I put it on sale by accident. I announced I was doing something and it was only when I realised it was a one woman show that I suddenly found myself with a date in the diary and people buying tickets.

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I told myself it didn’t matter if no one actually came because I wanted to do it. I needed to do it. I started writing it and buzzed with excitement. The process, the ideas, the post it notes. I was in pure flow. Hours whizzed by and I finished the day exhausted from my creative endeavours.

I wrote a script and was in awe of how good it was. When I practised it that afternoon I declared it was the best thing I’d ever done. I imagined myself doing it not on zoom but in real life, on stage in front of people. I imagined a tour, packed tiny theatres, the Edinburgh fringe. This was it! This was the moment I’d been waiting for, the bit where everything made sense. I could relax knowing there was a plan coming off the back of this one zoom call. My life was about to change, my dreams would come true! Pressure?! There was no pressure! What could possibly go wrong?!

I set up the space, gathered my props and put on the new red top I’d bought especially. I got the music ready, put up the ring light I’d ordered from Vinted and tried to calm my nerves as they kicked in. Show time!

It began and people started joining. I danced to the music and saw names of people I knew. It was happening! But when I spoke my voice broke. It wasn’t how I thought it was going to be. I didn’t feel how I thought I was going to feel. I suddenly became hyper aware of myself. I became embarrassed. Barbie doesn’t get embarrassed, but this one was.

I carried on, determined to have a good time. About half way through my nerves began to settle and I managed to centre myself but the soaring high I’d hoped for wasn’t there. It finished, I said thanked everyone for coming, told them they could expect the replay later that evening and ended the call.

I sat in front of the desk, staring out of the window wondering what the hell had just happened. I went downstairs, sat on the sofa and stared at the rug. My husband asked ‘how did it go?!’ and I started to cry. I cried for two whole days. I cried in Ikea.

Turns out the pressure to change your life on one zoom call is too much. Also it turns out that doing it on my own was very different to performing in front of other people. When the reality didn’t match the fantasy I’d built in my head, I just couldn’t cope.

When I finally did stop crying I read some of the testimonials people had sent in. People couldn’t have been nicer. “I hope you do more of these!” wrote one person, “I wish I could come to these every month!” wrote another. And suddenly I realised this wasn’t a quick fix, this was a slow burner. It might burn slowly for years. Rather than being the big bright finale, it was the beginning of something. I had taken the first step, I had lit the fire.

Because what happens when you have a two day meltdown and cry into a plate of meatballs? The next show almost writes itself.

Well Well Well 2 is coming soon.

This bath was no different. I filled it with Imperial Leather bath foam, put two books on the bath stool (two!) then added a towel to dry my hands as required. I left my phone firmly next to the bed in the other room.

I slipped into the bath and lay back, ready to relax. My mind paused for a moment then wandered to think about lunch tomorrow and if we had enough mozzarella, then if I had been a good mother today, then whether or not I’d put my phone on charge by the bed and then asked, ‘but what is it you’re meant to be doing, you know what’s the thing?’

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Searching for my purpose is something I have well-documented to you before and the thought of getting into it again here is making me weary so let’s just say there hasn’t been a time in my life where I have sustainably found my thing. The thing I do. The thing that you talk about when someone asks ‘so what do you do?’ The thing you’re known for, ‘Sarah? Oh she does this.’ The thing people pay you for.

I was particularly weary of this question that Saturday night in the bath so I kept my eyes closed and this time, with nothing to lose, I replied to myself ‘oh I don’t know but it would be an event called Well Well Well.’ I sat up and opened my eyes so fast the water slopped over the side. I’ve got a title! A starting point! I have direction.

Ideas started to come to me. It would be online, cosy, funny, pleasant. Not a workshop, not a classroom, no teaching involved just sharing, me sharing stories and anecdotes about things. Things I’ve learnt, things that have happened to me, fun things, heartfelt things. These things started to come in a wave of inspiration. I formed a plan and practically wrote the introduction word for word. I needed to record it before it all slipped away, this was GOLD. I cursed myself for not having my phone. So instead I just lay there in the bath, looking at my Lidl dupe Aesop body wash and talking, out loud, to myself.

When I eventually did get out of the bath I sat on my bed, still in a towel and began to dictate into my phone. I spoke for 28 minutes. Poured all my inspiration out, told it everything. I pressed save and my phone froze then the app flickered and closed. It was all gone. I wondered if this was a sign the whole thing was a terrible idea and who the hell did I think I was but I pressed record again and repeated as much as I could remember in a far more succinct 11 minutes. The rest had clearly been waffle.

Now to put it on sale. To announce it to the world, who were clearly waiting for something just like this from me. I would keep it brief, intriguing! Like a telegram.

A new online gathering from Sarah Powell.

Stories, chats and musings on the idea of celebrating yourself.

“You’re amazing, now let’s start believing it”

Wednesday 20th May, 7:45PM One hour. Join live or watch on the replay.

I splashed it on instagram soundtracked by Lady Gaga and Doechi. People would clamber to be there, the hottest ticket in town!

650 people clicked the link. I sold 14 tickets. Turns out it was vague rather than intriguing.

I needed to be more specific but the problem was I didn’t actually know what it was I was asking people to come to. I just had some also vague thoughts and a story about toothpaste on a voice note. So I reverted back to what had worked when I had sold my previous classrooms. I wrote the benefits of coming, things you might learn, takeaways. Presented a problem, offered a solution. The sales formula they tell you to do, works every time. And whilst it did work a bit, it didn’t work every time.

I thought about it for days. How could I describe something I hadn’t fully realised myself? What could I say that would raise the intrigue? I knew it would be fun and perhaps even inspiring but people need to know what they’re coming to, what WERE they coming to?!

Last week, watching K Pop Demon Hunters with the babies, I realised what it was. The thing I’d been avoiding. A phrase I’d had floating around for years but always brushed away because I wasn’t ready. The fear of failure was real. The fear of everything was very real. I wanted to do a one woman show.

Maybe it was Rumi facing her demons, maybe it was the fact I’m 42 and if not now when, but I felt brave and wrote something new.

Sarah Powell is having a quiet transformation.

For far too long she has really disliked herself. And quite frankly, she’s sick of it.

How does someone change? How does one transform? How do you become in the person you truly know you can be?

Part lecture, part one woman show, Well Well Well is the story, and stories, of one woman choosing to change herself.

So only part one woman show. And online. Still terrifying but a gentle terrifying. I had an instant vulnerability hangover. I wanted to take it down, tell everyone not to come, it was going to be a disaster, I’d be laughed at, frowned at, people would wonder ‘who do you think you are Sarah?"‘

But faint heart never won fair lady. And worrying what people think never gets you anywhere. You have to have courage. As Nora Ephron says "above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim." I made a cup of tea, blow dried my hair and remembered who the hell I am.

By that evening I’d reached my goal of 50 ticket sales. Then 55, then 60. At the time of writing I’m at 80. 80 people are taking a chance on a Wednesday night in May. And so am I.

Well Well Well is happening on Wednesday 20th May at 7:45PM (UK time) Join live or watch on the replay. Tickets are £10 and on sale here.

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I shop in three places. The first is M&S which we’ve talked about before at length. Jeans which fit, shop assistants called Pat, good quality t shirts and knickers which go on for days. Next is Vinted. God I love Vinted. Yes the kids clothes are next level but everything is on there. I bought a refill of eco deodorant yesterday for a fifth of the price. I bought my £8 face wash for £1.50. Brand new with tags! I’ll start my Christmas shopping there and I will finish the rest at lovely little independent shops.

In a world of Amazon and next day delivery (which I do use because I’m impatient) independent shops feel like fairyland. There is nothing in this world more beautiful than a darling little shop curated by a real life person who is probably standing behind the till. Every little thing on the shelves has been considered and arranged. A scarf hanging just so, bookmarks laid in a fan, cards on tiny pegs. What will you find? What will you fall in love with? What will you take home? You take your buried treasure to the counter where they wrap it in tissue, tie a ribbon around it and thank you for coming.

A few weeks ago I was scrolling Kiti Cymru, a boutique women’s clothes shop in Cardiff. There I saw the bag. The bag I would conquer the world with. I was still thinking about it a week later and decided I couldn’t live without it a moment longer. But then, the unthinkable, sold out. Sold out everywhere. I emailed Kiti and got a lovely email back from Catrin who was genuinely upset for me.

Rather than seeing this as a message from the universe that this was perhaps not the bag after all, I became a bloodhound. I went deeper and deeper into the hunt. Google images, instagram, scouring the internet to find it. Hours into the evening, Jon asking ‘didn’t you say you were going to bed?’ Then, I found it. It was available from a charming clothes shop in Bath. 10% off your first order. Buy, buy, BUY!

But just as I was about to click Apple pay, I got a sticky feeling. Something wasn’t quite right. I wasn’t excited to buy it. Instead I was apprehensive. The fever had been in finding it but now I was about to buy it, nothing. Slight disappointment. But this was a quiet feeling and I was already in a loud shopping frenzy so of course I bulldozed over it and ordered the bag.

A few days later the postman delivered a large black box. I tore it open and there it was, the shiny deep red shopper. It wasn’t how I’d imagined. I picked it up and was surprised the handle was so small. It meant the whole thing sort of fell into itself. Not like the website pictures I’d poured over. I put it over my shoulder. It didn’t fit properly. I’ll make it fit! Like a wicked stepsister with a glass slipper. I extended the strap, then shortened it. I put it over this shoulder and that. I held it on my forearm and down by my side. It just wasn’t right. When I knew it had to go back I actually felt relieved.

I have always had difficult relationships with two things; food and money. Food we can talk about another time but money has been a mystery. As soon as I have it, I have to spend it. Get rid of it. As quickly as possible. Money hits my account and straight away I start thinking of things to buy. Don’t worry about making it last just spend spend spend. And this is where the buzz begins. The thrill of the idea, the search, the frenzy. The pressing add to basket. The confirmation email, thanks for your order! The height of it all is delivery day. The moment I open the parcel. After that it starts to fade and I need my next hit. My next purchase. It doesn’t have to be a handbag, it could be hoover bags or plant food. Anything for a fix.

This has been my story for as long as I can remember. Money comes in and it has to go. Almost like I’m not meant to have it. Because maybe, I’m not.

I always say there’s privilege and then there’s me. I am a middle class white woman, born in a leafy part of Leicestershire who then moved to an even leafier part of Cheshire. I am privately educated. I was able to do work experience for free and take radio jobs for next to nothing in order to begin my career. I wasn’t allowed to sit about and do nothing but I was given the space and luxury to ponder what I was going to do. I was helped on to the property ladder. I’m taken on fancy holidays. I have wanted for nothing.

Consequently I never talk about money because I am not qualified to talk about money. I’ve worked, I’ve paid my tax, I have a mortgage and other debts but whilst my bank account is in its overdraft, I don’t know what’s it’s like to have nothing to fall back on. So I never say a word. Never mention it. It’s my biggest secret but as I’m telling you all my secrets these days, here we are.

However, the frenzied spending isn’t because I have a house full of designer shoes or jewellery boxes overflowing with diamonds. I don’t eat from silverware or use expensive face creams. I don’t drive a fancy car or shop at Net a Porter. The truth is I get rid of money because, if I had to, I have access to more. I’m not allowed to have money because other people don’t have what I have. Other people have real problems, my diamond shoes are too tight. And that’s why I have never talked about it. Because how dare I. Even writing this to you is making me feel a bit sick.

So why am I writing it to you? Because there’s healing to be done here. There is shame and the only way to heal shame is to drag it out in to the light. A manic, toxic relationship with anything can’t sustain. Emotional eating, frenzied buying, anything too quick and too fast. Mania is the opposite of peace. Fixation is the opposite of calm. Mindless spending or eating keeps us trapped in a vicious cycle. The high, the low, the restriction, the splurge, the binge, the feast, the regret, the self hatred, the promise to be better. And so it continues. In distracting exhaustion. But not anymore. I have to heal it for the sake of my nervous system. I don’t want to be ruled by food or spending. I want to be ruled by me. I want peace and joy and light and I have been looking in the wrong places for those for too long.

I emailed the shop I bought the bag from to explain it wasn’t quite right and I needed to return it. No reply. I emailed again and this time they said ‘oh send it back and we’ll sort it.’ I paid for tracked delivery, this time out of anxiety rather than the thrill of a purchase. It was delivered. I had a picture of it on the shop counter. I heard nothing. I started to panic, what if it was misplaced, what if I had to battle them. I emailed again, I got nothing back.

On Saturday morning, outside Nancy’s ballet class, I rang them. A lovely girl knew nothing about it but would check with the office and give me ‘a tinkle back.’ She didn’t call. I noticed their google reviews. At the top was a one star review with a story about returning jeans bought online and never receiving the money back. I started to panic again.

I rang again at teatime. The same girl answered the phone and told me it was all fine. I asked her when I could expect the money and she said, yes it’s on it’s way. No further details. Just like the google review. I started planning next steps. I could also leave a bad review. I would call every day if I needed to. Could I travel to Bath?

I worried for the rest of the evening then surrendered it back to the universe. She rolled her eyes and said she did try to warn me. The next day I had an email to say the money was on its way and this morning it arrived. I asked myself if it was worth it? The worry, the chasing, the high? Was this how I wanted to spend my days, orders and returns flying across the country? Manic spending to try and fill a void and distract me from a simple joyful life? No, no it was not.

It had been stressful, annoying and ridiculous. I don’t want to be like this with money anymore. What if instead, I could just sit still with money. Hold its hand. Know the spending will come in the right way and what a delight when it does. What if I could become friends with money and in turn, myself.

Yesterday I was passing one of those lovely little independent shops to get to the bus stop. I popped in. I smiled at the little Dracula mouse statues and smelt some of the candles. Then I saw a bag. A mint green bag hanging under the counter. It was in the sale. A third of the price of the red one. I picked it up and tried it on. It was nice. I left the shop thinking about it.

I got to the bus stop and saw I had 12 minutes to wait. I lingered, thinking about the bag. With 5 minutes before the bus, I went back and bought it. A girl wrapped it in tissue and popped it in a brown paper bag. She said she’d had her eye on it as well so was glad someone had bought it. I got on the bus with all my favourite things; supporting a small shop, a brown paper bag and best of all, sweet, delicious calm.

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I thought I’d found The One in M&S. I giddily ordered it one evening in bed and dreamt of all the possibilities. The problems we would solve, the compliments we would receive, together. I did a click and collect and pulled Nancy up the road and into the shop (why are we in a rush Mummy?!) I ripped open the bag and put it immediately. It barely covered my bottom. I stood by the ladies’ tights, staring at the mirror and willing it to be longer. Deflated, I popped it in the returns box and had a toasted teacake in the café to lift our spirits.

Thank you if you read last week’s column, Stuck. It tumbled out of me and writing it was an act of healing. The relief of putting it somewhere, of getting it out. Like taking off shoes which have been too tight.

So the question is, what am I going to do? What am I going to do with my one wild and precious life? What is my purpose, my thing? And just how is it going to make me an income? These questions haunt me. They paralyse me. Because I don’t have the answers. Read more.

I went to bed that night and sat down to do a tapping routine for weight loss and call in all good. I only got half way through. I felt defeated, run over by the desperation for change. I started to cry.

I got into bed and carried on crying. I cried deeply and completely. A full shoulder sob. I reached for a baby muslin to blot my eyes and held on like it was holding me to the earth. As I cried I felt the pressure releasing. I felt lighter with every heave. I’d been holding it all for so long and now it was all coming out. My grip had been so tight and now my hands started to soften. I let go. ‘I’m all out of answers,’ I cried into the muslin, ‘I don’t know what to do, I’m surrendering all of it, again.’

I don’t know how familiar you are with the Disney’s Cinderella (the original one with the mice and Lucifer the cat) but when Cinderella can’t go to ball because her step sisters have ruined her dress, she runs out to the garden crying. She sobs on a bench and as she says everything is hopeless, her fairy godmother magically appears stroking her hair. I’m not saying I’m Cinderella and I’m not saying my fairy godmother appeared and gave me glass slippers but, as I lay there with my knees tucked up to my chest, staring at the wall through tears, something came to me. A vision.

I could see myself in the future. I’m sitting in a beautiful room, on an ornate two seater. There is a tea set with gold edging and someone passes me a cup and saucer with a smile. There are people moving around, setting things up, getting the lighting right. Someone is next to me on the two seater but out of view. And I’m telling them about my work. I’m being interviewed about something I’ve created. The liveliness and the setting up and the tea is for me.

I’m sat in the middle of this happy busy scene and I’m laughing. I’m completely relaxed. I’m so comfortable. I’m at peace with my body, with my work, with myself. My hair and make up are done, I’m wearing beautiful clothes. They feel so good on my skin. I feel so good in my skin. My top is cobalt blue which is a surprise because I never wear blue. But my future self does.

I can picture it now and it’s crystal clear. The wallpaper, the chatter, the teapot clinking on the tray. The warmth of the room, the blue of my top. I can see it, hear it and I can feel it. I’m where I should be. I can feel what it’s like to be that comfortable, that peaceful, that happy. I can imagine it. I can drift off in to a day dream about it. And Glennon Doyle says if you can imagine it, that’s all you need.

So that’s it. That’s the plan. A vision I had in the middle of a big cry. I have surrendered all of it to the universe and I’m going to follow the breadcrumbs. I’m going to stop forcing and pushing and just do the next right thing. I’m co creating. I’m all out of ideas so I’m going to put one foot in front of the other.

I’m coming back to now. I’m focusing on tidying the house and doing the nursery run. Just the next cup of tea, the next basket of washing, the next lunch to make. I’m seeing what happens. I am welcoming divine guidance. And in the meantime I’ll build blocks with Elliot. I’ll say my prayers of surrender and fill the tumble dryer. I’m not giving up, I’m giving over. I will hold my vision close and trust that’s where I’m going. And try to have a nice time in between.

Finally, news just in, I’ve discovered TALA and their jackets. I think it’s all going to be ok.

Paralysis turned into overwhelm. There were all the things I wanted to do; writing, meditating, very light stretching and there were all the things that needed to be done; washing up the stuff from breakfast, putting the washing away, making the beds and moving piles of newborn baby clothes around in the hope they’ll rehome themselves.

But I sat on my phone, staring at it for answers. I was so anxious that I couldn’t choose which meditation to do. And what about those affirmations? That weight loss practice that’s only 9 minutes a day? My at home treadmill walk? Too many options, too many avenues, better to just watch people lipsyncing to Popular.

The truth is, it isn’t just the nap. I am in a paralysis. I am in a waiting room waiting for my name to be called. I am stuck.

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Elliot is almost one and my maternity, once again, is over. I could go on having babies forever. Have a whole wheelbarrow full of them. Be the old lady who lived in the shoe. I’m good at having babies, I like them and they like me. I like my midwife appointments, I have my maternity clothes. I’m a joy in the birth centre and I eat up all my NHS jacket potatoes.

But having another baby would be running away. Back to the safety of the nest where it’s nice and warm and I can hide. My identity would be ‘she’s pregnant again,’ and I won’t be expected to do anything, other than look after my other three children and rest. And you can’t have another baby just to have a rest.

So the question is, what am I going to do? What am I going to do with my one wild and precious life? What is my purpose, my thing? And just how is it going to make me an income? These questions haunt me. They paralyse me. Because I don’t have the answers.

Every waking minute I am wondering what my calling is. I agonise over what my purpose could be. I look at other people and wonder if I could do their job and if they’re happy. I go through worry, fear, despair and back again. I crawl on my hands and knees asking what do I love? What am I good at? What would people pay me to do?!

Then I remember no good will come of this. This isn’t the energy. I think of Louise Hay praying for highest good for all. I remember everything Gabby Bernstein and Glennon Doyle have taught me about knowing and trusting. I remind myself there are only two states of being, fear or love. Well let me tell you, I am sick of fear.

I am so tired of worrying about what’s coming next, I’m exhausted with trying to figure it out. I have spent hours, days, months, maybe even years waiting to find out what I am meant to be doing. People say all the answers are within us. Where within us? Could they be more specific?

I walked through the park on Sunday and watched the light coming through the trees. It was a perfect Autumn afternoon. I was walking home to my babies, I had cookies, there were no problems here. Then I felt it the swirl within me, the fear. The not knowing. The searching. It swept in to steal the joy of the moment and remind me, don’t get comfortable now, you still haven’t figured out what you’re going to do with your life. I’d had enough. The pressure I too great and I snapped. I declared ‘I am DONE WITH THIS! I am done with being fearful. I have HAD it. I am handing it over, I surrender!’ and I meant it. It felt great. It felt big.

It carried on feeling amazing for about 4 hours until the fear dropped back in. Turns out years of worry can’t be turned round in just one declaration in the park but we have to start somewhere. This is going to be a big ship to turn around but I have to do it. I have to keep coming back to love and trust that the path will become clear. Even if it feels awful while I wait. And wait. And wait.

I had edited half a video and made toast when Elliot woke up. We rattled around the house together. Me trying to do stuff on my phone then feeling awful for being on my phone. I felt the deep fear and despair weighing heavy on me and it scrambled my mind. I couldn’t work out what to do next. The piles of clothes lay around, the lego was everywhere, the kitchen was a mess. I shoved Elliot into the buggy and grabbed my keys. I rushed us out of the door and up the road telling myself buying cake would help.

I saw a neighbour who said ‘hello, you alright?’ So hard to answer, am I alright? I mean I am but I’m also welcoming divine guidance to help me find my purpose, you know? ‘yeah! we’re good!’ I said ‘are you?’ He was. We’re all very good.

I got to the top of the road and realised neither Elliot or I had eaten lunch. It was hotter than I thought and my cardigan was too warm. Elliot squinted in the sun. I sank into myself, I can’t even get the baby some daylight. Thoughts started tumbling, I’m a failure, what I am I doing? But also, what am I DOING? I inhaled deeply through my nose and pushed the air out through my lips. Twice. I remembered, I am not my thoughts. I am the deeper sense of calm and clarity. I am the all knowing self. I am the declaration in the park. I am the blue sky, the thoughts are the clouds.

I said to myself, as Glinda does to Elphaba, “you can do anything.”

I turned on my heel and walked us home. Past the neighbour I’d just seen and back in through the front door. Elliot laughed at the buggy coming up the step. I plonked him in the highchair and fed him berries and yogurt and oats. Breakfast for lunch. He kicked his legs. I put on songs from the musicals and I washed up. I wiped down the kitchen and put the lego away. I reset, I started again. I came home to myself. And that is how I’m going to pull myself through this. Because it’s not how many times you fall off, it’s how quickly you can come back.

The equinoxes are not to be confused (as I did) with the solstices, which are also twice a year to mark the longest days of summer and winter. I celebrate both of these because I love winter and because the longest day of summer means it’s peaked and we’re edging closer to Autumn. Dear sweet, lovely Autumn.

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A short while ago I made the decision to start living more seasonally. To actually notice the seasons changing. To pay attention instead of just being surprised when it was hot or suddenly Christmas.

I welcomed the transitions and really watched the light change. I lit candles at dusk and noticed the colour of the trees. I put blankets out for the winter and tucked them away for summer. I opened the doors and windows and let the fresh warm air in then blocked the drafts as it got colder. They were only tiny subtle changes, maybe even things I was already doing, but they reminded me I was part of something bigger than just me. I’m part of the living breathing world. I’m not on my own trying to battle through.

We’re in a cycle, all together. The moon phases, the seasons changing and another year roaming around the sun. The smells, the tastes and the sounds of different times of the year will circle around again. The trees will come back to life, the air will change, things will be hard then good then tricky then ok then brilliant and then hard and so it goes on. The light will always return, however dark it gets.

I still don’t know when best to plant bulbs or when the birds migrate but I do know that September is for sunglasses and socks, March is jacket weather and nothing happens in August because everyone disappears. I can plan, I can forecast, I can make sure I’ve got the right shoes.

I don’t have a five year plan. If you live just following the next right thing you can’t possibly know where you’ll be in five years or even this time next year. So making a plan for the forthcoming season feels much better. To design the next three months and decide what’s important, what do we want, what don’t we want. And so here are my Ins and Outs of Autumn. The things I want more and less of. The pop chart of the season. And I would love yours, do feel free to add in the comments.

AUTUMN 2025 🍁

IN 🍂

Meditation. Everything starts and ends with meditation. If I meditated every day I would be a millionaire. But I don’t. And that is my therapy session.

Slow. If I had to choose one word for the season, it would be this.

Peace. Or this.

Sleep. A oldie but goldie.

Divine guidance. I’m going full woo woo. I am welcoming divine guidance from the universe and I don’t care who knows it.

Earlier nights. See also sleep.

EFT tapping. I’ve just started this and I LOVE it. It’s tapping various meridian points on your body in order and saying affirmations. ChatGPT writes my scripts.

Softness. I am spiky, irritable or angry and I’m sick of it.

Brick. I bought one for my phone in the summer and it’s brilliant. 10/10.

3 meals a day. Sometimes we have to treat ourselves like a baby.

Regulation. I read (on ChatGPT) that it isn’t a question of discipline, it’s about regulation and that changed everything.

Creativity. Making stuff but not in a crafty way. In a fun way.

Self compassion. We’re not shit, we’re just tired.

Surrender. Imagine if we just, trust?

The present. It’s where all the good stuff happens.

OUT 🍂

Fear. There are only two states of being; fear or love. Fear is my default and it’s ruining everything.

Wine. I want to be very clear, I love wine. But having a bottle of dry white in the fridge to dip into every night has got to go.

Self sabotage. I’m turning to ship around. Every part of me screams NO when I take a step in a better direction. But I’m doing it anyway.

Sugar after dinner. Better in the afternoon.

Worrying. Solves nothing.

Doom scrolling. Makes me hate myself.

Comparison. Good for her, same for me.

Pricey mascara. I’ve gone back to Max Factor Calorie 2000.

People pleasing. I’m too tired.

No supplements. Sign me up.

Going out. I’ve never been a fan but now less than ever.

Missing pilates. Fully booked! If you can bear it.

The future. ‘If you’re living in the past you’re depressed, if you’re living in the future you’re anxious.’

These sorts of enquiries are usually lovely. Two people, in love and engaged, planning their wedding and finding people to help make their day perfect. You can practically feel the love lifting from the page as they talk about their plans; where it’s happening, who’s coming, why they want a celebrant wedding. Nothing could be nicer. Something which always interests me is at the bottom of the enquiry form. There’s a little drop down menu to answer the question “where did you hear about me?”

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I have married over 60 couples. I have performed wedding ceremonies in barns, gardens, castles and a Berlin hotel. I’ve married people in at their Granny’s house, at Babington House and on a boat floating past Big Ben. I’ve done a weddings in an abandoned church and one in a disused swimming pool. From Kew Gardens to the Alps to a Margate bandstand, I’ve been all over in my gold mules, checking who has the rings. I even married my own sister.

At the start of one wedding the whole wedding party danced down the aisle to Walking on Sunshine. Another couple flipped a coin to decide their surname. I once did a medieval themed wedding for an American couple. Throughout the ceremony court jesters juggled wooden balls and afterwards there was a live joust.

I’ve had a sausage dog ring bearer, a mother of the groom singing opera and one bride brought her cat on a sparkly lead. I once had someone painting the ceremony as it happened. There is nothing I won’t do to make someone’s ceremony exactly what they want. We can do what we like so let’s do whatever you want.

I always say I want laughing, crying, cheering at any ceremony I do. Cheering right from the moment I welcome everyone there, laughing at the story of the first date and crying because they have said such beautiful things about each other. At the most recent wedding I did one bridesmaid was crying so hard she had to pause her reading and come back later to finish it.

Because I’ve been doing it for almost 10 years I’ve been recommended by venue managers as well as guests who have seen me and there really is nothing like a personal recommendation. “You married my manager and she said I had to have you!” “My friend saw you and said I must see if you’re free,” “you did my cousin’s wedding and everyone was talking about it afterwards!” is the sort of thing I live for.

What’s really lovely is people who were guests at the weddings I’ve done have then asked me to do their ceremonies. I’ll now go to a wedding and look out at one of my couples bouncing a baby on their knee and waving.

But when Ciara wrote to say how she found me, it was something I hadn’t heard before.

“Many years ago I had the pleasure of meeting you & joining a workshop you delivered at Hearst Magazines in London while I was working there. I absolutely loved your ethos & energy, and have followed along on IG since. When my partner & I got engaged a few weeks ago, I knew I had reach out and see if you’d be available for our ceremony.”

As she says, this was a workshop I did years ago. Before covid, before babies, before Elevenses. But she remembered me. Something about me had made her follow me and now all these years later book me for her wedding. Even though my workshop wasn’t about weddings, on some level we connected with each other and now we’ve reconnected again.

I always believed that in order to hold space in an office or workplace you had to be from a corporate background. You had to give talks and workshops about leadership and productivity. But it’s just not true. A workshop or talk or experience can be anything you want to share. From flower arranging to tea ceremonies, from how you overcame depression to how to have better conversations. If you have a story to tell, a skill to share or something to show people, you have a corporate offering. And we have never needed you more. We have never needed more connection, more interaction and more experiences. We have never needed bringing together more and you can do that, with your offering. And you can get paid for it. Because my goodness you are worth it.

Right now, two of my favourite women, Lucy Sheridan and Kirsty Raynor (who incidentally were both at my wedding) have opened enrolment on their course, Corporate Connect. It’s something they only do occasionally and who knows when they will open it again.

They asked me if I would be an affiliate for them and I said YES because they are both brilliant, clever and wonderful and will hold your hand throughout the whole process.

Plus if you buy it through me we can have tea! I am happy to have a cup of tea with you and chat through all of your ideas for your offering, your business, your cinnamon bun recipe, whatever you like. We can even meet in real life, wouldn’t that be nice.

This is a really special course for you if you want to get into some workplaces and share what you’re good at. And you never know, you might even get asked to someone’s wedding in years to come.

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This email contains affiliate links to join Corporate Connect. It doesn’t cost you anything but it means if you join through me I get a small commission and you and I can have tea together.

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As previously stated, I hate the summer. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen but despite my loathing I did try to embrace it this year. Back in June I did a Soft Girl Summer workshop. Just the words “soft girl summer” made my whole body relax. A soft girl summer, not a hectic girl summer, not a chaotic girl summer, not a make-every-minute-count-create-memories-make-it-big-make-it-special-make-it-look-good summer.

It was a planning session. A space to work out what I wanted the summer to look like. What was important, what I fancied. How to still be creative, still follow our dreams within the dizzy heights and untethered madness that is July and August.

For the first time I worked out what I actually wanted from the summer. I wanted days out but I wanted them to be easy. I wanted the outdoors, I wanted the seaside, I wanted packed lunches, ice cream and cream teas. I wanted space. I didn’t want to be in a rush, at any point.

We didn’t go away. We had little days out and big ones staying in. We heavily leaned into our National Trust membership, went to the free art galleries and IKEA. We baked brownies and sausage rolls, had a million picnics in the park. We got the boat home along the Thames, took packed lunches everywhere and borrowed the keys to a beach hut. We saved our money for ice cream and ate all the ice cream. We avoided direct sunlight wherever possible.

It wasn’t always a soft girl summer, it wasn’t always a patient girl summer or even a pleasant girl summer at times. But it was a full, fulfilling, at times intense, at times messy but big beautiful summer. And now it’s over. It’s finished. That will be all, thank you summer.

For the past few weeks I have been fixated on September, the promised land, which also began on a Monday this year to make it even more heavenly. It will be dark by 8PM, socks will soon be compulsory and there will be day time candles. Lights will twinkle, red wine will be opened. We made it. Autumn leaves, coats, boots, early nights, fondue. I love it. I live for it. It’s my Christmas, my Glastonbury. It’s my time.

So I put things off until September because I had to deal with the summer first. No point starting anything new, no point trying to force a routine. There is no structure. It’s summer. The rest of my life will begin in September. My new routines will begin when the clock strikes midnight. A new me is coming. She’ll do and think and wear all the things I dream of. She will be me but better. My hopes and dreams will all come true in autumn. Plans can start. But only after the summer because right now it’s swimsuits and cheese sandwiches.

And now here we are, September, and well well well, if it isn’t all those things circling back to me.

Last week I was manic. We’ve been redecorating our loft and I’ve been obsessed with getting it done and finished. But, really obsessed. Running through the jobs over and over. Writing lists of my lists. Controlling everything. When the blackout blind I’d ordered fell off the frame I nearly lost my tiny mind. And it is a tiny mind. Tiny from being overstuffed, packed too full and running on fumes. There was no regulation, haven’t got time. Meditation can wait, I need to build this flat pack vanity table.

My other obsession is decluttering. This is satisfying for a tiny brain because it can measure it. It can have the satisfaction of selling or giving things away and see them float out of the front door. There really is nothing which thrills me more than popping something on the wall outside our house with a note saying “take me,” and someone takes it. My overstuffed brain can mark it as “productive” and gives me a little dopamine gold star. It has all been worth it.

But then we come to this week. The lack of regulation, meditation, prayer, herbal teas, EFT tapping, love frequencies, reduced screen time and early nights have short circuited my brain. I’m tired, I’m crying. I’m the Tiggywinkle Hot Mess. I’m convinced if I can just sell the sofa everything will be ok. I’m writing more lists. I’m gripping on tighter. I’ve got to build the business, write the best seller and go viral. I’ve got to complete my healing journey, remove all blocks and manifest my infinite cosmic potential. The pressure has become too much. I’ve built it up. I’ve made a yellow brick road with the Emerald City as September 1st.

Glennon Doyle says that control is the opposite of love. Not only that she says it’s often a symptom of a lack of trust in oneself. And now I need a lie down.

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It may sound mundane to watch someone putting mascara on and choosing what to wear but as someone who is fascinated by routines, rituals and anything behind-the-scenes (that’s BTS, BTW) the idea of watching someone putting themselves together for the day is very appealing. In fact I love anyone getting ready for anything. Watching people do their make up on the train is fascinating. Kim K getting her hair done is the best bit of The Kardashians. Lady Capulet getting ready for the ball is one of my favourite scenes in Romeo + Juliet.

Poppy has been consistent, she’s collaborated, created a community and she’s good at it so she’s a hit. She now has almost 300K followers and gets recognised every time we go out. Something I was absolutely desperate for not so long ago.

I’ve always wanted attention. Always been loud. Always been told to stop showing off. This lead me to drama club then to drama GCSE and A level and finally a degree in Drama and Theatre Studies (that’s right, I am BA Hons.) I came out of uni and couldn’t face drama school. Mainly because I didn’t want to be an actor but also the fear of rejection. Besides I was in love with Radio 1 and wanted to be a radio presenter, which I did for over 10 years, never quite getting to Radio 1 but a good career nevertheless.

Being on the radio got me on the telly and I thought, this is it. This is what you hear about, a TV producer tuning in one day and demanding a secretary to get me on the phone before lighting a cigar and telling me ‘you’re going to be star kid!’ I was a regular contributor on ITV’s This Morning for almost two years and flirted with other such slots on various channels.

I was going places, I was making it. And I wanted it. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be adored. If you’d have asked me 10 years ago if I wanted to be famous I would have said yes before you’d finished your sentence. I would probably have asked if you could help. I became desperate, trying to play the game, hack the system. The problem was I didn’t know the rules or the codes. I wanted, I needed to get to top but I didn’t know what the top was. I just knew it was fame. The elusive, nebulous fame. If I was famous I could say I had done it, I had made it. Things would be all be ok if I was in the papers, had other famous friends and people were taking my picture.

The problem is some of this is true. If you are an actor or presenter, fame is a metric on which you can measure your success. If you’re well known, your profile rises and you’ll continue to get work, good work. The more column inches you have, the more opportunities will come. As your star rises so does your fortune. And I believed the more people who knew about you, the more people would love you.

I was an anxious mess trying to claw my way to fame. Though there were definite moments of fun (interviewing RuPaul remains one of the greatest times of my life) on the whole I was in bits trying to do the right thing. I wasn’t enjoying myself or having fun, I was just trying to make it. Get there. Whatever there was. Have a big agent and the phone ring off the hook? Be in magazines, on red carpets? Have people clamber to get a selfie with me?! I didn’t even know. I just knew it would make everyone proud and I would be liked and then I could relax.

So when it all ended with a disastrous interview with Daniel Craig, I think a part of me was actually relieved. A few months later I lost my show on the radio and despite a lot of crying (which I also think was relief) I felt free. I could now do what I wanted without the burden of fame.

I began posting on instagram, mainly for something to do. I started chatting away on stories to the 46 people who followed me and slowly but steadily my account started to grow. I was getting more likes and follows and messages. My numbers started to go up and it felt like something was happening. But I wanted more. Suddenly that old she devil fame was on my shoulder. I needed to explode, to go viral, to get a blue tick. A new pressure began to strangle the fun I was having. I actually liked talking to my little following but now suddenly I needed a strategy and once again I started to play a game with no one but myself.

I went on maternity leave in 2021 and when I came back everything had changed. Instagram didn’t want words and pictures anymore, it wanted videos and lip syncing to Harry Styles. I was lost. My numbers stagnated, my engagement dropped, my growth halted. I panicked and started posting stuff I thought it wanted, which only made things worse. I had been ghosted and instagram was the bad boyfriend I couldn’t stop thinking about.

Maybe it’s turning 40, maybe it’s having three babies under three. Maybe it’s having so little time or energy that I’m hyper focused on only doing things I want but I have finally let go of my dream of fame. Mainly because it wasn’t actually my dream. My dream is slow mornings and comfy clothes, meditation and manicures, baby socks and books in the bath, rosé in the pub and early nights, soft girl summers and Christmas magic. My dream is to write and podcast and nap. Sure, I want growth. Yes I want to be a best seller. But I don’t need it to be loved. I am loved, regardless of my numbers.

We arrived at Hammersmith Apollo to watch 101 Dalmatians: The Musical and Poppy was greeted and complimented and ushered on to the small red carpet for pictures. I held her bag and a guy with a clipboard gestured vaguely and said “you can go in this way as well,” whilst looking at the person behind me. I followed, carrying the bags and an umbrella. I went to the bar to get myself a 0% G&T and a Pepsi for Poppy while she went off to take photos. I surveyed the scene of influencers taking selfies and giving interviews in front of ring lights and thought, I’ve never been happier to hold the bags.

*figuratively.

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I have hosted things for most of my career. It comes with the territory of being a local radio presenter, which I was for almost ten years when I was 20 something. From charity fun runs to Chinese restaurant openings, I’ve done it all. I’ve hosted the opening of Kumon maths classes and the launch of a new opticians. I’ve compèred a dinner at a cat sanctuary. I’ve brought bands on stage at Brighton seafront. I’ve hosted a birthday party for Ikea. I’ve introduced tech gurus, auctioneers and Darcey Bussell. And let me tell you, every single time, I’ve felt physically sick with nerves.

I’ve been terrified about freezing and forgetting everything I’m meant to be saying. I’ve believed if it went wrong I would never work again. I’ve worried an entire audience will hate me. So for every event I would prepare and prepare. “Fail to prepare, prepare to fail” as the Brownies say. If I did my homework and learnt my lines, everything would be ok.

As previously discussed, I love notes. I’m a note taker, note mad, never do anything without the safety of the notes. Every podcast, interview, small chat and gig I’ve ever done has come with a little script I’ve prepared. And most of the time it’s worked, I’ve done the prep, practised my lines and done the job. But it hasn’t stopped the fear. The terror of freezing. And most of the time it’s made it even worse.

I’ve often become so obsessed with learning my script word for word that it’s increased the pressure. I’ve written something great, everyone’s happy but now I’ve got to learn the thing. I’ve got to stand up and bring it to life. I’ve got to walk the walk. They’re paying me to do a good job not to just read out loud. So I would run it over and over again, cursing myself if I missed a bit, visualising me forgetting everything and everyone hating me.

Each time a new job came in I was trapped between the pain of learning my script and the fear of forgetting it. Preparing so I don’t freeze but then the prep might make me freeze. The protector becomes the perpetrator. Which does rather take the fun out of it. Let’s not forget I have chosen this career.

Two years ago I had an email asking me to host at the Leeds International Festival of Ideas. It’s an amazing festival in one of the best cities and I was to host a Q&A with, Ruby Wax.

Ruby Wax is one of life’s heroes. She’s hilarious, wise and obscenely clever. She has a master's degree in Mindfulness-based Cognitive Therapy from Oxford University. And she helped create Ab Fab. Can you imagine how quickly I said yes? But then, the fear. The panic. This could be career defining. She could love me, we could become friends. I could go to her house. The pressure, the prep, it was a lot.

I wrote and rewrote my questions. I made back up questions. I made more back up questions. I printed them out on card and on paper, took a pritt stick and scissors in case they changed. I booked a make up artist, packed my breast pump (I’d just had Louis was was fully lactating) and got the train to Leeds.

I had a dressing room with my name on the door and lights around the mirror. Here I am, I thought, the rest of my life. We went to rehearsals and I clutched my cards as he put a Britney mic on me. I asked my first over prepared question and Ruby Wax looked at me and said, quite rightly, “well we can’t start there because we won’t have done the backstory.” The panic. The fear. I scanned the cards for answers, there were none.

After they’d sound checked Ruby, perhaps sensing my panic, invited me to come to her dressing room. I sat there pumping milk and she asked me all about myself. She was wonderful. Kind, funny, warm and interested but I was still getting in my own way. Concerned it was all going to go wrong, I started scribbling on my cards. “You know,” she said, “I bet you won’t even use those.”

One of the organisers came to get us and suddenly we were backstage and then curtain up. I walked out and recited the introduction I had carefully prepared before “please welcome, Ruby Wax OBE!” She sat down and we began to chat, me firmly gripping my cards and sticking to the script. But then something happened, after the first three questions I realised I could let go. We could chat. This was Ruby Wax for god’s sake. One of the best people you could ever wish to speak to. And I put the cards to one side. My shoulders dropped, I leaned in, suddenly we were laughing. We were talking about a monk living in her house. Her silent retreat. Her one woman show. We were having a good time. I almost relaxed.

Sunday was no different. I wrote my script, had it signed off and started to learn my lines. I walked around my bedroom reciting them over and over, Nancy wandering in and out asking what I was doing. The nerves began. This was a big one, nearly 2000 people and it was being live streamed. If it went well what could it lead to? I printed my script four times, booked a make up artist and arrived over an hour early.

We went into rehearsals and I clutched my script. Once again I recited the lines I’d carefully written. But I found myself looking down at the cards, even though I didn’t need to. Although there were only a handful of people there, every time I looked down, I felt the room change.

I went back upstairs to get ready and a seed of an idea began in the lift, I could just not use my cards. I could be free, I could trust myself, I could just do it. While Charlotte did my make up I ran over my lines again then I told her my plan. That I’d always used notes for everything but I was going to do this one without, “Blimey,” she said, speaking for both of us.

And dear reader, I did it. I walked on stage, read a passage of Prem’s book from the lectern and then, I left my notes there. I stepped forward and I spoke to the audience. I went through the first two thirds of my speech but then, the unthinkable, I lost my thread. I was so obsessed with not missing anything I wasn’t engaging with what I was saying. I seamlessly wandered back to the lectern, glanced at the page and carried on. I didn’t miss a beat. I came off the stage and sat down. Immediately I started to wobble, ‘see! you can’t do it without the cards!’ I thought. But I just had.

At the end of the event the organisers came to see me. They were delighted with how it had gone. Someone said I was “a rare talent,” and how well I’d brought it all to life. Someone actually commented how engaging it was without me holding cards. I was just a person talking to an audience. Fully engaged and present with them. I went back up to the hotel room to get changed. I looked at myself in the mirror and started to laugh. The worst thing that could happen had just happened and it was fine. In fact, it was a triumph. I sat down with a shortbread biscuit. Here I am, I thought, the rest of my life.

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I have the usual clichéd memories of exercise. Appalling at PE, picked last for every team, a sports day tragedy. I don’t have a competitive bone in my body so winning things held no appeal. When they did cross country I was one of the stewards telling them which way to go.

When I was 13 my Dad joined the new gym just off the bypass. They had classes and a pool and hairdryers in the changing rooms. A far cry from the local leisure centre with its communal showers and verrucas.

There was a teenage gym session on a Saturday morning and, painfully self conscious but hopeful, I went along. This could be my fresh start. No one knew about my lack of sporting prowess or that I couldn’t touch my toes. I could be a gymnast for all they knew. But there were two slim bronzed girls there who had my number straight away. They would whisper and look me up and down. They might not even have been talking about me but I felt like they were so what’s the difference? Such is the trauma of this memory that I can still remember one of them was called Honey, an intimidatingly cool name even then.

Primarily though exercise has never held any appeal or joy for me because it’s always been about weight loss. The only reason to work out or move at all was to lose weight. To get thin. Going back and forth on a cross trainer in a grey room watching music videos on repeat was only ever to burn off enough calories to justify a Mars bar at the end of the day. There was no other benefit. I didn’t get the endorphins, I didn’t feel ‘pumped’ and there wasn’t a single moment when I didn’t think about how much longer there was before I could stop. After three weeks, when I inevitably hadn’t dropped a dress size all motivation vanished and I gave up.

Ten years ago I had more time and more money and a personal trainer. She was kind, endlessly positive and most of all, believed in me. I worked out with her on Hampstead Heath at 7:30AM and for the first time in my life became fit. I had workout gear, I sweated. My head went bright red while my neck and body remained white as snow. Jon called it my cherry tomato head. I went to Glastonbury that summer and looked the best I’ve ever looked. But when my trainer moved away and I was back to relying on my own willpower, I never did another burpee again.

Now time has passed, I’ve had three babies and I need to move. I need to do something. I need my cherry tomato head. I do want to lose weight but I also want to feel good. And I don’t want one without the other.

Last weekend Lulu joined Rod Stewart on stage at Glastonbury. She danced on in her fringed white trousers, doing high kicks while she sang Hot Legs. She’s 76. That, I thought, is where to be. She was having fun, enjoying her body and moving.

Where will my body be at 76? Unfit because I didn’t lose weight so stopped moving it? Full prawn from years of hunching and never stretching out? Hobbling about and wheezing on the stairs?!

Exercise just to lose weight is not only incredibly boring, it’s also short sighted. For the first time I am thinking about exercise as longevity. I am thinking about my old lady body. How I want it to move and walk and bend. I want it to take the stairs and the tube and big roasting trays out of the oven.

So on Monday evening I’m going to a dance cardio class. It has to be a class because I don’t want to think, I just need to be told what to do.

Even now I have those feelings of Honey at the gym, the boys at PE sniggering and I feel silly. If I thought about it enough I wouldn’t go. But I have to because I want to be 76 and at Glastonbury looking the best I ever have.

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It began with a trip to Wolverhampton. My Nan is 91 and god willing will go on forever but just in case, we decided she should meet Elliot sooner rather than later. I packed our bag and planned our outfits the night before. We left the house at 8:30AM and travelled on a bus, two trains and a taxi to arrive for lunch. I got back to the station in the pouring rain to stand for two and a half hours on a packed train all the way home. Elliot in his buggy pressed up against the door. It might sound nothing but that’s the sort of thing that can wipe me out for a week. And it did.

It’s wedding season so my evening chats with couples to plan their ceremonies has begun. On the Monday evening I travelled for an hour up to North London on a Monday evening to sit in a nice garden and hear about how they met. When I came out at the Piccadilly line had been suspended so I sat on the bus listening to the Miss Me podcast and watched the sun go down.

On Thursday is was Louis’ birthday so we went up to Tate Modern. Determined not to be stressed we had a gentle morning opening cards and playing with his train set before packing for every kind of weather and heading out. By the time we got to Tate and were finally settled (nappy changes, water bottle refill, the cloakroom) we realised it was 3PM and everyone was ravenous. We had pizza and got the boat home along the Thames.

That weekend was my first wedding ceremony of the year in Ramsgate. I drove down, found some excellent parking and ate my lunch on a bench overlooking the sea. On Sunday we hosted Louis’ family birthday party with cake and bacon sandwiches.

Then it was my mother, June’s 70th. My sister and I surprised her by getting the train up with Elliot and walking into the kitchen with huge silver 70 balloons. I bought the balloons up from London and took them on the bus and tube in 8AM rush hour, Elliot nodding along in the buggy. Once again we travelled from London Euston and I spent the 2 hour journey rocking Elliot in the vestibule and trying to keep the balloons from escaping.

That weekend our whole family went away for the weekend in a country pile. Once again we packed for every kind of weather as well as meals for Elliot, formula and a whole tote bag of snacks. Friday night was a 70s theme. I bought glitter and flares for the babies, lent my Mum my sequinned kaftan, ordered gold safety pins to hold it in place and borrowed a pink jumpsuit from my friend Selina. We drove down on Friday, swam in the pool on Saturday and drove back on Sunday.

Elliot’s wheezing had become a little too loud so Jon dropped us off at A&E on the way home. He was fine but they said we should stay overnight to keep an eye on him. I slept on a zed bed under a ceiling light. At 6:20AM they said we could go home. I was in Lidl at 8:20AM for a big shop.

On Tuesday it was nursery photos, which I forgot so had to take photoshoot clothes down there. On Wednesday I left the house before 7AM to go a climate action in the city, then spent the rest of the day producing content about it. In the evening I packed to go back up north the next day to look after Ruby the Labrador at Mum’s while my parents were in London. I messaged my Dad a shopping list of pitta and cucumber and packed two cases: one for me to take on the train and one for Jon to bring when he drove up on Friday.

Jon delivered me, three babies, a buggy and a case to Euston at 8:30AM and I asked travel assistance if they could put us on the train, which they did but not without me almost having a breakdown that they had forgotten about us. We arrived, ate macaroni cheese and I went to bed at 10:30. At 11:30 Nancy was sick on the landing. She was sick again, twice and I got back into bed at 2AM to hear Louis’ wailing. I lay with him and fell asleep before going back to my bed at 5AM. Elliot woke up for the day at 6:15. We had a weekend in the country, playing in the garden and picking raspberries before Nancy and I got the train home on Monday afternoon.

I know what you’re thinking, my diamond shoes are too tight. Parties, weekends away, pizza, weddings, birthdays.

But as with all parenting ever, it’s not the nice bits which drain you, it’s the unseen mental load. It’s the planning, the packing, the getting ahead. The food prep, the banana buying, the don’t-wear-that-because-I-might-want-you-to-wear-it-this-weekend. The ‘pack these pyjamas and also those pyjamas in case those ones get wet through.’ And take the wellies, just in case. It’s the bargaining on Vinted for a sparkly jumpsuit for Nancy to wear to 70s night. Pinning up Louis’ flares. Planning where you’ll need a stranger to help you on the tube. It’s the washing, the lists, the never ending lists.

Even as I’m writing this I’m thinking, ‘get over it Sarah! You’re not down the pit!’ But where is the sense in comparing myself to someone down a pit? It’s hard. There I’ve said it. Call me ungrateful, call me unappreciative but anything which detours from the routine, no matter how gorgeous, is exhausting. It calls for more capacity, which is often in short supply.

So did she put the things in place to help her handle it, dear reader? Did she go to bed early? Meditate and make sure she took her meds? Did she ease the pressure on herself? Let some perfectionism go? No, no she did not.

I did not handle it well. I was bad tempered, I was unpleasant. I screamed at Jon. I swore under my breath when Louis dropped a blackcurrant down my new white top at the buffet breakfast. I rolled my eyes continuously. I shouted at the babies. I slammed the door, stamped my feet. Nancy said “you’ve got your grumps Mummy.”

I then apologised to Jon for the 75th time and told him I knew I was being a bitch. He felt it was more of a brat so we settled on brat bitch. It’s a BratBitch summer.

At the start of the year a survey found that seven in ten NHS GPs suffer from compassion fatigue. It says they are so emotionally and physically exhausted that they can struggle to empathise with colleagues and patients. Other studies have found that burnout can significantly impair empathy and “lead to a diminished capacity to understand and share the feelings of others.” I’m no doctor but I do know this month has been hard and I have been vile to live with.

There are still two months of summer left. Wimbledon hasn’t even happened yet. Legends will be born, records will be broken, memories will be made. And it will be the summer where I continue to burn out or I choose again. The summer I give myself grace. The summer I make better choices. The summer of regulation. The summer of peace. It’s BratBitch vs SoftBitch summer.

Darling reader, it did not get me in the mood.

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I like jumpers and boots and pies. I like being cold and gravy. I have a passion for stew and I own 86 big coats. Roasts, fires, candles, socks, custard, wool, these are a few of my favourite things. As if this wasn’t enough the clocks go back so we have an extra hour in bed. And if there’s one thing I love more than bobble hats, it’s bed.

But it’s now June and the heady days of socks and dark are far away. We’re staring down the barrel of three months of sunshine and hay fever. Bank holidays and flies. Picnics and sunburn. Toenails and festivals. Chaffing and sunglasses. To add more insult, news just in, the UK is facing a heatwave.

I can’t bear direct sunlight, loathe being sticky and can never be bothered to shave my legs so a halo of fuzz glows around them making me feel slightly queasy.

I have the complexion of a block of feta. I have sunburnt every single part of my body at some point and, having given up on the idea of tanning and decided to stay pale and interesting, I now hide under brollies or hats or stay in. I don’t like going out anyway and in summer it’s unthinkable.

For years I thought this loathing, this literal burning hatred of summer was because there was something wrong with me. Everyone else was giddy with delight. "It's nearly summer!" they would cry, "what are you doing for the summer?!" and "oh my gosh I can't wait for summer!" People lose their minds. Mania creeps in, you can feel it now, things are getting intense, “the mad blood is stirring” as Benvolio says.

That’s because summer brings pressure. Everyone is busy doing things. Making plans, travelling, going to festivals, dressing up, buying tickets and going places. You have to get out there and seize the day, make memories and HAVE A GREAT SUMMER. It's ridiculous. In winter you know where everyone is. They’re at home eating toasties and going to bed.

But like it or not, the summer is here. And it always will be. It’s part of nature’s calendar and mother nature’s plan. It’s the cirrrrcle, the cirrrcle of liiiife. Plants need to grow, flowers need sunshine and bees need flowers and we need bees. Squirrels need to hide their nuts, birds need to hatch their eggs, everything needs to frolic. We need to frolic. And I don't want it to be winter all the time, this isn't Narnia. I recognise we need the light and the shade, the bad to appreciate the good. As Margaret Atwood says "no light no chance, no dark no dance."

So I have challenged myself to find Ten Things I Like About Summer.

1. Ice lollies. See also sorbet.

2. Pimms.

3. Washing dries really quickly. I’m on my third load already.

4. Nectarines.

5. Communal viewing. I love a live televised event. Glastonbury, Wimbledon etc and summer is golden for them.

6. Going slow. It’s too hot to do things quickly.

7. Rosé wine.

8. Getting babies dressed. They need little more than a vest.

9. Erm, boats?

10. It makes other people really happy. And I’m happy for them.

Some people naturally lose things. My brother in law was notorious for leaving things behind. He lost passports, wallets, keys. At one festival he was so determined not to lose his passport he tied it to his trousers. And then lost his trousers. My step daughter lost her brand new Olivia Rodrigo t shirt somewhere between the merch stand and the car home.

It’s not to say they enjoy losing things. In both these examples you could feel their pain but they have learned to live with it. Easy come, easy go. It’s annoying but what can you do?

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I can’t remember actively making a decision not to lose things anymore but I’m sure it came from two formative experiences. One was a black Ted Baker linen hoody. I was 13 and Ted Baker was like Dior. We had to go to Manchester to go to the new store. When I tried it on I felt special. This was a grown up piece of clothing from a designer shop for adults. It was expensive, luxurious. I left it on a train on the way to Stockport cinema. I cried all the way home.

The other is more difficult to talk about. It was Cuddly. Cuddly was a mouse with black eyes and a pink nose. His body, legs and big mouse ears were all in rainbow and he had little white arms and feet. My sister had the same one but her’s had whiskers.

Cuddly had been through some scraps. He was left on a tie rack in a seaside town on a day trip. When we went back to retrieve him, the shop was closed and we peered in to see him in the dark, hanging on for dear life. Dad was there when they unlocked the doors the next morning to bring him home. Another time we arrived at Butlins for our holiday. This was the 90s and not the big weekender Butlins we know today. June arrived and declared she was “categorically not staying here” so we left almost immediately. Cuddly, along with a whole mermaid drawstring bag full of other cuddly toys, was left behind. Dad rang them when we got home and they were returned at great expense by post.

I was 12 when I went to Centre Parcs with my best friend Amy. We were very excited about this trip. We had big plans to wear make up, learn dance routines and go in the wave machine. I was in two minds whether or not to take Cuddly. I was slightly too old to take toys on holiday but also loved him to bits. He was my companion, my dear sweet friend. I packed him, thinking this would be his last holiday before he retired at home. But he never came home. He was lost and left behind and I could honestly cry thinking about it now. Sometimes I even search eBay to see if I could find the same one but of course nothing could replace him.

So between Cuddly and my first piece of grown up clothing, I subconsciously vowed not to lose things anymore. I would keep them close. Keep an eye on them. My nice things. My possessions. My precious.

Imagine my rage, my despair and my disbelief when I lost not one but two important items last week.

The first was on Louis’ birthday trip to Tate Modern. The weather was doing everything so we had to take brollys, waterproofs, sun hats and light jackets. I packed my beloved Vivi Marie raincoat into the bottom of the buggy. It comes in it’s own bag, it’s completely waterproof and goes over whatever you’re wearing. It’s wonderful, made of recycled material and I bought it as an investment piece. This is now my waterproof, I declared, I shall never need to buy one again. How wrong I was.

By the time we got home it was no longer in the bottom of the buggy. The worst bit was I didn’t need to take it, there was some drizzle in the morning and nothing else all day. Maybe it’s my tired brain. Maybe one of the babies moved it. Maybe it was stolen, though I find this very hard to believe as I can rarely find anything in the bottom of the buggy so good luck to a thief. I emailed the pizza place we went to but they haven’t seen it.

On Saturday I was having an excellent day. It was my first wedding ceremony of the season and I’d set off in good time. M&S had the chicken poke salad I like. I was warned that parking was “a nightmare” which is my nightmare. I arrived and nipped straight into a parking space right outside the venue. It was besides a charming park where I sat and ate lunch. I needed a safety pin and saw there was a haberdashery shop a 4 minute walk away. It turned out to be 2 minutes.

I did my make up in the bathroom, got changed and sorted my white folder with the script. The ceremony was lovely. The vibes were good, the guests were up for it and the vows made everyone cry. Laughing, crying, cheering. A triumph. I said my goodbyes, slipped back to the bathroom to get changed again and headed out to the car.

It was only when I got home I realised I had left my white folder behind. I couldn’t get past it. I rang the venue, no answer. I texted the photographer Jo to ask if she’d seen it (Jo is the best wedding photographer there is and if you’re getting married you must have her, here’s her website) I didn’t hold out hope.

The day had been a lovely flow of synchronicities and divine guidance. All was well. Everyone was happy but here was a black mark against the whole thing. It was all ruined because I, the idiot, had lost my folder. The raincoat was one thing and now the folder had tipped me over the edge. What’s wrong with me?! I asked myself. I spent the next 30 minutes turning over the house (again) to look for raincoat, desperate for resolution and mumbled about what an idiot I was.

I was in drama and then I realised I was in a perfection drama because wherever you have perfection, you have to have drama. They’re always together, a true pair. And perfection is always the road to nowhere.

Jo messaged to say she had found my folder and would pop it in the post to me on Monday. I will (begrudgingly) replace the raincoat. And finally I will learn to forgive myself.

“It’s ok, you don’t need to take notes, we’ve got a handout” meant nothing to me. Other people’s notes couldn’t be trusted. Such was my fear of forgetting or missing out on anything I decided if I could nail every single detail to the page, I might be ok.

When I left university I entered the dizzy world of local radio as a presenter, doing the weekend early breakfast show at Cheshire’s 106.9 Silk FM. I would prep all week for those shows, frantically taking notes on things which happened to me to talk about on the radio. I would make notes about things on TV, funny stories I’d heard, anything which could be good for a link. I would scribble things down about the songs I was going to play. And when I say scribble, I mean actual pen and paper note taking.

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This was 2005 and I had some sort of Nokia where you had to manually type through three different letters to get to the one you wanted. Camera phones were something only celebrities had and the only way to record voice memos was onto a dictaphone. So instead I had little notebooks stashed around me at all times. My bag was full of pieces of paper and I had lists and notes on everything from jammy dodgers to Coronation Street, all waiting to be used.

This carried on throughout my 10 year radio career and then onwards into podcasting and writing. The notes have inevitably moved from hand scrawled bits of paper to my phone and my beloved Notes app. At the time of writing I have 2,519 notes containing everything from column ideas to anecdotes about Lidl. One note just says “basket with bananas on wall.”

Hidden amongst this vast archive are other more personal artefacts. Thoughts, feelings, revelations. Helpful phrases, untangled emotions, observations which I have written down to try to make sense of my mind and in turn myself. Each of them are little lightbulb moments or tiny therapy sessions. After years of making notes one day, I heard the phrase ‘journalling.’

I thought journals were something for sailors. Sea captains crouched over low burning candles, recording the wind direction or conditions at sea. I didn’t know someone like me could journal or that I was already sort of doing it. I thought that was reserved for people who kept a diary. Like Samuel Pepys, Micheal Palin and Adrian Mole. People with discipline, people with order.

I always wanted to keep a diary. When I was 9 I had a pink floral diary with a tiny gold lock and key. Every page started with ‘Dear Diary…’ at the top and I imagined sitting down each day to record my entire life, one entry at a time. But after a few pages in my neatest handwriting, the rest of the book remained blank and untouched creating the true story of my life as a diarist.

The pattern continued. I would start with enthusiasm and determination, this time it would be different. I would stick with it, record every detail but after three days I would forget to do it, then miss the next day because I had something on and then it was all over. The pressure of keeping it up was too much.

And then there was the notion that I because I hadn’t been doing it all along, what was the sense in starting now?

I have wasted a lot of time in my life worrying that I should have started sooner. That I’m late to the party and there’s actually no point going.

Too late to join a choir. Too late to learn about wine. Too late to find out if skirts actually suit me.

I still haven’t started the “one line a day five year journal” we got as a wedding present because I didn’t start it then, so what would be the point now?

I am someone who has never ever drunk enough water and live most of the time as a human raisin but that’s how it’s always been so why change now?

I’ve never really worked out or done proper exercise and had decided it’s somehow too late now to find something I like.

But here I am at the age of 41 seeking change. I’m bored of my bad habits. Sick of saying ‘one day I’m going to…’ and then not.

And so I am turning this ship around. I am starting, in spite of myself.

It took me to the third trimester of my third pregnancy to go to prenatal yoga but here’s the thing, I went.

Last month I bought a new water bottle. I booked a reformer pilates class. I started a supplement subscription.

Last night I downloaded a new journalling app. The empty squares for the days of the year I’ve missed so far filled me with terror. Can you really start another new journal at 41? Well yes, yes you can.

Because I have a choice. I can accept that it’s just too late and wait for another lifetime where I drink water, go to pilates and take iron tablets or I can just make a start. A start, with no pressure or expectations or drama, no thoughts of what I have been doing or what’s gone before, just casually making small changes. And I might even decide I’m worth it.

My father reads every night before going to sleep, Jon believes the only way to travel is with a book, my sister hides from her children to read and Sadie who does my nails goes to bed at 8PM to get a couple of hours in before she goes to sleep.

The reason I’m fascinated by when, where and how people read is because it’s a habit I’ve never managed to stick to. It always seems such a luxury, something to do when things calm down, when I have more time then I’ll read but for now it’s back to the washing.

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I love reading. Whenever I’m reading I think ‘wow reading is AMAZING. Why don’t I do this all the time?!” And I love having read. A solid satisfaction of having done it, achieved something. I read. I’m a reader. And quite smug about it.

So why don’t I do it? First of all, I have a strange underlying fear of failure, of somehow getting it wrong. This could be choosing the “wrong” book, something too easy or not highbrow enough. Or I could waste time by getting half way through something only to realise I hate it. Or, perhaps worst of all, I could read a book far too slowly.

When I was 10 I read Matilda, the Roald Dahl classic. I had probably only been reading for a couple of weeks but it felt like months had passed. I started to fear I would never finish it and I became genuinely worried that I might still be reading it on my wedding night and would have to explain to my new husband why I still hadn’t finished reading Matilda.

The fear of being a slow reader was not helped by sponsored reading competitions at school. You were sponsored for how many books you could read in a certain timeframe. Other children seemed to rip through more titles than would fit on the sponsorship form whilst I was still half way through one Judy Blume. I think one year I gave up completely and told everyone they could keep their sponsorship money. I can see the theory behind the sponsored book-a-thon to encourage children to read, great, but as we know the quickest way to zap any pleasure out of anything is to make it a competition. Except if you’re sporty which as you may realise, I am not.

The final thing to confirm my fears was the poem, Slow Reader by Allan Ahlberg from the collection Please Mrs Butler. The book is a stone cold poetry classic (see Dog in the Playground) but something about Slow Reader seemed to touch a nerve. I still struggle to read it now.

But all this happened a long time ago. I haven’t been at school for almost 25 years. I’m an adult, I can read what I like, at any pace I like. So what’s the issue? Well there’s the babies, the cooking and the part time job of washing but also there’s my love of writing. When I’m not keeping myself and everyone else alive and dressed, I want to write. I sneak off to write.

As my friend says, “if you don’t read, you have no business writing.” And it’s true. Here I am banging on about the virtues of Substack. That’s it’s so cosy and gentle and lovely but am I reading other people’s work? Sometimes, occasionally. But not enough. And that’s how we improve isn’t it, that’s where inspiration strikes.

This week Elliot moved into his own room and cot after 7 months of co sleeping with me. It was time but it didn’t stop me sobbing after I put him down. Now though, I have a new bedtime routine. One that doesn’t involve tiptoeing into a dark room and sneaking into bed anymore. I can now put lights on which does lend itself very well to reading but as of yet not a page has been turned.

We all eat dinner together at about 6:30. Bath is at 7ish, teeth, milk, PJs takes us to gone 7:30, then I put Elliot down while Jon reads to the other two. He stays in their room until they’re asleep (so Nancy can’t make a break for it) and I come down downstairs to watch MAFS on my laptop and clear up the kitchen.

Then it’s 9PM. And here we reach the crossroads of the evening. I’m tired but not quite ready to just go to bed. I need a minute. A decompression. I could have a bath. I could journal, tint my eyebrows, do any of those things I think about doing when the babies are in bed. I could GO TO BED AND READ.

Or I could doom scroll memes on my phone. I could think, “ooh just one more” as I scroll down, looking for something, anything too look at. I could fry my little brains looking at strangers on the internet doing things. Some of them are very funny but not enough to suddenly look up and realise it’s 10:45. I hate myself and crawl into bed after a very lacklustre skincare routine.

And here dear reader, we have our problem. I want control. I have spent the whole day doing what it required of me, sticking to the schedule and now, I want something that’s just for me. My time, all mine! And the phone is just too easy. Like a sugar addict trying to find her next fix, I am scrolling to get a hit of dopamine. Hoping the next one will satisfy. But it’s the cheapest dopamine there is. It leaves me itchy and tired and feeling a bit sick. Like eating too much party food. And so, like my sugar addiction, it has got to change. One evening at a time, starting tonight.

I have come a long way from hating my body. Actually hating isn’t strong enough, loathing with pure vitriol and eye watering venom is closer.

I am someone who spent years living in diet culture. My teens and 20s were all about Weight Watchers, Atkins and of course, The Special K diet (where you just ate loads of Special K.) All had one goal: weight loss (and to look like Keira Knightley.) Food was something to be controlled and my body was something to be conned. It didn’t matter what I liked to eat, it mattered what would help me lose weight. Being smaller was the only thing that mattered. I spent years worrying about my weight and it left me miserable and stuck.

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I would like to say this all ended sooner than it did but dieting remained a constant in my life throughout my thirties with ventures into juice diets (I turned it into bellinis and order a pizza) 5:2 diet (I lasted one full day) and before my wedding, Slimming World. All had the same effect, minor losses, big gains and an obsession with food.

As they say in the self help books, it’s been a journey. I spent almost a year having intuitive eating therapy. I read about body positivity, despite it feeling at odds with everything I’d been told. I wrote letters to my body, cleansed it’s chakras, massaged it, acupunctured it, told it I love it in the mirror.

I’ve learnt a lot and have truths that I cannot unknow. I now know about how the food industry wants to fatten us up for Christmas and slim us down for summer. I’ve seen how the patriarchy have preoccupied us with the impossible task of being a smaller size so we don’t get all empowered. How we’ve been tricked into thinking there are magic solutions which don’t require willpower so we’ll spend more money and buy more things.

I know all of this and yet still, I want to lose weight.

I know the short cuts don’t work, god knows I’ve tried them. So now (and this requires a very deep breath) I’ve got to try another way, with something that’s been missing for these 40 odd years: compassion.

Whereas I previously would have said, I hate my body so I want to lose weight, now I can say I don’t hate it but I still want to lose weight. It’s a small but very important difference.

But what about body acceptance?! What about being comfortable in one’s skin? What about body positivity? And taking up space? What about saying to hell with it! This is who I am dammit!

Being born in the 80s (when calorie counting was invented) growing up in the 90s where you couldn’t be thin enough and going out with boys in the 00s where the skinny jean ruled and eating was cheating, is a hard indoctrination to break free from. It’s very solid belief system that has tentacles in every area of me.

So what next? Weightloss jabs? I can’t say I haven’t been very tempted. But it won’t tackle my underlying emotional crap will it? I’m no therapist but *surely* that’s worth exploring.

Even though I can now say I like my body (sometimes) I still want to lose weight so the obvious question is, why?

The weight I want to lose is something I hide behind. It’s an emotional armour. A cuddly safety blanket. As much as it’s cold hard pounds, it’s emotional baggage. It’s keeping me safe. Means I’m not fully visible, not completely out in the world, only pretending, not really appearing. It’s like the whole thing is a dress rehearsal. I’ll do it again properly when I’ve lost the weight.

Only now I’m 41. And not to be bleak but I could be half way through if I’m lucky (both my Nans are 92 this year which I’m leaning heavily on) It’s time to step out of the shadows. Shine the light into the dark corners of what’s stopping me. Because it’s not just willpower alone that’s going to shift this one. It’s me. Wish me luck babes.

You sail down the escalators, watching your reflection disappear in the mirror above you and descend into an open plan sea of colour, light and denim. You scan the rails and mannequins from this vantage point. To the right; jeans, Topshop boutique (pricey) and a photo booth. Underwear to the left and changing rooms in the top corner. And in the middle, clothes which could transform you into someone new. The person you always wanted to be, the fashion girl inside you, the head turner, someone achingly cool. You but better. Shop assistants buzz around in black slogan t shirts and lanyards, the music pumps, the possibilities are endless.

You walk through the middle to the large staircase which takes you down to the bottom floor. Concessions you’d never heard of with their avant garde overpriced capsule collections. A coffee shop (in a shop!) and the new vintage section which was far too intimidating because who knew what size things were. And finally, shoes. Darling shoes. Shoes as far as the eye could see.

Shoes would never let you down. Shoes would always fit and wouldn’t make you well up in a changing room as your dreams of being Alexa Chung slowly died. Shoes were a comfort, a dear friend and there was everything from a £15 pair of ballet flats through to £350 platform stilettos.

In the corner was one of my favourites, Kurt Geiger. Kurt was colourful, outlandish and just the right side of tasteless. I loved all of it. The chain handle rainbow bags, the sparkly flatforms, the trainers with hologram trim. It was so fun, so new, I wanted all of it. I needed all of it.

I clearly remember wandering down there on a weekday afternoon and seeing a brand new Kurt Geiger slip on backless mule. I’d seen backless shoes before but I couldn’t imagine wearing one, how would they stay on?! The mystery only added to their allure. But I haven’t told you the best bit; these white leather flats were embellished with an embroidered gold shiny lobster. A LOBSTER. There on a shoe. The campest, most fabulous thing I’d ever seen. I think I gasped as I picked them up. I noticed them in black and pink but the white were just that bit more sophisticated, more wearable, more effortless. When I finally did put them back I thought, ‘imagine being the sort of woman to wear those,’ because these weren’t shoes for a girl but a woman.

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I was 27 at the time and didn’t know a thing about myself. I was still waiting to become a person. To become a woman. I was somewhere between a girl, a student and an adult. I didn’t know what I wore, what I liked or what was good for me. It was itchy and uncomfortable. I still couldn’t feed myself properly, remember to take an umbrella or know when I’d had enough to drink. So I shopped to try and find her. I bought things she *might* wear hoping one day to wake up and find she’d arrived. I shopped and bought and ended up with a tiny flat bursting with handbags, coats and plastic jewellery. But even then in my desperation to become the woman I wanted to be, I knew I wasn’t ready for those lobster shoes.

It’s taken 15 years, 3 babies, one very supportive husband, meditation and a lot of Sertraline but finally I am a woman. I am that woman. The confident, assured woman who is finally finding out what she likes (vitamins and capers) what is good for me (eye lash tints and morning prayers) and most of all, what I wear. I am finally buying neutrals and I feel great in them. I used to think wearing loud prints was the only way to have a personality but now I’ve realised I am actually charming in black. I’ve got new jeans, nice cardigans, denim jumpsuits and Birkenstocks.

Two weeks ago I went onto Vinted to look for those Kurt Geiger lobster shoes. I found them, in my size. The same ones I’d put back on the stand all those years ago. Because I wasn’t ready. But now I am.

Now, I am that woman.

UPDATE: Kurt Geiger read this piece and slide into the DMs to say they loved it and could they send me something. HOW kind.

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I hope you're really good and all is well and you’ve got a cup of tea the size of your face. I’ve just eaten a hot cross bun if you can bear it. It wasn’t at its best but a bun is a bun. And Easter was a bit early this year in my opinion, barely time to get going on a creme egg.

“There’s more to life than hair but it’s a good place to start” says Aussie Haircare. I’ve been using their Mega Shampoo since I was at uni. Other shampoos have come and gone but I always return to her. I want hair the size of Wales and she delivers. She’s reliable, gives good foam and is usually on offer in Sainsbury’s. Aussie also means I can mention MAFS Australia which I’m heavily invested in, mainly for Jamie and Dave but of course for Jacqui and Ryan. Someone said they need their own series and I would very much like this to happen please.

I’ve never been good at hair. I can’t do anything other than a pony tail and Nancy is getting dangerously close to asking me for French plait and I’ve never done one. Blow drys baffle me, curling wands are frightening and magic waves with straighteners? Don’t be silly. I’ve watched video tutorials and instagram reels. I watched closely on Big Brother and Love Island when anyone was getting ready to see how they did their hair but it all seemed a bit of a faff.

One thing I have mastered is a good fringe. I’ve had the same fringe since I was six and I love it. It frames my face, hides my very large forehead and is cheaper than botox. My haircare routine is to dutifully wash my fringe every morning over the sink, dry it with my loyal Denman brush and sort of ignore the rest of my head.

But there is something else, something which runs deeper. The truth is, I’m just too lazy. I already have to gear myself up for the shower and it remains one of the most boring parts of my day. It gets in the way of making toast, writing or doing a puzzle with Nancy. It’s a wrench, especially when I want to get on with something else. I understand why it’s necessary and I’m not someone who could leave the house without showering but even so, it’s terribly dull.

I have got into skincare in a much bigger way but I’m too lazy for body lotion, which does serve me well because everyone I know who started using it now can’t stop and has to religiously apply it or they dry out like a Ryvita. By the time I’ve had a shower, washed my hair, conditioned it, washed by body and my face, dried off, done some skincare, put make up on and chosen something to wear, I just cannot be bothered to do my hair.

However, I am sick of not having my hair done. I’m tired of shoving it up in a scrunchie (albeit a silk one) or having it flat down my ears like Richard III. Having my hair done makes me feel nice. It’s all the difference. So yes I’m lazy but what am I really saying when I don’t do my hair? That I’m not worth doing it for. That I’m not worthy of feeling good with my nice hair?! Well we can’t have that.

Last Saturday I went to see Self Esteem and I did my hair. I didn’t shove it into a clip still wet and hope for the best. I got out my Revlon One-Step Style Booster (not the sexiest name) which is great because it dries and styles in one go. And so, I did my hair. I went out with bouncy shiny hair and it was great. I felt nice. The best bit is it still looked good on Monday.

2025 is becoming my year for new habits and rituals. So far I’ve done three consecutive days of transcendental meditation and morning prayers every day for over a month. I’ve decluttered my books and I’m curating the perfect capsule wardrobe. I’ve got a new notebook and sorted out my handbags. And now I do my hair on a Tuesday and Saturday.

I first discovered Self Esteem (Rebecca Lucy Taylor) on the Elis James and John Robins podcast, which incidentally I have had to stop listening to as they’ve both become rather insufferable but that doesn’t matter because I’ll always be grateful they introduced me to Self Esteem.

I like a pop star with a personality. Yes of course the songs need to be good but I want more. I want wit and personality, I want to be entertained, I want someone you could have a pint with. Self Esteem is all these things. She’s clever, witty, relatable and very very funny. Her lyrics are somewhere between poetry, memes and diary entries. She gives you everything; the pain, the joy, the hilarity, the absurdity, the confusion, the ridiculous of it all and she puts it all out there somehow saying everything you’ve been trying to in just a single line.

Her new album, A Complicated Woman, has just come out and to launch it she played a series of shows at Duke of York’s theatre, including a Saturday matinee. I cannot describe the ways in which I love a matinee. It’s the same way I love lunch and day drinking. All the fun then home for a cheeseboard, bath and bed. My 40th was lunch and karaoke and home at 7PM.

We left the babies with grandparents, got the train into town and walked along the Strand looking for somewhere to have a drink. This could have gone horribly wrong, we could have walked and walked, becoming increasingly agitated ahead of a timed performance and been forced into somewhere rubbish but instead we found a lovely little place with a lovely window seat and champagne by the glass (I now have a two drink maximum so they need to be good ones.) It’s called thirty7 and we went back there afterwards because I couldn’t stop thinking about the potatoes they were having on the next table.

We arrived at the theatre at 2:45 where I fell upon the merchandise stand and bought a hat and programme. The show started at 3PM and was 1 hour 20 minutes of theatre and dance and performance and gig and one woman show all at once. We laughed, we danced, we cried. We cried a lot actually. I came outside and spoke to to three people who said they couldn’t stop bawling.

Towards the end she sat on the edge of the stage and said if we could buy the album that would be great because if it got in the top ten that would be really funny. Then she said two things. She said “keep trying, just try and try,” and she said “remember you don’t have to do it on your own.” Which made me cry again.

Thank you for being here babes. I promise to write again soon and in the meantime be kind to yourself, you're doing your best.

Huge love,

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On Thursdays I’m heroic. It’s the one day of the week I have all three babies on my own. I’m in charge and alone and I’m raising the future. Single parents, as always, I’m in total awe of you.

Last week things got off to a magical start. Jon got up with Nancy and Louis, did breakfast and left me in bed for as long as possible before he had to go to work. It’s rare all three babies are on good form all at the same time, normally one doesn’t fancy it but they were all happy. It was good moods and good vibes and laughter and sharing and life was great. They read books while I showered and we got dressed and ready to go out. Elliot wore the baby grow he slept in but I found a jumper which matched it and put it over the top so I was winning.

He went in the sling and straight to sleep. Louis was in the buggy and Nancy on the buggy board so all three were contained. The sun was shining, we picked up Vinted parcels and bought milk and houmous and cheese. Everything fitted perfectly under the buggy.

We went to the park under a glorious blue sky. The daffodils were poking up and I needed sunglasses. All was well. Louis toddled into the undergrowth to explore and sat in a comically thick muddy puddle. In his new fleece. I followed to haul him back out and got my Birkenstock clog stuck. When we got back to the path a lady told me “you’ve got your hands full.” She was the third person to say it that day.

Inside the playground Louis went down the slide, his damp bottom slowly sticking as he slid down leaving a trail of mud for the next child, who was Nancy. I got chatting to another mother who told me an upsetting story about a toddler from our nursery. I didn’t know what to do with it.

Because I am so sleep deprived (not to brag but I haven’t had a full night’s sleep for five months) sorting information is really hard. It’s estimated our brains process around 11 million pieces of information every second but currently my sorting office is very slow. Horribly understaffed. The other day I forgot the word fence. I gestured vaguely before calling it a barrier.

Working out what to let go of and what to pay attention to is foggy. Small things quickly lose perspective and thoughts get stuck. Exhaustion also means my senses are heightened so I feel everything just that bit more. I’d also been to You Me Bum Bum Train (see below) which left me feeling surreal for the rest of the week.

I told the babies it was time to go. Nancy shouted “NO” and Louis ran off. I think leaving the park is one of the pinch points of parenting. Gearing up to announce we’re going, the persuasion, the dragging, the wailing, actually managing to get out of the gate. It’s a lot.

On the way home I saw my neighbour who also has a small baby and is also woefully sleep deprived. We agreed what we really need is three nights in a hotel, alone. She added that on the first night she would like to get roaring drunk.

We arrived home. Elliot woke up ravenous, Louis needed to go down for a nap 20 mins ago, Nancy was hangry and so was I. All at once I was making pitta pockets, boiling the kettle, chopping tomatoes and cucumber, washing up baby bowls and resurrecting the sourdough. I finally sat down to breastfeed Elliot before taking Louis for a nap. I came downstairs and started to cry.

I cried because I’m overwhelmed and overstimulated. I cried because it’s hard. I cried because it’s everything I want in the world. I cried because I’m happy and sad and I can’t cope and I am coping. I cried because I love those babies so damn much. I cried because it’s, a lot.

Half way through my big cry the roofer rang the doorbell so I pause the crying to go outside so he could tell me about cladding and parking the van. My sister then arrived which really makes me cry. Now one baby needs to go down and the other needs to get up, the kitchen is hell and Nancy is being raised by Disney+. The whole time I’m planning dinner, making instant coffee for the roofers, changing the beds, hanging the washing, finding new outfits for spring, working through generational trauma, manifesting my desires and clearing out anything which doesn’t serve me.

It’s messy and imperfect and weary but I’m not failing. I’m not underachieving. I’m not falling apart. I’m not fading away. I’m living and loving and feeling. I’m doing it. I’m owning it. I can do anything. I am doing everything. I RISE. I’m creating the life of my dreams. All in leggings with tea down them. And that is what a hero looks like.

Let’s talk about You Me Bum Bum Train or let’s not because the less you know before you go the better it is. And also I had to sign a non disclosure agreement on the way in.

I went to YMBBT eight years ago to the previous show before this one. I heard about it through Nigel at work and went to their one page website to join the mailing list and followed them on instagram. Jon and I bought tickets and knew nothing, other than it was immersive theatre experience and “it’s amazing.” Even though we experienced it completely separately (you travel through it alone) we both agreed it was one of the best things we’ve ever done.

When I won the ballot two weeks ago we bought two tickets for two different nights, to save finding a baby sitter. It was as brilliant, thrilling, inspiring, clever, funny, exhilarating and amazing as before. It takes you out of your comfort zone in the best way possible. It teaches you and shows you things about yourself in ways you couldn’t predict. A few people have asked me if it’s scary, which I can understand but no, it’s not. I felt completely safe throughout. You’re in the best possible care in one of the best things you’ll ever do. You can even volunteer to be in it. Sign up to their mailing list and if you get a chance to go, trust me, go. But already, I’ve said too much.