Hello! Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothering figures in the UK. Did you know Mother’s Day in the UK is different than in America? It presents problems every year as I often forget to wish my mom and stepmom Happy Mother’s Day in May because we celebrated in March.

What a day to remember how absolutely grand we are all doing, even though we feel we are failing so often.

In that vein, let’s be honest. I’m a crap Substacker. It has been months since I’ve written anything personal. A quick reason why? I’m working four part-time jobs, raising three kids, and trying to keep a house clean, a totally purposeless venture because the house always gets dirty 12 hours after it’s cleaned.

But here I am. Hi. If we haven’t met, I’m Lauren. And I’d love you to say hello if you haven’t before.

And now, let’s talking coming to terms with reality. I think this is especially poignant on Mothering Sunday.

Around the age 12, I was a fledgeling in a four-girl singing group. We sang, quite powerfully, in our church, backed by the Point of Grace backing track, if you know you know.

I knew that one day, someone would discover us, and we’d top the charts.

Inevitably, that didn’t happen, but my dream of making it big doing something, anything, didn’t die.

Just prior to high school (American high school), I distinctly recall being convinced I’d become Miss America. I can’t recall all the details, I’m sure my mom can, but I started practicing Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” for the talent part of the competition, and even entered myself into a semi-local event.

This also came to naught.

In high school, I auditioned for musicals, and was given roles, but not major ones. My dancing was atrocious and my singing subpar, and I was always put at the back of the pack.

College (university). I signed up for dance classes, convinced there was a dancer in me. There wasn’t.

Quickly discovering that perhaps I was never going to reach a level of greatness on stage, I turned to academia, achieving some of the highest marks in my class. Let’s be honest though, I was getting a degree in Education. But surely, I’d work my way up through the ranks, from teacher to head of the US Department of Education. I’d be great.

And then all very swiftly, I was whisked away by my Welsh husband to a foreign land of accents that I was told were English, though I often couldn’t understand what was being said.

After this, life very quickly took a different direction. A good direction. One inundated with nappies and night feeds and babyproofing a home from toddlers who are hell bound on killing themselves.

Even still, my husband and I were cheered on by a church community around us telling us were going to do something big, something unusual, something to help people, something, great.

And now, I’m edging up to 40 years old, and that greatness I longed for has never been realised.

The age-old, mid-life crisis used to seem ridiculous to me. Laughable. But now I’m in it, often wondering what the heck I’m actually doing with my life. Often thinking – is this all there is?

I thought I was going to do something, great, that would be recognised by the world, as great.

And in reality, I’m just working a normal job (well, jobs, plural, at the moment) and raising three boys. I’m bound for a life that looks eerily similar to what I said I didn’t want my life to look like – mediocre.

Let’s divert for slightly a second, for a little ramble about Michelle Obama. I’m listening to her autobiography at the minute. In it, she talks about constantly reevaluating what her life looks like compared to what she thought it would look like. It’s always evolving for any number of unpredictable reasons.

As I’ve listened to her speak, while running, training for a stupid half marathon I’m very much regretting, I’ve cried (I suppose this looks quite disconcerting for passerby people). I’m not the only one who is on a life ride that looks entirely different than imagined.

Our similarities are short-lived, because Michelle, who I now feel very friendly with after hours of listening to her speak to me, went on to become the President’s wife. That hadn’t been her plan though, as this hadn’t been mine, for a host of reasons.

These runs with Michelle have taught me this, whether she meant to impart it or not: Do the next thing in front of you even if it’s not what was expected, and faithfully do it well, fiercely loving your kids.

And now, let’s wrap back to the life of mediocrity. When I think of great people, people I respect (so not people who step on others to get where they’re at), I think of faithfulness. I think of people who woke up every day, and did what life presented them with. Sometimes, this led to notoriety, fame even. But there are plenty of greats who never get acclaim.

In this mid-life zone, it’s a perfect time to ask – what is most important right now? Not what WAS, and not what WILL BE, most important. But right now, what is the most important way I can show up for whatever life has put in front of me?

It’s a helpful metric for deciding what to say yes and no to.

For instance, this week, I could have said yes to a work opportunity that would have put my family at a severe disadvantage. Asking myself - what is the most important thing right now - was entirely helpful. Right now, keeping up a CV and investing in my children is more important than career advancement. It’s not for always, but it is for now.

Perhaps your life has thrown you some really nasty or wonderful curveballs, altering the direction of where you thought your life was going.

I suppose, that’s just the reality of living. That life doesn’t often go to plan, and what we make of it is what it becomes.

Where we are, right now, what can we do with it? How can we be faithful in it?

Maybe just maybe, this will become my greatness. Our greatness.

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In a recent read by my favourite author, Elizabeth Strout, she introduces a friendship between two adults, Bob and Lucy, probably in their 50s, who become friends. They both have partners, but take weekly walks together, both anticipating seeing each other, hearing how the other is.

The question not explicitly raised, but definitely assumed, is whether these two can be just friends, as there is some sort of attraction brewing between them.

Bob feels flutters before seeing Lucy. Her cheeks get a bit pink. Despite their attraction to one another, can they be platonic friends? Can we?

The word “platonic” finds its roots in the Greek philosopher Plato, who described love elevating souls towards ideal beauty. So even though we use the phrase “platonic relationships” to typical describe intimate and affectionate relationships that aren’t sexual, platonic love isn’t about the negation of passion, but about its elevation and transformation. Love’s aim, according to Plato, was to inspire us and become the highest version of ourselves.

(end of Greek history lesson I as have understood it. could be wrong.)

I suppose the question - definitions of platonic aside - I’m asking, is whether or not men and women can be friends.

This wouldn’t have really been a question we’d ask prior to the feminist movement.

“Only once the sexes mixed on equal and familiar terms at school, at work and in the social spaces in between – only once it was normal and even boring to see a member of the opposite sex at the next desk – could platonic friendships become an ordinary part of life,” wrote essayist William Deresiewicz.

You see, friendships between men and women are a fairly a recent phenomenon, which I suppose is why navigating them feels quite new from an evolutionary perspective.

In the aftermath of reading this book, I’ve gone about, as a classic extrovert, talking with everyone about what they think.

I’ve had a wide range of answers, with most saying yes, it’s possible. Many of the people who said “yes” also said they have experienced friendships with people of the opposite sex before, a number of them with people they knew from their younger, single days. Some of them with people they have met at work, in clubs, or at school gates.

Essentially, it’s true for me, so must be true for everyone else.

Others replied “yes” in theory, hopeful that men and women can be just friends.

However, I find this interesting because so many people I know (keep in mind I’m in my late 30s, not in a city, and surrounded by many people who might be coupled or with children) would not invite a person of the opposite sex on a walk or for coffee/dinner. What would people think (gasp)?

Caveat, I think people in cities tend to be more progressive on this matter. I wonder if this is because they have models of these types of friendships in abundance in cities, so it doesn’t feel out of the ordinary.

On a personal level, I would love to be friends with men, but have very few of them simply because I’m too scared that an invite for coffee would lead to a) them to thinking I was hitting on him, or b) other people talking. It’s a shame really, because if certain men were women, I would most definitely make every effort to be friends.

I think in answering this question about possibility, we have to start by asking what friendship is.

“A voluntary relationship between two or more people that is relatively long-lasting and in which those involved tend to be concerned with meeting the others’ needs and interests as well as satisfying their own desires. Friendships frequently develop through shared experiences in which the people involved learn that their association with one another is mutually gratifying.” - APA Dictionary of Psychology

That definition of friendship completely allows for mixed-sex friendships.

Yes, but what if attraction occurs within this friendship?

All friendship starts with some form of attraction. I think of my closest female friends - I was attracted to who they were, and wanted to know them more intimately, so pursued their friendship. Data, yes research on friendship, suggests that a romantic spark is not uncommon among friends.

Geoffrey Greif, a professor of social work at the University of Maryland (which happens to be where I went to university), said: “When you’re beginning a same-sex friendship, you have to evaluate: ‘How am I going to pursue him? If I invite him to watch the Super Bowl and he says no, do I invite him to a movie some other time?’ You’re always trying to gauge the other person’s interest.”

Within all friendship, attraction occurs. It’s what draws us to one another.

So if attraction is present in all friendship, and if we can have same-sex friends, why can’t we have mixed-gender friends too?

We’re just humans after all, and more alike than we are different (much to the disappointment of lovers of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus).

Some would say it’s because sexual attraction can’t be avoided, that one or both will at some point experience romantic/physical/sexual attraction, and the friendship will have been infiltrated, ruined.

To this, I would ask, what’s so terrible about feeling this type of attraction, even if it does pop up? Isn’t it simply part of being human? Not something terribly dirty, shameful, sinful?

Perhaps it requires an honest conversation or admission, or boundaries put in place to prevent unwanted action. And sure, maybe in some cases, the romantic/physical/sexual attraction is too much for either or both people and needs to be ended to preserve other, more meaningful relationships, like marriages and long-term relationships.

This is not be advocating for infedility, just in case that wasn’t clear.

But surely, the “threat” of possible romantic/physical/sexual attraction shouldn’t rob us of all the benefits that come with friendship, the medicine for loneliness? We live in a world teeming with loneliness – should we ever deny a possible friendship in fear of the “what-if” factor?

And by adhering to the belief that men and women’s relationship are always sexual, doesn’t that beget that their relationships will always be sexual? If we only view each other as sexual beings that must be avoided unless we plan to be betrothed or courted (or whatever modern version of this there is), then that is the only way we will ever think of each other. We need to go back to the basics of who we are as men and women. We are all just people, with a few very minor differences. We are more than sexual beings.

I also think that without friendship, it is very hard to understand the opposite sex or to achieve equality. I would hate going back to a time where it is assumed that men just talk sports, and women fashion. Or worse, a time when women were locked out of workplaces because men and women can’t mix.

All this said, I can’t blanketly say I think platonic friendships are possible for everyone, because there are so many unique variations of possible personal circumstances. As with most in life, there is never a black and white answer, only lots of nuisance and grey matter.

But I do think on the whole, in a evolving culture where men and women don’t just have to come together for procreation and survival, we could and should definitely be pursuing more friendships with the opposite sex so that we can, as philosopher Massimo Pigliucci of the City University of New York said, “hold a mirror up to each other; through that mirror they can see each other in ways that would not otherwise be accessible to them.”

Bob and Lucy (recall how this letter started) eventually had their “crush bubble” burst towards the end of the book, and then could really be friends, just friends. That romantic attraction had been there, but they continued to stay faithful and loving towards their spouses, the people who they also loved and had committed affection to. And so, Bob and Lucy had the best of all the worlds, friendship with each other, and romantic love, with their partners, both becoming better versions of themselves because of their multiple types of loves.

Professor of Classics, University of Oxford, Armand D’Angour, wrote what it is to love platonically, regardless of who we are: “To love Platonically is to see in another person not just what they are, but what they may be inspired to become, and to climb together toward something greater than one might attain alone.”

Yes, yes, I’d like that very much, with both men and women, with people.

I’ve never been one for folklore, can’t remember ever having read it, although I’d say I’m fairly well-read.

Even recently, I read the first book in the Crown of Roses series, which is the closest I have ever gotten to folklore, and I just couldn’t get into the fairies and the magic and the otherworldliness. However, let’s note, the sexy scenes were captivating, which is perhaps why the saga has been so successful? You may disagree.

Perhaps I have misunderstood the genre altogether. Maybe there is more to it that my mere brain can’t comprehend.

When it was announced our book club would be reading a series of short stories adapted from ancient folklore, I hesitantly bought my copy on Amazon, pleased that at least I would have a beautiful book to display on a shelf.

I can’t say I was pleasantly surprised. I trudged through the prose writing (which was well-written in every way), never skimming, and even still couldn’t quite understand what was going on.

And yet, what I appreciate from the book is that I was introduced to the world of shapeshifting, the changing of state, form or appearance, usually occurring in folklore. This particular set of short stories honed in on how women shapeshift between human and animal.

I know, it seems mythical and perhaps mamsy pamsy (supposedly not a word), but considering it – how we are part of this world as animals are, challenged my ever-present realism. I started to feel quite wild and unrestrained as I read the book.

I quickly identified as a budding wolf, desperate to be fierce, feral, unconstrained, in stark difference to how I actually am, more, deer-like. As I read about women in the book who felt similar, I had this somewhat visceral response, like I was changing from the inside out, uncaring about what people think, simply concerned about enjoyment and survival and providing for my family brood.

A side note, by desire to be a wolf could be mildly attributed to the fact I’ve just started watching Game of Thrones for the first time.

Now on to the premise of this Letter from Lauren. On to snakes.

Growing up with a mother who was petrified of anything that slithered (or squeaked), and hearing stories of how my grandmother would find snakes “as thick as a coke bottle” hiding in her laundry room outhouse, I have always understandably been scared of snakes.

They strangle. They gulp animals whole. They bite. They poison.

Snakes also have a terribly bad reputation because of the story of the snake in the Garden of Eden. Of all the animals that could have been chosen to represent Satan, it was the slithering snake. Satan. Evil.

And yet, reading this book, I considered the snake, and the lessons to be learned from it (or shall we say him/her?).

Snakes, as you I’m sure are aware, shed their skin whole. I have never known why as I paid no attention in biology classes.

But apparently, up to once a month, snakes get rid of their skin because it doesn’t fit their growing bodies (as snakes grow, their skin doesn’t accommodate for their growth so they have to shed it), or because it’s old and worn.

In getting rid of the skin, they protect themselves from the parasites lurking which have the potential for health harm.

But this process comes at a price. During it, fluid builds up between the old and new skin layers, and between the old and new eye caps. The snake becomes visually impaired, and might become stressed to do all the change and inability to perceive threat. It might strike.

And then, the old skin goes, and new skin comes. Restored to greater glory.

As people, I know, we aren’t snakes. I’m not that far gone in my shapeshifting, whimsical era (although I have been wearing lots of flannel, overalls, and wellies, so maybe I am too far gone).

But surely, we can learn something from the snake’s process of change and growth.

An old, flaky, dehydrated skin we sometimes need to shed. Something inhibiting our growth, something that could lead to parasitic infection.

While I’m not into talking endlessly about ‘growth mindset’ that seems to plague every ambitions American, because it feels like it puts undo pressure on us to constantly be growing rather just being, if there is something we want to change about ourselves, we do sometimes need to shed a skin to grow.

This week, I’ve found myself shedding the skin of productivity, so that I ‘grow’ a new skin of restfulness, contentment. I don’t want to be a person defined by what I do, how much I make, what I have accomplished, but that’s currently how I prioritise my life.

Shedding this skin looks like talking to myself incessantly, reminders that I have value apart from my output. It looks making conscious decisions to do nothing, and be okay through it.

Like I imagine shedding must be uncomfortable for the snake, it has been for me too.

But I want to grow, I want to slither without restraint, with skin supple and smooth and healthy.

In a sense, this is shapeshifting, at least my own version of it, changing and evolving like the natural world does without even considering the process. Flitting between woman and snake.

Well, hello.

I’m not sure if anyone will be interested in reading this letter today because I’ve done exactly what they tell you not to do when writing online – I’ve been inconsistent. Oh gosh, I just looked back and seen the last time I wrote here was April. Huge apologies, that’s even worse than I thought.

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Since that time, six months ago, I have felt more like a happy human for the most part, thanks solely to HRT (read this last post to understand more), despite hard things happening. It really is wonderful to have balanced hormones.

Without feeling like I’m living in a dark hole, my mind is free to wander to other things like, how to keep football boots from destroying our sense of smell, and other very important life conundrums.

More importantly, I’ve thought lots about just doing the next thing, planning less, living by the seat of my pants (please tell me why this saying exists), throwing caution to the wind.

As an avid planner, complete with to-do lists for the month, week, and day, not having a plan really does make my neck tighten (is this a thing for other people too?).

This most likely is an inherited trait. My mom was a planner. Six months before Christmas, we needed to provide her with a written Christmas list. She had a yellow, lined pad of paper, which housed lists upon lists upon lists.

This planning obsession I now have isn’t just about specific tasks, but about broad stroke life plans. Where will I be next year, in five years, in 20.

For the past year, this way of thinking has swirled me into a fury.

How will I parent teenage boys, having not a clue about teenage boys? How in the heck do people stay married for 50 years and what do we need to do to make sure our marriage does the same? What am I going to do when my parents need their children to help with their care, and I’m on the other side of the world with a not-very-great paying job? And of course, the classic and controversial euthanasia question – will someone be able to take my own life if I have a terminal disease one day (I personally hope so)?

Considering my future of work is something else I spend far too long pondering on pretty much a daily basis.

What will I spend my time doing every single Monday to Friday for the next 35 years? Should I get a Master’s degree, to enable me to get a higher paid job that will allow me to be generous with my children when they become adults? What field of work do I want to even be playing in? Should I take a low paying job that is flexible, or a high-paying one that is intense and reputable? If I take this job, will it keep me from getting another later on?

I kid you not, these questions run through my head all the time, playing out so many scenarios and outcomes of those scenarios.

And they rob me of enjoying the moment I’m in.

Months ago, I was debating about looking for a new job, but frozen by the fear of what would happen if I was employed once again after so many years of being self-employed. I’d have to think about all the practicals of having kids, no childcare, and a job.

A friend told me to just give it a go – I was clearly unhappy with the job I was doing. What was the worst that could happen? I’d start, it wouldn’t work, and I’d have to stop.

So I did it. I just did it. And I got the job.

It’s been a lesson in just taking the moment as it comes.

For us who like to predict each step, and the impact of that step (not only on us but on everyone around us), breaking into a sprint without too much thought is the worst thing, the stupidest thing.

Planning is safe, secure, and lots of times, completely predictable. Less goes wrong when you meticulously plan.

But sometimes, ultra-planning, a word I have coined myself thankyouverymuch, turns you into an ice cube, freezing you in fear so that you never end up moving forward.

Now that I’ve learned this lesson, I plan to plan less. Yes.

I’m choosing to actively shut down thoughts about the future, saying: “I will worry about that if and when it happens. It is not something I need to think about today.”

There will, of course, be times that call for ultra-planning, but for now, I’m training myself out of this way of thinking, practicing the opposite.

Wendell Berry touched on this in a poem I very much love:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For the time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

And so, the past month has been full of standing outside, because I can’t walk in it because my toes are still incredibly painful due to ingrown toenail removal, appreciating the ‘peace of wild things’. Perhaps embarrassingly, I’ve been holding on to trees, feeling their bark, and talking to them. What have I become, I wonder, as I tell the tree how lovely it is that they don’t consider how they will grow, they simply grow, because that is how life goes.

I just managed to get all three boys home without crying on the school run. Having held it in for an hour, smiling at the school gates, I headed to our dark basement bathroom, with a lock that doesn’t actually quite lock, closed the door, and looked at myself in the mirror, crying. It was a continuation of tears that had lasted the entirety of the day.

It was more than that day though.

For the last two years, two weeks before most of my monthly periods, I’ve felt, just very, very, very low, and anxious.

But every woman gets like that before her period, doesn’t she?

It’s the question I used to brush away my feelings of despondency.

Friends would get a taste of my sadness in snapshots, when we’d go for walks, or coffees, or while we’d wait for the kids to be let out of school. The feelings couldn’t stay hidden, they were always so close to the surface, waiting to burst out and be comforted.

My kids, though they didn’t understand the cause, felt my irritability. Knowing this, I spiralled into guilt. What if they remembered me as the mum who shouted, who withdrew, who couldn’t regulate her emotions?

Above anyone, it was my husband who felt the full force of my irritation, which led to anxiety, which ended in depression. Most of the time, he was so good, even when I wasn’t, which again, invited endless guilt.

“He’d be better off with someone else,” I thought. “Someone who was happy. Someone stable.”

Since I’m self-employed, there is no going off on the sick, but I reckon if I had been employed, I would have opted to get a sick note. I couldn’t focus, felt overwhelmed the minute I’d open my computer. But not wanting my reputation to suffer, I carried on, carried on, paying with a fast-facing heart rate.

I’d wonder why I couldn’t lift myself out of the gloom, and why the gloom was even there in the first place.

There are most definitely things in my life that are hard, stressful, sad, but surely not hard enough, stressful enough, or sad enough to lead me to wonder what it would feel like if I got in a terrible car crash, if it would be so terrible.

Other symptoms presented as well. Sheets and pyjamas wet in the morning with sweat (not the sexy kind!), dryness down there, a rounding stomach, bloating, headaches, fatigue.

“Really, I have got to see a doctor,” I’d tell myself in the middle of it all, each month.

And then, my period would start, and like magic, I’d get better, persuading myself I no longer needed a doctor – didn’t want to waste their time.

This pattern went on for two years.

But locked in that bathroom (this was in January), I knew – I couldn’t carry on like this. It wasn’t fair to my kids or my husband. And it wasn’t a way I was prepared to live indefinitely.

The next morning, while I was taking the dog for a walk, I rang the GP, hoping they wouldn’t fob me off.

“What’s your reason for phoning?” the lady on the front desk asked.

“Well. I. Um. I’ve been feeling depressed and anxious, for two years. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like not to be here.”

“Can you come at 4:30 to see a doctor?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, I can.”

I hung up, and in the middle of the path, hidden in trees, I leant over and cried. Someone, a professional, knew. This was real.

The first doctor I saw was a man. I don’t think he expected me to come in with a list of hormonal symptoms. He quickly suggested I see the women’s health specialist two weeks later. He ordered for bloods to be taken too.

Two weeks later, I sat down again with a doctor, crying as I explained how sad I was, reading out my list of other symptoms.

“It does sound like you could use some help,” the doctor said in a hurried way, not unfeeling, but as if she had just read a case study of someone who needed intervention.

She listed off three medical options, to deal with perimenopausal symptoms, in this order: the combination birth control pill, an antidepressant, or HRT.

I knew I didn’t want an anti-depressant. I was only depressed two weeks before each period.

Isn’t HRT just for old women? Won’t birth control make me fat? What’s the difference between the two?

After explaining that HRT was body identical, which sounded safer to me, I went with this option.

Excited to have help in my hand as I left, I texted friends who I had spoken with often about my mood swings. A couple of the responses shook me, no fault of the responders. They asked if I was too young, and if it was safe to use HRT.

I freaked. Totally freaked. I needed answers, but couldn’t find much online. Would HRT give me breast cancer and blood clots? Would I be more at risk because I had started so young?

Super luckily, a fabulous editor let me write an article about HRT in women under 40. I spoke with other women like me who were on HRT, and a specialist doctor who answered all my questions, so very patiently. I felt seen and understood. And I felt confident that HRT was safe to use for at least the next five years.

I decided to give the meds six months, just see what happened.

I’m three months in now. Been using oestrogen patches and had the Mirena coil (which releases progesterone) inserted at a sexual health clinic.

And I’ve not had one depressive episode since starting. Still seeing symptoms, but nothing like before. Gained a bit of weight, because I feel hungrier, but would rather extra pounds than depression any day.

I keep thinking about the past two years, dishing out grace to myself when I felt so unwell. I was unwell. I wasn’t crazy.

If only I had just seen a doctor earlier. If only.

Since writing on this, I’ve realised how lucky I was to get seen by a doctor that took me seriously. So many women are ignored. Told they are depressed and just need antidepressants. I had a doctor, by total chance, that took time to understand and listen to my holistic description of how I was. And she gave me choice, power.

We are living in an era that menopause is talked about often, much more than it used to be. But perimenopause still is underdiscussed. Women can be perimenopausal in their 30s. I’m only 36 (I think, or is it 37?!). And HRT can help, so I’ve been told by several doctors. But since there is a lot of outdated information about, women think HRT is scary and dangerous.

So, let’s talk about it more. About sweat. Irritability. Vaginal dryness. Low libido. Depression. Anxiety. Forgetfulness. Exhaustion. Nightmares. Let’s research it more. And let’s advocate for ourselves at our doctors’.

There’s no shame.

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Hello from my local coffee shop chain. I’ve been coming here most days this week because the thought of working in a cold, need-to-be-cleaned-and-organised house gives me an allergic reaction at the minute.

I actually feel an itchless itch to abandon our terraced home this month. I’m justifying it by saying it’s cheaper to spend £2 on a cappuccino than it is in use my oil filled radiator for the day. Plus, I don’t pay commute money, so.

But working outside of the house goes deeper than just escaping the four walls of our currently Christmas-clad abode.

I want to be around people, escape my anxiously over-ticking mind, and remind myself a world exists outside of my own.

I’m not sure how accurate this statistic is, but 70 percent of freelancers have felt lonely, disconnected, or isolated while being self-employed.

For the last four years of freelancing, I’ve repeated to myself that loneliness is only worth it because I’m paid for it.

I’ve looked into taking a job where I’m salaried, but there isn’t a job that would give me the flexibility I need as a mum to three kids, who doesn’t have anyone else to pick up the kids from school every day, or stay with them during our multiple half terms and holidays.

Every day, I’ve gotten home from morning school run, plugged in my computer, made a proper decaf coffee in my Italian coffee pot, prepped my second breakfast, boiled the kettle to pour into my hot water bottle, and particularly placed the oil filled radiator as close to my body as it’ll get without burning me – to start work.

There’s no one to greet me when I get into work, no one to have cuppa with on break, no one to give me feedback on my work, no one to moan to, no one to bounce ideas around with.

Before I was working, I had the kids home with me, and although not always the most engaging company, they were human beings near me.

Until you’re alone for eight hours a day, five days a week, you may think that having some alone time sounds lovely. “Oh I’d love to have a bit of quiet,” people have said to me. I get it. But when you’re in that quiet all the time, it feels suffocating.

During the holidays, I’ve noticed the loneliness is more acute. Everyone is out with their work colleagues at Christmas work parties. Or they are “super busy” seeing long-time friendship groups from childhood and family that has come in for the holidays.

Sat at my kitchen table, anytime I finish a task, I have all this empty mind space. Without someone to talk to, my thoughts wander, often toward anxiety about any and everything.

Perhaps in the *slightly* warmer and drier months, I’d head outside for a run or walk, but when the rain is constant and the sky is endlessly grey, all I want is to be inside and warm.

And for these reasons, I have been escaping to coffee shops to work, like I said, justifying the cost every single time I’m at the till.

Being in the presence of people, even when I’m not talking to them, makes me smile. Since most people my age are working in offices, it’s mostly elderly people I’m surrounded by while I sip and type. I listen in on their conversations, often silently disagreeing with their political views, giggling under my breath about how they feel about children these days.

Many of them, I’m sure have also come for coffee to escape the oppressing sameness of home. We live in a world craving social interaction.

When I’m not looking at the computer, I’m people watching, how they speak to the staff, how they’re dressed, who they’re with. They keep my undirected thoughts occupied, keeping my loneliness and anxiety at bay.

I feel like I’m only a tiny part of a world full of beautiful, kind, and only sometimes cruel people, rather than on an island alone. Every single person I sneakily stare at is living, perhaps trying to survive, in this shared humanity. They each have their own joys and sorrows. Their own griefs. And somehow, knowing we have more in common than we don’t, summons a sigh of relief, even though my life circumstances stay virtually the same.

For now, coffee shop working is the only way I’ll stay sane as a freelancer, building it in as a cost I’m willing to pay for the sake of wellbeing.

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Over the summer, our family of five drove two hours to spend three nights in paradise, in west Wales. Packing began just a few hours before we left, throwing random clothes and toiletries and beach gear into large carrier bags. I thought more about what we needed for the dog than I did about what we needed for the kids.

The drive was pleasant, with a stop at my coffee shop of choice, Gregg’s. As an aside, I have had a lot of cappuccinos and Gregg’s, at only £2, has one of the best.  

Over the next three days, we didn’t consider bedtimes, sleeplessness, naps, nappy changes, or what the kids would eat at meals. At the beach, no child ate the sand or smeared it in their eyes. I finished a book, perched on the sand with a coffee while the kids played on their own. The kids can all swim so I wasn’t constantly worried someone would drown. We watched films at night that were actually funny, even to adults. The kids could even take the dog out for a walk on the farm we stayed on, while we stayed inside.

Whereas holidays in the past, with babies and toddlers, can often feel like harder work than they’re worth, this holiday felt like a rest, a reset.

It isn’t just holidays that are easier without babies and toddlers.  

I sleep soundly most nights, rested after years of dark circles under my eyes. I don’t breastfeed. I don’t wake up at 5am. I shower without worrying someone is going to break a bone. The kids bathe themselves. They get themselves breakfast. They talk to me about interesting topics when I take them for coffee and cake. There are typically a lot less tantrums. A routine doesn’t have to be stuck to religiously. I can put the TV on for them on when I need to work, or if I just need a little bit of a break. They can be dropped at birthday parties, so I can do the shopping. Speaking of shopping, I don’t have to worry about tantrums or soiled nappies while I’m filling my trolley with food for the week.

While having babies and toddlers has some absolutely magical moments (gazing into a baby’s eyes while they feed and twirl your hair, catching their first word, doing arts and craft projects they are genuinely excited about, wanting to be with you all the time), it’s also very, very intense. Or at least I found it that way.

Yet despite the perks of moving into the parenting older children stage, I’m starting to reminisce about some of the lesser remembered benefits of having super young children, especially when I see friends of mine that have babies and toddlers.

When you’ve got little kids, people want to talk to you when you’re out and about. Introverts might hate this, but for someone who loves a chat, I adored when someone would notice and comment on my kids’ long eyelashes or inviting smile, and then follow it up with a full-blown conversation.

I miss playgroups – natural, yet unnatural, contexts to meet new people going through the same things. I rarely meet new mums now. And if I want to meet up with friends for a cuppa, there is no set-in-place meeting time and place – we have to work around work schedules and after school clubs.

Surprisingly, I miss a “slow” schedule. I get it. Having a baby in arms or toddler running wild isn’t slow. But we’re now at the stage that every day apart from Wednesday is a club. Swimming, climbing, and football times three.

And even though it is physically gruelling to be needed 24/7 to keep another human being alive, I miss being needed in the same capacity. For years, I knew exactly what my purpose was. I had chosen to stay home with my kids, and so I threw my everything into that. There’s something entirely satisfying about being consumed with raising children, and equally, overwhelming.

But I’m not in that phase anymore. My kids are 10, 8, and 6. While I would have actually loved to have more, we don’t make heaps of money (although, much much much more than the most of the world – I’ll never forget that), don’t have access to childcare help, and I had three absolutely terrible births.

So it’s decided. No more babies. And really, I’m relieved.

But as every parent through the ages knows, parenting doesn’t stop when you aren’t needed to literally provide food for a child via your chest.

We are now entering a territory that is completely unknown to me. Raising tiny kids was second nature, in a way. I babysat since I was 11 and got my university degree in early childhood education. I knew all about little kids.

But pre-pubescent and teenage children, I haven’t got a clue. I’m heading into murky waters, and I’m already lost, often going to bed replaying the day and all that I could have said or done differently. Then, getting up the next day, and making a whole new set of mistakes I will ruminate on in the evening.

It feels like, a lot, but I’m starting to see glimmers of who my children will one day be. Sifting through their attitudes, peer pressure, disinterest, arguments, and poor decisions, I see them, who they are and who they might become. And I love it. I love them. I love being a mum, but am so done being a mum to babies.

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In the throws of summer holidays over here in Wales. I mostly love it, some days I don’t. Having very little time to myself has meant all my writing time has gone to paid jobs, which isn’t this newsletter (unless you’d like to support me!).

But I’ve given the kids a lazy tech-filled day, and really wanted to write about how I can be as a friend, as an anxiously attached friend.

What is Attachment Theory?

First off, if you don’t know what Attachment Theory is, let me give you the dumbed down version, the only version I know.

The theory originated from psychoanalyst John Bowlby and examines the relationship between a child and their parent or primary caregiver, and explains how a child’s attachment to their parent or caregiver impacts the child’s behaviour in other relationships in life, such as partnership or friendship.

There are three main styles: anxious (preoccupied), avoidant (dismissive), and secure.

“During the formative years, children develop mental representations of themselves and others,” said Brooke Feeney, PhD, psychology professor at Carnegie Mellon University. “They develop beliefs about whether they are worthy of love, attention, support, and protection. And they develop beliefs about whether other people can be depended and relied upon.”

During the first months and years of life, children learn what to expect from others, and they reach important conclusions about themselves. These beliefs become central components of personality and guides interactions with others.

How does attachment style impact friendships?

These early formed attachment bonds with primary caregivers can then be formed other relationships later in life. Pop psychology includes lots of information on how these attachment styles impact romantic relationships, but what about friendships?

“Attachment theory absolutely applies to friendships,” Jo Mueller, a clinical psychologist, told me. “Our attachment style is like a blueprint that unconsciously helps us navigate relationships with others, and friendships are an important type of relationship throughout our lives.”

But since friendships are a little less “emotionally charged” or “intense” than romantic relationships, Jo said we may not see many obvious signs of out attachment style until a bump in the friendship road.

But these attachment styles definitely still show up in friendships, maybe just not as pronounced as in monogamous romantic relationships.

For me, my anxious attached bond shows up often.

I’m anxious attached. What does that mean for friendship?

Since I learned about Attachment Theory, I knew I was anxiously attached. I’m worried about being abandoned or disliked and spend a lot of time trying to keep people close in case they leave, leaving me alone.

It has played out in my marriage, but recently, I’ve understood how it impacts my friendships.

“If you are “anxiously attached” your underlying belief about others is that they might leave you,” Jo said. “When a challenge occurs in a friendship with an anxiously attached person, they might look for reassurance or validation, and seek proximity either physically or via messages.”

She continued saying that this type of person is likely to be hypervigilant to the behaviour and emotional state of others, as this can seem to be a signal of how others perceive them, and whether the friendship will last. 

I can’t remember a close friendship I’ve had where I haven’t sent a text that reads something like: “Just checking – are we okay?”

Clicking send on that text would have been the peak of a culmination of worry-filled nights.

I haven’t heard from her in a few weeks. Why hasn’t she responded to my text from the beginning of the week? I wonder if I said the wrong thing when we spoke last.

Anxious. Attached. Worried she will leave me. If she leaves me, what does that say about who I am? How will I cope without her?

Before my desperate “is-everything-okay” text, I might have asked her for several coffees or walks. She might have said no lots of times, because most of the women I know are crazy busy. But when she says she can’t meet up, all I hear is rejection. So I work harder. I send more invites. Check in about her week.

It all sounds stalkerish. I don’t think it comes across that way, but I’m sure it comes across as pretty needy, maybe at times overwhelming.

The thing is, I do it because friendship is so incredibly important to me. Loyalty is perhaps one of the most valuable traits of friendships, to me.

And I hope the positive side of my anxiously attached style is that I am that – loyal.

But it has a dark side, both for me and my friends.

Like I said before, my stomach often churns when I feel like a friendship isn’t doing well. And what I mean by well is that I’m not seeing her often, consistent. I think about it on repeat, dissecting what could be going wrong and why. I dream about it – dream about it!

If I haven’t heard back from someone in while, I think – well, I guess she doesn’t want to be friends. If she isn’t going to make the effort I’m making, I suppose she just doesn’t value this friendship enough. If she doesn’t want to be friends with me, then I’ll step away. I won’t continue to feel unwanted. To protect myself, I put up barriers. I don’t get in touch with her. I don’t make an effort. Because I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want to feel the pang of rejection.

And sometimes, friendships of mine have ended on this note, with me giving up on them because I don’t want to risk feeling unwanted.

Hope when we see how out attachment style impacts friendships?

Since I know that kind of attachment style I am, I’m one step closer to making sure the downsides of that style don’t ruin my friendships.

“Understanding your attachment style, and your thoughts, feelings and behaviours when things get sticky in your friendships, is always the first step,” she said. “Mapping out these patterns visually can be really helpful in seeing what happens for you and how it may have led to repeated cycles in your relationships.”

She said it could be helpful to map out where the pattern came from and practice compassion for yourself.

And while seeing a qualified psychologist or therapist would be an ideal next step, she also talked to me about assertive yet vulnerable communication, self-soothing techniques when the nervous system is activated, the building up of self-worth, and boundaries around needs and wants.

“It’s important to remember that, contrary to what was previously believed, our attachment style is not set in stone from childhood, and can wax and wane,” she concluded.

My takeaway?

I really do probably need therapy (the money is putting me off!), a good dose of self-compassion, and a deep breath before assuming what friends of mine are thinking and feeling.

I’d love to here about how your attachment style (if you know it) impacts your friendships, in a challenging or beneficial way. So do comment!

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At 16, I distinctly remembering thinking I was fat at 140ish pounds. But weight wasn’t the only thing I noticed. My widow’s peak and cow’s lick didn’t match well with my fine, limp hair. I couldn’t quite nail what clothes made me feel good in my skin. My nervously bitten nails looked unfeminine and dirty. The muscles in my stomach were buried. Boobs didn’t fill out a B cup bra. Makeup was a game of experimentation that often ended quickly with impatience and smeared eyeliner. One eye was bigger than the other.

Wishing I could look more like her, or her, or her, was a conversation constantly had in the recesses of my still-developing teenage mind. I looked at my thin friends, magazines, but most of my desire for an attainment of beauty came from an inward dissatisfaction.

Not much has changed

Fast-forward to 35, and the conversation still hasn’t stopped, albeit in whispered, more mature tones.

But the problem is, I’m no longer only comparing myself to people the same age as me, or slightly older, but to those up to 15 years younger than I am.

Women who haven’t had babies (save for the exceptions), whose skin hasn’t yet wrinkled, whose boobs haven’t deflated, whose eyelids haven’t drooped, whose lips haven’t thinned.  

These are the women who have grown up with social media. Who have watched endless TikTok tutorials in their ample amounts of relatively free time about contouring, dressing, eating healthily, exercising perfectly. Who may have more money to throw at beauty treatments and gym memberships because they don’t pay for rent, for children.

As a millennial woman, I’ve got no chance of measuring up to their fresh, supple youth.

Women the same age as me, and older, must be feeling the same, as everyone seems to have medicated age with money. Money on botox, fillers, nips, extensions. On better clothes, better makeup, better toiletries, better highlights, better nails.

We’re getting older, and we don’t like it.  

My neck is getting that chicken-skin, loose look. Wrinkles on the top of my head greet me every time I look in the mirror. Eye shadow can’t be seen as my hooded eyelids close further over my eye. My hands are weathered from an autoimmune condition I can’t fix apart from moving to Miami, or somewhere hot all the time. The double c-section scar at the wobbliest part of my tummy has produced a shelf to place my coffee cup on when I sit. I have counted about 50 grey slivers of hairs dotting my dark chocolate, thinning hair. And oddly, my kneecaps are starting to look like those of a hippopotamus.

No longer youthful by nature, but also not willing to make my appearance a big chunk of my budget. I think every month, I spend an average of £20 on how I look. A trim of the toddler’s amount of hair on my head, some Olay night cream to smooth on my face and neck, Lidl’s knock off shampoo and conditioner, drugstore mascara promising me the lift of false eyelashes, and perhaps a pair of H&M mom shorts that hide my pooch.

A mirror held up to our minds

So, I’m left here in the middle, feeling like I’m about to drop further on the roller coaster of attractiveness I never reached the top of.

To be very honest with you, writing the above has brought little tears to my eyes in the middle of a coffee shop. It’s a brutally honest confession of how I feel about myself, that is internally played on repeat.

I don’t write it for an inbox full of complements. Genuinely, your comments won’t fix me, only I can attempt to do that.

The reason I write this for you is that I suspect my feelings might mirror how countless women feel about themselves. Not everyone, but lots of us.

But in our body positivity movement age, we feel nervous to voice our displeasure. How dare we betray feminism by saying we don’t like our bodies?

If we’re going to ask the question of whether we can truly accept our bodies, then surely, we’ve first got to start by shining a light on how we actually feel. How it feels rather depressing that an internal dialogue of hate is bubbling away within us. That we’d never speak to another woman the way we speak to ourselves about how we look, brutally.

Once that mirror has been held up, then what?

Is there a fix?

Is it possible for a woman who has never loved her body to accept it, even to embrace it?

I can’t say, because I’ve not done it, not yet.

Doesn’t it annoy you when people give blanket answers about what you should do when they don’t even know you? When they give you advice without spending countless hours, days, months, and years studying you?

I won’t do that. But I will say that I’ve done a lot of reading this week online, trying to absorb accounts of both young and middle-aged women who have learned to love their bodies.

Many middle-aged women talked about speaking kindness to their bodies, out loud. Thanking their scars, their wrinkles, their age spots.

Some said they stand in front of mirrors and reflect on how each part of their bodies reminds them of where they have been, what they have enjoyed, and survived.  

Many regretted being so hard of themselves in their 20s, 30s, and 40s, and are determined to speak with compassion over their present bodies so as not to make the same mistake of discontent in the future.

When I read accounts of younger women who said they have learned to love their bodies, I found many of them talked about refusing the patriarchal beauty ideal.

Beauty standards (you need big boobs, skinny waist, smooth skin, glossy, thick hair, and so on) are tools of oppression built into our society and embedded into our brains. Jessica Defino covered this in depth here, and it’s so worth a read.

Younger women’s accounts of enlightenment are full of powerful statements about acceptance and love and pride in their bodies.

But are their attempts to defy patriarchy, sexism, racism, classism, ableism, and capitalism, to love their bodies, just words? Do they really love their bodies, with all their quirks? Or are they just talking the talk in hopes of deliverance from negative self-talk?

Who f*cking knows. They seem happier with their bodies than I do with mine, so I’m going to learn from what they’re doing – positive talk to drown out the negative.

My way forward

Here is what I do think I know.

We live in a culture that prizes a beauty standard and constantly pumps out this standard through social media, and classic media.

Our only hope of body love is to speak to ourselves the opposite of what is being preached. If there is no defiance, we’ll lose the battle and hate our bodies, constantly covering up this hatred with money, a capitalist society’s utopia. Money makers want you to feel unhappy with your body so that you pay to fix it, filling up their pockets with your body displeasure.

But hatred of our bodies also keeps us entwined in ourselves, rather than the world around us. When we are caught in an endless spiral of negative self-talk, we ignore the real problems in this world. The problems we can valiantly work to solve with freed up mind space undistracted by our temporary bodies.

Maybe the answer lies in the adage of ‘fake it till you make it’ – telling ourselves what we love about our bodies until we eventually believe those things to be true.

Maybe we need to come off social media to silence the images of what we need to look like to be happy.

Maybe we need to stand in front of our mirrors each morning and evening, studying our naked bodies, speaking compassion and thanks for all they have done for us.

Maybe we need to learn what is going on with women around the world to widen our perspectives on what really matters.

Maybe even, we should miss a nail appointment or avoid buying a new product, just as a means of experimenting with our thoughts, our beliefs about who we are, why we spend.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m by no means saying women shouldn’t spend money to make themselves look a certain way. To each, her own. Truly. I’m just wondering if rather than being pulled along with the tide, we should stop and consider why we do what we do. Get a bit introspective, analytical, curious, about why we do what we do.

So, can we love our bodies, if we presently don’t? I think so. I think there is hope. But I doubt it will happen without work, without grit, without determination to defy.

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Quick housekeeping note. So you’ll keep seeing these letters in your inbox, quickly reply to this email with a “hello”.

Before I jump into what will end up being one of my favourite Letters from Lauren, let me just tell you why you haven’t heard from me in so long.

The long and short of it is, I’m very confused about what I’m doing with my life. Well, my work life.

I thought I was going to quit writing. I’d had enough and thought it was time for a change. Started looking for jobs, applying for jobs. Primarily support work role jobs – my bread and butter. And then quickly realised that without any childcare support, it just wouldn’t work. The only way I can continue working with young kids is to work for myself. I talked more about why here.

It took a good number of months, but I now know that for now, writing is the way forward. But instead of just writing as a journalist, I’m going to shift to try and secure writing work for charities and businesses. (So sidenote, holler if you know of someone looking for a capable writer.)

All this thinking took me away from writing here, but I’m back. This time, from the land of Trump v Biden. Of BBQ meat joints, massive cars, and abundant food. That’s right, America.

We arrived nearly three weeks ago and have a week to go. If you weren’t aware, I’m American, but have lived in Wales for 13 years. This is our first visit back to America in seven years.

And for your reading pleasure, and my personal satisfaction, I’m going to let you in on what differences I’m noticing.

Cold aircon and cold ice. What the boys have noticed.

First up, the boys, aged 10, 8, and 5, have noticed some of the simple things I wouldn’t have necessarily clocked. I wrote in depth about it here.

The toilets have more water, which makes for less cleaning of the toilet bowl after a poo. It also feels a bit rude to say: “I need to use the toilet.” Here, you should really say: “I need to use the restroom.”

Ice is served in every cold drink, which the kids love, because it’s a novelty, and hate, because it hurts their teeth.

Air conditioning is welcome in the boiling heat wave we’re here for, but it also means you always need to bring a jumper along. For instance, we went out to eat dressed for the heat. But when we got inside the restaurant, everyone had chill bumps on their arms and legs.

The food is huge. The boys have only ordered kids meals and haven’t been able to polish off their plates like they would at home. Bags of crisps are bigger, as are cereal boxes and milk cartons.

They’re loving it all, but if you ask them if they’d want to move here, they’d say they are Welsh through and through, and wouldn’t want to relocate.

As for me…

On past visits, I’ve always thought to myself I could never in a million years move back to America unless there was some sort of family emergency.

This time has been different. I’ve found neighbourhoods I could imagine the kids biking around and coffee shops I could work from.

We very much are not moving here, but the possibility hasn’t produced the same guttural reaction it previously had.

Healthcare costs

The absolute biggest reason we could never move here is we’d be financially screwed as we wouldn’t have the NHS.

Which leads to the first difference I’ve noticed.

I know the NHS is far from perfect. But it’s healthcare you don’t pay for, even if taxes might be ever so slightly higher than in the States. If you have a baby, need emergency surgery, or require cancer treatment, the NHS is there, no matter your job or wallet size.

My mom isn’t currently working (get in touch if you need a super experienced HR employee who everyone loves) and is paying hundreds out of pocket each month for insurance.

I recall Obamacare was introduced years ago but remember so much fuss about it. I haven’t got a clue why someone wouldn’t want nationalised healthcare to make sure that every person has access to medical care. Blows my mind.

Eating is really expensive

The food prices have gone skyrocket in the States. It’s apparently due to inflation. I know food prices have risen in the UK too, but I’m certain it’s more expensive here.

Fast food for a family of five is costing us about 50 to 60 dollars.

Bread and eggs cost more here.

And most importantly, Lucky Charms, which used to be ten times more expensive to buy in the UK, are pretty much the same price in the two countries.

Salary differences

The average salary in the US is 59,428 American dollars, translated to 46,982 British pounds. The average salary in the UK is 44,224 American dollars, translated to 34,963 British pounds. This is all before taxes.

That’s what stats say. In actual truth, I make a lot less than the average UK salary. Full disclosure, freelance journalism paid me 28,000 British pounds last year before taxes. The support worker jobs I looked at the last few months have paid no more than 25,000 British pounds before taxes.

I don’t really understand how Americans make so much more, but I know they do. I’ve looked at salaries for jobs here. I’ve talked to friends and family in the States about what they make. I’ve heard from Americans who have moved to the UK and been shocked by their drop in salary. I’m telling you as a fact to support the stats – Americans make more money.

That being said, if you don’t have money in America, you are totally screwed. Gotta love capitalism.

Christianity is everywhere

It may be because we are in the south, but I’ve probably passed a gazillion churches since being here. Christian music plays in public places. People refer to God all the time.

If I’m honest, I find it a bit much.

And I’d be really interested to know if people who call themselves Christians actually live how Jesus did. Jesus was obsessed with loving the poor, the outcast, the broken, the ignored, the unseen, the hated, the disgraced. I’m not going to judge as I really haven’t been here long enough to see, but I wonder how much of a priority this would be for all the Christians on every single corner.

And this could be divisive, but I also find mission trip culture pretty odd here. People spend thousands upon thousands to go around the world for one week to tell people they will never see again about Jesus. To paint walls. To build toilets. Rather than training up local people to do the same in their own communities.  

Customer service in the UK could use some work

I’m lucky if I can find someone to help me check out in the UK. But in the States, people working at shops and restaurants are itching to help customers.

Are Americans full on?

I know it is totally wrong to generalise, so forgive me, but Americans, I’ve got to say, tend to be more “full on” than Brits.

Go big or go home when it comes to friendship, hospitality, food, work, exercise, fun, and so on.

There is a lot of positivity and zeal I sometimes wish I still had, but British cynicism has won me. I remember my family worrying over the years that I’ve been depressed, when in actuality, I’ve just not got the American bubbles I used to have.

And just a few quickies (not a pun)

There are electric sockets in bathrooms in America. You can dry your hair next to a sink.

Eggs are sold and stored in the fridge in the States. Here, eggs are washed and processed. They take a dip in a warm bath to kill bacteria. By washing off the potentially bad stuff, they are left vulnerable to bacteria like salmonella, stripped of their natural protective coating. So they have to be stored in the cold.

The UK is better about recycling. We separate out our recycling into tins, plastic, paper, cardboard, food waste, and batteries. If you don’t, you risk a fine. In the States, people love bottle water and plastic bags.

What I miss most about America

Without a doubt, the thing I miss most about America is the weather. I’m sick and tired of rain in Wales, as you’ll read about here.

Even though I grew up in the States, Wales is my home. So even if her weather is totally crap most of the time, I love her.

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Whenever someone, especially an American, says how miserable all the rain is in Wales, I switch into a protective parent mode.

“It doesn’t rain as much as it seems. All the rain is what makes such a beautiful country. There’s no bad weather, only bad clothing to go in the weather.”

Even though Wales isn’t my place of birth, I’ve spent my entire adult life post university, so 13 years, here. I must defend her, even when she is defenceless. Like the parent whose child is clearly at fault for stealing, and yet she makes every excuse for his behaviour.

Because the truth is, it really does rain a lot in Wales.

When I first moved here, I remember thinking how cold it always felt. But it wasn’t actually very cold. We have a relatively mild climate. But the wetness creeps into your clothes, and then your bones, and it’s very difficult to get rid of it.

Some of my most miserable domestic moments have been in the rain.

Not being able to find parking outside of our terraced house, parking a five-minute walk down the hill, walking up with bags of shopping, carrying a car seat with a baby in it, yelling at a toddler to stay away from the road – all in the rain.

Driving to London to collect my mum from the airport at 5am, when the windshield wipers stopped working on the motorway – in the rain.

School runs, in a coat that isn’t waterproof, waiting for a teacher very keen to keep the kids as late as possible – in the rain.

The last six months have seemed particularly horrible.

Apparently, in March, Wales recorded more than 150% of their long-term average monthly rainfall. I don’t know exactly what that means, except that it has rained a lot. It’s the never-ending winter. Today is the third of May, and I’m still wearing a winter coat, carrying an umbrella at all times.

Our house smells wet, despite the expensive dehumidifier. Our coats smell wet. Our coaches smell wet.

You don’t even have to look out the window in the morning, you can hear what the weather is. Rain.

I’ve been stuck in a perpetual complaint about the rain, primarily because it massively affects my mood.

In an interview yesterday, I interviewed a woman from Anguilla in the Caribbean. She noted how good her mood tends to be simply because of the sunshine. I can only imagine. Instead, I’m dependent on Vitamin D supplements and caffeine.

I’ve even prayed to God for sun on my lowest days, convinced that sitting in the sun would bring my low mood reprieve. As if he’d part the clouds just for me.

Do you know who else is praying for the rain to stop?

People in Kenya.

This week, we had a Kenyan man, Wicklife, who runs a children’s home in Kenya stay with us. After speaking with friends and family back home, he said the rain was destroying homes, markets, villages, farms. Rivers have burst banks. At least 200 people have died. More than 190,000 people have been displaced. And now, they’re expecting a cyclone.

Wicklife told me that while March to May is commonly their “long rain” rainy season, when work and school completely stops because of the rain, this year, the impact is literally deadly. The reason for the intense rainfall is apparently due to climate change and swinging sea surface temperatures in the Indian Ocean, combined with bone dry ground that can’t absorb the water quickly enough.

Wicklife is most assuredly praying that the rain will stop.

In other areas, people are begging for rain. East Africa faces its worst drought in 40 years, with over 1.4 million people displaced by drought in Somalia alone. Famine, malnutrition, diseases, wildfires, exacerbating conflict, flash flooding – they are all consequences of not enough rain.  

Rain, and lack of rain, is causing so much destruction, so much death.

I had literally just complained about the rain in Wales as Wicklife told me about the flooding in Kenya. I felt like slapping my own wrist.

My experience of hating excess rain is very real. The impact of seemingly constant rainfall affects me and community. But despite the rain, I still have clean water, food, housing, education, work. And I have life. When so many others don’t.

I will definitely still moan about the rain in Wales, but at the same time, I’ll recall that this rain is an inconvenience, sometimes a major one, for most (other than perhaps farmers or those on low-ground levels), not a matter a life and death.

Plus, on a lighter note, the rain really does mean we have one of the lushest, most beautiful countries in the world. And when the sun finally comes out, I have never seen a group of people so excited, so keen, to be outside.

Come on Mr Sun, Mr Golden Sun, please shine down on me.

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Two weeks ago, my typical day started at 6am with a 20-minute jog around the streetlight lit bus routes. Then home to get myself and three littles breakfasted, dressed, and lunch-boxed up before the two campuses of school drop offs. A stretch the legs dog walk for little Betsie boo, second cup of coffee and big bowl of three types of cereal later, I opened my computer to start work, freelance journalism. At 2:55, I’d look at the clock and realise I had five minutes to get to the first afternoon school run, slip on my seven-year-old black boots from Marks, slam the computer and rush out the door. Forget to lock the door, then lock the door. One hour later, I’d boil pasta, pour over sauce, grated cheese and, voila – dinner. Football clubs, bath, bed, finish off work, watch the West Wing or Formula One, and fall into bed.

That was two weeks ago, and has more less been the weekday daily routine for the last two years. And I’m pretty sure it is similar to so many mothers I know.

I hate to say it, but I wore busyness as a badge of honour, proudly saying to people how life was so full. To be busy, with a full-to-the-brim work and life schedule, felt so good, even if suffocating at times. I felt needed and valued. I could look back on my day and think of all I had done, for myself, my work, and my family.  It gave me validation, worth.

But yet another burnout breakdown forced me to really consider if I could carry on like this. With nightly nightmares, heavy chest, and constant overwhelm unless I had wine in hand, I made the choice to put the brakes on, indefinitely.

The choice to pull back from self-employment to look for employed work feeks like a massive defeat. I’ve built up a business in the last three years that looks fairly successful in an industry that seems to be dying, becoming increasingly competitive with every gasping breath.

Was career advancement worth poor mental health? It had been, but couldn’t be any longer. I had to come to grips with the fact I’m not superwoman – all my powers dwindling the harder I fought.

I thought I would spend my newly free time looking for jobs, then realised I have a month-long trip back to America booked in June, followed by a six-week school holiday. Not the best time to ask an employer to take me on, especially since I’d also be asking them to let me work part-time and do all the school runs.

I’ve stopped scrolling through Indeed, only taking on commissions from editors on stories I adore to bulk up our income a bit. The (only) reason I can do this is because after three years in university, my husband is working again, able to cover our expenses for the time being as we live in a relatively cheap part of the country.

On a scrap piece of paper, I listed out ideas of what I would do to fill my emptied days. Similar to the lists my mom used to make me during the summers. She’d leave for work around 7, and when I woke, there would be a sticky note with what I could do until she got home.

There are only three unchanging things on my present list.

Take Betsie. She really needs two walks a day, but only ever has one.

Practice the piano. I used to get piano lessons when I was a little girl. Forgot everything. So I’m using our boys’ piano books (which are rarely to never used by them) to teach myself the basics.

Write creatively. This mainly consists of a novel. I’m 5,000 words in and it isn’t going great, if you’re wondering.

A bit of a change from two weeks ago, when I barely had time to breathe. My busy badge of honour has been taken off for the time being.

The “come down” after being busy, whether by force or choice, feels a little bit like a very *very* minor withdraw. My brain and body have been conditioned (this is all very not technical, and I’d get told off my any medical professional) to be non-stop. When the brakes were slammed on, I felt I should still be moving, frustrated I no longer was.

A few days last week, I sat at the computer and can’t even tell you what I did – I was just trying to fill the time with something that looked like work, because that’s how uncomfortable it felt not to be busy. I wasn’t producing, wasn’t needed, wasn’t bringing in money, so of what worth was I?

I’m only now, after two full weeks, starting to ease into a different routine, after wasting several days complaining about how bored I was. (Insert here the guilt I felt about complaining about being bored, when other people are working relentlessly to put food on the table.)

The new transitionary routine (which won’t last forever) leaves room for uncomfortable dissection of values and worth, future goal setting, and stillness. It notices people in shops and raindrops on pavement. Walks rather than drives (our car broke down, so…). Experiments with writing words, rather than slapping them onto a keyboard with no forethought.  It isn’t flashy, nothing to brag about.

“What did you do today,” someone asks on the school run.

“Well, not much actually,” is my reply.

As soon as I get used to this slow living, something will change. Older women tell me this often – how change is always around the corner. I’m certain life’s pace will once again pick up. But this time to briefly get off the hamster wheel has taught me, is teaching me, to deliberately pause and slow, whatever that might look like at different points in life, to breathe, wrestle thoughts, find community, notice, heal, and regroup. Although I want to be productive, and chase a life full of goodness, I don’t want to be busy, not like I was two weeks ago.

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Bududududududududu (is that how you spell the sound of drumming?). Imaginary drumsticks crashing down onto the air beneath me. Eyes closed just enough to see their reactions as I pound fists, strum fingers, and thrash my body in every direction.

The radio turned up to drown out any thoughts vying for my attention. Their eyes looking at me as if I’ve morphed into a maniac from a thriller, unsure whether to laugh, roll their eyes, or join in.

This love of dancing, and when I say dancing I say it loosely, started in university when I joined a jazz dance class in first year.

“Can everyone just briefly say the different types of dance you have done prior to joining this class?” the teacher asked on the first day. One by one, each person shared their years of prior experience.

“I took ballet once when I was six,” I said, laughing so I didn’t cry.

I quit the class and instead joined the intro to dance improvisation. My, I think she was French, teacher told us to close our eyes when we danced so we could feel our bodies move however we wanted without fearing how we looked to ourselves or others.

Once, we took a trip to Baltimore and acted like crabs on a huge hill with people everywhere looking at us. It was the best class I took in university, other than a very random Women on the Western Frontier history class.

15 years later, as a mum with only a handful of friends, all who don’t know each other remarkably well, I rarely get the chance to dance anywhere except for the kitchen.

Weddings used to be my drug of choice, my excuse to experiment with all the ways my body could move. But the lovely little invites with flowers and response cards rarely get pushed through our letterbox anymore. Every once in a while, there is a kid’s party with a disco. Or a live music night at a dinner out. But really, I think the joy of dancing in these environments would be drowned out by the embarrassment of all eyes on only me.

The one place (at the moment) I can dance without hindrance, without inhibition – is in my tiny square space kitchen, with its wobbly cupboard doors, crumbed floors, and blinding overhead light. A huge plus being that I can also eat cookies simultaneously.

Volume to the right, over and over and over, until it can go no louder, I close my eyes and release, everything.

Ideally, there is a rock-style type song (Olivia Rodrigo, I must admit) on that I can scream along with it while I whip my hair right and left and up and down. Tension that had been building up – the kids that keep arguing, the messy that keeps making, the work I can’t win, the body I don’t have, the dreams unfulfilled – it all pours out, in each pound, twist, contortion, jump, high-pitched scream.

I used to just dance on my own when no one was looking. But the thing is, when kids come along, they are always there.

Spilt. Cuddle. Hungry. Bored. Tired. Just want to be near you sweetness.

My secret society of lone dancing opened a child at a time.

“Dance with me,” I say reeling them in, sweeping them off their feet. Most of the time, they take some warming up, self-conscious their moves aren’t quite as smooth as mine, more like they don’t want to look as ridiculous as I do. But eventually, when they realise their too-cool-apathy won’t rub off on or deter me, they give in.

And then, they dance, laugh, letting out the tension from their small, but very really worlds.

Dancing is by no means a cure for everything, but it is so often the only release, other than getting very drunk, that I can depend on.

The next few months are going to be full of so much change. I’m no longer sure I’m a writer. But sure I can’t be self-employed, so plan to start looking for a job that is part-time, funds my cappuccino from Gregs habit, allows me to pick up my kids from 3-4, and then work from home from 4-5. I’m sure it will be really easy to find the perfect possibility.

When my youngest started full-time nursery, I expected to have to ask all the questions about what I was going to do with my life. But the questions were delayed, until now.

35 and no clue what the rest of my life will look like. I’m not sure why, but the thought is a weight.

A weight that is heavy until Olivia Rodrigo, whose music I wish I hated but secretly (not now) love, starts playing, practically yelling at me about a bloodsucking vampire that only comes out at night, with drums I pound all the fear of the future into.

Futures can’t be planned, not in my case or anyone else’s, but heart-racing, ridiculous dancing (or any number of cathartic, theraputic, absorbing activities) can be done until the next step is taken.

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Let me take you back to exactly 15 days ago. I’d been dreading the Monday after having over two weeks off, galivanting around (mainly our house) with my kids over Christmas and then flying across the Atlantic on my own to be with family and friends I hadn’t seen in 13 years.

There was no work lined up for me after a super slow-work December. And every freelancer knows, if you have a slow month, or even a slow week, it actually feels like you will never work again a day in your life. So I sat down at the computer after a surprisingly tearless school drop off, determined to research what was going on in the world and then pitch stories to editors, hopeful.

The day ended with absolutely nothing. I essentially worked 8 hours for free. And the same continued every single day that week. I just couldn’t focus. I was working, but not working. Looking like I was getting stuff done, but very much getting absolutely nothing done. Dry of ideas, but pushing semi-formed ones out to editors anyway in hopes of work.

Before getting the boys from school each day, I’d let out a loud scream of frustration, so pleased to be working from home with virtually deaf neighbours so that no one could hear me. I wish work success didn’t mean to much to me, because at the end of my life, I am absolutely sure it will not be what I want to define me. But during the week described, I felt lacking in value because no one was validating my efforts. In effect, my failure at work felt like a failure at life.

Not only was work pretty crap, so was my parenting. One of my boys pushed every one of my buttons all at once. Morning, 3pm, and night – there were a series of constant fusses, whinges, tantrums, and tears. Several times, I spoke to him, impatience and irritation rising up in my voice, then retreated to the other room to cry.

“He’d be better without me,” I thought to myself.

I’ve never read a parenting book I liked, but felt like heading to the library to check out every single one in hopes that someone somewhere might guide me into more angelic parenting.

All week, there was an electric charge running through my veins. My Raynaud’s fingers full of little sores from the freezing temperatures trembled. My heart rate rose. It took every effort to be kind. I just wanted to drink wine, eat chocolate and toast, and sleep. I could only do what was required of me, nothing extra.

After five days of this, I considered ringing the doctor to ask for help.

And then, there was blood.

My periods are very screwed up right now, thanks to the copper coil. So my period unexpectedly came days early, an unexpected but welcome reminder that I am not pregnant.

And with that first show of blood, I let out an audible sigh of relief: “This is why I’ve been on the verge of a breakdown.”

And yet, the emotion didn’t go. I have only just stopped bleeding 10 days after starting (another consequence of this coil is what I hear) and I only just feel more like myself.

Actual circumstances haven’t changed, but my hormones have. So I can deal with the little and big dips of life because (I think) I’ve got more estrogen, meaning I’ve also got more serotonin.

I’m not sure we women blame our hormones enough for our moods. In fact, if someone else (say a partner) asks whether we are due on when we are irritated that the sink is full of dishes yet again, we (I) often get even more irritated that someone would think I can only get irritated when my period is to blame.

But really, our hormones do have a lot to answer for. Over the last two years, some of the most acutely low periods I’ve experienced have come in the two weeks before periods. And then, in a matter of a few days, all normality is restored.

It isn’t just me. As I’ve talked to friends about my symptoms, I hear about theirs.

But what do we do with that? Well, I might see a doctor just to check in. But the reminder to consider that these emotions may be the consequence of a menstrual cycle might also be built into the diary.

These feelings will most likely pass in less than two weeks. If they don’t, make note. Just be kind to yourself. Get some sleep. Go for a walk. Try to keep your mouth closed if you think you’re going to explode venomous flames. Eat food that makes you feel good. If at all possible, reduce work stress. See a friend.

I think I’ll plug those words in my calendar on the weeks before I’m due again.

Hormones aside, it’s just January. Every January, for most people I know, is a bit of a slog. Post holidays, only glimmers of daylight, and hibernation mode. But spring is calling. We’re nearly there. Let’s just get through it.

It’s just January.

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This morning, we woke up like any other morning. I snoozed my 5:50 alarm, which then woke me ten minutes later. Snuck out for a jog that was more like a fast walk to listen to my new obsession, a true crime podcast. Stepping in the shower, I heard a little knock on the door, and a sweet “good morning.” The rush of breakfast, packed lunches, and getting dressed ensued before hurrying to the car to get everyone to school.

“Hey boys. I have something to tell you. I’m thankful for you. Especially today, because it’s Thanksgiving.”

“What’s that?” they asked. Because shockingly to some Americans, Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated anywhere else except in America. So the boys wouldn’t know. It isn’t anticipated. They don’t get off school. We don’t decorate for it. There isn’t a parade or a football (American football) game on. It’s not “thing.”

Today was a day like any other.

And most years, I don’t think twice about it. But this year, it’s different.

I feel far away from home.

Perhaps normally there is distraction to keep me busy. This year, there aren’t kids at home to take care of – and there never will be again because they will only keep getting older. And work is very slow so not much to do. So maybe it’s that – I should have planned more today.

Or maybe it’s that a lot has gone on with my family in America this year that I haven’t been around for.

When you live very far away from family, you miss illnesses, deaths, celebrations, holidays, and birthdays.

You miss the very things that make relationships. The highs and the lows. And by bypassing these pivotal moments of grief and joy, your distance to the people once such a pivotal part of life grows as you fall out of knowledge of who they really are.

They become someone you only hear about third party, through other people or social media.

I’ve often heard people saying that while friends come and go, family is forever. For a long time, I shoved that off.

We were part of a community for years that we said felt just like family. But then life happened, and they no longer were.

But I know for certain, if I called my cousins, my mom, my dad, my sister, my uncle, my aunties – time would be no barrier. They truly will always be my family (as a caveat, I know everyone doesn’t have the brilliant family I have, and this might not ring true for you).

They will always be my family, but my understanding of who they really are and what they’ve been through is somewhat foreign to me – literally, because I am living in a foreign country. I don’t really know them, and they don’t really know me. And yet, they are always family.

We still have my husband’s lovely family here, but not mine. Not the people I grew up with. The people who raised me, who formed me.

And perhaps the main reason I’m feeling this gap, this longing, this nostalgia, this year, is because I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on how I feel very unattached to a community. I have absolutely stellar best friends. So many lovely friends. But even after nearly thirteen years (that is so long), I can say I feel like an outsider here. Like I don’t quite belong. It’s not the fault of anyone, only the byproduct of living in a place where people are surrounded by their families all the time. Constantly surrounded by what you wish you had.

And it’s in those moments, I would love to rewind to my grandparents’ houses at Christmas. Or to my dad’s while he fries a whole turkey on Thanksgiving. Or to my mom’s for a slow, Saturday morning with candles and music. To be fully accepted and loved, not just as good friend, but as a granddaughter, a daughter, a niece. To have no shame, no pretence, no proving. Just to be.

It may seem like I’m making a case for never leaving your family. But I’m not. Because in leaving America, I gained my very best friend and three precious boys. I learned there is more to the world than just America, a hard feat to achieve while actually living in America. I had to learn how to be independent, both as an individual and as a family. I created new traditions, new routines, new ways of living, new ways of thinking. All which very possibly might not have developed had I stayed home forever.

There are no regrets about leaving home, but there is grief about not being able to easily see the people who love me most. Who I love most.

When this grief comes, I don’t ignore it. I usually have a little cry. But then I have to box it up, not in an unhealthy way, at least I don’t think so. Because I have so much to be thankful for, wrapping back around to today being Thanksgiving.

If I focus on what I don’t have, I miss all I do have, which is a never-ending list of goodness.

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Bit of a disclaimer. Body parts will be mentioned, so if this will make you stumble, perhaps don’t read on. (You’ll get the sarcasm of this statement later in this letter - you most defo should read on).

Let’s just start with the crop top I bought at New Look last week. It’s this burgundy wrap thing that comes to right above my belly button. I tried it on, ummed and ahed, and then just bought it. It’s a pretty big deal for me to buy something so quickly, but I had a time limit and couldn’t waste the time.

When I got home, I tried it on again and it exposed so much more than what I remember from when I was in the shop. I considered returning it, but had already taken off the tags and thrown them in the bin. So I was stuck with it.

The next day, I put it on, determined to wear it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to been seen in public actually showing part of my lily white stomach.

When I posted about this on Instagram, so many people got in touch saying, “wear it”. Wear what you want. F*ck the patriarchy. It doesn’t matter what other people think.

I offered up my “yes” and “amen”, but in retrospect, I wonder if it isn’t that clear cut.

Are my modest inclinations patriarchal? Are they rooted in shame and embarrassment? Part of my upbringing? My previous church culture?

You’ll see how this led me on a bit of a rabbit trail, and I’d love to share that trail with you.

Growing up as a little girl, I don’t remember my mom ever upholding modesty as this ideal my sister and I had to meet. I’m not sure I even understood what the word ‘modest’ meant until I was in highschool. I just remember her making sure my boobs and bits were covered. It was a protection thing. “Whatever is under clothing is not for anyone else except you,” mom said (or something along the lines of that).

Then in highschool, we started going to a large evangelical church where we were introduced to the world of modesty. We were told to consult God’s word about when deciding what to wear.

“Women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control, not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly attire, but with what is proper for women who profess godliness – with good works.”

From this, and probably a few other verses, we were given a “Modesty Heart Check”, written by the pastor’s wife and her daughters. Here are some excerpts (thanks mom for finding this):

-Does my midriff or underwear show when I bend over or lift my hands?

-If the outline of my underwear shows (on my backside), I know what I have to do!

-As for shorts – I can’t just check them standing up. I need to see how much they reveal when I sit down. If I see too much leg, I need a longer pair.

-If I am wearing a button-down top, I need to turn sideways and move around to see if there are gaping holes that reveal my chest.

-Can I see the lace or seam of my bra through my shirt? In this case, seamless bras are a better option.

All of these questions and more would have followed a heart check. “Her heart will dictate her wardrobe and appearance,” said John MacArthur, a famous pastor who is no stranger to controversy.

All of this was foundational as I was understanding my own body. I never really remember my mom enforcing it (other than she had loosely before – just as a protective measure) – it was a culture I picked up from the women and girls around me in the church.

We were told that if we dressed (or didn’t dress) in a certain way, we would cause boys and men to stumble (see the sarcasm I mentioned at the start?). It was our role to protect them. To guard their hearts. Our bodies exposed were shameful because they caused men to sin.

And that is my background of modesty. So you see why I struggled to wear a crop top.

But there are several religions that also value modesty. Whether it be different Christianity, Judaism, Islam, and so on, it wasn’t just my church that would have taught women to cover up.

So should we tell these religions to go screw themselves?

I don’t think we should so quickly jump to this conclusion, as religion is so entwined in culture.  

In listening to a podcast featuring several women from varying religions, one thing they all mentioned is their own ability to choose what they wear. If a woman wants to wear a hijab, she should have the right to. If she wants to only wear skirts, that desire should be respected. If spaghetti strap tops make her feel uncomfortable, then she shouldn’t be prodded to wear them.

The problem, I think, comes in when people tell her what to wear, ostracising, reprimanding or judging her when she doesn’t comply. This isn’t a choice she has made, but one that has been forced upon her.

I was never forced to wear knee-length shorts in highschool, but if I didn’t I would be gently told off. I assume I would have eventually been cut off from certain social circles because of my rebellion. What if no boys ever wanted to marry me because of my immodesty (a genuine fear I had)? I may not have had my arm twisted to be modest, but there would have been a price to pay for not complying.

However, I return to the topic of culture. Doesn’t every culture have certain things that are and aren’t accepted? Not only what you wear? How you speak, what job you work, what you believe, how much money you make, where you live, what you eat, and so on. Groups form around similar virtues and ideals - is modesty so different than all of these?

Genuinely would be interested to hear how you think it is different.

But then there is the whole aspect of protection of one’s body.

I feel very uncomfortable running in the summer wearing tight short shorts and a skimpy top. Not because I feel ashamed of my body, but because I will 100% get more honks and stares and whistles than if I were wearing loose joggers and a sweatshirt.

When I go out in town (which is practically never so perhaps a crap example), men look me up and down if I’m wearing anything form fitting or revealing. Part of me has to admit I like knowing I’m still desirable. Part of me is disgusted that men can’t control their eyes. Part of me thinks that it’s only natural for men to appreciate beauty (and sex?). Part of me thinks I should go back to my modesty checklist for this very reason.

Women (and I say this after talking to lots) feel we have to protect ourselves from men by covering up. We are tempted to feel it is our fault when a man can’t control his eyes, his hands, his mouth, his penis. And whatever you’ve been told – this is absolutely wrong. Men are responsible for themselves. A woman should not be ever made to think it was her fault that a man couldn’t control himself.

But so often they don’t take that responsibility and it becomes our fault when men stare or touch us when uninvited.

I should have worn the higher neckline. If only my bum hadn’t been so clearly outlined in that dress.

And we haven’t even gotten to young girls. I don’t have girls, so I don’t know how I would broach this issue if I did. Surely, we want to teach young girls to love their bodies – to feel no shame of them. But is there a line to draw when they choose clothing that shows ‘too much’, and if so, what is that line? If guardians are meant to protect children, should one of those protective measures be making sure their clothing choices are not going to attract the gaze and desires of predatory men? Then again, predatory men are predatory men no matter the clothing.

I just don’t have all the answers. I’d love to hear what you think.

But I know this. I wore the crop top yesterday. And wore a coat on top of it to cover my midriff. I’m not entirely sure I feel comfortable wearing it, but am asking myself why. Is it because of my internal modesty checklist? Or because I have a c-section scar? Or because I feel old? Or because I’m afraid of the looks I’ll get? My answers will determine if I wear again or charity shop it.

When push comes to shove, a woman should be able to wear what she wants. Because it’s her body. But unfortunately, I wonder if her choice could reap unwelcome consequences in the world we live in, however wrong that be?

Your thoughts?

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It’s Saturday morning at the football pitch. 10:30 am. The drizzle is just getting everything wet enough to make me shiver underneath my four layers. Instead of lazily drinking two cups of coffee while I read and the kids play (okay, let’s be honest, while they watch TV), I’ve slapped on mascara and rushed everyone to get dressed and eat breakfast, much like on a school day. All for the sake of a kids’ football match.

The thing is, I love watching sport, so I would never (not true – nearly never) complain about another chance to watch a football match, even if it does encroach on my beloved slow weekend morning.  

I’m that parent who, I’m sorry to say, can’t keep their mouth shut, jumping up and down with ‘go, go, go’ when the ball is racing towards the goal, and then crouches in a ball with a deafening ‘noooo’ when it just skims outside of the post. Even though it’s just kids playing for fun, I’ve been transported to Wembley Stadium watching the English Football League championship. It’s that kind of emotion.

But what I absolutely have come to hate about kids’ football is what it brings to the surface in both myself and other people.

Let’s start with how it brings up all my worst competitive qualities.

“Just let them have fun,” goes the phrase everyone says. Yes, I know logically that my children will never become elite footballers. That sport is important for so many reasons other than winning. So really, I should just let them have a bit of fun, a laugh with their friends, a kick around. All about f-u-n.

I hold that narrative in the fun hand, but the other hand, the one that holds the phrase “must win at all costs”, smacks its weight down on the fun hand, completely obliterating it.

“Sport is about winning,” this forceful hand says. Not just sport, all of life. Life is a game that must be won.

This winning hand is the one I typically hold in high esteem. You (I) must win at mothering. You must win at work. You must win at friendship. You must win at house, body, and fashion primping. You also must win at, everything else.

This hand typically wins, clearly, in the battle between having fun and winning.

But over the years, this has been to my detriment when it comes to kids’ sports, especially football. I feel myself putting a pressure on my kids that they don’t deserve to have. I usually catch myself and silence my eager tongue before it does any long-term damage, but then instead of bursting out, my desire for my own children to win eats me up inside. I replay all the ways they could have performed better, how they could have trained more, how they could have avoided that mistake. In my inward mulling, I ignore supplying them with the endless encouragement they need to build confidence.

And what am I teaching them about sport? Not that it’s about having fun, socialising, and learning to work as a team, but that’s about winning. And if they aren’t winning, then what’s the point of playing?

All a bit much? Greetings, you’ve entered my perfectionist, competitive brain. Go hard or go home.

Fortunately, I have clocked this behaviour, with the help of their dad, and am actively trying to squash it for the sake of my impressionable children. On the road to recovery.

The other facets I hate about kids’ football I frustratingly can’t change or control.

There exists, even as far down as 7-year-old football, the A and B teams. The A team consists of the more skilled players. The B team could still be quite good, but its players aren’t at the same level as those in the A team.

I understand the reason for this separation – group the kids together of similar ability levels so that kids are challenged, but not challenged beyond the level they can perform at.

What I can’t fathom is why more attention is given to the A team. Why A team is given preferential treatment when it comes to game time, coaching, and selection.

Then there is favouritism. If you live in a town full of people who know each other, and have known each other for generations, you will find there are outsiders and insiders. Insiders (especially men in football) get the nod on the pitch, outsiders don’t.

Finally, there are the mean boys who happen to be outstanding little footballers. The ones who play really well but aren’t very nice. But they get the glory, because they are the club’s hope of having a child play professionally one day.

I’ll stop there so as not to go into details that would merely be, stirring.

It’s a world (the world of little boys’ football) I’ve entered with hopeful intentions to change. But the thing is, it’s a world that has existed for history (and has given us some exceptional athletes and teams who are absolutely entertaining to watch play). A world where who you know and what you can achieve for the team ultimately wins. As much as I’d like it to be different, I reckon it will stay the same.

All I can do is check myself (which is why I have to actively work to not be so competitive) so that I simply watch the culture without participating in it.  

To see the little boy who shows up for the first time without a clue. To see the little boy who helps a friend up when he trips. To see the little boy laughing in the corner with his friend. To see the pure joy when a little boy manages to get the penalty against all odds. To see a little boy’s face light up when the coach gives a ‘well done’. To see the acceptance of losing without losing heart.

Amid all the things I don’t love about kids’ football, there is so much to love.

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Little heavier here today, but life isn’t sunshine and lollipops so let’s do this.

If you listen to the radio, watch the TV, or read the news on your phone or in a newspaper, you’ll quickly learn that immigration is a boiling-hot topic in the UK right now. The current Conservative government has come up with solutions that aren’t working and all political parties are fed up with their money-wasting shenanigans. 

Big questions are being asked about how to fix a ‘broken’ asylum system. After all, a cursory glance will quickly tell you things seem to be tearing apart at the seams. 

Only last week, six people died crossing the English Channel, adding to hundreds who have lost their lives making the same journey. Nearly 17,000 others are expected to attempt the crossing in 2023. Once they arrive, they will be met with an asylum system that is overstretched, with many waiting in no man’s land for often over a year to receive their asylum decision, the majority of which will go on to be approved given their reasons for fleeing their home countries. Unaccompanied children are being placed in hotels, left to sort out their traumatised lives on their own, with many of them going missing, some being trafficked. Others are living in overcrowded, unsanitary, and unsafe rooms, or not housed at all and living on the streets. They aren’t allowed to work, even though many of them are more than capable and willing to fill positions Brits would rather not take. Children and adults are suffering from malnutrition, some rummaging through bins to find food. 

And to top it all off, far-right groups (and our government) are actively, sometimes aggressively, trying to make sure asylum seekers know they are not welcome here.

It’s shambles. 

My opinion, as someone who works with asylum seekers who have been trafficked and reports on their plights in the media, is very clear. Refugees should be welcomed here. 

Yes, yes, yes. I can hear the dissent at the huge undertaking this could entail. I’m sure there is lots to figure out in terms of practicalities with this opinion, after all, there were over 75,000 asylum applications made in the year ending March 2023. It’s a big number, and will probably get bigger due to the continued global increase in the number of people displaced due to war, conflict, and climate.

But what’s the option? Leave them or find a way to accept them.

The work to figure it out is worth it for two overarching reasons. 

First. If Britain had a famine and we couldn’t feed our children. Or if we were being persecuted for our sexuality or faith. Or conflict was raging outside our front door. Or poverty was sucking away any chance of a meaningful life. We’d want someone to accept us with open arms, especially to accept our children. 

Second. Asylum seekers are human beings. They aren’t problems to be shipped to Rwanda, squashed onto a barge, or left to languish in mouse-infested hotels. They are traumatised and vulnerable people. They are people who deserve to be treated as such.

Although it seems clear to me that we should sort our own shit so we can support them, I’m increasingly realising this isn’t everyone’s conclusion. 

My neighbour brings me his tabloid newspaper most days and on it, I find fear-mongering rhetoric that gets into the hands of readers, doing exactly what it set out to do: breed fear of migrants. 

They are taking our homes. They are taking our medical treatment. They are taking our taxes. 

They are the problem. 

Recently, we attended a social event and heard about a family struggling to rent a house because there is a lack of housing stock. Their understanding was that it was the fault of asylum seekers. 

At another gathering, I was told we don’t have space in this country for asylum seekers. We are at max capacity and can’t even take care of our own so how are we meant to care for anyone else. 

And another, that a GP appointment couldn’t be obtained because the influx of asylum seekers meant services were far too stretched.

My skin tingles as I listen, sympathetic toward their frustration, but equally infuriated that their implied solution is to turn refugees seeking safety away. 

I take a breath and remember that many people I speak to haven’t met asylum seekers. They haven’t had a coffee with them. They haven’t listened to their journey to get here. They don’t know about their reasons for coming. Refugees are an idea, an imposition with no name or face. 

Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I assume this is why the blame is shifted onto them for their frustrating inconveniences, which genuinely are very frustrating inconveniences. 

But ‘the problem’ is not asylum seekers, as they have been led to believe. The problem has been a string of successive governments. They haven’t built enough housing even though urged. They haven’t invested enough in the NHS. They haven’t taken advice on how to tackle the asylum backlog. 

The government can’t claim ignorance like perhaps people in my community can. They know exactly what the problems are that need to be addressed to fix the asylum system. They’ve been told endlessly that life would be better for everyone, including asylum seekers, if the asylum backlog was decreased, if more houses were built, if money was invested in the NHS, if asylum seekers could work, if there were safe routes to get to the UK. They’ve heard the warnings and the advice, yet they plug their ears and carry on a rampage to eradicate asylum seekers through legislation like the Nationalities and Borders Act and Illegal Migration Bill. They implement any solution that will make life miserable for men, women and children seeking refuge. 

Point fingers but point them at the people responsible. The UK asylum system is broken, but it’s due to political neglect rather than asylum seekers. 

Last night, I had a dream that I was in an old friend’s house, my dream house. A little American-styled wooden-clad house with a wide front porch. It wasn’t huge, but big enough to feel spacious. Each room was a deep, bold colour – plaster pink, hague blue, calke green (all Farrow and Ball paint colours I pine after). Brimming with top-of-the-line furniture that was made to look chic farmhouse, with accents that weren’t quite minimal but also not cluttered. Outside was a green paradise with enough space for the boys to play football, with fairy lights (that hadn’t been chewed away at by rats, as ours have been) strewn crisscrossed over a deck full of people and platters of fancy tapas.

In the dream, I complained to our hosts about our own house. How common, shabby, not chic, and dilapidated it was. I was gently told off in the dream for my lack of gratitude.

On waking, the telling-off stuck with me, and I’ve spent the day reflecting on how much I have. How much I’ve been blessed with.

Most days, I’m either researching, interviewing for, or writing on topics of injustice. Asylum seekers escaping war only to end up in countries whose governments don’t want them. Women who have been locked behind prison bars with their babies for poverty-related offences. Families living in overcrowded refugee camps. Girls who don’t have money to pay for period products. People trapped in Afghanistan hoping not to be found by the Taliban. Children who have been exploited into criminal gangs. And the list just goes on.

And yet, even though I’m confronted with some of the darkest parts of human nature and experience, I’m still so often unable to see the good I’m living in.

The classic line of - at least you have - just doesn’t seem to work so much of time. But should it?

My house is falling apart. At least you have a house.

My hair is thinning. At least you have health.

My kids are driving me bonkers. At least you could have children.

My work feels overwhelming. At least you have a job.

You get the gist.

It feels uncaring, the response. It ignores someone’s pain, maybe your own, even if it is indeed true.

In the midst of those ‘hard’ moments, we just want someone to listen to us.

I want someone to hear me, commiserate with me, and maybe even give me a hug (actually, maybe not a hug).  

And yet simultaneously, concurrently (both words I love so fitting them in), perspective has this superpower of taking us out of our own bodies to see what lies around us.

We easily get wrapped up in our own worlds, unable to see anything but our own, everything. Until we see that there is more than just our own worlds.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at what you might say was a low point of burnout. I cried. I had a racing heart. I was exhausted. I couldn’t complete even small tasks. They were all very real emotions and symptoms I couldn’t just get rid of at the snap of my fingers.

Then for my other job (in addition to writing I manage a befriending project that links up survivors of modern slavery with people in their communities) I met a woman who would have been exploited and enslaved. As I looked at her, all of my problems took their rightful place. I was bombarded with all I have to be thankful for as I listened to her speak. By gentle osmosis, her world collided into mine, and I could suddenly see all the good around me.

Another similar but different awakening happened when I hiked up a mountain nearby us on my own. I’ve actually been up five times in the course of a month because it’s a coping strategy atm. Walking up alone, with only a multitude of sheep around me, I kept feeling smaller and smaller. All of my ‘problems’ disappearing into a great void of ever-expanding green. I came down lighter.

Seeing beyond ourselves is, I think, very helpful. But the way in which it’s done should be tactful. Not forced or manipulated, but welcomed when presented. For instance, I don’t think I would ever receive it well if someone ‘told me off’ for not having a correct perspective on my own anxiety or worry. However, if I’m open to it, my perspective will naturally shift when I listen to news and/or conversations. Or if while walking outside, you’re able to meditate on your smallness in the midst of the earth’s bigness, a natural shift could occur as you reflect on the relative insignificance of that day’s troubles.

It's the end of the day now (if you remember, I was saying last night I had that dream about feeling totally unappreciative in light of my friend’s glorious little abode). A day of reflecting on how I am grateful for this house. Even though the house is in some way falling apart, it is a house, which is so much more than most of the world has. And for that, I’m thankful.

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Over the last month, I’ve taken time to reflect on why I’ve been so keen to quit journalism.

If you’ve just started ready these Letters from Lauren, you’ll know I only started writing about two-and-a-half years ago. Since then, I’m constantly reaching the point of burn-out, withdrawing into a corner to recover, and then bursting back into the cycle, getting ready for another round of burn-out.

The obvious answer from so many of my friends and family is to slow down and work in moderation. Pace myself. Wise indeed. But I’ve just not been able to do it. I keep pushing, pushing, pushing. And I haven’t been able to figure out why I can’t stop. It’s almost addictive really.

But I’ve started to take time to get to the heart of the why.

While the money from working lots is helpful, we are lucky enough that I don’t need to work my ass off to survive.

It isn’t even to achieve some personal goal. I don’t have one. Well, one day, I’d love to be an international correspondent, but that’s the only career goal I have. My best mentality really doesn’t come from that.

The why behind why I keep pushing?

I want to be the best.

I’ve always wanted to be the best.

I remember in school and then in university, what compelled me was to be at the top of the class. If I wasn’t, I had failed.

During board games, once I realise I’m not going to win, I check out.

Hobbies? If I can’t perfect them on the first go, I quit trying.

Even in parenting, I feel the constant strain to be the best mother. But obviously can’t quit parenting, so just live in a constant state of guilt that I’m not doing better.

It’s a big weight to carry, this perfectionism that requires best.

In journalism, there is absolutely no way I’ll ever be the best. I was too late for the game. And I’ve got three kids. And my writing skills are sub-par. And I get overwhelmed easily.

I won’t ever be the best. Although the question is, who is the best? What is the best? It’s a ridiculous thing to chase after in the first place. Can you ever truly be the best?

I’m all too aware this way of thinking is incredibly toxic. My negative self-talk is often carrying on in my head, even when to others, it seems I’m doing very well.

It isn’t just me. I think, I know, lots of women feel the pressure to be good at everything. To be the modern woman who succeeds at everything, all the time.

Self-Critical Perfectionism

One psychologist called it self-critical perfectionism - a trait that exhibits itself as an intense desire to be good at everything (i.e. perfect) combined with a heightened sensitivity to other people’s expectations and perceived criticisms if these are not met.

Apparently, it often leads to depression. Gulp.

How to get over it? The answers, as always, are probably not cut and dry, but in doing some research, here is what some leading psychologists think we perfectionists can do.

Recognise it. I’m already on the way to recognising it, one of the first steps in ‘treating’ it. I see it’s a problem. See it needs to be fixed.

Next up, cognitive behavioral therapy (ie. talking to myself). Replacing negative self-talk with realistic self-talk. I don’t exactly what this will look like for me, but from lots of reading, it is taking a step back and analytically assessing the situation. Am I actually crap at this? Do I actually have to be perfect at this, or can I settle with ‘good enough’?

I often think in all-or-nothing, black-or-white ways. Either I give my all, or I quit. Could instead, I use words like ‘okay’, ‘sometimes’, and ‘good enough’, choosing to be kind to myself rather than harsh?

Would I speak to a friend the way I speak to myself? No way! So why do I do it to myself?

The Long Game

If we’re talking about how to get past perfectionism in the long term, an idea I found was to approach the three C’s: clarity, constant learning, and connection.

Clarity: What matters to you over time? What gives you meaning? How can I connect my daily life decision to this?

Constant Learning: Focus on growth, rather than judgment.

“I didn’t speak to my child kindly then. How can I do better next time?”

“That article really didn’t cut it. Is there a way I can improve the next thing I write?”

Connection: Being around people is a lifesaver. It gives perspective, collaboration, and community. People need people to thrive.

My need to be the best is not something I have to keep living up to. But in order to nip it in the bud (is that the phrase?), I’ve got to take time to analyse my thoughts and actively think differently.

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