I sometimes confuse being over something with no longer feeling any emotion or pain towards it. Ideally, we hope it means forgetting all about it. As that’s not always realistic, indifference will do. Peacefully detached. Pure neutrality towards the situation. The false sense of moral superiority where you can walk around with your head above the clouds.

People say there’s no timeline on pain and healing, but sometimes we want to be “over” something both for our own good, and because we feel we should be. The mistaken but common assumption that maturity looks like indifference (Oh him? What’s his name again?).

But then the anger resurfaces, and there’s a sense of self-annoyance. “Ugh, I thought I was past this.” “Why am I still here?” There’s a part of still having emotions toward something that hits the ego a little bit. Almost like we’re losing the imaginary (but somehow very real) game for still having a reaction.

Some days I really do think I’m above it. Other days I’m absolutely not. That’s when the steam comes streaming out my ears.

Some days you think about it and brush it off. Others, it cuts as deep as experiencing it in the moment — the dismissal, the disrespect, the misunderstanding — it feels like a fresh pain. There might also be a brief sting of what could have been, but it’s quickly overpowered by the feeling of being mischaracterised and diminished.

There’s a protective element in it too. Really, we’re still mad at our mistreatment, and sometimes that we allowed it. There’s a sort of embarrassment to someone having witnessed you in that situation. An embarrassment at having cared, explained yourself, shown more of your humanity than the other person was capable of holding.

That’s where we re-imagine scenarios, inserting better responses. The version where we’re sharper. Calmer. Head held high.

It’s like we think we know our standards, what we’ll accept and what we won’t. But in the moment, are we thinking about standards, or are we just wanting to be understood?

Knowing we have those expectations makes it easier to blame ourselves for not being “stronger” with our boundaries. And potentially, there’s truth to that.

They say emotions are signals. Anger is usually the one that tells you your boundaries were crossed. That you’ve stopped blaming yourself. That your pride is trying to repair itself.

And then there’s the resentment of never being fully acknowledged. The idea that they may never even recognise the hurt they caused you. The full on — “How can they walk around with no care in the world…” We all know the script.

I don’t mean getting your own back in terms of revenge, by the way, although there is a sense of satisfaction in imagining making someone else feel a fraction of what you did. I mean more in the way of restoring your composure.

That’s the part that’s funny to me. I notice how desperately we want to minimise our reactions, to keep our “self-respect” and pride, and yet in doing so we glorify the suppression of vulnerability — the very thing we usually wish had been shown to us.

The composed, detached, “cooler” response always feels more elevated. Like you’ve won something. It gives us the layer of control we lacked in the moment. A bit of emotional leverage we can hold onto and call dignity. The moral high ground of “We don’t even need to stoop to that level.”

But I wonder if often it’s just distance masquerading as dignity. As soon as someone shows us that they don’t care, we want to mimic that emotion as quickly as possible. It feels safer than being left hanging in the balance, even if the indifference is forced.

Admitting you still care when someone else doesn’t is a strength. But it can feel like a lack. As if care equals weakness. And yet, care doesn’t have to mean continued engagement. It just means you’re human. Yes, that care will have to go elsewhere eventually, but it’s allowed to still exist for a little while.

There’s a moral frustration here for me for sure — how can someone treat another person like that? Sometimes that’s quickly followed by my understanding of exactly how they could, which is even more irritating when I want to stay mad.

If you get to the point where you accept the fact that it really had nothing to do with you, and that it was a projection of their own unhealed narrative, it can offer a kind of calm.

I almost want to feel relief, because it reinforces the idea that it was their lack, not mine.

But knowing why someone behaved the way they did doesn’t change the way it landed.

Intellectually, you can see it. Emotionally, you’ve still absorbed it. And you absorb it again every time the situation replays.

Sometimes understanding even complicates the anger. You lose the clean villain. And it’s easier to move on when there’s a villain. Understanding, though, doesn’t have to mean forgiveness. It doesn’t mean weakened boundaries. It just means seeing it clearly.

You can understand someone’s motives. That doesn’t mean your body forgets how it felt. The eventual “peace” isn’t forgetting what was done or pretending it didn’t matter.

It’s just not rehearsing the same situations over and over again. It’s knowing that acknowledgement isn’t needed for your feelings to be valid. It’s knowing you’ve learnt what you needed to, and you don’t need any more resolution from someone else.

There’s something humiliating about imagining they know you still care. As if that hands the leverage back over. As if detachment is the only solid ground left to stand on. But if your power depends on them believing you’re over it, it’s not really yours.

(I even feel the need to say I’m not writing this because I still care. As if they’re even reading this.)

And maybe, if I’m honest, part of the anger was easier than a clean ending would have been. It gave me something solid. Something to push against. A clearer reason to walk away. A simple incompatibility might have left me with more questions than answers.

I realise being over it isn’t about feeling nothing. It’s about being able to sit with the ambiguity, without needing the pain to justify your exit.

Does the game even exist if I stop keeping score?

You know that feeling when you meet someone, and you instantly click. That almost cinematic, ‘where have you been all my life?’ feeling. You feel understood in a way that feels expansive. Like you can stretch out fully and nothing about you needs to be translated or reduced. I’ve had that with friends, that sense that every nuance, every thought, every contradiction is allowed to exist.

And then there’s the opposite.

The immediate awareness that someone won’t understand you. Whether that’s at work, romantically, or socially. You can almost feel it within the first few minutes, instant alarm bells in your mind. In those moments, I don’t fight it. I adjust, almost. Shrink into the character they think I am. I let myself become ‘the calm one,’ or ‘the shy one.’ Sometimes even traits that feel less flattering. I accept the role because resisting it feels exhausting.

That’s the first tension: expansion versus contraction.

It’s not even that people actively mischaracterise you every time. Sometimes you pre-empt it. A way of social survival. We all do it. The sociologist Erving Goffman described life as performance: front stage and backstage. Different audiences, different presentations. Something functional, even necessary.

But there’s a difference between adjusting and being flattened.

Being mischaracterised hits differently. There’s always that split second of doubt – ‘have I been coming across differently this whole time?’ It’s initially destabilising. I’ve been called many things that didn’t fit with who I think I am: impatient, immature, childish, materialistic. ‘Too much.’ It’s always ‘too much.’ Sometimes too independent. Sometimes emotional and clingy. Sometimes less intelligent. The contradictions alone should be a giveaway.

It used to hit me harder; I internalised it. Now, more often than not, it makes me angry. It’s easier to see how quickly people reduce you to something they can manage. A compressed version that fits neatly into their expectations. It’s efficient, and it’s cognitively easier.

And that’s where this gets uncomfortable. Because the same compression that hurts personally is what makes branding work.

We live in an era of personal brands. You find your niche, you distil yourself, you give yourself a tagline. A tight archetype travels faster than nuance, complexity doesn’t scale easily. Humans prefer information that’s easy to process, the brain trusts what it can categorise quickly. A clear identity glides in, but a layered one requires effort.

So, when I see creators with sharp positioning, there’s a small part of me that envies the clarity and the discipline. The speed at which that kind of identity moves through the world.

But I also fear the loss. If I tried to define myself in one line, what would I be leaving out? Would I be shrinking myself? Or focusing myself? That’s the part I’m still untangling.

There’s also power in not being fully known by everyone. Intimacy doesn’t scale. Even biologically, we aren’t built for mass vulnerability. We can maintain only a small circle of true emotional closeness. Depth is resource intensive. Maybe it isn’t a loss if the full architecture of who you are is only visible to a few.

I always pride myself on my authenticity, maybe that’s why it hurts so much when I’m seen as otherwise. But I’m learning that authenticity doesn’t necessarily mean radical transparency. It means alignment. You can choose what themes you’re willing to be known for without amputating the rest of yourself. Maybe not necessarily deception, but boundaries.

Carl Jung wrote about the persona, the social mask we develop to function in society. I guess the danger isn’t wearing one, but actually forgetting you’re wearing it. Maybe the issue isn’t having a distilled public identity. Maybe it’s losing awareness of where it ends, and you begin.

Refusing to simplify yourself has a cost. People won’t always try to understand you if they can’t place you quickly. Opportunities might move slower, and growth might feel less explosive. It takes longer for people to give you chances.

But simplifying yourself also has a cost. A fear that you’ll end up trapped in the box you built. That repetition will blur the lines until the persona and the person become indistinguishable.

I started this piece angry at the thought of being misunderstood. Now I’m less certain it’s that simple. Maybe being mischaracterised only becomes a loss when it’s imposed. Maybe self-distillation, done consciously, is something different. Selection, rather than reduction.

The real question might not be whether I can be placed. It might be whether I need everyone to stay.

As we approach the end of February 2026, you’d think the buzz of New Year’s would have started to cool off. Instead, it feels like it’s building again.

Today marks the beginning of the Year of the Horse in the Chinese zodiac, and people are energised by it.

There was already a lot going on symbolically with 2025, and I think we all felt it. Numerologically, it added up to nine, a number associated with completion and endings. In the Chinese zodiac, it was the Year of the Snake, all about shedding old skin, closing chapters, and releasing patterns and behaviours that no longer fit.

The Year of the Horse, on the other hand, represents ambition, drive, freedom, forward movement. Two very different energies.

It seems a lot of people resonate with this change, and if anything, it tells me that January 1st didn’t quite deliver what we thought it would. After everything 2025 symbolised, the endings, the shedding, it felt like we were owed something bigger. We were ready to put it behind us and see the magic of 2026.

But when the clock struck midnight and January arrived, nothing really transformed. If anything, the heaviness intensified. I found myself in a loop of low motivation, low energy and low hope. I was ready to write off the year before it had even properly begun, pack up my things and try again next time.

My friend and I were both feeling it. We’d message each other half-jokingly, half-desperately reassuring ourselves, ‘It’s fine!! The real new year is in February. It’s still the Year of the Snake.’ As if we could extend the grace period by shifting the calendar slightly, as if we hadn’t technically started yet and therefore couldn’t have failed.

It got to the point where you’d say, ‘There must just be something in the air.’ For those of us in the gloomy UK, the endless grey skies and constant rain didn’t exactly help. Nothing screams motivation more than waking up to constant downpour five days in a row. It’s a sound that feels permanently lodged in my mind now, even when the skies are surprisingly clear. It’s like convincing yourself you can hear the phone ring when absolutely no one is trying to reach you.

Regardless, I think that’s why this second symbolic ‘new year’ feels so enticing. We all want another chance to get it right.

And if you’re anything like me, you love the symbolism of these mythological and celestial markers. There’s something comforting about the idea that the universe moves in cycles, and that we can move with it.

Today, with the sun finally out for a few hours, it does feel like a fresh start. The air feels lighter. There’s a soft sense of momentum. Maybe change really is in the air.

But I’ve been thinking about how psychologically we cling to these dates. How we wait for a new year, a new month, a new Monday to begin again. How anxious it can make me feel, as if, if I don’t start properly, the opportunity disappears. As if a whole year can be ruined by a slow January, as if time is that fragile.

I’ve even seen people say you shouldn’t wash your hair or take the bins out on the first day of the year, like a single domestic task could tip the scales of the next twelve months. And the thing is, for people who attach weight to these kinds of things, myself included, I would genuinely believe that one act could cause everything to come crashing down.

But humans invented calendars; we didn’t invent momentum, or the process of becoming.

And that doesn’t just happen at the stroke of midnight or depend on doing everything perfectly from day one.

Maybe the opportunity isn’t wasted when we don’t ‘start correctly.’ It merely waits for us to step back into it. I love the enthusiasm around this symbolic reset. I love the idea of ambition and forward movement.

But there’s no need to wait for a symbolic marker to begin, or for a flawless first week. And surprisingly, I can choose not to write off a year just because it didn’t feel magical straight away.

Time will pass regardless, whether it’s the Year of the Snake, the Year of the Horse, or something else entirely. The only fragile thing was my belief that I had already ruined it. And if I dare to go there, maybe momentum doesn’t arrive all at once, but builds each time you decide to keep going.

I’m drawn to think of that Britney Spears perfume advert, ‘I choose my own destiny.’ Slightly theatrical, in my true fashion. But fitting.

So here’s to the Year of the Horse, whether it’s your second beginning, or your third, fourth or fifth.

Photo by Andrey Soldatov on Unsplash

I wish I was joking with the title. I do. As a writer, I take pride in my way with words and my ability to paint a pretty picture (metaphorically, of course. My artistry isn’t quite there yet), but it’s gotten to the point where I’m just out of options. I’m looking back at all the advice I’ve ever heard, thinking, “Damnit! They have a point.”

Throughout my life, I’ve run into this ‘perfectionist’ thing a few times. Really irritating, wouldn’t recommend. Apparently, a few writers actually encounter it. Ever heard of it? Eh. I’m sure I’m just special and unique.

The point is, I’m finally at my wits’ end with it. Eventually, issues stop being so doom and gloomy and really just start being a pain in the ass. I open up a notebook, try to write, the voice in my head starts doing its thing. Previously, I would quake in fear and resolve to never touch a pen or keyboard again, to spare the world from my dreadful words. Now, it’s just kind of like, “Really? Is this the best you can do? I’m kind of busy here.”

But I digress. A goal of mine for years and years and years has been to write a book. Again, very special and very unique, I know. Venturing where no man has gone before. Yet after all these years of the same goal, I’m still yet to see a finished book. I probably get about two thousand words in before I curse myself for ever daring to try – as obviously the idea is completely horrendous, and who would ever want to read anything of the sort? I pre-reject my own writing and ideas before people even get to make up their own minds about me.

But then I think back to my Wattpad days, where I would sit and read on the very safe and great-for-your-eyes layout from a tiny phone. Reading a story that a thirteen-year-old wrote every day, only half of which made sense. I hate to say that at the time I would think, “Gosh, I can write better than this.” Almost scoffing at the audacity while I read. I don’t know what type of superiority complex I had going on back then. Did I read it anyway? Yes. The whole way through? Yes. Props to them – they got further than I ever did. I underestimated just how difficult it is to even be consistent with something, let alone consistent and good at something.

As I’ve gotten older, I understand the depth and bravery it takes to actually put yourself out there like that, whereas I shoot myself down before I even really try. My sister used to love hearing about the things I was writing and working on – it’s now gotten to the stage where I rush to her with this amazing new idea, and she just looks at me sideways, and the first thing she says is, “Yes, but will you actually do it?” 

I then get offended, of course, as how could she even ask that when this is my sole passion and new reason for living, and she should just forget about the other 300 ideas I got her excited about and never delivered on. I also have a friend from uni who made me promise to put his name in the acknowledgements of my book when I get it published. That was in 2019. This book is still imaginary. I hope he’s not still holding on to that promise.

Thus, bringing us back to the title of today’s piece: my new goal is to write the worst book you’ve ever read.

Upon reflection, maybe this is my perfectionism creeping in again. I’m sure I can settle for just a badly written book. It doesn’t have to be the WORST. Gosh. I even have to be the best at being the worst. Maybe the only thing I actually have to give up is the version of me who needs to be impressive.

But yes, shocking news. Therapists and coaches were right. You should just start badly. And writing badly with the aim of writing badly is quite freeing. I mean, it was painful at first. It seemed like every word I wrote was just evidence for why I should never write again.

It hurts to write badly. But it hurts more leaving goals unfinished.

Then, suddenly, the clouds of judgement and annoying subconscious self-protection seemed to be parting from above me.

I wonder if I should apply this to other areas of my life. Maybe this has been the answer all along. 2026: the year of doing things badly. Sounds like a whole lot of fun.

Well. If this is the worst book you ever read, at least it will exist.

Do you know how long I’ve been avoiding writing in this thing? I’ve been dodging it like the plague. That silent guilt has been there, though, sitting quietly in the back of my mind while I do literally anything else. It doesn’t interrupt or demand much attention. It just rests. And then a day goes by, and another day goes by, and suddenly weeks have passed. I begin to wonder if this is even something to go back to, or if I’ve already let too much time slip.

Someone once told me that if I’m not working on the things I want to, then I just don’t want it badly enough. Those words rang true to me in the moment. They felt sincere and motivating, like a challenge I could rise to. But now, as I sit here day after day, thinking about the same thing over and over again, I start to question that idea. Because what is this, if not desire? When something follows you this persistently, when it resurfaces in every moment, when the guilt of pushing it aside gnaws at you constantly, is that not want?

The truth is, it’s much easier to dream about things than to act on them. I love big dreams. I will dream about things all day. Everything goes well in my daydreams. I could sit there and daydream for hours, and I have. It almost takes away the need to actually do anything. The dreaming feels productive enough to stand in for the doing. Sometimes it feels kinder to myself to stay there.

Acting is different. Acting requires you to confront where you really are, not where you might end up. It asks you to start without guarantees and to be seen halfway through. Sometimes I think I almost resent that. I almost hate that I’m here again, doing things, instead of just imagining them. Imagining is so much safer – it doesn’t ask anything of you. And still, I never stop wanting more than that.

But when I do act on things, something shifts. I feel calmer, I think less, I feel at peace. My mind stops circling. My body catches up, finally, and it reminds me that movement, however small, creates its own type of clarity.

My friend is currently recovering from brain surgery.

I know this feels like a pivot. A sharp, heavy pivot. But as it would do, it’s been on my mind. I can’t even imagine the whole experience she has gone through. I know I have my own blocks around things in my life, my own moments of fear and avoidance, but she has just been through something so immediate, so confronting. Something that strips life back to its essentials. She is well, and she is recovering. I continue to pray for her safe and swift recovery. But she has seen one of the scariest parts of life up close, one you don’t really come back from.

She understands more than ever the importance of life, and the fragility of our everyday. She was always like that regardless, constantly looking at the positives, making the most of her life, but now this has added a deeper layer. Most of us understand this in theory. We’re told to be grateful, to appreciate our time. We nod along, because of course we do. Why wouldn’t we be grateful? But then the mundane of the everyday takes over. Frustrations rise over missed trains, emails that need replying to. Deadlines feel urgent until they don’t. It’s all the small, constant irritations that slowly dull our awareness. How often do we actually stop?

Today, after speaking to my friend on the phone, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, hearing her talk about what she’s been through, something solidified in me. I felt grateful in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I was grateful for her safety. I was thankful to feel her warmth again. And I was, almost selfishly, inspired. Inspired to do better. Inspired to do more. Inspired to stop postponing myself. Inspired to take more time to just be myself. To take all the time I can to appreciate the things I’m so lucky to do without thinking twice. And yet I know how easily I’ll forget this feeling.

We spend so much time looking backwards, replaying moments we think we wasted. We obsess over the should-haves, the could-haves, the what-ifs. Then the pendulum swings forward, and we start imagining futures with hope or dread, making plans for versions of our lives that haven’t yet come to pass. We forget about the present. We acknowledge it, sure, in an objective way, but how often do we actually feel it, or register that we feel it? It’s harder than it sounds. It doesn’t last very long. It’s literally a blink-and-you-miss-it moment.

And I did miss it. Time is one of those things that feel endless until we think it’s running out. In my mind, I’m always treating time as if there’s an endless supply of moments, of love, of opportunities, so much so that I feel comfortable leaving things until ‘next time.’ I wonder how much we lose in the process. 

Today, as I took out my notepad and pen and started writing, it registered to me quietly and clearly that this was the first time I’d really been here in three months.

But it’s something worth striving for. That clarity of action, that peacefulness of presence. It makes it easy for that overwhelming gratitude of being to start to flow.

They say you never appreciate what you have until it’s gone. I say, why don’t we start?

Sometimes the scale of life hits me in stupidly ordinary moments. I’ll be scrolling through my phone in the morning, half-asleep, wrapped in the warmth of my duvet, and suddenly I’m witnessing three different realities at once. A bombing somewhere, a wedding somewhere else, someone making banana bread in a kitchen I’ll never step foot in. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet, but I’ve already absorbed more emotional commotion than my ancestors would have encountered in a decade.

It makes me wonder whether humans were ever meant to live like this, with a world so large it’s at our fingertips from the moment we open our eyes.

Our minds evolved in small groups, a hundred people, maybe a hundred and fifty at most. But they were people you actually knew: their voices, their habits, the way they laughed, the way they got on your nerves. We weren’t built to carry the tragedies of millions, or to compare your life to thousands of strangers, or to process multiple global crises at the same time. Our nervous system was designed for the familiar, not the infinite.

I think about this mismatch a lot, the biological scale vs the modern one. Even when life is objectively fine, even when I’m safe, warm, fed, unthreatened, there’s this underlying sense of dread.

Sometimes it shows up as anxiety, sometimes as numbness, sometimes as a strange guilt, like when I’m showering and feeling bad about it, aware that somewhere someone has no clean water, and here I am deciding whether I should condition twice because my hair feels dry. It’s ridiculous and human and heartbreaking all at once.

It’s like my body doesn’t know the difference between danger in front of me and danger happening nine thousand miles away. My heart still races, my stomach still tightens, my thoughts start spiralling. Almost like a constant low-level state of threat with no clear enemy to confront. Just an on-going stream of information and no way to act on most of it.

I imagine in the past there was only scope for small, solvable problems: a broken tool, a sick relative, harsh winters. There was a world with clear edges, and you knew your role within it clearly. But now it’s like the edges of these worlds have started to bleed endlessly, and we keep on absorbing everything.

We meet hundreds of people online, we hear thousands of opinions, we carry emotional stories from strangers we’ll never meet.

But my actual life is tiny compared to the world I think I’m living in. I don’t experience eight billion people, I experience maybe ten deeply, my world is shaped by a handful of relationships. The things that genuinely affect me are the things I can touch, see, hold, change.

You can care about something without being responsible for fixing it. And you can acknowledge pain without trying to personally hold it. You can be informed without letting the weight of the world replace the weight of your own life.

The older I get, the more I think that peace isn’t about simplifying the world, but about simplifying your relationship to it. There’s power in deciding where your attention goes, clarity in choosing what belongs in your emotional world and what doesn’t. There’s freedom in living intentionally in a world that pressures you to be endlessly large.

We weren’t built to carry the whole world in our hands, but we canchoose the size of the world we actually engage with. We can choose what enters our minds, what stays in our hearts, what shapes our days. We can live lives that feel proportionate to our humanity rather than lives stretched to accommodate every crisis, and every expectation.

The world will always be too big, but we don’t have to feel lost within it.

You know that little voice in your head that convinces you everything you’ve ever done is wrong? No? Just me then…

If you have an internal monologue and an inch of self-awareness, you’ve probably reflected on at least one or two of your actions. Maybe you’ve thought about a conversation gone wrong while you’re trying to sleep at two am, or thought that maybe you should have helped that old lady cross the street. If you have a more active inner voice, it can sound like constant radio chatter up there. I fall into the latter category.

It’s always stressed how important it is to practice ‘positive self-talk’ and to ‘be kind to yourself’ – well, I never said anything outright mean to myself, so I thought I had those two boxes checked off.

In fact, I didn’t realise I had a harsh inner critic until I was sat in my therapist’s office, and she was telling me I put too much pressure on myself. I looked back at her a little puzzled – of course I put pressure on myself, how else am I supposed to get things done?

So, I shrugged her off and acted as if I knew best. Still, that small comment from her gave me the slight awareness I needed to pay more attention to how I spoke to myself. I started to hear the way I criticised myself for taking a break, listened to how the voice chastised me if I did something ‘well’ but not ‘well enough’. I had never considered myself a perfectionist before, as nothing I ever did was perfect.

*Cue every therapist screaming at the screen – that’s the point!*

But, surprise surprise, I realised my therapist was right. I did put pressure on myself, because I wanted to push myself. What I didn’t understand, was that there was a fine line between pushing myself, and punishing myself.

I also hadn’t put together that by punishing myself, I was moving further away from the things I wanted to achieve. I had big goals and dreams, but I always felt like there was a block to me acting on them. I found it hard to get started on the things I wanted to work on, as nothing I could ever start with could live up to the expectations of the finished product I already had in my head.

I would compare myself to these accomplished professionals and masters of their craft, discarding the years of experience and hours of practice they put in every day, and use their ‘talent’ as an excuse for why I just wasn’t good enough. Essentially, also doing those incredible people a disservice and undermining the labour they had to put in to get to where they are.

Recently, I’ve seen a phrase re-circling the internet, particularly in regards to pop stars Sabrina Carpenter and Olivia Dean – “It takes ten years to become an overnight success.”

We don’t see the process of their rise to fame / success – or rather we don’t pay attention. We can look at someone and say it’s natural talent, but of course that goes hand in hand with hard work put in every day.

Understanding that was the first step to quieting that harsh inner voice. Every time I had put pen to paper, I would be scared to write. I knew whatever I came out with wouldn’t be the best thing ever written. I will admit, that is a high standard I set for myself.

I had to tell myself repeatedly that doing something badly was only the beginning of the process, not the end. I spent too much time worrying about the end result, I never wanted to go through the process of actually trying.

I think we’re also in a society where we’re valued on what we can do and what we bring – not who we are – that it feels there’s no room for mistakes or learning. We need to be able to provide something, otherwise what are we here for?

The societal pressure adds to the already existing pressure in our minds. Everything moves so quickly – we’re constantly on the hunt for the next achievement, the next challenge.

In fact, wins aren’t celebrated as much as expected. So, if you’re not achieving, or even just standing still, it feels like a loss. No one is rewarded for trying, but revered when they ‘suddenly’ succeed.

We need to strip that mindset back and allow ourselves to work towards something and be bad at it. Not everything needs the instant gratification of success. The road may be longer, but it’s just as sweet.

To kick off the start of Mercury Retrograde, I thought I’d talk about one of my favourite things: tarot.

Now, I can already hear your eyes rolling behind the screen. ‘Oh, she’s one of those people.’

And I can answer – yes, yes I am.

As I come in defence of tarot readings, I enter this conversation with an understanding that it carries large amounts of scepticism from the general public – which I ask you to kindly put aside for this article and continue with an open mind.

All done? Great. Let’s continue.

Tarot is often dismissed as ‘woo-woo’, and if you indulge in it you’re seen as a little kooky, which is not necessarily a bad thing. However, if I’m being honest, most of my breakthroughs – particularly this year, have come from tarot. I had a great therapist for a few years, but these tarot readings opened up my mind and made me realise things I may have never discovered in my therapy sessions. If done well, it may not tell you the future (depending on your views), but it will help you understand yourself and your emotions better.

It’s important to discern which readings will be helpful – I don’t just watch any old reading I see on my TikTok page. But I do have a favourite tarot reader, who is actually on Substack (SpiritOfTali). I have learned so much about myself through his readings – every time they come up, I am locked in. Even if it’s not about my situation, there’s always a gem of knowledge I can still take away from them.

As someone who overthinks and over-stresses, I can find it hard to look at things from a different perspective, especially if I’m in the midst of what I believe to be a crisis. You can turn to friends and family, but honestly sometimes it’s tiring hearing the same advice which you already know and doesn’t really help anyway (sorry guys, I still love you).

Through tarot, I can analyse my situation as it stands, understand the emotions that are coming up for me, and learn how to overcome it, or at least how to help myself in the best way possible in that moment. It’s been the best tool of looking inwards and finding out what’s going on beneath the surface.

Earlier this year, for example, I was constantly stressing about the future. Stressing to the point I would spiral for hours over what was going to happen not even days ahead, but years and years ahead. I knew I had to take it one day at a time to stop these little spirals, but I didn’t exactly know what that meant. It turns out, I had an issue with control and needing to know every outcome to every situation, which is not possible, and if it was, would be heavily boring. Instead, through these cards, I was able to change the way I looked at things, and embrace the exciting possibilities of the unknown and everything to come. As long as I don’t think too deeply about it – then we’re back to square one.

It’s basically another form of therapy.

Even the ‘bad’ cards are helpful. I can’t say I don’t have a little intake of breath when I get The Tower – but at least I know that changes are coming that will probably work out for the best. After a *small* period of discomfort. 

I find it hard to explain to people due to all the cynicism around it, but I wonder how many more people would be able to understand their emotions and express themselves fully if they were more open to things like this. Whether you believe it’s witchcraft and tells your future or not, the cards offer a wealth of knowledge, and if you’re ready for it, an opportunity to look deeper within. Especially if you’re unsure of where to start.

P.S. I’ve also never had a reading that’s not been accurate, so take from that what you will.

Pain isn’t proof you chose wrong, sometimes it’s evidence you chose yourself.

I have a hard time letting go.

Even when I know something isn’t meant for me, I cling to the version of my life where it did. My mind can list every logical reason to walk away, but my heart still drags its feet, convinced that loss is a sign of failure rather than evolution. There’s a particular anguish in knowing that something is right while feeling, down to the core, that it’s wrong.

I’ve let go of people I loved, jobs I wanted, and futures I crafted carefully in my head. And each time, I didn’t just lose the singular thing, I lost the entire world I attached to it. The evenings that never happened, the routines never settled into. The office I never walked into on my first day, outfit chosen, lunch spot already decided. We talk about heartbreak and disappointment like they’re only tied to real events, but often, we’re grieving the futures we imagined yet never lived. It’s the ‘almost’ that gets you.

It’s almost easier to make the decision that will change your life than living with the emotional consequences of making it. The decision itself can feel clean, sharp, empowering. But after, it’s dealing with the silence and the change where familiarity used to be. It’s day after day of feeling the absence, of late nights spent wondering if you misread something, if you were impatient, if you walked away from something rare instead of something wrong. You feel foolish for hurting over something you chose to release. We think pain means we made the wrong decision, but it doesn’t.

Letting go isn’t proof that we didn’t care, and hurting afterwards isn’t evidence that we should have stayed. You can know something isn’t right for you and still feel the sting of leaving it behind. That ache is just indication of how deeply you felt, how much you gave, and how much you believed in what could have been. We don’t grieve things that meant nothing. We grieve the things that mattered, even if they can’t move forward with us.

After a while, you’ll remember why you had to go. You’ll realise that absence isn’t the enemy, but stagnation is. And then, you’ll begin to look to the future. To really look, and encompass all the possibilities that come with it. You’ll realise that your letting go was just making space for something new, something better, something more suited for you.

There are always going to be things we desperately want to hold on to. Our minds can scream at us to let go, but our hearts adamantly refuse. Letting go of this one thing feels like leaving behind a part of your soul. Like if it were to be taken away from you, you would never be whole again. You wonder how you can survive without it. If it’s even possible.

But you forget you did it once before. And you can do it again – not because you don’t feel deeply, but because you do.

A reckoning with solitude, self-protection, and learning to be seen.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what makes me feel safe.

When I think of safety, the obvious things spring to mind: money, food, shelter. But I can have all of those, and still feel unsafe. Is it love that brings me safety? Relationships? Friendships? They contribute to that feeling, but again, even with all that present, I can feel unsafe.

Throughout the years, I’ve found my sense of safety to be unstable. When it came to expressing myself to others, I preferred to stay hidden. When it came to letting others in, I was anxious that they would leave me. Still, I searched for the safety I craved in other people. I hoped they would be able to bring me that sense of inner safety I was unable to provide for myself. Unsurprisingly, they couldn’t.

It won’t come as a shock that the more I looked for safety in others, the less I found it in myself – in fact I kept myself hidden and accepted from others what I shouldn’t.

I didn’t understand that the thing I was looking for in other people had to first be created within myself. I didn’t realise it was something I could cultivate, nurture. Instead, I chased it everywhere, and naturally, it repelled the other way.

I wanted others to trust in me, to believe in me, to be there for me, to fix things for me, to validate me, when I was unable to myself. It’s not that I shouldn’t receive those things from other people, but more it shouldn’t be my sole source of those emotions.

Now, it’s like the pendulum has swung the other way. If you were to ask me where I feel safe, I’d say I feel safe in isolation. I feel safe when I’m alone, and I’m free to be myself, without judgement from others. When I’m in my bubble, safe from external factors.

But is that safety? Or is that fear? It feels safe, as I’m protecting myself from being vulnerable. I’m ‘safe’ from rejection, opinions, judgement. But it’s also hindering me from growing.

I say I feel safe when I’m alone. But I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be understood. So, what if I place my sense of safety elsewhere? Because what if the things that make me feel ‘safe’ are actually holding me back?

I wonder what my sense of safety actually is, and how much of it is really fear.

I say safety must first be cultivated within myself. But what does that mean? Is it trust, is it confidence? Is it acceptance? I try to place where I can feel safe for myself, and I come up empty. Maybe it’s a combination of things.

Maybe it’s knowing that when things get tough, I’ll be able to handle it. When I start to doubt myself, I can bring myself back up. When I look for someone to believe in me, I can turn to myself. I can allow myself to fail and keep trying. I can allow myself to push the boundaries of what feels ‘safe’ and comfortable and be kind to myself when it takes time to adjust.

In the absence of material things, the only thing I have to come back to is myself. It’s both comforting and terrifying. But that’s the complexity of being human.