THE ART OF PRETENDING YOU HAVE YOUR SHIT TOGETHER
My parents had a mortgage and a child at my age, and I cried the other day because I had to make a phone call to cancel an appointment.
Granted, this may suggest I’m just slightly emotionally unstable, but honestly, I think that’s the unofficial personality trait of being in your twenties.
Emotional instability, but with a LinkedIn account.
Some of my friends are engaged, some are smoking weed in a seedy abandoned shed on the weekends.
Me? I’m scrolling through LinkedIn like it’s my job, while actually trying to find a job, all while being simultaneously bombarded by everyone’s achievements like a media megaphone screaming:
“YOU ARE A FAILURE. LOOK HOW AMAZING EVERYONE ELSE IS DOING.”
How Hinge Dates turned into Exchange Rates
I’ll preface this article by assuring you I’m not out of my mind; I’m just a girl who’s very skilled at rationalising her delusion.
God forbid a woman have a little optimism.
But yes, you heard me right: Europe did, in fact, get an invite to my Hinge dates. While to some, these spontaneous trips may look irrational, like I accidentally mixed up data roaming with date roaming, to me, they helped me connect with a version of myself I’ve always wanted to know.
At that point, choosing what to do after university felt like staring at a Ryanair departures board after too many Aperol Spritzes: too many options, none entirely sensible, and I was convinced a spontaneous flight would solve everything.
It didn’t. But maybe it was a good start.
Seoul Searching: A Situation-ship with Myself
I swear your twenties are a limbo where you feel the weight of the world pressing you to navigate and chart the course of the rest of your life.
Like, hang on, two minutes ago, my biggest problems were my A-cups not growing fast enough and the boy I had a very one-sided obsession with not watching my story within the first five minutes.
Suddenly, I’m meant to be a fully functioning adult with a five-year plan, when I was literally just trying to figure out if he liked me back and whether my body was “developing on schedule.”
I worked so hard to get my degree while navigating various personal challenges, so when I finished, I did what any emotionally stable graduate would do: I immediately booked a flight to the other side of the world, starting with Seoul, South Korea.
I Support Women’s Rights. So Why Do I Still Need a Man to Fancy Me?
I could tell you exactly how many men looked at me on a night out with the girls. Not because I have Spidey senses or I’m particularly observant, but because I was conducting a real-time self-performance review. Every time a man glanced in my direction, I was ready to forgive every minor inconvenience life had ever thrown at me.
It’s deeply embarrassing.
Dating apps have only amplified the problem by turning validation into a metric: every like, every comment, every match is another insatiable dopamine hit. It’s only when I stop to actually check my likes that I realise Bartholomew, the grave robber, probably isn’t my type.
The hot girl era has a painful sex problem
Hear me out. I don’t hate sex, but I hate the way it makes me feel.
Fear. Anxiety. Dread.
My body hasn’t exactly been a safe place. It’s been poked and prodded, turned into something clinical instead of personal. Add in the stigma around reproductive issues, and now when I think about sex, it’s not excitement; it’s pain and fear. That’s the association, and once your body learns that, it’s not exactly something you can just switch off overnight.
The irony? I’m just like every other girl—reading fantasy smut, romanticising the kind of love that feels like it could alter your brain chemistry and make life a little less mundane. The idea of romance and lust? I love it.
I Think I Took Concealer a Little Too Literally
I was obsessed with my mum's makeup long before I was old enough to wear it.
Somewhere along the way, I learned to see my face as a paint-by-numbers canvas: strategically highlight the good bits, carefully conceal the "bad" ones, and whatever you do, don't colour outside the lines.
My school's no-makeup policy meant I had no armour going into what felt like war. High school.
An emotional battlefield of angsty teenagers trying to figure out who they were, all while being squeezed into neat little academic boxes with glass walls so everyone else could judge, berate and torment them along the way.
Sounds fun, right?
How Fashion Became My Favourite Travel Companion
You know how a lot of women say their hair is their safety blanket? Mine is fashion.
There's a feeling I can't quite explain: solo travelling always felt a little less vulnerable when I could become a new version of myself every day. Well, an extension of me.
Don't get me wrong, experimenting meant that sometimes I felt like a cool, Matrix-esque sci-fi character in South Korea or a sensual Parisian woman wandering through Montmartre. But unfortunately, there were also times I looked a little bit like Henry VIII in Rome when I convinced myself a velvet puffer skirt was a good idea.
It wasn't.
Limerence: Sponsored by My Own Imagination
Why is it that my one-month situationship emotionally crippled me more than a four-year relationship?
The answer is potential.
When you go through the stages of a long-term relationship, the initial potential eventually becomes clear. You either exceed it or fall painfully short of it. Either way, reality comes knocking.
But when a budding romance gets cut short, that potential is left on delivered.
Your imagination takes over, directing a torturous highlight reel of hypothetical best moments. Your first holiday. Your engagement in the Italian countryside. Your wedding in the South of France. Three children and a golden retriever called Max.
The Dress That Became Part of Me
Picture this: I walked into a quaint charity shop in Bridgnorth and walked out with a dress that would quietly accompany me through some of the most monumental moments of my life.
The day I wandered into that tucked-away charity shop remains firmly ingrained in my memory. I frantically rifled through chaotic racks, hoping I would stumble across some 2000’s/chic outfit that would transform me into the female lead of a teen rom-com.
That’s when I saw it.
The dress seemed to have its own aura, sitting there like a treasure waiting to be discovered. I grabbed it at record speed, admiring the delicate gold embellishment and embroidered floral pattern.
Market Research, But Make It Reproductive
When I was a young girl, I genuinely believed dating would be exactly like it was in cheesy 2000s rom-coms and Barbie movies. The man would turn up to the first date with flowers, yearning unequivocally. Our first kiss would be accompanied by metaphorical fireworks, triggering a mutual epiphany that we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together.
Then I started university.
My boyfriend had just made things official, and we were about to take things a step further. We were sharing what I genuinely believed was an incredibly intimate, beautiful moment. My heart was beating frantically in my chest as I finally said the three words that had been dancing on the tip of my tongue for weeks.