believe she’s very right about: as a society we don't treat womanhood as enough of a reason to be oppressed. We think we’ve come so far in Western societies but we haven’t, and when it comes to advocating for women’s rights, we’re constantly tip-toeing and trying not to hurt the patriarchy’s feelings in our pursuit.

Last year I wrote about lesbian gender and perhaps those feelings, and my hesitation towards feeling like a stand-out lesbian within women’s spaces, have affected the way I approach them. Yet I come on Substack and I connect with many wonderful women, over the girls that we once were, and the people we are now. writes about different generations of women, and I'm filled with gratitude and hope for the future when I read her words. This month, I went to a Substack writers’ meet-up, where I sat with women I didn’t know, and some of them were also queer. In our discussions about writing, relationships, the patriarchy, and sex, I felt completely normal and like myself, and I craved more of those interactions with wise women possessing different experiences.

I listen to straight female music artists frequently – I currently have Maisie Peters and Cate Canning’s new albums on repeat. I stream these songs that are inescapably about men and even though I can’t relate to them, the songs mean something to me because of who they’re written by. Because I’m a flawed human being, I’m currently re-watching Pretty Little Liars, which is a mess of a show but continuously highlights female friendship as an incredible, unbelievably powerful force. While realising I was queer allowed me to find my people when it came to being able to trust acquaintances and create community, most of my close friendships have been sustained with women without queerness coming into conversation. I’d be so ignorant to underplay the role female friendship serves in my life, but because I’ve so often hung out with only one or two women at once, I’ve always believed I’d be alienated from bigger girl groups. The idea reminds me of being in school, and the ways in which I was an outsider, as well as the friendships that I felt more like myself in, but that unfortunately fell apart.

I mentioned a few paragraphs ago, who was recently accused of being a Terf primarily because of people in her comments and not necessarily because of anything she actually said. She’s since made an emotional apology video reassuring her audience that she is not a Terf, and the reason she hadn’t been explicitly mentioning trans people in her content was because her videos were based on her own individual experiences as a cis black lesbian woman. There’s nothing wrong with seeking confirmation that a creator you like isn’t transphobic – that’s a completely valid thing to crave, and something I’d also want to know about someone I’m supporting, because I support trans rights inexplicably. But when young, intelligent women like Paris are being brought to tears because of attacks, and being “cancelled”, when I can find little basis for these accusations, I'm filled with fury that rather than engaging in productive conversations, people will be so quick to dog-pile upon someone who’s actually doing great, uplifting work. Even if, like me, you don’t agree with all of her takes, she’s undoubtedly someone who’s encouraging her audience to think about feminist issues, and causing us to question our stances. Personally, I’m inspired by her to think harder about what feminism means to me, and I massively appreciate her content for that. I have an elevated yearning to be as unapologetically feminist as I am unapologetically queer. I have a deep desire to educate myself better on ensuring that my feminism is intersectional.

I’ll never be able to take cancel culture seriously knowing that marginalised groups and left-leaning people get berated for the most minuscule things or things they haven’t even done – assumptions that are made about them – while members of the right get away with the most despicable acts. I see it in the UK with the treatment of Zack Polanski vs. the way barely anybody bats an eyelid at crimes committed by Tory and Reform leaders. I see it in pop culture as people put their energy into “proving” that Chappell Roan is a mean lesbian meanwhile there are male rapists and abusers in the music industry who get to exist as the butt of a joke. When we shut down the voices of people we expect to be on our side, who are already taking the risks that come with speaking out online, rather than acknowledging that no human being is perfect and calmly talking about our concerns, we lose vital representation we need. We cannot let things escalate into bullying so easily, because it’s wrong and hurtful, and also because while this discourse is all over TikTok and distracting everybody, the misogyny we’re all trying to fight is gaining an even louder voice in society.

I want to do more as a feminist, for others, and for myself. So that feminist spaces feel more safe and inclusive for all women, and so that selfishly, I’m not sitting here with this screwed-up idea that whether or not I shave my legs will deeply affect the week I'm going to have. I’m privileged that I have this choice to make, and that there’s not a part of me I can’t hide that would cause me to be subject to such judgement. I’m aware that many people can’t change the thing about themselves that causes people to stare, and knowing that makes me feel even sillier for overthinking my body hair.

I know I’ll shave my legs before going out tomorrow, and I won’t necessarily regret it because they’ll be smooth and I won’t wonder if people are noticing them as I sit on the bus in my small town. But I’ll be sad that I felt like I had to. That I’m wrapped round the pinky of the patriarchy and not because I care about the male gaze but because I regrettably care about blending in. And perhaps nobody would even notice or care about my hairy legs and like I said earlier, that’s all in my head – all ego talking – but my previous experiences and the messages of the media are enough to initiate a ritual in the bath, where I twist a razor round my ankles and make myself less. I'll be comfortable wearing a tie-dye lesbian flag as a t-shirt tomorrow, but leaving my natural body hair as it is would simply stir up too many complications.

They’ll say it’s not that deep, but nearly everything feels deep to me, even when my actions imply that I’m shallow.

Leave a comment

I didn’t know a lot about literary magazines before joining Substack. However, since last September (with somebody’s recommendation of Chill Subs in my head), I’ve explored many different publications, from those just starting out to those that are extremely established and will accept 0.01% of their submissions. I’ve been more drawn to the former not just because I have actual hope of having work accepted by them, but because I’m intrigued by the ways in which journeys are beginning, with writers wearing their hearts on their sleeves – and the ways editors are building real communities. I’m seeing spaces that actually feel accessible to me, as a writer without an MFA or fancy publishing credits.

I’ve loved building my own community on Substack, but there’s so much going on in the online literary world outside of this space, and I wanted to see more of it. Rather than exclusively continuously chasing spots at others’ tables and hoping to fit in there, I started to fall in love with the idea of having my own corner of the web that I had ownership of. Some of you know that in my very early days on Substack, my account and publication were shut down due to an error on their part. Even though I got it back with nothing lost, it’s something that’s wriggled around in the back of my mind whenever I’ve felt overly reliant on Substack. I can’t be too trusting or too secure on someone else’s land, no matter how much of myself I’ve poured into it.

So, I decided to set up my own website!! And it’s not going to replace everything I’ve got going on here – the Somewhere, Softly Substack will remain the primary tunnel where my thoughts travel directly to the clouds, not least because I adore reading other Substacks and connecting with so many individuals on the app. However, I want to offer more beyond my personal outlet and controlled collaborations – I want to offer a literary hub that hosts a home for those who desire it, so anyone who finds us has the opportunity to stay and submit something.

You can check out the website here! It’s best viewed on desktop, and I’m still in the early days of developing it, but the important thing is that it’s now out there. Somewhere, Softly exists beyond Substack and we’re accepting submissions!

Here’s the plan: Somewhere, Softly will accept submissions for its Blog on a rolling basis, starting right now! We accept new work AND work that has been previously published on social media/personal blogs/Substack because we believe in your right to have as many eyes on your work as possible.

Ametrine Zine is a new digital zine – a creative adventure that will accept themed submissions. More information about this will be released soon, so keep an eye out for the theme and all the other details you need to know if you’re interested in being part of Issue 0. All submission guidelines and details can be found on the website.

There’s also the option to send Airmail, which is a much simpler way of interacting with the site. You can visit us and quickly drop a message sharing whatever thoughts are spinning around your head. Come as you are, and leave what you’ve got to give – you can indicate whether your message is something you’d like to share publicly or if you’d prefer your paper airplane to stay folded.

Everything on my Substack will continue to operate as normal, however you’ll now also receive a sprinkling of updates on the wider world of Somewhere, Softly.

This wasn’t created on an impulse – it’s something I’ve put a lot of thought into over the past few months, and something that just feels right. Keeping websites alive costs money, so if you’d like to help me on this journey, you can become a paid subscriber, tip me, or just share and spread the word! Any and every bit of support is sincerely, really appreciated.

The reason I was even able to entertain this idea is because of the sensational support I’ve received on Substack so far, so thank you so much for being here and proving that passion is alive and thriving, and it’s something that’s worth investing time, effort and currency in. I’m so excited to see what we make together!

Until next time, with love,

Em 💜

somewheresoftly.com

Leave a comment

I was a lesbian while alone in my purple-pink bedroom, singing Taylor Swift karaoke and crying to “Ours”. I was a lesbian seeing stained glass in the jewel-toned colours of my laptop screen – all its carefully collected dust sitting patiently in patterns.

I was a lesbian when I swallowed a tooth and audaciously wrote to the tooth fairy, asking if I could please still receive a pound coin in exchange for nothing but my wanting. I swallowed a second tooth and was again gifted golden magic. There it was, my reassurance: girlhood was alive and I wouldn’t miss out. The same way I wouldn’t miss out on a first kiss or wearing a prom dress. I was normal, I was innocent, I was a lesbian in the way you can’t help but notice lightning, even when your focus is trying to stay elsewhere.

I was a lesbian when I never got to grips with straightening my hair – the back of my head still frizzy, losing most of myself in exclusion.

I was a lesbian when I said I was bisexual, which I’m sorry for – it really wasn’t my intention to be wrong. I was a lesbian in my mistake and in my purple-coated activism, waving glitter and knowing queerness was joy.

I was a lesbian in my dreams: pink, forest green, and golden. I saw wedding decor and adoption papers and a bed bought for two.

I was a lesbian in denial and in confusion, until I became a lesbian loudly. I was a lesbian swimming in my most honest state, the waters much less murky. The waves were metallic blue and sparkling with salty hope.

I was a lesbian in bite marks, relief, and arms stretched out wide. I was a lesbian in sunshine and poetry and an amber rose orchestra calling me home.

Lesbianism felt like a destination but it was within me the whole time. Wasted spirals leading me back to a beginning I’d been too scared to see initially. Now my eyes are open with every copper step, and cherry blossoms bloom at the sight of us – in the light – of us.

Sun-kissed/kissed by her/a lesbian. Heard in the thunder of the timpani, and read in the outpour.

Leave a comment

previous post:

Somewhere, Softly

I'm not a traitor, I'm a lesbian

You know lesbians aren’t traitors, right…

Read more

a month ago · 31 likes · 12 comments · Em

You know lesbians aren’t traitors, right?

I don’t know, sometimes it seems like the world wants you to think we are. Traitors to men and therefore traitors to womanhood; traitors to someone else’s expectations; traitors to expectations that were put upon us; traitors to conformation and normality, and to what can be easily understood.

Yet as a lesbian, I’m the most faithful I’ve ever been. Faithful to the first crushes that ever materialised within me, fluttering; faithful to desire and passion; faithful to authenticity; faithful to the purest love I’ve ever had the privilege to cherish.

And I know most people I’ve met within the queer community can relate on some level, but I thought younger generations would grow up with more freedom – fewer assumptions made about them so they wouldn’t have to know such an inner struggle. I look at social media and “woke” is out, and I see that it’s going to occur again and again and again. Kids are going to grow up with the same fear I did; kids are going to grow up worrying that they’re a traitor to being “good”. It breaks my heart because what’s the point in all these revelations and conversations and marches if the cycle just continues? If queer people have to hide for the sake of everybody else’s comfort?

Obviously, I’m being flippant. I know why we keep going and I’ll never suggest that we don’t, and we’ve come so far even if we’re taking some steps backwards right now. We can go forwards again. We put in the work where we can and find joy and hope over and over again. I’m just annoyed right now, because social media was supposed to make it easier. It was the internet that showed me there were people like me, and they were thriving. YouTube gave me my first queer vocabulary, and yeah maybe I mislabelled myself for a while and still had comp-het to work through, but things were so much better than they were before I first clicked “play”. But apparently everything progressive exists in a tunnel fed to the minority now. There are algorithms flooding with those that want us silent – want us converted. They think Pride is a joke but I wasn’t laughing when I broke down with worry, or when I read the news that they wanted to strip us of our rights, or was told about a friend of a friend’s death.

You’re not too used to seeing me melting in fury, but it’s rising up in me in orange-pink flames. There’s still hope in the heat. Many of us meet under moonlight so I stay hopeful because of them, and because of words I can’t help but say, and because of others’ words I agree with, as well as words that make me see new light. I stay hopeful because of how happy I am to love and to be and to plan for a future that accepts me.

I’m not a traitor, I’m a lesbian. And maybe you think I say it too much – write it in too many of my poems – “we get it Em, we’ve heard a dozen variations before” but I don't care, I don’t care, I don’t care. I don’t care about your resistance because there’s still power in the unapologetic push, and in being vocal. There’s power in equating lesbianism with flowers and faithfulness, and fury where it’s due.

And now when I see this shining part of me reflected, I get to know I’m loyal to it. I get to know it’s mine to stay true to. Proudly, faithfully.

Leave a comment

most recently:

Somewhere, Softly

Clouds & Stars

her complications…

Read more

a month ago · 27 likes · 10 comments · Em

cloudy head and starlit heart

will carry her high

I don’t believe it was love at first sight, but somewhere along the way, I became an enormous lover of clouds. Maybe when I first saw them from a plane window, and I almost believed I could reach out and touch them – grab a handful and let it melt in my mouth, like clouds really were candy floss. Maybe earlier, when I lay on the grass – much too long ago to have had the bad habit of scrolling – and I noticed their shapes, their patterns telling special stories. However I wanted to describe them: beautiful fluff, sky’s whispers, characters in the blue – clouds kindly reminded me that imperfections make us real. Last year in Thailand, I got a smiley cloud tattooed – the perfect inked companion to stick around for the future, never leaving my inner arm.

And then there’s stars, which make me gasp when they become visible in multitudes. Constellations that dazzle. I vividly remember the first and only shooting star my eyes witnessed – somewhere in Poland, in the middle of summer. I was gushing about life with a girl next to me, and we just so happened to look up from the bonfire simultaneously – seeing the dancing vision was a first for us both and I delighted in how she was as starstruck as I was. The memory sticks to me, accompanied by the sound of Micah strumming her guitar. I’ve since learnt we’re made of stardust – it seems like something I should have already known. How could I have gone so long not knowing something so simple and beautiful? We’re stars, we’re stars, we’re stars, my thoughts spun.

It was a truth that made so much sense, and I saw it in stargirls who dared to shine brightest. I reached out to one of them last week – I've never met her, but being publicly queer on IG back in the day meant becoming connected to some beautiful starry souls, whose faces still pop up on my timeline when I pay the app a visit. Theresa is one of those girls, THE stargirl, and this is what she had to say about it:

Nothing matters there so everything matters. How I love the way we all matter. How we’re like clouds floating through life in different directions. How we create a map of stars through twinkling, honest art.

Subscribe now

I had an impulse to extend an open invitation for collaboration on this post, because to be with the clouds or the stars is to be surrounded by those you’re connected to. And I’m so grateful to have connections – people to share words and experiences with; people who also feel attached to the atmosphere in some way. So here’s some timeless poetry for you to savour, no matter what time your clock says it is:

Clouds and stars get the chance to exist everywhere, and anywhere, no matter their look or shape or if they choose to stay hidden. We get to exist everywhere and anywhere too (no matter our look or shape, or if we choose to stay hidden). In a world that sometimes seems hateful, I hope these words remind you of the good. I also hope that when you read our words, you don’t feel a need to escape somewhere – that you feel like you’re enough where you are and that we’re all together somewhere.

Thank you so much for reading – remember to look up!

Subscribe now

Somewhere, Softly

smiley cloud :)

I think most of us grow up associating clouds with negativity. Even the phrase “every cloud has a silver lining” implies the only saving grace is the silver lining itself. Often, a “perfect” weather day is considered to be one without a single cloud in sight…

Read more

10 months ago · 24 likes · 12 comments · Em

1 year ago I was in Vietnam and I published my first post on Substack, and at first it seemed like a small, casual gesture – something pretty unremarkable. However, I quickly became very not casual about Substack, for I hadn’t realised that it encompassed essentially everything I’d wanted to find years prior.

Substack came with a built-in community and a pretty layout on desktop, and suddenly there were lights appearing everywhere, in my phone and in my head. My old attempts at blogging looked like they could come alive here. After years of posed pictures and short-form content consuming my feeds, finally here was a place that prioritised words. A space where my poetic side could lead over any other illusions. I’ve always been someone who’s felt a pull to post on the platform I’m spending the most time on, so I accidentally retired from Instagram in favour of reading and writing articles here instead. I gradually connected with people I saw myself in, something I hadn’t done online with strangers in a long time, and it was lovely.

The longer I spent here, the more I realised Substack wasn’t just about the opportunity to write pretty words. Despite the fact my thoughts were being directly transported to inboxes, I could be vulnerable here in a way I wasn’t elsewhere online. I could write essays and prose and poetry, and could rediscover a written voice I’d lost a lot of faith in, in previous years.

I’ve wondered recently if I should be more intentional with my Substack going forwards, whatever that really means, but I’m realising the reason I’ve been so dedicated to Substack and written a whopping 108 posts prior to this one, is because of how unintentional it was. My lack of expectations gave me so much confidence in posting here. I’ve felt completely free to write whatever I wanted and I've been so lucky to have been met with kindness each and every time.

I’ve written about travel experiences just after they’ve happened, and ages after they’ve happened. I’ve written really gay poetry, I’ve engaged in discourse, I’ve gushed about the things I love without looking for any deeper meaning, because love is enough. I’ve written about people I love and memories I treasure. I’ve shown upset and confusion – I’ve let old wounds open and pour over pages. I’ve felt genuinely proud hitting “publish” and haven’t stopped to second-guess myself in doing so. Some major highlights have been every collab I’ve done, including my holiday card series I felt urged to do; creating and hosting A Very Queer Christmas with ; and the Sapphic Valentine’s Haiku Collection. I’ve loved getting involved in others’ collab projects like ’s poetry collections; ’s tea party, and everything going on at ’s diner. I’m so excited for future collabs too. I always thought writing was a representation of my introversion and desire to spend time in solitude, but collaborating and developing a community has just made my passion so much more special and worthwhile. I’ve received real life mail from 3 fellow Substack writers and I’ve attended a Substack meet-up full of strangers – I’ve got to remember how beautiful it is that all this joy truly does transcend screens.

When I joined Substack, I chose the name “Somewhere, Softly” because I knew it could encompass everything I was going through a year ago, as well as everything that was yet to come. I would always be somewhere (I’ve explored the concept of “somewhere” here) and writing would always be my soft place to land. I hoped Substack in particular would become my soft place to land and that’s turned out to be an understatement. I’ve got arguably too comfortable here, and I’m emotionally invested to the extent I’d be extremely upset if I were to lose this platform. That’s just the reality, but I think it’s okay to love and invest in things we don’t have full control over – we do it in relationships and jobs and art all the time.

As a result of joining Substack, I’ve been paid to write an article; I’ve been paid for a poem I’d already written; I’ve seen the words “paid subscriber”; I’ve been tipped; I’ve had pieces accepted in online literary journals, and in a print zine; I’ve collaborated with people I think are extremely talented. I no longer hesitate when calling myself a writer – I now have a huge portfolio showcasing not only my writing, but my values, and my experiences, and my hope. Substack sees me at my most positive, my most eager, and my most optimistic, and I love that about this space. I love the community I’ve dived into and how you’ve all inspired me to keep writing and writing and writing and never stop. I love reading what everyone else shares – getting to share space on this platform with people who spin language so beautifully.

If you’re considering starting a Substack publication, literally just do it! Post what your heart desires and even if it doesn’t get much attention, don’t dwell on it. Promote it where you can but primarily, just write more and post again. Posts don’t have to have a short lifespan here, they can continue to gradually grow a little even when months have passed, so the best thing you can do is be proud of what’s in your garden and keep watering, but also keep planting.

I’m you’re new here, maybe a few posts from my archive will stand out to you and grab your attention for a little bit, or maybe you’ll stick around for future posts and read my words from your email inbox. Either way, thank you so much for reading right now.

Thank you to everyone who shows up and reminds me again and again why I wanted to be a writer, why I’ll now call myself one, and why I don’t think I’ll ever again forget that writing is part of me. I think I could write about my gratitude forever but instead I’ll leave it here, and hope that my thanks continue to show up clearly in everything that’s yet to come.

Until next time, with love,

Em 💜

Leave a comment

p.s. if you enjoy this style of post, consider becoming one of my paid subscribers! You’ll receive a monthly letter in which you’ll get to witness me oversharing, and you can consider it a tip for any writing you’ve enjoyed from me!

Somewhere, Softly

Somewhere, Softly in April

Each month, I write a monthly round-up to catch my paid subscribers up on my life. If you ever want to show financial support for all my writing on this platform – and receive these letters as a bonus – you can upgrade your subscription any time. Alternatively, I also accept tips on…

Read more

a month ago · Em

the very beginning:

Somewhere, Softly

little expectations

Mostly, I’ve tried to be a person with little expectations. At first this was born from pessimism, a natural defence after being too acquainted with disappointment. Gradually though, through gaining independence, and with that, way more reasons to enjoy life, perspective changed for the better. Lack of expectations was no longer about a fear of being le…

Read more

a year ago · 7 likes · Em

I’m lucky, because I have a girlfriend who’s soft with me and lets me be soft too in a way I’d probably have assumed would be too much by my big age. She encourages me to sleep longer and to hug my teddies tighter, and to let my kisses blow stronger than my embarrassment when I can be overheard saying bye to her on the phone. I wear her jumpers, walking around looking like a slob of mess and tangles and blemishes, and love follows me. She looks at me like I’m precious. I lay my head on her lap and I fall asleep. I never used to fall asleep during the day.

In those moments, I forget many of my anxieties – the ones about getting my life together so it looks good from every perceivable angle, when currently it’s lopsided and certainly not colour coordinated. I think about time in terms of how many minutes we can stay pressed together. How many episodes of a show we can watch and how many times I can whine that I love her and how many times I’ll watch her eyes shine and dimples appear simultaneously. Suddenly, all of life’s angles are gorgeous.

I’m lucky, because I still connect with girlhood even though some people think I shouldn’t. I feel connected to a lot of things I used to deliberately avoid and that makes me feel present and peaceful and girl-ish and human and very, very, very lucky. Because birds are chirping and I have memories of a cuckoo that lived outside the bedroom I had for 5 months in Brno – the recognisable call convincing me life was romantic in the mornings, even though I usually didn’t feel romantic or like myself there. I have memories of having so much fun I didn’t realise I was badly burning under the sun until it was too late. My skin pink and stinging with beautiful stupidity and youth. I have memories of boots crunching in snow (“crunching” will forever be a brilliant word), and the glow of night-time city skylines, and Southeast Asia’s enveloping evergreen. An accidental swallow of the Thai sea’s salt making my face convey disgust – such joyful, lucky disgust.

I'm lucky, because each day I chat away to a student in Poland, I feel like part of my soul is living daily life there – through the harsh winter and family-oriented holidays. And here, seasons are also swiftly changing, and I have biscuit buying, and I have knowledge of what alcohol I should always avoid. And I have pictures of squirrels and new unexpected goals and trainers eager to carry my feet to finish lines. I’m lucky with my passport pages. I’m lucky with the food sitting in my lap on the sofa instead of a table, and the way I reach for a mug with steam rising out of it like a happy greeting.

Lucky, to have lessons learnt but not always listened to, and chances to start again. People to meet and love and feel lucky around. Lucky, lucky souls together.

Leave a comment

Thank you so much for reading! A little reminder that paid subscribers have access to my detailed monthly letters:

Somewhere, Softly

Somewhere, Softly in April

Each month, I write a monthly round-up to catch my paid subscribers up on my life. If you ever want to show financial support for all my writing on this platform – and receive these letters as a bonus – you can upgrade your subscription any time. Alternatively, I also accept tips on…

Read more

a month ago · 1 like · Em

And if you missed it, this is a March post I’m proud of:

Somewhere, Softly

Hometown scars

since i was old enough to spell, i’ve been writing this place as my permanent address, knowing it was waiting for me whenever i escaped elsewhere. and i finally realised how pretty it was today. not just in a glance, but in a memorable gulp. once i bothered to walk the quick minutes it takes to get out of the monotonous grey of my estate, i could…

Read more

2 months ago · 25 likes · 15 comments · Em

Note: this one might be too long for email! Open in the app or on browser if that’s the case.

Dear reader,

Hi! Another month has come to an end and I can’t quite believe it. I try not to be so astonished at how quickly time passes, because I'm sure it’ll only continue to speed up and more and more as I age, yet it’s difficult to not say it anyway: April felt far too short.

I last left you with musings on March and spoke of a positive start to April, so let’s go back to that beginning. April 1st for me was characterised not by April Fool’s jokes (fortunately), but by a trip to the theatre! I went to see Waitress the Musical which previously made an appearance in one of my “things I love” posts, because I do indeed love it. As mentioned then, I’d seen it on Broadway before and been captivated. I follow Carrie Hope Fletcher on social media, so while in Thailand and seeing another ad for the UK Waitress tour she's starring in, I caved and booked a ticket to the London matinee performance.

Read more

Somewhere, Softly

Where we find lesbian joy

As I post this, it’s International Lesbian Day! Rebecca (Substack’s resident LGBTQ historian – please check out her publication, “hankycode”!) taught me that this is when Australia and New Zealand primarily celebrate lesbianism – very fitting, as I write this nearly 3 weeks into being in Australia. I wanted to put something together to celebrate lesbianism to…

Read more

8 months ago · 102 likes · 27 comments · Em

Where do you find lesbian joy?

It’s not a question that ever has a finished answer, which is why I love it so much. Joy just keeps coming in new revelations, experiences, moments, and meetings, and I know it won't stop.

Words by :

My first girlfriend came to visit me in my hometown. It was a beautiful summer day, and I had brought her to a busy, vibrant Main Street. We walked side-by-side, our arms only brushing against each other. I didn’t realize how afraid I was to hold her hand in public until the thought of it terrified me. I was pointing out a store I liked when I felt her fingers lace with mine. I looked down at our hands, in awe of the warmth from her touch. My cheeks blushed at the gesture. Seeing my reaction, she brought my hand to her mouth and placed a gentle kiss on it. That moment solidified lesbian joy—realizing that I, too, was worthy of love out in the open. That I didn’t need to hide who I was. And, most importantly, I was deserving of a sweet kiss on the hand while walking down the street.

Lesbian joy is bravery, is intimacy, is sweetness!

Words by :

Lesbian joy feels like coming home to myself after a long, long trip abroad. Lesbian joy feels like walls coming down, authenticity building up. Lesbian joy feels like the woman I call my girlfriend, and finally understanding how love is supposed to feel. Lesbian joy feels like, “Oh, this is what that’s like. It was not like this before.”

The idea of authenticity being something that can be built up is so captivating because it’s true that sometimes we lose ourselves in what we think we’re supposed to be, and when we finally come home, we get to build ourselves back up and enjoy every real, beautiful part of that.

Words and photography by :

There is an under current
A tug of something
An ache in the throat
That I know you
That you know me

A glance across a crowded room
A smile from the girl on the bus
Grasping my wife’s hand in a display of our queerness
A knowing catch of a flickering eye

It may not be much
But somehow,
Somehow it always feels like home coming

Home is everywhere 💜

Lesbian joy for me, is this art made, featuring me and the feeling of seeing yourself represented in the media for the first time:

Adina’s work makes me beyond emotional because of the art itself, and because of community, and because I never imagined my queerness could be the thing that would build so many bridges in my life, when as a child I thought it had the potential to ruin anything good. Lesbianism is so beautiful through my lens, and every time I’m reminded that someone else has similar stars in their eyes – as they look towards lesbian visibility and dykes being loud and orange/pink glows – I feel serene waves of joy ripple through me.

Lesbian joy is home, and given that writing itself feels like home to me, it’s no surprise that I keep unlocking a key to lesbian joy in words and community. Homes are complex and we need to keep tidying them and talking about issues that arise, but at the end of the day, lesbian joy is a safe place to land in a yearned for way – I can take off a mask, put up my feet, and be free.

More lesbian joy for you:

DAGGERS

Long Live the Lesbians

Femme lesbians and butch lesbians and lesbians with bushy armpits and a complicated relationship with gender. Lesbians adorned in gold and dripping in fig and musk perfume. I love tall lesbians and short lesbians. Lesbians with hooked noses and big glasses. Lesbians using espresso shots to line their lips. Lesbians with happy trails and lesbians who shi…

Read more

2 months ago · 52 likes · DAGGERS

The Ephemeral

In Honour of Substack's Lesbians

Written in honour of Lesbian Visibility Week and inspired by a note where Thalia Vacha ⚢ and Gray were discussing gender as well as DAGGERS Long Live Lesbians (which you should absolutely go read if you have not yet). This post, like substack, is not perfect but I had to say something about the loves I have found here…

Read more

2 months ago · 23 likes · 6 comments · Imogen Rose

Leave a comment

1.
light arrives gently
so does today's gratitude
we walk and buy bread


2.
bliss in the evening
sweet lingering taste of tea
eyes say "forever"


3.
sky drains its colour
leaving just moonlight and stars
and us—always us

Something short and sweet for you today. It’s Earth Day, and it’s important to remember that love and romance don’t get to exist without the protection of our lovely planet.

writes great posts about the environment over on Rewear&Care!

It’s also Lesbian Visibility Week, so send your favourite lesbians some love! I’m of course a lesbian but you can discover so many more lesbians of Substack over on The Lesbian Agenda. I hope you’re having a wonderful April 💜

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

it’s so sad and so silly, how i felt alienated from a community when i knew such a small, sheltered part of it. i only saw what kids see. i was bullied in secondary school and thought my thoughts were too strange – a myriad of undiagnosed mental illnesses making me want to curl up and hide from almost everyone, and the sun, and the possibility that there was more to this place. i quit my theatre group at 13 because i no longer belonged there – saturdays started feeling like school days, another place to wake up early for, only to not even fit in. i wasn’t liked enough and my confidence was becoming more and more crumpled. i didn’t talk about it, i just accepted that what i missed had been left behind in the younger age group. i couldn’t turn back the clock so i abandoned it along with my love for the stage, which would continue to follow me like a pigeon i’d watch and feed, but couldn’t touch or let inside, much to my sad relief.

i didn’t feel like i had a community so i searched for one inside a screen – a portal to being known and liked and loudly gay and good enough. twitter accounts were my new neighbours. there was an illusion that i had control whilst on the internet – i could hide what i didn’t like and get praised for what i revealed, and that was admittedly addictive in a way i didn’t acknowledge back then.

although i still very much treasure all the gifts the online world gave me, as i got older, i learnt how important it was to get out of the screen too. so i fell in love with friendship, and women, and i travelled, danced with strangers, and kept tickets in beautiful barely-used notebooks. i turned places into characters that understood me far better than my hometown. i carried around memories i preferred to look back on, allowing them to cover up the painful ones that wore white shirts, black shoes and burgundy blazers.

but now i’m 28 and my outside is my town. and i run now – in an inconsistent, lazy kind of way – but i run, which is something i never thought i’d do unless i was late for a bus. and my legs take me round my estate and up a main road or into the town i used to think was out to get to me. and it’s so pretty – like i said earlier, pastel – colourful cottages and adorable decorations and whimsical-looking plants making this somewhere particularly pleasant in the sunshine.

i felt truly differently towards this town on a walk today. i’m trying to walk more as well as run – spring is helping with that. i smile at daffodils and cherry blossom in such a genuine way. when i was running errands the other day, i got an iced coffee as a treat and the girl who works in the cafe is the younger sister of an old, distant friend. we took her with us to the 1989 tour – she was with me for a concert i’ll hold dear for as long as i have a fully-working memory. in the cafe she smiles widely at me, and we chat away, about being back here and growing up and we sigh at its inevitability. i’m aware of the normality of it all, yet i’m overwhelmed by how simple it is to exist here, when in my young dramatic closed mind, living here always seemed so rough.

and don’t get me wrong, i’ve spent lots of time here in recent years without being depressed or existential. i’ve slowly walked round the supermarket with my girlfriend during its wonderfully quiet evening hours – i’ve gone out for lunch with friends and reminisced in an ordinary way. but i think i was so focussed on when i was next leaving, enough so that i didn’t stop to really think about how it all felt.

i let it wash over me without absorbing it. it was a shoulder shrug, it was my tainted past, it was home although i longingly pined for my other homes in poetry. the spot by the sea i loved, and my lover’s arms, and the vietnamese coffee i used to drink daily. my calendar promised me yet another escape and in the meantime, days melted into one another. a blur, a place to remember who i was and how far i’ve come, yet open my eyes to all the things that haven’t changed, in a way that unfortunately tasted tangy.

but now this is my present and not just my past, and it’s always been my present because it’s always been the one permanent thing i rely on, but perhaps i’ve had trouble accepting that when i’ve carried so much disdain. when there’s a level of shame that i still retreat here and allow myself the privilege of being almost completely still, if that’s what i want.

and it’s not like the city where i can go into flying tiger just to browse, or skip through a train station, tip a busker, look at one of the world’s most iconic landmarks just because it’s there. it’s quiet here and i never feel like i’m missing out on anything, but i don’t hate it. if i’m honest with myself, i actually like it a lot right now, and that transition is happening without me trying too hard – without me begging for it or expecting it.

there’s a community at my fingertips that no longer pushes me away as an outcast – i’m simply a stranger to it, and it’s unknown to me too. i’ve been smiling at strangers since i returned home – i’ve been putting one foot in front of the other for my physical and mental health; sometimes strava is applauding me or i’m arriving on time at my new therapist’s door.

so maybe with each step i take around town, i’m getting closer to seeing some more of this town’s sparkles. its lovely stars, shining – so much brighter than my buried hometown scars.

Leave a comment

not done thinking about home?

Somewhere, Softly

what if this were home?

sunny november is new to me, yet it’s so normal here in australia – on the world’s other side…

Read more

7 months ago · 36 likes · 14 comments · Em

Somewhere, Softly

home is...

in my last post, here, i wrote: “on another day, i could write poems about everything home is to me now…

Read more

7 months ago · 45 likes · 33 comments · Em

Space’s daughter stepped into citrine visions and allowed them to paint her a version of girlhood. It was a story where she was always the one seeking and chasing, scared she wouldn’t be able to hold onto what she found. Despite dancing and running, she was so often stuck with the middle traffic light, living in the pause while humanity turned grey like pencils’ shading. Her striking nature went unnoticed, trapped in an unknown part of the sky – her tears melted into constellations and nobody knew she was there, crying.

She thought she’d perhaps always be stuck with this baggage, including grieving her lack of a girl’s reflection, with nothing around to help shape her into a woman either, no matter how many years she watched begin and end. She floated, she cried, and she denied, for she had to. Yet her dreams remained the colour of honey – still secretly hopeful life would change. She realised change could start small, and she should choose herself a name – a real one. Speak it into stars in bright manifestation, even if she couldn’t hear it from another’s lips. So she did. She picked syllables and worked them into a prayer that matched the flowerpots of her mind. She said the name all the time and it held her in loneliness.

Story says, it was the beginning of her becoming. Her name spinning through space until her orange spirit soared its way into human understanding. She never gave up, not until she was seen and loved by someone special. You can hear this in poetry written for Space’s daughter, who fell from the sky with stumbling, sparkling force. Her lover knows her name, and they know what occurred as she broke free, following a glowing green light and gaining all she’d previously gazed at. After what felt like many lifetimes, she finally got to grow up ordinary. The brilliant kind of ordinary that lets love in, and looks forwards. Her tastebuds alive, her limbs heavy and swinging, and her skin itching with delight – she wouldn’t dare look backwards.

A daughter, finally learning physical touch – diving into ocean reflections that mirrored her resilience. She gradually turned grey like the once distant drawings. Every silver hair and wrinkle proof she was no longer lost – she was found. I bet she sometimes looked up, knowing the universe still sang to her a lullaby. She was always a daughter, after all, but she was so much more than that. She held a golden key in her hands, with all that beautiful pride, for she’d carved it herself.

With her head on a pillow, she got to know rest. An alarm set for 8am – time that can be felt and can’t be argued with, in a way that was as comforting as the bed. Finally, she could sleep.

She got to dream in this life that was worth every wish, and wash a grinning freckled face in the morning.

It seems I can’t escape the theme of humanity, especially lately, even in fictional space. Perhaps though, in a world where if you search “writing” and “job vacancies” together, you get a computer trying to convince you to become an AI trainer, that’s actually where my strength lies. Thank you so much for reading – feel free to share this piece if you liked it, and subscribe if you’d like to read more from me! In the meantime, I have a big archive you’re more than welcome to stalk 💜

Leave a comment

Previous post:

Somewhere, Softly

Emeralds and glitter and gloom

I found emerald shards in gravel – picked them up like they were mine to take. Try to picture them, tiny lost glass pieces. They didn’t mean anything to anyone, so it seemed…

Read more

2 months ago · 17 likes · 10 comments · Em

It was like I’d discovered treasure, wondering why I was alone in mesmerisation. Holding glimmers in fingertips, hope roared: just look at what can be found on the ground! In my mind, I was maybe some kind of protagonist. My solitary awe standing out amongst others’ obliviousness, smug about my colourful riches.

A girl, in proud possession of green, rescued from pavements’ grey. Kept jagged shapes safe in pockets, then on the scratched white paint of a window sill. Until of course, emerald shards lost their shine. They became what most eyes saw: bottle glass in a bin somewhere, discarded and forgotten. It reminds me of glitter alive in concrete, which seemed to sparkle under sunlight, like fairies were dancing and partying in its cracks. Until I forgot, that was, and I walked without watching. No longer spent my days wondering if cuddly toys would dare to talk.

Mind you, pavements were still something special. When they were home to playgrounds’ pastel chalk rainbows, or when they smelt of rain. Puddles reflected many shades of sky, shimmering, but somewhere along the way, I stopped believing in my own mind’s magic. Memories tell me I had more childlike wonder than I remembered. Ages I’ve mostly forgotten, starting to return to me in small new ways – a young girl clutching emeralds. Stopping to see glitter. Believing in something spectacular and hidden.

I think of another age, when I was still a girl, but more bitter. Palms pressed into grass and looking up at woodland – trees making me small, which was how I longed and needed to be. Gloom drifted in every direction, like that was all this town knew, but plants remained as green as I craved. Although youth meant feeling lonely and ugly, I hoped one day I’d look older. I’d wear mini skirts and be surrounded by friends. Giggle rather than cackle, kiss boys, and have an album of pictures that made me feel proud instead of sad.

I later learnt that getting older still meant feeling lonely and ugly sometimes. It also meant looking different – sometimes too young, and other times, too old. It meant occasionally wearing mini skirts – more often wearing jeans, even in the club – surrounded by a few good friends and lots of acquaintances, disguised as being closer on camera. Still cackling, kissing girls, having an album of pictures that made me feel proud instead of sad. Proud because of love and laughter; choosing outside adventures over sleep was proof I was alive. I made it to the future – smile lines more visible than scars. Evidence of my existence kept me stable during spirals.

In the time between these times, a million pieces of me broke. Snapped. Fell to the floor, practically begging to be stepped on. Clouds rained glitter, all the grey I thought I knew so well seemingly secretly silver. Maybe it wasn’t so secret, maybe I just never bothered to look. Too caught up in fantasy to believe the ordinary could compare.

Ordinary is more than enough now – it’s everything, in fact. I don’t even make much time for fiction. I must admit, I’d like to find emeralds again – part of me yearning to discover them on my doorstep, nestled in pavements. If I believed again, maybe magic could be more than childlike hope.

In reality’s beauty, a young girl from the past thanks me for learning to love a life so real. But she whispers in my ear, reminding me: imagination is somewhere worthwhile too.

So much time looking outwards, to escape compulsions and flaws, I forget the brain I’m often so dismissive of, sparkles in sincere ways too. It looks for light, apologises when it’s wrong, keeps going, and holds a glitter gel pen.

Maybe it will later write fiction – I hope it does, even if it’s only me who knows it. A story that feels as alive as emerald green, believing in more than what I see.

Leave a comment

More from me:

Somewhere, Softly

When getting older means gaining more childlike wonder

However anxious I may seem as an adult (which if you ever get to peak into my brain in realtime, is very), I can assure you I wasn’t any more rational as a child. In many ways, my head was worse, I just didn’t have the language to describe it then…

Read more

5 months ago · 49 likes · 43 comments · Em

Dear reader,

Hi! How was your March? Did it rush past you, yet seem so still, all at once?

Read more

HERE 💜

i’m now very aware of my own humanity, sitting on the noisy central line, arms wrapped round my stomach because i have cramps. ever since seeing that video of a man doing something unspeakable on a northern line seat, i’ve become a lot more conscious of all the dirt and dust settled in the royal blue of the fabric. i’m boldly coming to the conclusion that the man directly opposite me is somebody i’d get on well with, if it were acceptable to break the fourth wall on the tube. i think this because we keep accidentally making eye contact as we both look round the carriage with seemingly similar levels of bemusement. his feet are tapping to music and i notice mine are too. we each wear awkward smirks, watching the sketchers, the scrollers, the readers, the commuters, and the elderly women loudly catching up.

i’m wearing pink headphones – everyone else in this carriage appears to be an owner of airpods. maybe it’s ego or paranoia, but i think the man next to me is looking over my shoulder, trying to read what i’m writing on my notes app. self-conscious, i abruptly click my phone shut. anyway, returning to this note now he’s gone – what was i saying?? right, humanity. i don’t know. i guess a city built on assumptions instead of spoken interactions is supposed to be cold and lonely. but despite the way i hide my words on this train, i can’t help but find some warmth and comfort in the way we’re all existing alongside each other – dressed differently, possessing plans that are poles apart, but all taking the same central line journey. all deeply human, while absorbed in our own digital worlds built by individual tastes.

my world sounds like taylor swift; indie pop; sapphic anthems; glittery gold and violet. the man opposite’s world probably sounds loud with bass – startling scarlet and silver echoing passionately. another assumption i’m making, instead of asking, as the train rattles in this tunnel, like we could disappear into a sci-fi scene at any given minute; clutching red poles, holding on for dear life as we crash into the unknown – at which point, who here would be the first to take out their airpods and speak?

i get off the tube in the same old silly haste that london always expects to see from me – i secretly love temporarily adopting it, wondering if i’m carrying the aura of someone who breathes this route like it’s routine. when i’m suddenly surrounded by a lot of space – a rather unfamiliar concept in this place – i want to skip, so i skip. i pause my music as i pass a man peacefully playing the piano in king’s cross station, and i watch as a woman smiles at the sight of him, the same way i can’t help but do. i know this city is characterised by misery but it’s also got hope on every street, and inside every musky tube carriage. i swear in the moment, what’s so ordinary, feels like the centre of the world. caught completely in its middle, i wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.

i don’t want to skip a single scene.

Subscribe now

Previous post:

Somewhere, Softly

The battle between time and twenty-somethings

I’m so sick of having to convince myself, over and over again, that I don’t need to fight time. I reflect on the years that led me to this point – as if my life is flashing before my eyes – my past selves at different ages presenting their truths in glimpses, asking for validation that they did in fact, do enough. I’m frustrated with myself all the whil…

Read more

3 months ago · 25 likes · 12 comments · Em

More of London:

Somewhere, Softly

So long, London

What is it about London? In every form of art, you’ll find hopeful, tea-stained love letters to London – full of whimsy, while others are smudged with disappointment and grief. When it comes to London, there’s always a sort of longing, whether it’s to…

Read more

10 months ago · 27 likes · 16 comments · Em

Leave a comment

I scream at myself to look forwards, instead of allowing myself to be subject to society’s ill-fitting expectations. I know I need to listen to what I truly believe which is: to be this worried about time is a privilege; as is it to have options in regards to how to spend my time – to be alive, and comfortable enough to make those choices. I’m so fortunate to be where I am and to be who I am – to be in touch with my creativity right now and to have some self-belief as time propels. So why would I start to google “is 28 too old to… **insert the rest of a stupid question here**??? I’ve spent too much of my twenties battling this mindset, trying not to feel like I’m behind, and failing.

And it doesn’t change anything – it never has done. Anxiety doesn’t help me make decisions, or make me feel any more sure of the future, or let me return to the past and do some things differently. It just steals my happiness, as if I’m not allowed to be happy if I don’t have everything together. I know that’s not true, because I don’t have to have everything together… whatever that even means. I just have to… be. If the world ended tomorrow none of the stuff inside my head would matter. But I don’t know it well enough apparently, for fear eats its way round my achievements anyway – a monster of comparison refusing to be satisfied, as if it learnt from Hamilton’s Angelica Schuyler herself.

It doesn’t even feel like me. The person I feel most in touch with is the one reassuring all her friends that they’re amazing, that it’s impossible to be ahead in every area of life, that we’re all successes just by being where we are because there were times when we didn’t know how we’d even make it through the year. The person I feel most in touch with bursts into happy tears while having a magical day, or watching something sentimental. The person I feel most in touch with knows who and what she loves, and writes with a sincerity nobody can steal from her.

So why do I sometimes feel far away from that version of myself I’ve come to love so much? Why do I spiral, sick with motion sickness?

I'm bored of my brain, and of the false narratives that try to validate my fears, because to be a woman especially, is to have age loom over you. Even the women who seem to have done everything right, and have everything figured out – career, house, family, and the rest of their future – don't want to look like they’ve taken all these amazing trips round the sun, soaked in achievements. They yearn to look younger – wrinkles and grey hairs shunned as ugly things any sensible woman would wish to cover up. How am I supposed to feel, as somebody who’s still checking out different winding woodland routes, rather than marching in a straight line, knowing my appearance is a giveaway that I’ve had plenty of time to get to grips with reality? Yet I still don’t know my way around? The world tells me to disguise the evidence, to be embarrassed. It frowns over the fact that I could get to this age and still not know how to do my own make-up nicely, because I don’t usually put it on, which in itself was clearly a slip-up on my journey.

But I want to see beauty in the lines on my face, and the silver sprouting out my scalp – no longer just a gold girl now, for I’ve lived and loved so loudly. I do see it – the beauty, I mean. In others of course, but even in the mirror. I’m ashamed of how I so casually throw disgust at the idea of turning the next age I’m destined to reach, as if it’s inherently wrong to get older, and not the most human thing I can do. The thing I’m lucky to do. I love life so much more than I did as a teenager, when I was a girl wearing smooth skin instead of stretch marks, and a smaller size tag to match. I have affection for all my blemishes that prove I’m real. Even on difficult days, I’m secure in knowledge I didn’t have before. I’m capable of building my future, as well as being in possession of memories so much more special than anything I used to daydream.

I believe I’ve previously said similar things on here, which is even more reason to be tired of this train of thought that keeps following me home – when will all my own arguments become convincing enough?

Somewhere, Softly

twenty-seven

“I'm twenty-seven and I don't know who I am…

Read more

10 months ago · 24 likes · 17 comments · Em

It feels like twenty-somethings are all in this battle we don’t know how to win, but we’re constantly pointing our weapons at ourselves. I’m not interested in these weapons, so why can I still feel their sharpness? Why aren’t I running away and escaping?

At least I’m sick of it. If I really have exhausted myself with these ideas I don’t agree with, then maybe that’s a sign they’re finally fading. They’re just noise now instead of sounds with meaning, and that has to count for something.

I hope tomorrow I wake with gratitude pushing irrelevant concerns out of mind’s sight – making sure there’s only room for what matters, and I won’t search for what’s not needed. My doubts will be washed away with rain, and I’ll manage to let go. I’ll be calm and I’ll hug time like it’s a friend, because for as long as I have it, that’s exactly what it is.

Leave a comment