First of all, they’re the normal, we-all-have-them voices (I’m not crazy or anything, not really), and I’ve just realised recently how proud I am of mine. Like, there’s been a serious character arc happening in the recesses of my mind, and it’s kind of a big deal.

It keeps coming up; just how far I’ve come and how delightful it is to now exist with what can only be described as a cheer squad in my head, versus the under-the-bleachers, school bully crew that used to live there.

My self-talk is kind and encouraging now - working in harmony with me instead of trying to hack me down at every turn and tbh, it’s life-changing, because I’ve been a real asshole to myself for a solid 30 years.

I think it started at seven years old, when I developed an autoimmune condition, psoriasis, which made me, almost overnight, different.

Unacceptable. Gross. Unsightly. Embarrassing.

I started to install all of these beliefs about myself in my head through the day to day experience of being a little kid who looked different. I felt the world suddenly turn to look at me with unkind eyes, and I started to see myself through those eyes too.

I began to despise myself.

Before I hit double digits, I had become my own bully. Trust me, everyone else was bullying me too, but I was determined to make the job easier for them. I took it upon myself to be so mean to little Hannah that nobody else could, or would need to hurt me more than I already had.

My inner voice turned into my biggest hater.

The interesting thing is I never really noticed it. I just accepted it. And the only time I ever questioned it was when the people close to me - like eeeeeveryone has said this to me at one time or another - ‘why are you so hard on yourself?”

Um, because I’m the worst, pal. Scum of the earth over here!

It wasn’t until last year (yep, it took me that long) that someone finally bailed me up hard enough about it that I finally questioned the narrative.

I was starting to get sick of my own shit; the procrastination and the self-sabotage, making decisions that made my life worse, the throwing money away, the undervaluing myself - and I knew I needed help to break the patterns.

I started to look into therapists, but, like a little prod from the universe, a client of mine mentioned in passing that she wouldn’t be where she was without her mindset coach.

I fired off a voice note the second I got back to my car, and Paula, who had been following me and watching my every doomed move for a few years, replied with:

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Which I love, I mean, come on.

So we started working together and that was my turning point. I was digging into my stuff deeper than I ever had before, but she was also helping me to identifying my biggest and most destructive beliefs.

And when I started to see it, it was everywhere. In my business, in my relationships with partners and family and friends; even the way I felt walking through each day, how I handled money, how I felt about my house, like, I’m not kidding when I say - I thought I was a positive, fairly successful human being, but my inner asshole was running the show the whole time, and honestly, ruining everything good I had to my name.

Hearing Paula echo back to me the way I was talking about myself and my life, followed by ‘why would you even say that?’, ‘what on earth gave you that idea?’ so incredulously, I dunno, it was the start of some real healing. It was the beginning of sitting my internal bully down and giving it a hug, and asking who hurt them so bad and how we were gonna make them feel better.

I started to do the work. Noticing feelings in my body, noticing thoughts. Listening to audio books about self talk, doing daily affirmations.

I started to challenge the mean things that had become my daily scripture, and not just take those as gospel. They were just there, and I could choose whether to engage with them or believe them or not. A groundbreaking concept for someone who has been at the mercy of my thoughts my whole life. Like, what?! Why had no one ever told me that before?

And I was doing such a good job of turning things around, and being kind to myself once I figured it all out, until…

I’m standing at the end of a row of professional models. They’re towering over me in their high heels and hot pants - I’ve got them on too but somehow they don’t look quite the same. There’s music and chatter filling the room and beating in my chest, but not quite as fast or hard as my frightened little heart. My wig’s being brushed, bronzer being swiped across my knees, and I can’t decide if I need a nervous wee, a tactical vom or a slap on the face. I’m nervous af.

I was completely out of my league. I’d wrangled my way into the room through a side door (my rejection therapy series on Instagram) and now I was about to walk the runway in New Zealand Fashion Week amongst a collection of our country’s premier models. I was surrounded by strangers and while everyone was being so lovely and encouraging, I was, ultimately, left alone with my thoughts.

And the bully stepped in to fill the space.

You don’t deserve to be here. You look stupid. Everyone will know you’re a fake. You’re going to fall over. You’re going to embarrass yourself.

I’d been doing such a good job dismantling my inner meanie, only for it to grab the mic when I needed kindness the most.

And as I stepped up to take the runway for the first time? What did I say to myself?

“Alright, here we go. Just try not to fuck it up.”

When it came down to the moment of truth, I was an asshole to myself.

Like who the hell would say that to someone they loved and cared about right before a big event? Why on earth would those be my final words to myself at crunch time?

I spent the whole drive home reflecting on what happened.

Yeah, I got through the runway show. I wasn’t happy with how I’d performed and I decided it was probably best not to watch the tapes or ask anybody how I did.

But I don’t blame myself. I was scared up there. Terrified, actually. The model brief was happy, bouncy and confident and I was giving baby deer in the headlights.

I was so disappointed in myself. Not because of the lackluster modeling (ok maybe a lil bit that), but because I let the bully win.

I set myself up to fail with my horrific self talk.

And I resolved, somewhere along the Waikato Expressway going 100km/h, that I would never do that to myself again.

Catch me about to get on a call now saying shit to myself like ‘you’re going to kill this baby!’ - honestly, I’m insufferably encouraging at this point, and that’s what’s so exciting to me.

That’s growth!

I’m my own biggest cheerleader, and you have no idea what that does for my confidence, for my energy, for the people around me, the way I look at life. A small, but mighty adjustment that simply changes everything.

So, I beg of you. Do this week’s challenge and see how life feels when you’re finally on your own side.

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To label them as a show off, flaunting their lifestyle and their material gains. Their PR packages + first class plane tickets on full display as they live out what has become the modern idea of a dream career and equally, one of the most embarrassing ways you can spend your time.

We turn up our nose, and yet, how many of us would trade places with them in a heartbeat?

I was watching a video this week from a woman who was explaining how she’d become a ‘momfluencer’, which allowed her to stay at home with her young children, encouraging other mothers to do the same.

It’s easy. Film videos of yourself making lunchboxes. Show us your outfit on the way to school. Record a rant in the car park after drop off. Take photos of your chores. Let us into your house. Post your children, or maybe just their voices, or their things, their bedrooms and their art work. Do what you need to do to get our attention, to get brands’ attention. To maybe get paid occasionally for the hours upon hours of work you put into learning how to be good at social media, for the hours in between breastfeeding and folding laundry you put into editing and writing captions and interacting with your public. You’ll be living your life, yes, but you’ll need to start performing it too. Comb your hair, comb their hair, make their trousers, mend your skirt, and film it, all of it. And for the love of god, do not stop.

You’re not allowed to stop.

Everyone around you will judge you, people you’ve never heard of and never met and will never meet will dissect your life and tell you everything you’re doing wrong to your face or behind your back. And then, when you eventually start to do well - well enough to call it a job, you will be called an influencer.

The dream you had aspired to, that you now get to enjoy, but not too much, ok? Don’t look like you’re enjoying it too much. You won’t be relatable anymore.

And remember, you can’t ever stop. Don’t ever stop.

This is what we all want, right?

There was an interesting conversation happening around the video - specifically, um hey, is this actually something to aspire to? Why are we talking about this like it’s a good, stable, viable option? Like it’s a feasible career for anyone with a phone?

Sure, it seems like it - we’ve seen countless nobodies rise to somebody status - it’s so accessible. If you want to do this, there’s literally nothing stopping you. Anyone can be a social media star, making cash, collecting packages and copping the envy and admiration of the world.

But one comment stopped me.

“I think the biggest flex is actually not having to be online.”

Fuck.

Now why did they have to go and say that?

It struck something in me. Because I’m an influencer.

I think it’s embarrassing sometimes. I cringe a little when someone asks me what I do for work.

I’ve seen and experienced the judgement and felt the shame of being looked down on. So that statement makes way too much sense to me. The ones who get to say nurse or teacher or barista might actually be the ones who are winning. The ones who get to live their lives in private might have the most aspirational existence of all.

I take videos of my outfits and never stay in the same one for a full day.

My home is not really my home anymore. It is the backdrop of my content.

I watch videos of myself and edit for hours on end.

I rarely stop performing.

My brain is filled with looking for every opportunity to create content. My life lens is ‘what can make content?’ - in fact, I often make decisions about my life based on what will appeal most to my audience.

And it never turns off. It is how I survive, it is my career, and I can never stop.

I’ve thought to myself so many times: how different would my life be if I existed outside of the internet?

And I know I’m doing this job because I love content. I love being creative. I love writing. I love editing. So it makes sense for me.

But I would be lying if I said it wouldn’t be a relief to keep things to myself.

Because there’s no such thing as a free lunch. I had to sacrifice my privacy, my time, my space, my anonymity, and my ability to just enjoy my life peacefully, for the sake of making an income. This ain’t no 9-5.

As someone who is never offline, privacy has become the prize. Maybe in a world where virtually anyone can be famous, as long as they’re willing to sacrifice for it, fame isn’t all that valuable anymore.

The ability to live a quiet, anonymous life is actually a flex.

Meanwhile, us influencers are out here letting strangers into our personal space, into our private thoughts and packaging up our most vulnerable moments for a shot at a viral video.

Nothing is sacred anymore.

And I wonder if we’re going to reach a point where privacy becomes more valuable than visibility.

Maybe the real flex isn’t having everyone watching you.

Maybe it’s living a life nobody else gets to see.

Novelty and fatigue, interest and boredom, looping over and over again - that’s what social media has become for me.

And there’s another layer to it, because I’m part of the machine. Or I’m supposed to be anyway - I’m an influencer. Except I always took pride in being just outside the circle. Moving to the beat but not entirely on the dancefloor; playing the game but subbing myself off when things were getting too heated.

Last year I did something pretty out there, even for me. Instead of making my usual fashion videos (trending!) I decided I wanted to start writing long form opinion pieces. But not on a blog and not necessarily here on Substack but instead, in tiny little dollops of text, overlaid on a series of images, housed in an Instagram carousel. I’m sure I’d seen a few people do it already (I know I was part of the problem, we’ll get to that), but it felt very bold and very out of pocket.

I shared my opinions on popular TV shows, told stories from my life, and every one was a winner. I was experiencing the kind of engagement I’d never had before, it felt exciting and fresh and it was connecting with people. It was moving people. I’d never fully understood the idea that I was creating a community until that point.

It felt like such a clever way to ask an audience to consume long form in the land of non-existent attention spans - in snippets with pretty pictures. In a space where they were being smacked over the head with short form video clips, transitions and beat drops, this felt like somewhere to rest a while. The word ‘refreshing’ showed up daily in my DMs.

I started to get really good at telling a story in less than a 1000 words. Beginning, middle and end with a juicy hook. It was my formula and I was repeating it to great effect - so much so that I started to see myself as a writer - after all, I was getting brand deals off the back of this format; with my words as the main drawcard.

Then the tide turned. Like every other good idea on social media, the format grew in popularity massively. Carousels are trending! Tell your story! Make us swipe for it!

I found myself having to now thumb through every second post, being drip fed a tale slide by slide from coaches and teachers and photographers and cafes until I realised we’d jumped the shark.

Stories are the thing that connect us as humans. I bloody love a good story. I’ll sit and listen to someone tell me a tale any day of the week. And suddenly I’ve found myself scrolling away two swipes deep. I don’t want to hear it anymore.

Storytelling carousels have now become the personal back story before an internet chef will get to the recipe - just an annoying chunk of content you have to swipe through to be able to carry on with your day.

Something that had become really meaningful to me is something I’m struggling to bring myself to do. Substack’s popularity is booming, so I know the people still yearn for long form. But if I’m tired of hearing every single person’s life story via tiny text and holiday snaps surely everyone else is too?

Alternatively, am I really sick of stories or am I really just bored of reading bad ones?

Is there still a place for me to play in that format if I work really hard to make it good? Is it possible to stay on your own creative path when that path becomes overcrowded?

Is it still worth trying to tell your story when everyone’s already got one?

Some would argue that it’s just a trend. That it’ll boom and bust, and if I stay the course, I’ll still be standing when the crowd dissipates. That my particular form of creativity is still worth expressing even when no one can hear me over the noise.

That the early bloggers were still bloggers after the hordes moved on to social media, that the veteran Youtubers never stopped making videos through the years as the crowds have come and gone and come back again.

Maybe it doesn’t matter what anyone else is doing if we’re doing what’s true to us.

And maybe that’s the story I need to tell.

Damn, I’m good.

I’ve been talking about starting a podcast for years now - in fact, my friend sent me a screenshot from a conversation back in 2022 where she asked me if I would ever consider starting a podcast. I kind of brushed off the comment because I felt too embarrassed to even admit that, yeah, it is something that I’d want to do.

In fact, it felt so far away from any realm of reality that I couldn’t even accept what was a compliment. A friend telling me that I was good at talking, that I had some interesting ideas to share with people, that I had a very engaged community that I she was sure would love to hear more from me. That I was having the kind of conversations that were worth exploring more, and sharing beyond my Instagram page. I’d never told her it was something I’d love to do - she just saw it in me. And that was a whole four years ago.

I just shrugged and said maybe one day.

Well, turns out that day is in three weeks’ time because last week I told my audience that I was going to launch a podcast in a month. It would appear I’m finally ready to get out of my own way.

And a big part of that was me showing the people that follow me that it is possible to get out of your head and do the damn thing. That you don’t have to wait for permission. You don’t have to wait until you’re the most skilled. You don’t have to wait until you’ve got the best gear. You don’t have to wait until you’re fully prepared. You can just hit play on an idea and figure it out as you go.

I’ve learnt in the past few years that a lot of the time, done is better than perfect. Even halfway done is better than spending months in the planning phases, self-sabotaging at every opportunity, and getting in your head until you completely talk yourself out of the idea. And now, I try and live by what I’ve learned.

So I’m starting from scratch, but I must confess, I bought a microphone a few weeks back. I was ready to take the first baby step into this new era of me, this broadcasting, microphone-having version of me. And before I let myself get stuck overthinking about whether I was qualified enough or interesting enough to even have a podcast, I just told everyone I was going to do it. And let’s be honest, there’s nothing like a bit of public accountability to push you past fear and doubt.

So that’s what I’ve done, and in the time since, I have come up with a plan - I’ve decided what I need to do to go from zero to not quite a podcasting hero, but something like it in four weeks.

I’ve given myself a task list for each week, and I am taking my audience along with the process because I think it might be interesting. Who knows? It might just be a humiliation ritual, but I’m cool with that.

So here’s my launch plan, week by week.

WEEK ONE - what the heck is this?

• Concept

• Name

• Visual direction

• Vibe

WEEK TWO - build it and they will come

• Logo

• Cover art

• Promo photography

• Figure out software

WEEK THREE - the meat in the sandwich

• Five dream guests

• Get a drink sponsor

• Format

Side note: It’s so important to keep remembering that this doesn’t have to be the be-all, end-all. It doesn’t have to be the final product. It is the starting point, and I may evolve and change. Don’t put that on yourself - that it has to be the final product. Don’t put that on yourself! It’s too much! Get rid of that idea!

WEEK FOUR - girl you’re a podcaster

• Record

• Edit

• Create trailer

• Carousel snippets

• Launch first episode

Ok when I say it all out like that, it seems like almost too much. Some would argue too much to achieve in four weeks, and I might not get everything done along the way, or it might not be the way that I want it to be. I mean, I’m working with a budget of zero and I don’t have any help. It’s a make it work moment if ever there was one.

But that doesn’t matter. We’re taking it all the way. I said I’m going to do it, and I will show up for myself. If nothing else, if nothing else in this process, I will show myself that I show up and I do what I say I’m going to do.

And if by some miracle, in four weeks’ time I have an actual real life podcast, well, then I get to send a message to my friend and say thanks and yes, here it is. I just needed a minute.

I had no idea how they’d found me, or what their motivations were, but obviously, I jumped at the chance.

I recorded the podcast, and as I was leaving the studio, I had another DM from another big name podcast, asking if I wanted to sit down for an interview with them, too.

If something happens once, it’s just a fluke, right?

But when it happens twice in the space of two weeks, you’d start to wonder.

I said yes, again, squealing with excitement at the prospect, but my brain couldn’t help poke an old bruise: “why do these people want me?”

Because earlier that day, sitting in the professional podcast studio, under the lights, in front of the microphone, looking across at this famous face I’ve watched and listened to for decades, a little part of me couldn’t help but feel like they’d made a mistake.

I’m a complete nobody. What am I doing here?

The truth is, that doesn’t matter anymore. In fact, that’s how things work these days. If you’re building a founder-led business or a personal brand, there is nothing standing in between you and visibility, but yourself.

You too can find yourself in rooms you feel underqualified to be in, getting DMs from celebrities and having your work seen around the world. You don’t have to wait to be successful to be seen anymore.

You just have to show up.

In the past couple of years, my internal narrative has been struggling to keep up with what’s happening out in the real world.

I’ve found myself being seen, by so many people, heard, having my work read, only to feel, at my core, inadequate or undeserving.

I don’t have a degree, I haven’t achieved some great milestone, I haven’t written a book or sold out a tour. I have nothing in particular to hang my hat on, nothing to warrant the soapbox I’m balanced precariously atop.

The truth is, I feel called to write and share and perform, but when it’s received well, the spotlight feels uncomfortable. Some part of me obviously likes the attention, but I hate the idea that in the glare, I’ll be seen for the impostor I feel like I am.

But therein lies the mismatch in thinking. The internet, the great equaliser, has made it possible for people like me to have a platform. Complete nobodies have the ability to turn themselves into somebody. That’s the way things happen now.

People like Emma Chamberlain, Alix Earle and countless others have built their brand before they’ve actually done anything.

And despite the reality that I’m doing just as they’ve done; I’m holding onto those old beliefs - that I’m not worth listening to unless I’ve got a PhD, unless I’ve built a million dollar business or written a bestseller. By that old measure, it feels like I can’t possibly have value to the world, but that’s where I’m wrong. Where a lot of us are probably getting tripped up.

Let me tell you a hopeful little story back from the time before my brain had fully developed and I had the kind of audacity that could launch an army.

I was sixteen years old. I’d walked into the regional newspaper’s office and asked to speak to the editor, writing samples in hand, and landed a weekly column for $30 a pop, sharing the ins and outs of what it was like to be a teen growing up in the 2000s.

The column proved popular and I claimed the title of published writer with my whole chest, proudly mentioning it to my peers at basement parties and in the backseats of lowered cars.

Until, through the grapevine, I found out what another columnist was being paid. An actual book author, in his 50s. He was making double what I was.

When I asked the editor about it, he told me that of course I’d be paid less - I was just a kid. But it didn’t make sense. He was paying me specifically for my perspective and experiences as a young person, and he was paying this other guy specifically for his, so why would his be any more valuable than mine? He was an experienced writer with a name for himself, sure, but he couldn’t possibly do what I did. We were both providing the same amount of copy each week, and yet, my words were worth less.

At the time, I couldn’t let it slide. Despite the good thing we’d had going, I told him I wouldn’t let myself be taken advantage of. He needed to pay up or I would quit.

He told me he’d make sure I never worked in the industry again.

I got a job at another newspaper once I graduated (too petty to mention?) - but the main take away here is that I could see my value, all the way back then, before the world made me question it. Without a degree or a book with my name on it, I could see that my lived experience, and my ability to share it, was worth something.

So why did I lose sight of that?

Every time I find myself in a position where I’m offered some level of authority, when people look to me guidance or advice, I find myself thinking ‘but I’m not an expert’, ‘but I’m not qualified’, or ‘I haven’t made it yet’.

And I’ve started to realise that my adult self, unlike seventeen year old me, has been waiting for years for a credential to validate what I’ve been doing all along. I’ve always pulled back from moments in the spotlight because I didn’t have a ‘thing’ that would make me feel like I deserved to be there.

But I’m just walking a different path than I thought I would. I’m living experiences in real time, I’m experimenting in public, I’m learning lessons and engineering my life in full view of anyone who cares to watch, and as I do all those things, I’m building my own authority and I’m building my way to the credentials I used to think I needed just to be in the room. I’ve put myself in the room before I thought I deserved to be there, but I was in there anyway.

Like I said, I didn’t go to university, there were no big achievements to write home about - I felt mediocre at best. I wanted to be more, I wanted more for myself. I wanted to write books and be on the TV and radio and speaking at events, but there was no reason for me to be there.

I didn’t realise it, but somewhere along the way I discovered the power of visibility.

And even while my outdated beliefs held me back, I kept finding ways to make myself visible. I was unknowingly building my way there. I was reverse-engineering my credentials. I had been using the only thing I had to get where I was trying to go.

If you’ve got the credentials and the authority, if you’re where you want to be, it’s not hard to accept visibility. To say yes when someone asks you on a podcast or wants you to write a piece for their magazine. What’s wild to me is that I’ve been saying yes to that stuff with nothing but my lived experiences, my perspective and my learnings to back me up. And that I knew, in my teens, I deserved to be seen and heard, that I had value, just as I was. And why, somewhere along the way, I thought I needed more.

I lost myself and lost my confidence for many years, and then I started to be brave again, testing my identity against my reality. Every time I was visible, or accepted a opportunity to be visible, I was collecting evidence that the world valued my perspective before I had the credential I thought I needed. Over time, reality kept being in conflict with my old belief.

No one will listen to me unless I’m qualified, no one will listen unless I’m an author, or an expert, but the reality was podcasts and articles and reposts.

When I have a little wobble while I’m sitting behind a microphone or when an article goes live on a media platform, it’s just a wobble. I feel stronger in seeing my value now. Like teenage me, who could see that we all have value just for being ourselves.

A few years ago, I decided - I can’t ignore that this is what I’m supposed to be doing. I don’t believe I’m fully ready. I know I have to walk in this direction, I know I can’t walk the traditional path, but I know what I want is in this direction.

Maybe if I’m brave enough to be seen before I have the credentials I think I need, to keep writing and sharing and speaking, then the book deal will come. The speaking invitations will come. The media opportunities will come because you’ve built an audience.

I’m building a body of work that becomes my qualification.

Now, to the juicy part.

Here’s how I trained myself to become someone who is comfortable being visible during the build (and how I get the kind of crazy opportunities that are going to get me where I’m trying to go):

FYI: Upgrading your subscription to paid will give you access to the practical takeaways you can apply to your own journey, all of my archive, resources and content I don’t share anywhere else!

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I came up with a plan; a very bold and aggressive idea that was going to take me to my first six-figure financial year. I wrote my goals and my plans on paper and plastered them over my office, single and single-minded, now without anything standing in my way.

I hit my first set of targets within weeks - the idea (marketing coaching for small businesses) had legs and we were away.

I had built something from nothing, all by myself. I was going to make my dreams come true, if I could just stay the course.

So I burnt it all down.

If I wanted it to work so badly, why did I let it die? The model was flawed, maybe. I hadn’t accounted or prepared for client turnover, sure. But ultimately, at the first sign of needing to put in some real hard work to keep it going, I just left it to fizzle.

At this point, I knew it was me. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but I knew I was the engineer of my own downfall. I had picked the wrong guy to date, yet again. I’d gone into business with the wrong person. I’d even destroyed my own business. I’d made those decisions, not strategically for my own growth, no, quite the opposite.

I was sabotaging myself with every move I made.

I started working with a mindset/business coach shortly after (one of the biggest, scariest investments I’ve ever made) and she clocked me within minutes of our first call. She’d been watching me for a year before we spoke.

“You push, and then you pull back. You achieve a new level of visibility, success or recognition, and then…you shrink away. Every. single. time.”

After a few months of work with her, I started dismantling the damaging beliefs I held about myself. That I wasn’t capable of hard work or being consistent. That I didn’t deserve to be paid well. That having money meant you were a bad person. If I get nice things I’ll lose them. If I’m too visible then I’ll be judged. It was endless - my negative self-talk was almost the entire narrative in my head, and it was the driving force behind my incessant self-sabotage.

It could look as innocuous as doom-scrolling in the middle of work. Not sending an email. Deciding to do housework instead of ticking another task off my to do list. Taking two weeks to respond to a message.

It’s felt like playing on two different teams, offense and defence, every move I make being blocked or intercepted, by me.

A week ago, I decided I’d had enough. If only it was that simple; to just stop, but I knew, at least, I was ready to work on it properly. I was making so many gains in so many areas, but I was pulling it all apart just as fast as I could build it.

I made a bold move to get a national brand’s attention. Then I shrunk back, not asking for compensation or hustling to take the opportunity further.

I decided to offer social media coaching again (like the business I burnt down), wrote the conversion page, promoted it once then never spoke of it again.

I was paid to have one of my essays published on a lifestyle platform, then I all but stopped writing completely.

Sabotage, everywhere I looked for it. And it had to stop.

Ironically, the first step to overcoming my self-sabotage is showing up. Consistency is my biggest issue, the most obvious side effect. I start and then I stop, and I’ve come to believe I’m not capable of doing anything else - my self-sabotage has written a new rule for me: I’m a flake.

So, I’ve started journaling about it. And it’s high stakes. The very act of checking in with myself every day is designed to show me that I am capable of seeing something through.

I ask myself how I’ve sabotaged my progress. I sit and look for evidence - not to beat myself up about it, just to notice it. Today, I found myself reaching for my phone, or opening a new tab to do something else when I was in the middle of writing this. Often when I was right in the middle of a thought process, or even in flow state. When I was flying, I’d shoot myself out of the sky.

Then I look for evidence that I’m doing things differently. It’s there, and it always was, but the evidence is more obvious now that I’m making a concerted effort to spot it. I can see it when I fire off an email without overthinking it, when I send off a pitch that actually has a chance of landing. Every time I do what I say I’m going to do, like finishing this post.

I plan a bold move for the next day. And sometimes a bold move is just taking small, boring steps towards a bigger life. The bold move might just be showing up. It feels like energy in the right direction, like momentum. Here, I don’t listen to the negative self-talk that might stop me in my tracks; instead, I ask myself, ‘what would the bolder, braver, more confident version of me do?’. And the next day? I get up and do it, no questions asked, no doubt allowed to fester.

I know I can’t fix something overnight that’s been plaguing me for years, but I can see the impact the work I’m doing is making. Each day I feel a tiny little bit more sure of myself, and I start to trust myself a little bit more.

That’ll I’ll keep my promises to myself, that I won’t burn it all down again.

That I’ll keep walking, no matter what.

The life I’d been clinging onto, building for years; everything I’d come to accept as mine, for better or worse, was over.

When I think about that memory, that moment in time - it’s like the room is spinning. Everything is blurry and I can’t tell the floor from the ceiling. It felt like the world was falling apart, and for all intents and purposes, mine was. It didn’t stop moving like that for weeks. Maybe months and all I wanted was to know stillness again. To feel the ground, solid beneath my feet. To hold a steady gaze on the horizon and feel like, just for a second, that everything was going to be ok.

In the ruins, I found rituals. Tiny habits that might have just been enough to signify the passing of another day, that punctuated the hours, pulled me forward or maybe just gave me something to do with my hands.

And six years later, I still hold onto those habits.

Always make your bed.

In the early months, I barely left the mess of sheets and pillows and tissues I called my bed - in truth it was purgatory; stuck there between sleeplessness and exhaustion, twisting between the crushing silence of night and the cruel light of day.

But one day my mother urged me gently to try something. “You could make your bed,” she said. She knew I was struggling to complete the most basic of tasks, that I was absolutely adrift. She knew, that if nothing else, if I could just make my bed, I could feel like I’d achieved something for the day.

Now I never go a day without it.

Present yourself for the day.

Years ago, I lived next door to a single elderly lady. Her home was immaculate but so was she - no matter what time of the day or night I saw her, her hair would be brushed, her polo buttoned and tucked and her slacks pressed. It didn’t matter if she was leaving the house, or if she was accepting visitors.

I suspect it wasn’t about that at all. She presented herself for the day. Ready for anything. A small act of care and respect that set the tone for how she’d carry herself, how she’d feel about herself. I never forgot her and I still do the same.

Take five minutes.

Finding yourself suddenly alone, or being faced with an overwhelming new reality can make the simple stuff feel near impossible to manage. With the weight of the world on your shoulders; folding the laundry, mopping the floors or dealing with a sink full of dishes is a bridge too far.

There are always going to be times when we can’t ask too much of ourselves, but five minutes usually represents a chewable chunk.

I pick the part of the house that’s bothering me the most and set my phone timer for five minutes. Because five minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of things - but it’s in the dropping of expectations, the lowering of the barrier, in telling yourself; you don’t have to finish it, just do a couple minutes, it’s there that the magic lies.

I use the five minute rule for any and every task that feels too much in the moment and it’s never failed to get the job done.

Watch your money.

A life quake can often go hand in hand with financial turmoil, and as tempting as it is to make the pain go away with a little retail therapy; playing fast and loose with your finances could mean you’re just prolonging the aftershocks.

I started making a date with myself once a week, using a beginner budget spreadsheet to reconcile my expenses and set my budget every month. That was my saving grace; the thing that pulled me out of my tailspin and put me on the path to financial security and independence. It gave me back control and I never want to let go again.

Move your body.

I began to move my body first in anger. I had so much rage within me and nowhere to put it - so I joined a boxing gym, sporadically attending on my worst days just to expel the toxic energy in me. It wasn’t enough. I considered medication, something I had thought would be necessary by that point - I hadn’t just sprung a leak, I was sinking.

I joined another gym and got a program - nothing fancy, in fact, it was a basic beginner plan. Easy enough to get through multiple times a week, with the option to make it harder as I went, challenging me just enough to fuel me with accomplishment and get me hooked.

That was six years ago, and I’ve been to the gym 3-4 times every week since. I credit that regular commitment to movement with getting me through, and keeping me steady to this day.

While I was having my year of celibacy in 2025, I accidentally rebuked all maleness from my life. It felt easier just to shut them all out, a very lazy broad stroke approach which probably came from a place of past trauma, disappointments and maybe, just maybe, I didn’t trust myself either.

It wasn’t until the year was up that I recognised the distinct, man-shaped hole in my existence; not for pleasure or romance, but simply, the masculine energy they contribute to proceedings, a low, comforting rumble, a solid and steadying force.

And since I’ve realised that it is in fact possible to have men in your life without dating them (friends, colleagues!) it feels like things have become richer and fuller and more layered. Doors are opening to me and I’m seeing a different side of things and it all feels very healthy and helpful. We’re not meant to live without each other, I don’t think. Connecting on this equal footing; this clean and simple, respectful plain is soothing my soul.

I didn’t have to do what I thought I had to do. Good to know.

2. I’ve been actively seeking out things that make me nervous

And I’ve figured out how to know when you need to do it anyway - when an opportunity comes across your desk, you spot a post on Instagram for an event or someone invites you somewhere and there’s a tiny little moment of excitement, a little spark of joy that tickles you before your anxiety rushes in, that’s it. That’s your true feeling, that’s something deep at the heart of you trying to be heard. And the anxiety, the doubts, the fear, that’s all just muck you’ve picked up along the way.

The real growth and joy and momentum is in that split second. It’s holding on to that whisper and turning up the volume before fear drowns it out.

3. I finally increased my income and I was ok with it

If you’re anything like me and you’ve struggled with your self-worth, struggled to ask for more or advocate for yourself, you’ll know exactly how hard it is to accept more money. I don’t know if you’ve realised yet, but if you look back you might even find instances of self-sabotage; of actively pushing money away because some little part of you thinks you don’t deserve it. That’s been me my whole damn life. I’ve always just taken what I’ve been offered and kept quiet about it, I’ve avoided opportunities that might get me paid in order to stay small, where it’s safe and I’m not bothering anybody.

But, a breakthrough has been made. Over many months of work, releasing my negative money beliefs, accepting my value and just bloody getting out of my own way, I had a sudden surge in opportunities and I actually accepted them. I had the kind of month I used to dream about and I’m letting it happen again this month too. In fact, I’m opening more channels and confidently going after even more. There has been a shift and I don’t think I’ll ever go back.

4. I felt financially safe enough to take my family out for dinner on a random weekday

SUCH A WIN. And it wasn’t just about how much money I had, it’s the growth I’ve had when it comes to money management and money mindset.

5. I’ve been talking to strangers IRL

It’s far too easy to not talk to anyone in day to day life - I swear I could go a week without interacting with another human if I really wanted to and it ain’t right.

If you’re out of practice (me), then yeah, it’s hard to start the ball rolling, to pluck up the courage to give someone more than a curt smile or a nod before you scurry away or stick your nose back in your phone. But when you do - when you’re brave and open and ask someone about their dog or compliment their handbag or ask them where they’re from, it feels like opening a new book, fresh off the shelf. A whole new world you could peek into for just a moment, or a bit longer - who knows?

It doesn’t have to mean anything or lead anywhere, it’s simply an opportunity to connect with another being, to hear a funny story or learn something new and it’s everywhere. Literally all around us, all the time. Since I’ve started trying to look for chances to have a yap, it feels like I could never be bored again. Like I could never feel alone again.

6. I started going to a dance class

And unlocked a whole new way to get out of my head and into my body, to try something new without feeling embarrassed (we’re all in the same boat!).

7. I went to a festival by myself

And I felt like I could run a marathon off the sense of accomplishment that washed over me on my way out. I went to an event with hundreds of other people, all there with their friends and partners and I was by myself and it was the most liberating thing in the world. I didn’t need anyone to hold my hand and any fear of embarrassment I might have had was unfounded - no one looked twice at me, or if they did, I was vibing too hard to notice.

Why shouldn’t we go and do the things we want to do? I’ve honestly spent many a night sitting at home, not going to a thing I was really excited for because someone wasn’t available, or their babysitter fell through or no one else was interested. And now as I’m saying it I realise just how silly that is. We have one life to live and it shouldn’t hinge on someone else’s schedule.

In every moment I choose to stand on my own two feet out in the world, the more comfortable I get in my own company and the more self-assured I become - I’m learning how valuable that is.

No rushing in, no attaching too soon, no feeling like we’re not whole without another person to complete us. If you can stand on our own, that’s the power position baby.

I’m three days out from completing a 12 month stint of boy sobriety and I anticipated the day would pass without fanfare. Instead, I’ve planned a party to celebrate my achievement, and in the meantime, I’ve become awfully heavy in my feels.

It appears that the stuff I’ve pushed down for the past year hasn’t conveniently dissipated; it was all just laying there waiting for me to come back.

My last relationship ended for good on December 5th, 2024. It was on-again, off-again, and during one of the longer ‘off’ breaks, I told myself I was going to take six months out of the game.

That particular ‘off’ had been heartbreaking and confusing and messy and I felt like I wanted to prove something. To myself? You’d think, but no, I wanted to prove something to him. It felt like the ‘honourable’ thing to do.

A lot of our relationship had involved me trying to prove myself to him; that I was loyal, that I didn’t care about money, that I wasn’t like those other girls. Proclaiming that I’d stay single for six months post-break up felt like the ultimate in performative duty to a lost love; to swear off all men in his honour. If it sounds like I was playing along with some weird fantasy novel coded relationship rules, you wouldn’t be far off.

I wanted to show him just how good and deserving I was, how virtuous I could be.

Of course I wouldn’t be able to stay the course. Nothing is ever going to stick if you’re putting it on for someone else. I went back on the apps and started to talking to other guys to try and fill the void I felt. I went on a few dates, but nothing serious came from it, and eventually, after eight months, we found ourselves back together again.

I felt ashamed. He told me he hadn’t dated; and I had. I felt embarrassed that I’d seemed to need other men’s attention to survive. I felt like it hung over me, like an infidelity must; a black mark against my record.

Try as I might to make it up, the relationship was ultimately doomed. It lasted another year before finally falling apart.

When it ended for good, I knew I needed to be on my own.

This time, it wasn’t about performing or proving something - I just knew I needed space. To understand myself, to let go of the need to be validated or feel chosen. To attempt to decentre men from my life for the first time since my very first crush. To learn to be alone and to heal my wounds without hurting anyone in the process.

I knew instantly that I’d have to say it out loud to hold myself accountable. I didn’t trust myself to hold firm after my past wobbles, and I figured the internet would keep me honest.

The comments swung from extremes;

“One week? You won’t last a month!”

“I did this. It’s been six years now.”

“The best thing I ever did girlie, you got this!”

“Big woop, you’ve been single for a week?”

But honestly, making the commitment to be single and celibate for a year was a big woop. I’d been in serious relationships from the age of 18, and it was all I’d ever known. The prospect of being completely alone actually scared me.

The first few months were hard, I’ll be honest. It felt like I’d gone cold turkey on a drug; and my body and mind battled as the substance wore off. But then things got easier, and they stayed easy. No dating, no flirting, no men. I closed that door completely and life became simple, quiet and calm.

Now I’m four days away from my one-year anniversary of being single and celibate and suddenly, I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff.

Look, I’m proud of myself. I stuck to my word. I grew. I finally managed to remove men from being the hinge that I balanced my existence on, and I’ve learned what actually makes me happy and who I am on my own.

But what’s surprised me is how emotional I feel about opening myself up to dating again.

I’ve avoided the thought of finding love again all year. But now that this year is ending, I’m suddenly aware that I want love again. And that weakness, the vulnerability of opening yourself up and admitting that to yourself, especially after my track record, feels like opening myself up to heartbreak again.

It’s wild to realise that after a full year of being strong and independent and content on my own, I still want love. I mean, I could have easily found myself stuck in no man land (see what I did there), blindly hating anything with a pair of testes, but still, I actively chose to maintain my belief in good men and good love. And I gave myself some serious time to think about it too.

It’s like putting something you really want back on the shelf and telling yourself to wait a week to avoid an impulse buy. I delayed every hormone, every rush, every ounce of romantic reward for a year - and I still got to the other side wanting it.

People told me the year would turn into two, then three, then eight. And part of me thought they might be right, because I am okay alone. Truly. But I’m also a romantic. I want to love someone deeply, and I want to be loved back. Not out of desperation, not out of lack - just because it’s one of the most beautiful parts of the human experience, if you’re lucky enough to get to do it right.

I don’t feel willing to settle. I’m not willing to compromise my life or my standards. I don’t need love. But now, that the door is open again, I would like it. And admitting that to myself has felt like a shock.

I thought the year would make me neutral or indifferent. Instead, it softened me. It made me hopeful. It reminded me that I still have so much love to give, and I want to give it to the right person. I don’t know when that will happen, or if it will, but I’m willing to try again.

And that willingness…that open heart…is the scariest part. Trying again is way harder than giving up; an outcome I think I had accepted may be the case at the end of my year off.

Swearing off men for good, expecting the worst, tarring them all with the same brush and hiding at home with my cat; that was the easy way out. And against all odds, here I am again, on the threshold back out into the big wide world, preparing to step into the unknown.

Wish me luck I guess?

I didn’t even recognise her name or know why she was in my feed, but I’d come to think about her a lot in the next seven days. I’d look her up, I’d swipe back and forth through the carousel, and her handle would become burned into my memory.

It was a big moment for me, and she was the catalyst. Her post triggered a conversation with myself that made me question everything. And I’ve been unpacking it ever since.

So here’s the deal. This chick is a travel influencer with literally a million followers, and her post was innocuous enough; just a series of snaps of her new house. But through my eyes, it was surreal. It was my dream. It was the physical embodiment of something I didn’t know was real. The vision I have held closely of a future home, inhabited by a future me - with someone else framed perfectly in the shot.

It’s like day dreaming about your perfect man and then seeing him walk past you, holding hands with his partner. It’s jarring just to know it exists and that, in fact, someone else has got it, and is enjoying it right at this moment.

Of course, there was the rush of envy. To be honest, I felt a lot of things. It was everything I could want and she had it. And as this sticky, muck of emotion churned inside me, I noticed the whispers start.

“Yeah, it’s there, but you can’t have it.”

“She’s got a partner, that’s why she can afford to live there, you don’t have that.”

“She doesn’t have kids so she can move wherever she likes. You can’t live there.”

“She’s got a million followers, she’s famous, she’s the kind of person that would get to live in a place like that, not you.”

I could think of so many reasons why she had it, and why I did not, without really thinking much at all.

It took me a few days to go back there and try to do better. Because I’ve been working so hard this year on empowering my inner coach and muzzling my inner bully, I started to fight back.

“What a cool thing to see that your dream actually exists! It’s not just a fantasy, it’s real life! That means you could have it too!”

“She may have a million followers, but once upon a time, she would have had 45,000 followers like you. You can get there!”

“She’s made her own money to get into that house, using social media. Being an influencer. You’re basically an influencer…so what’s stopping you from doing the same?”

I could see why I didn’t have this conversation with myself first. It was far more confronting than dismissing the dream and burying my feelings with negativity, to look at it with positivity and hope, I was dismantling my limiting beliefs in real time, and settling on a very different truth. One that was hard to look at in the light.

I could have what she has. Or I guess I could have before, if I stayed on her path - you know, before I publicly retired from influencing.

I had bemoaned the constant churn of conversations, negotiations and expectations, I said I felt like I wasn’t in control of my life anymore; that my home was being overrun with things I didn’t necessarily want or need, and my values had been shunted aside to push my community to buy more stuff.

It felt like I’d caught the wrong train, and I was hurtling towards a life I didn’t really want. I didn’t want to own who I had become. This is a career path for beautiful 22 year olds who can’t read good, isn’t it? I was a 38 year old, with a career in marketing, kids to provide for and dignity to uphold. It was beneath me to be making money on the internet, wasn’t it? I wasn’t going to be a sell out, nobody could ever accuse me of it, or look down on me for making a living doing what I love. I could be a writer, a marketing consultant, even a content creator, but an influencer? Oh, not me. I’m not like that.

I remember telling my mum I was going to give it up back then. In the months beforehand, things had reached fever pitch, with PR packages arriving a few times a week, and opportunities hitting my inbox faster than I could keep up with them. Every time I saw my mum I’d get to tell her about a new partnership, almost matching my ‘day job’ income with paid content work. It was all very exciting and I was proud of what I was achieving, but it also felt kind of like a whirlwind - a very unsustainable and surely short-lived whirlwind. Not dependable or steady; just a flash in the pan. Silly. And when I told her I wanted to give it all up, she seemed so proud of me; for choosing the harder, legitimate, sustainable route to financial success.

I felt like I was taking the high road.

What have I been doing since? Making content as always. Spending hours and hours writing and making videos and taking photos and writing captions and sharing stories, but now, it’s for free.

I slunk back to my paycheck to paycheck lifestyle, turned down all the gifted stuff, and felt relieved for it. This is where I’m supposed to be. Creating for the love of it, only getting new things when I could afford to buy them myself, earning only from my ‘real’ job. Back to struggling to pay my power bill, and being a ‘breath of fresh air’ in the endless stream of influencers.

The thing is, I realised pretty quickly that I’d hurt myself, but I only just realised why.

I stand by the reasons I stepped off the train. There was a misalignment. I was saying yes to things I shouldn’t have, I was spineless and people-pleasing, I was in too deep. I didn’t know how else to operate in the space in a way that felt better for me, so I just turned my back on it.

But there was something else.

I didn’t like being a success. It was in complete opposition to the identity I knew.

I thought people were judging me - after all, people with money are the enemy and if I became one of them…what would that say about me?

I had new, nice things and cash flowing in. I was turning into the kind of person that had always triggered me, that I’d hated to see, because deep down, they had what I wanted. I just couldn’t admit that bit. And it was so uncomfortable for me to become the person I’d hated for so long, that I scampered back to my old life at the first available opportunity.

Of course it feels uncomfortable when you’ve been demonizing those who have success to make yourself feel better. When failure has become the moral high ground. I mean, how are you supposed to reconcile a win when you take so much pride in being a loser?

Eight months later, I can see what was really driving me.

I did the thing and said the stuff, and people praised me and wrote about me and it gave me all the validation I needed to tell me I was doing the right thing. Screw influencers, right? Sell-outs, everyone one of ‘em. Not me, though, not high and mighty me.

Let’s be honest, that’s why so many people resonated with it. We don’t like seeing other people have more than us. An influencers life is a dream to most of us, and when we see them getting everything they could want, making loads of money doing what they love, it goes against everything we’ve been taught.

You’re supposed to get a real job, work 9-5 and do what someone else tells you. Meanwhile, being an influencer is a joke. A joke that 99.9% of us would stop laughing at real quick if a million followers dropped in our lap. It’s triggering to see an influencer winning at life when we’re playing by the old rules. We call it cringe to make ourselves feel better.

And it’s been such an interesting thing to turn my back on it and say no to all of it, and then have to sit with the consequences of my actions, namely, turning down opportunities, and not being offered the opportunities to start with.

Being forced to then sit back and watch other people doing partnerships, particularly with brands that align with my values, that I use and love, having opportunities that I’d frankly love to be offered, knowing they’re likely stacking thousands of dollars of income with each post, knowing that they probably sleep very well at night thankyouverymuch, and knowing that the reason that I’m working for free and watching them cash checks is because I did this to myself.

In the last few months, I’ve tried to approach paid partnerships from a different angle, trying to build relationships instead of one off ads, being proactive, taking control of the situation. Doing what I could (or should) have done eight months ago when I threw the baby out with the bathwater.

I’m learning what it looks like to advocate for myself in these conversations, and putting things into place I felt were missing for me before. And I still feel hopeful that I can find a way to earn from the work I do here without letting go of what’s important to me.

And while I can see now why I did what I did, it’s incredibly hard to recognise that I’ve done this so many times in my life - as soon as I start to make some traction towards the things I actually want - I’ll shut it down. I have been so determinedly keeping myself stuck. Inching closer to the dream felt so uncomfortable, that I decided, subconsciously, to stay put.

Success shakes your identity. Especially if you’ve believed you were a failure your whole life, that you were undeserving, and settled into the safety of underdog status. If you don’t believe you deserve all the good that’s coming to you, you will find a way to get rid of it just to prove yourself right.

Saying no to the opportunity of being an influencer was my way of staying stuck. And I can see that influencer with my dream life, and I can recognize that where she walked forward to meet the bigger, more expansive version of herself, I have shied away.

It’s crazy that I’ve gotten as far as I have when I don’t think I deserve this.

But I do. All of us slogging away on these apps do. I deserve to make an income from all the work I pour into all this.

It used to feel like some badge of honour to do the work without reward. I was trying to be respectable, acceptable. Inoffensive. Not cringe. Trying to be cool.

F*&k that. There’s no way I’d look back in 20 years time and say well thank goodness I didn’t get paid. I’m so pleased I stayed broke so I could stay on my high horse. I’m so pleased I didn’t take all those opportunities that were available to me because they were just gonna dry up eventually. It doesn’t make any sense anymore.

This is all part of growing and evolving out for everyone to see. I can look back at myself six months ago and want to scream. But if there’s one thing you’ll be familiar with if you’ve followed me for a while - my ability to self-sabotage without breaking a sweat.

The truth is, I don’t want to be stuck anymore. I want to step into that bigger, bolder version of myself, but it feels like I’ve been walking to her with lead legs. The amount of discomfort, the amount of two-steps-forward-three-steps-back dances I have to do with myself to make some head way, it’s exhausting. It’s so much harder than I expected it to be, simply because I thought wanting it was enough. I hadn’t considered the weight of my own self-doubt, or the weight of watching eyes; how I’d try to serve others and their expectations of me before I’d serve myself.

I want more. And that’s going to mean recognizing my worth, my work, my platform, my community, and everything I’ve built. Honouring what I’m building without getting caught up in putting a name on it. I should be able to earn from my work. I am the person who can have that dream house, and live that dream life. I can do it my way; I don’t have to ‘sell-out’ to achieve it.

I’ve been holding myself back, and now that I’ve recognised that, I can’t unsee it.

I’m finally ready to own my dream, and let myself have it.

I have the kind of life we’ve done such a beautiful job of romanticising; freedom of time, quietly fulfilling my every whim and desire, cuddling with my cat and eating girl dinners.

There’s no one messing with my sacred equilibrium; I have nobody else’s feelings to consider and I am free to do what I like, when I like.

And in that, I have plenty of sympathy for women in mediocre relationships right now. If you’re happily partnered, none of this chatter will bother you. But if even a small part of you wonders whether you’d be better off alone, this wave of anti-relationship propaganda might be enough to tip you into singledom.

And honestly? There’s nothing bad about that. Being single isn’t shameful anymore. It’s not some great tragedy. Being in a relationship simply doesn’t offer the same social currency it used to.

Being independent and self-sufficient on the other hand? Oh, the girlies covet that kind of freedom. And truthfully, when I was in my last relationship, I yearned for this.

Back then, I was shrinking myself down to fit within the confines of the relationship. I was with someone who, at first, accepted me - more than anyone had before - but over time became more and more critical of who I was.

I started censoring and contorting myself. And the more restricted I felt, the more embarrassed I felt that I’d let myself end up in that place. Even more embarrassed about who I was doing it for. To make oneself smaller, for the approval of a man? Changing yourself to be chosen? That’s embarrassing.

Being single used to mean something was wrong with you.

But it’s shifting, aggressively. It’s more accepted than ever to be single by choice, to live fully, freely, and independently. But it didn’t feel like an option ten years ago.

I spent my 20s walking the well-worn path, believing a relationship made me someone. I didn’t think I could stand alone, so I adjusted myself to suit and I settled.

Again and again. I felt the sting of embarrassment just taking ownership of the men I settled for. Only to be disrespected to get a laugh over dinner. To watch them get sloppy drunk at a kid’s birthday party. Having them say something offensive in front of my family, openly betray me or ask if they can wear shorts to a formal wedding because they don’t like pants.

If an ill-mannered son is a reflection on his mother; an embarrassing man is a reflection on the woman that keeps him.

Now, at 38, I’ve learnt to be alone. I sustain myself financially. I feel legitimate on my own. I no longer crave being chosen, because I’ve chosen myself. And it’s a relief. It feels like coming home, honestly.

So yes, one might ask - why date again? Why bother?

Because I’m an optimist? Maybe because I believe there are men out there who’ve reached the same point - that don’t need a relationship, but would like to share life with someone. Men (or just one man will do) that carry themselves correctly and act like a grown man should.

I don’t want a boyfriend for the sake of it. I refuse to settle for being periodically embarrassed; humiliating myself to be loved. I want a connection that expands me, not one that makes me hate myself.

And it’s curiosity more than anything. I just want to know what it feels like to have someone I’m proud of, someone I feel secure in.

Real love, the kind that makes life feel bigger, like you could do anything. I’m curious about what parts of me that would unlock, what I might be capable of with a man who lifts me up instead of holding my head under water.

If real love ever finds me, I hope it looks like something that celebrates us both. A love that doesn’t require anyone to shrink themselves. A love that looks across a crowded room with pride.

And if having that standard means that I stay single - then so be it.

Because I refuse to embarrass myself for a man ever again.

And when I asked myself that, the driving motivation behind this particular communication wasn’t about performing. It was about being honest. I wanted to have a place to reach other women on a similar path in life to me, in a conversational, relaxed, and raw way. Not edited into an Instagram reel or squeezed into a think piece on a movie I’ve watched. I’m aggressively trying to change my life this year and massive shifts and realisations are happening daily; there’s so much to share and I didn’t have a free-flowing way to do that, so here we are.

And the reality is, I’m not happy all the time. I’m facing down some of my biggest fears, my longest-held beliefs, rewiring patterns of behaviour, letting go of the past; it’s a lot, and it’s hard. Sometimes it’s incredible, and sometimes, it’s just really hard.

Sometimes I’m anxious, or grumpy - I’m just as likely to be overwhelmed as I am ecstatic. And that used to bother me a lot. The ups and downs felt like a failure in the pursuit of eternal happiness. And then I came across the works of the great stoics, who imprinted upon me this philosophy (I’m paraphrasing); things can’t be bad all the time. And they can’t be good all the time either. Bad times get better, and good times go downhill. Such is the nature of life. And the sooner we accept the rise and fall, the sooner we find peace.

I do enjoy a great deal more peace now that I aim to care for, rather than control my emotions, but when you’re showing up for other people like I do, trying to be comforting and safe and inspirational and entertaining, it’s harder to accept how I’m feeling.

And that in itself is a lesson. In trying to be relatable, I’m not allowing myself to be human? Doesn’t quite make sense, right?

There is comfort in seeing another dealing with the same grief you feel. There is safety in knowing you’re not alone. It can be inspirational to see someone share their pain. And you know what? Reading a juicy tale of personal growth against the odds can actually be really bloody entertaining.

So, today I’m showing up, as I am. That’s the plan here - reporting live from wherever my head is at. Because that’s truth, and honesty is the whole point of this. Here goes.

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This guy hated me.

It was a shocking realization, because he was supposed to be the love of my life - the one who was meant to cherish me, respect me, adore me.

We’d never really been friends - it was all chemistry and no compatibility. And once the love was lost, it wasn’t just that there was nothing else left - I was catapulted into an entirely different category. I was the enemy. Because truly, who can hate you harder than someone who used to love you?

Don’t worry, I’ve had relationships built on a friendship base too - but they’ve devolved into annoyance, frustration and resentment until they’ve reached breaking point too.

From my experience? No one is really safe from falling out of love with their partner and falling into hate.

I finally watched The Roses last weekend. I’d been meaning to, because, spoiler alert, it’s about a divorce. I love it when a rom-com gets turned on its head - we get to see the real mess of the outro - and I like that honesty.

Honestly, nothing can prepare you for how vile a relationship can become in the break down. Where you thought there was a mutual respect; common decency, a bit of decorum - forget it. All’s fair in love and war.

Watching it, I was struck by how long the relationship seemed solid before the cracks showed. Olivia Colman (Ivy) and Benedict Cumberbatch’s (Theo) characters really did appear to love each other. They respected one another, co-parented well. By all accounts, they seemed like great friends and loving partners.

I knew what was coming - because duh, but I still couldn’t believe how it played out. When things started to turn, it was a surprise. They say it’s always the ones you don’t expect. I’ve looked at couples breaking up and thought, I never saw that coming. They seemed so good together. Of course, there are also the couples you think, thank God, it’s about time.

It goes to show that no relationship is truly safe from falling into hate. I think any relationship has the capacity to go sour if it isn’t cared for.

But what struck me about The Roses was how it almost normalized hating your partner. Everyone in the film seemed to despise their spouse, which was jarring - there was no capacity for hope, just the message that long-term relationships inevitably annoy the crap out of you.

Like, hey, I was still holding out hope that you can be in a healthy long-term relationship and not come to hate your partner.

Maybe I’m biased. My parents aren’t perfect, but just yesterday my mum’s flight home from Auckland was delayed. It was late, and my dad said, “I hope I don’t have to drive up to Auckland to get her (a seven hour round trip), but I would for her.”

Because he’s a salt-of-the-earth, good man - but also because he really loves my mum. And maybe that has shaped my idea of what love should look like after forty years together.

In the film, things start to go south subtly; pointed comments and sarcastic quips, ramping up the tension only to smooth it over with a joke and a cuddle. Until a cuddle just won’t do anymore. It all turns nasty, very fast. And if you’ve been through a divorce, you know how quickly things can shift - the switch from love to hate is a jump scare.

How can you go from respecting, loving, and adoring someone to despising them? Yeah, it’s easier than you’d think.

I’ve been there. I’ve fallen out of love with someone and into a place of deep dislike. Maybe not hate, but close. It’s terrifying to suddenly snap out of the reliance, the bond, and realize, I don’t actually like who this person is.

People change, yes. But often the very things you loved about someone can become the things you despise.

I admire couples who can come out of a divorce still kind, still cooperative, still loving in a way. That’s the goal: to part ways without hate.

But for those that stay, is it normal to hate your partner a little? To find their presence grating, to want space just because you’ve been together so much? Or is that a red flag?

I remember telling someone (eight years into a relationship), after two years with my partner, that I sometimes dreaded when they came home. I asked, That’s normal, right? You must feel that way sometimes?

“Uhhhh….no? I still get excited when I hear him come down the driveway.”

That was a turning point for me. A realization that maybe I’d chosen wrong.

But to be fair, I haven’t always chosen wrong. I do have exes I feel neutral or even fondly toward. But others… the love soured into something closer to contempt.

Now, ten months single, I’m starting to think about what I want in my next relationship.

Watching this movie reminded me not just of heartbreak, but of the way love can twist into hate, the way devotion can turn into betrayal.

It scares me, honestly. I don’t want to be trapped in a relationship where resentment builds, where I’m annoyed by the sound of someone’s breath, where frustration becomes the dominant feeling. I don’t want to be in a relationship for the sake of it.

Is it normal to hate your partner a little bit? Or have I just not found the right person yet?

It’s embarrassing to admit. Let’s be honest, talking about money has been taboo for centuries, and most people still avoid it. It’s bigger than numbers; it’s pride, it’s shame. The moment you open up about your finances, it feels like you’ve put a label on yourself.

Money places you on a hierarchy - whether you’re a have or a have not. Whether you’re worth something. It’s something measurable that goes beyond good looks, intelligence or work ethic. It’s cold and it’s hard and it says so much more about you than you think.

I’ve had a weird relationship with money my whole life. Growing up, money was murky, confusing, stressful and… slippery. I learned real quick that money was a don’t ask, don’t tell subject, that it was hard to come by and even harder to hold onto. At school, I remember the exact lesson they tried to teach us about budgeting. I was 13 years old and I’d always struggled with maths, but this seemed laughable. As if you could control your money like that!

The narrative started there; telling myself I was bad with money, bad with numbers and I would always just get what I was given. That story became my identity.

I got my first job at 15, and my money mindset was locked in. I worked at a supermarket on a training wage, with the promise that after a few months I’d move up to minimum wage. The raise never came, and I never asked. I just kept working underpaid, assuming I had no control. That mindset followed me into every job after - I never negotiated, never questioned - I just accepted whatever was offered and felt grateful that someone wanted to pay me at all. I believed that money was out of our control. Someone else was always calling the shots.

I sidestepped through a few jobs, choosing what made me happy and accepting minimum wage with a smile. And when I did get paid, I managed it like I was playing with pretend money. No savings accounts, no systems. Everything came into one account and went straight back out again. I was living paycheck to paycheck, always scraping by.

I moved to London and I lived in my overdraft. I’d overspend, then survive on baked beans and noodles for a week. I distinctly recall taking out my first credit card to take a solo trip to Tenerife after a break up, and I spent the whole trip panicking with every transaction, waiting for the card to decline. I was living on the edge.

I floated through my 20s in financial survival mode, never even considering my future, fully entrenched in the belief that I didn’t earn enough to be the kind of person who had savings.

The thing was, if I earned more, I’d spend more. If I earned less, I’d scrape by. Either way, I’d end up with nothing left. And I was doing it to myself.

I had friends who had savings. And I was full of shame. I dated men who had money. And I felt powerless.

It wasn’t until I became a single mum that the full weight of my financial illiteracy hit me. Suddenly, I was the one responsible for a household, and I had no systems, no savings, no real understanding of money. I repeated the same patterns: one bank account, no plan, holding money tightly out of fear and then blowing it to feel better. I told myself, I just don’t earn enough. But the truth was, I didn’t know how to manage what I had.

Looking back, I can see how often I stayed in a victim mindset. I told myself the story of being helpless, being a down-on-her-luck single mum, convincing myself that I couldn’t save, couldn’t invest, couldn’t change. And while yes, there were times when things truly were touch and go, often I was simply avoiding the shame of facing how careless I’d been.

That’s the hardest part to admit: I’d let myself down. I’d let people underpay me. I’d been negligent. I’d let partners control the finances. I’d let myself live in denial and bury my head in the sand. It hurts to own that.

But shining a light on that shame feels like the only way forward.

I know now why my relationship with money has always been so strained. My bank balance was saying something about me alright - I couldn’t trust myself with money. Being broke was my comfort zone. I wasn’t making my life harder on purpose, I was just doing what felt most comfortable.

It was never actually about how much money I had (although, damn, I really should have learnt to advocate for myself), it was the way I felt about it. And money has always felt out of my control.

And now, I gotta forgive the past. I’ve got to let go of the fact that I’ve been asleep at the wheel most of my life; acting out of habit, living by my limiting beliefs. And I’ve gotta learn what they were trying to teach me decades ago: how to budget, how to save, how to grow money. Not because I need a Scrooge McDuck coin pool to feel successful, but because I want control. Because I want to feel safe, reliable, and capable - for myself, for my family and for my kids.

So this is where I start. Learning to budget like a thirteen year old. No shame. Learning to manage what I have. Without fear. Learning how to be good with money, even though it feels like I’m fighting against myself to do it.

It’s taken me 38 years to get here, but this is where the change begins.

Born and raised in a tiny town in the central North Island, I grew up in a valley thinking the world was only as big and as far as I could see.

I fell in love with the written word at an early age, and my competitive instinct made me push further and faster beyond the bounds of what I should have been consuming. I started to read magazines, newspapers and non-fiction, only to expose myself too soon to what was going on behind the hills that sheltered me.

I’d dreamed of being on television, of performing, becoming a model, and it was all snuffed out when crippling anxiety moved in. At seven years old, I developed an auto-immune condition that affected my skin; made me different and forced me to hide.

My life became driven by fear, and now, with my new skin condition, a fear of being seen was top of the list. My entire life was dictated by my illness; changing my hopes and dreams for the future, and shaping every decision I made.

By the time I was a young adult, I had learned how to hide myself; how to keep people at arm’s length, how to let things slide, how to lower my expectations and how to live in a state of constant fear and conflict; afraid I wasn’t ever going to be able to live a fulfilling life, and afraid of being found out as the monster I perceived myself to be.

Into adulthood, I settled in every area. I felt lucky to get the bare minimum, believing it was all I deserved.

Until one day in my early thirties, when I received the ultimate rejection - the thing I’d been so afraid of for so long. I was being set adrift into a new life as a single mother, and at first, the fear was overwhelming. I felt doomed. All my fears and ugly thoughts came to the surface and I took them as gospel.

I spent years afterwards feeling lost, hopeless and out of control. Until December last year, when I turned 38.

As I stared down the rest of my life, I realised it was an opportunity.

A second chance, to live the life I had always wanted; to let go of the past mistakes and hurt and fear and leap into the unknown with a new curiosity and compassion for myself.

I was getting a do-over. And as scary as it might feel, I was finally ready to live the bolder, bigger life I had always deserved.

I finally knew it was time. I was another year older and nothing had changed. If I wasn’t going to do something now, when would I?

So far this year I’veI’m ready to face down the fear th been making massive efforts to dismantle the fears that have held me back in life, and now, I want to take you with me.

This is The Leap Year. Where I let go of shame, fear, judgement and anxiety and go after what sets my soul on fire. Where I face my truth and challenge myself for the sake of living a better life. For the sake of being the person I was always meant to be.

If you’re ready to break out of the confines you’ve shackled yourself in and make real change in your life, I will be documenting, measuring and sharing my process and progress, using myself as the guinea pig to inspire and improve your lives too.

Life is too short to live unfulfilled, to be unhappy, to settle - and it’s too important to let fear hold us back from our dreams. We have everything we’ve ever needed, the stage is set.

I’m ready to face the fear, and jump. You coming with me?

The year is 2021. I’d come off the back of what was the worst year of my life, I was starved of validation, love and attention and my self esteem had been obliterated - so I downloaded the dating apps.

It seemed like a good idea at the time; all the fun of flirting with strangers without having to change out of my trackies. My first 24 hours were straight chaos, like walking into a room of bears in a honey-soaked suit. Hundreds of blurred out men had liked me; it was seemingly everything I needed to feel better and I eagerly paid for the upgrade to see the bachelors hiding behind pixelated doors.

It felt like cheating the system - my whole life until this moment I’d had to participate in traditional dating; left to guess if someone was interested in me like a chump. Now, all the cards were on the table and all I had to do was choose.

I took to the process of elimination like I was at a poker table; scanning their faces for tells, looking for a bluff, or a double bluff, even. He looks kind, but then he’s said he’s not looking for anything serious? He’s handsome but maybe a bit too handsome? He doesn’t know how to dress but then he looks honest?

It felt like trying to function with a couple of your senses turned off. I couldn’t gauge chemistry, I couldn’t get a vibe, I couldn’t see the way they walked, how they talked, how they carried themselves, how they interacted with others or with me; all my usual data points were unavailable. You’re telling me I’ve gotta find a good guy with earplugs in and the lights turned down? All I get is a couple of unverified photos and some half-ass responses to canned questions?

I’m wincing just thinking about the task that lay before me at that moment, and damn, I’m still cringing at what I came up with.

I’d quickly culled everyone in my city and decided to widen the net. The app threw it out even further. I matched with Jared*, a single dad, living hours away from me. I’d pored over his minimal pictures. Was it a flattering angle, or? Are those rugged good looks, or? Why isn’t he looking at the camera? Are his answers good or are they just not bad?

We started chatting and quickly fell into the you-can-cry-on-my-shoulder-if-I-can-cry-on-yours chat you’d expect from two separated individuals and I immediately felt safe, and cared for.

Which is wild, obviously - I’d been so emotionally neglected that it felt special from the jump. I began to project my dreams into the blank spaces of him, filling in the gaps with a worldly intelligence, large, callused hands, a self-assured grin and an effortless sense of style. But the Jared I thought I ‘knew’ didn’t exist. A few weeks and a two hour drive later, he arrived, years older than his photos, a different shape than I was expecting; awkward, quiet and entirely unwilling to look me in the eye. I was mortified.

I knew he was from a different world, I knew he was outside my usual type - I was purposely trying to be open-minded. But the truth was, I would never, ever have spoken to him if we’d first met in person. And here he was, with access to me in a romantic capacity, because of a few old photos and his ability to hold a conversation over text. It should never have happened.

I cursed the apps that day. But I wasn’t done, yet.

I convinced myself it was just one bad match. I wasn’t in the best headspace, I’d chosen all wrong, I’d learnt my lessons and I’d do better next time. So the apps came back.

The pickings were so slim locally that I’d gone intercity again, and found myself talking to someone a few hours in a different direction. Bryan* called me and we chatted for hours; he was confident, bold and cultured. My life suddenly revolved around texts and calls with this stranger, who seemed to have all the time in the world and little concern about taking up mine. Still, we had so much in common it was crazy, we got each other’s jokes and plans were made to meet up. I was hesitant for obvious reasons; going back to his profile again and again to check the photos and assure myself that I was, in fact, attracted to him.

As I walked towards the bar we’d planned to meet at, my stomach swirled with nausea; preparing myself for the possibility of another big mistake, or, the start of a love story. Either way, it was pretty intense. He stood up, blushed and grinned nervously, and my anxiety stopped cold. I felt nothing. He was the kind of guy I’d probably join a pub quiz team with and friendzone indefinitely.

The thing was, I was so new to the single life, so new to the dating game and still so very wounded from the end of a long-term relationship, that I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t know that you could say no, even to someone that’s travelled to meet you. I didn’t know that it would be ok to tell someone you’d rather be friends when you’d been texting them already for weeks. I didn’t know how to walk away from those situations. So I drew them out, made a mess of them and caused hurt.

It was then that I vowed to never use the apps again, simply because I was no good at them. I obviously didn’t know how to choose or how to manage the process. I was only putting myself in situations I shouldn’t have been in, with men I shouldn’t have been with, and ultimately, hurting everyone involved.

I ended up meeting someone IRL a little while later, and figured I was retired from dating for good.

UNTIL.

The year is 2023. I’d just come off the back of a painful break up, determined to stop my pattern of just-for-the-sake-of-it serial monogamy. I’d never really ‘dated’ in my life and I wanted to have fun - with a new sense of self-awareness and a new set of boundaries, I finally felt ready to try out the word ‘no’. I agreed to a flurry of dates through the apps, each one more terrible than the last.

The first guy I said no to called me shallow for judging a book by its cover; another guy tried to put the moves on me after talking about his ex-wife for an hour, and another guy admitted he knew I was out of his league as soon as I walked into the bar, but still had me coach him about how to manage co-parenting with his cheating baby mama.

People always say to me that they feel like no one is willing to commit on the apps, that a new love interest is always just a swipe away. That wasn’t my issue. I couldn’t get a read on these guys through my phone - and as a result, I couldn’t even find one that I’d want a second date with.

Being on the apps felt like being stuck in a sadomasochistic loop; some part of me was addicted to the rush of the match or the potential of a dream come true, despite the humiliation of getting it so wrong, over and over again. I was attracting the wrong kind of men, consistently, and finding myself in these synthetic situationships with men I’d never met.

The overwhelming feeling was that I was wasting my time; giving away my energy to men who didn’t deserve it. And all the while, like an idiot, still holding out hope for that one magic match that would save me; that would make it all worthwhile. It was like spending precious money on a lottery ticket every day, losing every single time, but going back for another all the same. It was a gambling addiction in the game of love.

Whenever I say I despise the apps, I inevitably get messages from women who found their happily ever after on Tinder, matched with their hubby on Hinge, or found their dream boyfriend on Bumble. And to them, I will always say: I’m happy for you. In fact, I love that for you. You won where the rest of us have failed. You cracked the code.

The reality for me is that out of about ten app dates I’ve been on in my life, I only felt butterflies with one of them upon meeting in person, but we weren’t actually all that suited to each other. I’d pulled him into my life through the power of the app algorithm and our paths would never have crossed otherwise. He was barely a glimmer of hope in an otherwise completely hopeless effort in online dating.

I am resolute. I am of the school of thought that we’re not supposed to meet this way. I say never again and I mean it this time. I’ve been single for seven months now, and when my year of celibacy comes to an end, I know what I have to do.

I am prepared for the fact that I’m going to have to talk to strangers. That I’m probably going to have to put myself in situations where I face rejection, in person, in real time. That I’m going to have to be bold, be confident and put myself out there. It’s scary, and it sounds awkward but it’s the kind of thinking we need to bring back. Bring back IRL flirting. Bring back asking for someone’s number. Bring back asking around after your crush. Bring back the embarrassment and butterflies and the rush of real life interactions. Bring back moving through the world like your love story depends on it.

And honestly, if my one true love is hanging out on the apps right now and I miss him, maybe we just weren’t meant to be after all. Because love shouldn’t have to come down to an app. It shouldn’t hang in the balance of a swipe. Love and pain are the only real things we get to experience in life - and I’m happy to take a paracetamol, but I want to feel the other one in full force, live in living colour, awkward and dangerous, in all its glory. And you can call me old school if you want.

I dissolved into a weeping mess at the worst possible time - post-school pickup, with sports to get to and people everywhere. I resigned myself to wearing sunglasses for the rest of the afternoon so no one could see what a wreck I’d become. I was smiling at strangers while screaming internally, my body begging to be taken to convalesce in a darkened room. There I was, in broad daylight, my obligations getting the better of me while I wrestled with the worst of myself.

The truth is, I’m not a lost cause or a basket case. It was my luteal phase.

I’m 38 and a half, and I’ve only really started tracking and noticing my cycle in the past few years. When I was in my last relationship, I started to become aware of my moods and patterns; because someone else was holding a mirror up to them. When a man says, ‘damn, is your period due?’ - yeah, he’s playing with fire, but he’s a little bit right, too. No woman wants to be reduced to her hormonal fluctuations, but if anyone is going to hone in on the twists and turns of your cycles, it’s going to be the guy that’s trying to get laid by you.

It’s annoying, but there’s truth in it: we’re messier during the luteal phase. It’s just biology.

Back in that relationship, I felt abused by my cycle. It seemed to be in control of me, and always ruining everything. The worst culprit of all? Yeah, my luteal phase.

Every month, there it was: hell week. I’d spiral into a space where I couldn’t breathe without feeling like I was a failure at sucking air. But it was in realising the swings, and having them (frustratingly) pointed out to me, that I finally started researching about what was going on in my body. I discovered that some cultures and belief systems see the luteal phase as a time of deep insight and truth-seeing. That nearly knocked me out. Has my body been trying to tell me something all along?

When we’re premenstrual, it’s said that we're most in tune with what’s not working in our lives. It’s like post-ovulation clarity. All the pain and unresolved issues rise to the surface. And because I refused to listen, it overwhelmed me. I was in a relationship that wasn’t working, I wasn’t happy, I was unfulfilled, but I couldn’t admit it, so every month, all my body could do was scream louder.

I finally started to pay attention, and everything clicked.

Once the relationship ended, I promised myself I’d start paying attention to what my luteal phase was trying to tell me, every month. But something surprising happened. I felt great - for months. My PMS symptoms disappeared, my mood stayed steady; no depressive lows, no wrecking ball thoughts.

Job completed, message received, intuition clocked out for good?

I settled into my new, mellow normal - another luteal phase done and dusted without fanfare, but then, a curveball. No period?

I was late, but not that kind of late. The is-this-perimenopause kind of late.

I’ve always had a regular, unproblematic cycle, so this 48 hour discrepancy was enough to make me think I’d crossed over. It felt like my body had just changed overnight. I was a flailing newborn and a grandma all at once.

Then I got my period. And the same thing happened a month later.

I’ve since deduced that maybe my cycle is just changing a little and it’s not as dramatic as I first thought. Maybe I’m not perimenopausal yet, but I’ve had my warning shot. A reminder that the next phase is coming.

It felt like my body was starting to tell me something again.

Are you happy?
Are you doing what you want to do?

Are you listening?

This month, as I entered my luteal phase again, it hit me hard. I thought I was past all this - but there I was - sobbing at 3:30pm on a Wednesday. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t hold it in.

My subconscious, my intuition, my body, the universe - I don’t know, but there was a message in my inbox again.

I’ve changed a lot this year. I’ve recalibrated so many times and feel like I’m living in a new skin. I’ve made huge progress and I’m excited about the life I’m creating. But some other power noticed before I did: I was getting stuck again.

I still had unresolved fears in my life and career; fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear that I didn’t really believe in myself after all. I hadn’t come to a complete stop but I wasn’t really moving either. So I listened, journaled and reflected. And right on time, two days late, my period came. The clouds parted. I felt like myself again - only, armed with the insight that only my luteal fairy godmother could bestow me with.

Metaphors aside, it really is a gift.

I’ve learnt that I can count on my luteal phase to flag me when I’m out of alignment. If I’m an Something isn’t right in my life - I just haven’t realised it yet. And I don’t know what perimenopause or menopause proper will have to tell me, but at least I’m listening now.

Here’s what I’m beginning to accept on the cusp of my 40s:

• My cycle is a reminder to care for myself, deeply and intentionally

• My emotions aren’t a burden, they’re an invitation to look under the hood

• I can’t expect myself to function at 100% every single day

• Some days you’re happy and hopeful and some days you’re not, and that’s ok

• I can do hard things, but I don’t have to do them all the time

• Sometimes I’m strong, sometimes I’m fragile and both are valid parts of me

Our emotions are a little flag, waving to tell us something. Our hormones make those feelings bigger and heavier until we pay them attention. We get to be the observer, learning and using what we discover. I can’t control my body or my hormones, but I can take some of my power back by listening and learning from what they have to tell me.

I don’t know what the next stage will feel like. But this? This is a gift. To have reached this point of better understanding myself. To still be here, crying on a tennis court surrounded by five year olds because my body knows better than I do.

A week ago, I saw an article in a national news outlet about a man being released on parole just 12 years after murdering his partner, Carmen Thomas. He not only killed her, but perverted the course of justice; he tried to cover it up, made it look like she was still alive and lied to her family and the police.

What struck me, beyond the brutality of the crime, was the fact that this man was being released. He had been given a life sentence and then some and he’s now walking free. It feels jarring, unjust and dangerous, to say the least.

It’s worth noting that in New Zealand, offenders of family violence are among the highest rates of recidivism, with around 57% convicted again for violent offences within 48 months. Almost half of all of New Zealand’s prisoners will offend again within a year of their release. Letting men off the hook can be perilous. We may forgive, but they might not let us forget it.

When facing the parole board, he claimed he ‘snapped’ only because she had told him that the son he was raising wasn’t biologically his.

This was considered a mitigating factor. I understand how much that must have hurt him to hear, but taking her life in a hideously brutal fashion, deceiving the law and leaving that child without his mother is not a proportionate or forgivable response. Despite that, he is no longer considered a risk to the community.

Somehow, that line of defense - ‘she made me do it’ - seemed to be reason enough to release him.

So now he’s going back out into society. I looked him up, because we should probably all familiarise ourselves with his face. He looks like a normal guy. Clean cut, no face tattoos or obvious signs he’s been in prison for over a decade. He’s not particularly unattractive. He could easily blend into everyday life - in fact, he could be on a dating app next week. He’ll have the opportunity to find love again, because I mean, he convinced the parole board that he was safe - so clearly, he could convince someone else.

And I couldn’t shake the thought: someone out there will fall for him. Because that’s what happens. We find a way to accept them. We love them. We forgive them, no matter what. But should we?

Since reading that article, I can’t stop seeing examples of men who have hurt, abused or betrayed women, faced judgement in the court of public opinion, and sometimes, in the court of law, and are still wanted by women.

Chris Brown is on a world tour, playing sold-out shows with hundreds of thousands of women hanging on his every move, lusting after him in the comment sections and praying to get invited back to his hotel. I saw interviews with fans outside his show in Glasgow a week ago, revealing that most know about his violent past; the felony assault on Rihanna and other more recent charges, and they simply don’t care. Some say it’s not their business. Others came up with bleak ‘who knows what goes on behind closed doors?’ comments, as if it’s Chris Brown’s own personal business, in the year 2025, if he puts his hands on a woman.

It’s not just about separating the art from the artist. Liking his music is one thing - what’s frightening is how many women want to be with him. To be alone with him. Intimately. Despite the multiple reports and charges over the years against women he’s been romantically involved with.

Dov Charney, ousted from American Apparel for alleged sexual misconduct against multiple young female employees, simply started another brand with the same hyper-sexualized imagery, left to reinstate his abhorrent behaviour. When I checked his Instagram, women were commenting asking to model for him. Seriously?

"That question is private, and it should be private." - Dov Charney, when asked if he had engaged in sexual contact with workers

Brad Pitt, accused by Angelina Jolie of alleged physical assault and almost completely estranged from his adopted and biological children, is still one of the most bankable stars in Hollywood. He has a gorgeous new girlfriend, and women around the world would jump at the chance to be in her place. He’s recently opened up about his sobriety, which was prompted by the incident on the plane with his family.

"I am a stubborn f#*k, but I am also, when I've stepped in shit, I'm pretty good at taking responsibility for it and owning up to it," he said. "And now it's a quest to, you know, ‘What do I do with this? How can I right this and make sure it doesn’t happen again?'" - Brad Pitt, speaking to Dax Shepard

Tiger Woods, whose cheating scandal was so painfully publicised, is now dating Vanessa Trump. Despite the humiliation and betrayal he inflicted on his wife, despite the fact that he was alleged to have been cheating with over 100 different women, he’s still found someone to love.

“I knew my actions were wrong. But I convinced myself that normal rules didn't apply. I never thought about who I was hurting. Instead, I thought only about myself. I ran straight through the boundaries that a married couple should live by. I thought I could get away with whatever I wanted to. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled. Thanks to money and fame, I didn't have to go far to find them.” - Tiger Woods at a press conference in 2010

Why do we keep accepting these men? Why do we still want them when we know what they’re capable of? Are we right to forgive and forget past sins?

It seems to come down to this: women are taught to forgive. We’re compassionate creatures. We see a broken man and we want to fix them. I fear that we’re also groomed to think that being chosen is more important than keeping ourselves safe. That if someone has status, looks or money, red flags can be waived. Being loved matters above all else, so that we may betray ourselves, suspend our instincts, and throw self-preservation out the window to make it happen.

I know we try our best to be logical. To think critically and gather all the evidence to decide if a man is trustworthy before we let him in. We weigh up his actions, his past, anything we can glean from friends and family. But when all the evidence points to danger or betrayal, we can somehow still find a way to talk ourselves into trusting him.

I know people can change. I do. And I know that cheating one time back in ‘08 doesn’t necessarily point to a lifelong cheater. I know that even a capacity for violence can be rehabilitated. And maybe we want to believe that we can be the one to change them more than we want to believe that we’ve picked the wrong guy again.

But the truth is, as long as we accept men and their sins, we keep letting them get away with it. They know someone will forgive them. Someone will still choose them, despite it all. History tells us that is true. Women who write love letters to men on death row tell us that even the most depraved can be forgiven, and even loved.

If we aren’t holding them accountable for their actions, then we are just opening the door for it to happen again. To us. To someone else.

Can you really ever trust someone when they come with a track record?

“He told me he’d cheated in the past. We met on a dating app and when we met in person, we talked about our past relationships. He shared that he’d been unfaithful; that he had been unhappy in his marriage.

That was a red flag and an absolute no from me initially but something told me to stay.

When we were dating but not yet exclusive, I said; ‘you’ve shared some of your history with me, and I just want to be clear that I won’t accept you cheating again’. That’s when he said he needed to tell me something.

He had been with somebody else in the time that we’d been together. It was a tricky one, because we weren’t exclusive, we hadn’t had that conversation. But it muddied the water. We’re still together, but the trust isn’t 100% there.

Safety is the number one thing a woman needs in a relationship and when there’s a loss of safety, that reverberates through a woman’s being for a long time. But if he’s able to keep showing up consistently, in devotion to me, with his actions aligned, then trust can be rebuilt.

Staying in this relationship has taught me that I have deep certainty in myself no matter what, that I’ve got me, no matter what. I’ve learnt to trust my intuition, speak my truth, and not sweep things under the carpet and let resentment grow. I’m just letting it unfold and learning in the process.”

“My ex told me he had never cheated when I first met him, but I found out later that he had an affair with an employee while he was married. It makes me think he would have been cheating on me when we were together - and I’d never date someone who’s cheated.”

“I was only 18. I never trusted him, so the relationship was never going to last. He had a history of both infidelity and violence (he’d been to prison for assault). But he was extremely good-looking, charming and older than me. All my family and friends really liked him too (but they didn’t know about the prison stint).

I’m certain he cheated. He admitted to cheating on all his past girlfriends. I would never let that shit fly now.”

“I was very young and naive when I met my ex-husband. He made me believe I was special and that he would never do that to me, so I trusted him because I didn’t know any better.

He denied all past cheating and violence in previous relationships, convinced me that they were the crazy ones and he had hit them only in ‘self defense’. He was never physical with me but there was a lot of cheating and gaslighting for close to 13 years.”

“I dated someone with a history of infidelity and I took their honesty as a sign of growth and accountability. I had a girlfriend who is going through something similar and her partner is able to tell her why he thinks he did it, what he would have done differently, etc, which we think is a good sign. People make mistakes. As long as they’re actually able to take accountability for their actions, I think it’s fair to give them that room to grow and trust that they’ll continue to be honest with you.

But I think the extent of this person’s infidelity meant I should have been more worried about betrayal than I was. I wish I hadn’t have believed him, but I think trusting your gut and discerning whether someone is telling you what you want to hear versus if they are taking real accountability, is key.”

“I found out a few years into my current relationship that there was a crossover between me and his ex. It has never sat well with me since and the trust issues show up in our life to this day. I don’t know if I can ever truly overcome it.

I absolutely would not have continued the relationship if I found out at the start and I guess that’s why he didn’t tell me. I do wonder if I would have been able to properly move on if he had said I’m so sorry I lied, I was immature, I struggled to end things - if he was just upfront about it. Instead I got some bullshit ‘I can’t remember, it was so long ago’ excuse.”

“I’m too trusting. Turns out it was the biggest mistake of my life. Do not ever get involved with someone with a history of violence.”

“I’ve worked around family violence for years. I would never date someone with a history of infidelity - I see that as a character flaw, and tied to an inherent disrespect for a partner and a relationship.

On the other had, I think of violence as being tied to the threads of the current situation (as well as the perpetrator of course) but the situation has more capacity for change and evolution than someone’s core values and respect for women or lack thereof.

It also depends on the person’s willingness to disclose and discuss it with me.”

“My son’s father told me at the beginning of our relationship that the girlfriend before me had dumped him because he cheated.

I thought, well, maybe he’s learnt his lesson. He hadn’t. I ended up leaving him for the same reason.”

“My husband has been charged by his ex-girlfriend with domestic violence.

I think I knew about it within the first month of getting together - I had met his family and understood his upbringing and values by that stage so was able to come to my own conclusions. That brought me peace.

She has a history of mental health issues and went back and forth on the accusations - it’s such a sad turn of events and really unfortunate. In all honesty, I know there are always two sides to every story and no one is perfect, but I think it all just got out of hand.

I never believed it. What made me hesitant to continue was the thought of judgement from others; my peers and parents especially.

I know he could and would never have done the things she’s accused him of.

Listen to your intuition. If it’s loud and something you can’t shake, don’t question it. But if you feel safe, heard and comfortable, seek to understand before jumping to conclusions. Get to know his friends and family and wider circle - it speaks volumes in terms of who they surround themselves with and where they’ve come from.”

No guilty pleasure is off the table.

It used to mean a lot of reality shows, but casting a critical eye on relationships during my romantic time-out has really ruined them for me. I can’t stop myself yelling at the screen like a man watching a ball sport. Love is Blind? Nah, it’s just stupid. “Come on ref, he’s obviously gaslighting her!”

I’ve become so grown up lately, that I’ve been mostly watching documentaries, classic movies, and the OG Sex and the City, which is totally mature and intellectual and serious, in case you’ve forgotten.

But I sidestepped into different territory this week, when I spotted Happy Gilmore in my Netflix line up. It’s one of those movies that really just captures a moment in time and I was in the mood for nostalgia (it came out when I was 10), so I watched it for the first time in probably over a decade.

Some parts I remembered perfectly; scenes I could quote word for word, but when Julie Bowen came on screen, I was befuddled. Excuse me, the mum from Modern Family? I’d forgotten she was even in it. She looks so young, and so does Adam Sandler - they were babies; Adam 30 and Julie just 26 during filming.

If you recall the film, she’s an odd choice for Happy. He’s all over the show - living in a squalor, fixated on a pipe dream of playing professional hockey, can’t hold down a job because of his anger issues. He’s basically a no-hoper. Then Julie Bowen shows up: successful, intelligent, well-dressed, well-connected. Everything Happy is not.

Their relationship, right from the start, is a mismatch. He’s in the Adam Sandler uniform before it was a thing, and she’s in skirt suits with a news anchor blowout. They’re total opposites. But she sees something in him. And he’s just happy to be there (just let me have that one). Surprisingly, they end up falling in love.

But once Happy starts getting into the swing of things on the golf course (ok that was the last one, promise), drawing crowds and getting famous, you realise he could’ve had anyone. But he chose to be with her. And that makes you like him even more.

He's the underdog. A bit of a mess, but lovable. He adores his grandma, he’s a good guy underneath it all. And the fact that he stays with Julie Bowen’s character adds to that. He could’ve easily gone for some golf groupie. But he didn’t.

Then this week, just traipsing about the internet as I do, I came across an interview with Julie Bowen talking about Happy Gilmore 2 - which is a thing, and is coming out this month.

In the interview she said she wasn’t expecting to be called back for the sequel. That was the headline. She assumed they’d cast a younger actress to play Happy’s love interest.

Huh?

She was Happy’s love interest. And she was a successful one. Like I said - her character made us like Happy more. They were great together.

Adam Sandler is still playing Happy. So why would they replace her?

The fact that she assumed she’d be replaced - even after successfully playing the role already - it hit me. Why would she think that?

Adam Sandler has aged - just like she has. He’s 58 now, and she’s 55.

She didn’t think she’d get the part because she figured he would have dumped her character to be with someone younger and hotter. What does that say about us? That we think we don’t deserve to be with men our own age? And why did I feel so triggered by that idea?

"I didn't think they'd bring me back at all," Bowen said on the most recent episode of the Inside of You podcast. "I mean, who am I supposed to be? He's got to have a younger woman in this one.”

Bowen has shared her doubts before, previously telling The Hollywood Reporter that she thought they'd give Happy (Sandler) a "little bitty" cart girl this time around. She even believed a rumor her teenage son had heard that Sydney Sweeney would replace her as the golfer's new love interest.

(An excerpt from Entertainment Weekly)

The thing is - I’ve started thinking that way too.

I’m single right now, completely off dating. And when I was recently interviewed for a piece about botox, we got onto the topic of looking younger to stay ‘in the game’.

Everyone’s getting Botox, everyone’s getting work done, everyone looks younger than they are. And I think our desire to stay looking as young as possible is driven by wanting to keep our men, or just to have a shot at getting one that isn’t already on the pension. We have to stay young, or be prepared to become invisible, undateble or replaceable.

Because I haven’t had anything done, some part of me has accepted that that probably means men my age won’t want me.

They can always go younger, so they will. And if they can’t find someone biologically younger to date, then they’ll find someone who at least looks the part.

So why would they ever want me?

I think Julie Bowen thought the same thing. Even if Happy Gilmore wasn’t successful - even if he was still a struggling hockey bum - he probably could still get someone younger. Actually, he’d probably be even more likely to get someone younger and less…discerning. Ugh.

That’s the other bloody issue - the older and wiser we get, the less likely we are to put up with childish behaviour, so even our standards are pricing us out of our own age bracket.

Is it too much to ask that I might have a chance at dating someone of the same maturity level and age as me? Someone in the same life stage? Someone who doesn’t have adult children and a gold card?

Or, will I be like Julie Bowen’s Virginia, dating someone who’s slightly older but wildly immature, just waiting for the day that her three years younger isn’t young enough anymore and Happy gets a hot, new love interest?

In this case, we are presumably going to get our happy ever after (dammit, I wasn’t done) with two age appropriate lovers, but is that just a fairytale that even one of the lovers is struggling to believe?

If men are wired to aim low, where does that leave us? Tucked, tightened and ‘toxed, yes, but we might only be buying ourselves a few more years at best.

Should we just give up and start a women-only commune so we can age and live in peace? Omg, who said that??

I knew it was going to be a big thing for me - considering I’ve been in relationships my entire adult life, and I was going to have so much energy and time for activities by de-centering men. Getting them, keeping them, entertaining them, fixing them - all of it gone. A dry phone and nobody to impress.

I always wondered, imagine what we (women) could put our minds to if we didn’t have to spend hours every week devoted to blow-drying and nail appointments and beauty rituals? As a society, I don’t think we’re quite ready to go there yet, but I’ll tell you about a much more accessible timesaver: giving up men has really cleared my schedule.

First, I threw myself into making more money. I doubled my income in the space of a month and I thought I’d cracked it. You’re telling me I’d been stuck at the same annual income for two years straight and all I had to do was be single to break through my financial ceiling?

But then something funny happened. I ruined it. I let the new income stream I’d created slowly die, then I ruthlessly cut the head off another because ‘it didn’t feel right’. It was like I was suddenly allergic to the success I’d created for myself.

The reality was that I’d glazed over what had the potential to be a massive moment for personal growth and told myself money would fix things. But this time, without a man to distract me, I could see there was some work to be done, and it had nothing to do with my business.

I had a chance conversation with a client, who I admire hugely, and I mentioned that I had lost direction. If I wasn’t chasing money, and I wasn’t chasing men, what was I doing with my life?

She mentioned that she doubted herself too sometimes, but her business and mindset coach always pulled her back out of it. I left the meeting and once alone in my car, looked up the coach on Instagram, and sent her a voice note before I could talk myself out of it.

She responded later that night with something that, in any other context might have been a little creepy: ‘I’ve been waiting for your message.’

She, Paula, had been following me for some time (we actually met over a decade ago in London, friend of a friend situation), and she had been watching me in a pattern of excruciatingly painful behaviour, month after month, year after year.

Needless to say, our first session was a roast. I was attacked - and thank god, honestly. Someone finally called me out.

She obliterated just a couple of my most damaging long held beliefs but it felt like something shifted inside of me that day, and I knew it was time to lock in. If I’m going to commit to this time on my own, I need to make the most of it.

I have been committed to completely changing my life every day since. Here’s everything I’ve done so far, and the most dramatic changes I’ve seen in myself.

1. I let go of my victim mindset

The thing is, when something bad happens to you, people start to interact with you in a new way. It feels nice to have people empathise with you, to comfort you, to validate your feelings. And when you find yourself feeling a bit wobbly, it’s really easy to play the victim card and get another hit of all that good stuff.

It had become so comfortable for me to live in that space that I hadn’t realised that I was actually keeping myself, not only in the victim mindset, but I was waking up each day and choosing to see myself as a victim before anything else.

I realised that I was purposely making my life shittier so I didn’t have to let go of my victim status. I was holding myself back because I didn’t even know how to function in the world if I wasn’t the victim.

I decided that I’d given up enough of my life to being the victim and I was done being defined by it. I wanted to close that chapter and you know what? I was finally ready to.

2. I started listening to (and challenging) my self talk

Shortly after starting my coaching, I began listening to a couple of audiobooks, Self-Esteem by Matthew McKay and What to Say When You Talk to Yourself by Shad Helmstetter. Both, in their own ways, recommended that I start listening to the way I spoke to myself. I immediately recognised that there was a bully living in my head, and it was undermining me, demeaning me, blaming me and teasing me all day long.

I started writing down what the bully was saying to me, and fact-checking it along the way. It was like a loop track of other people’s words taped together in an endless script, and damn, no wonder I had anxiety? No wonder I doubted myself, lacked motivation, energy, got angry sometimes, or felt sad for no reason. The call was coming from inside the house and it was an asshole on the other line. Of course I was a mess!

I’d let it run rampant for literal decades, and as soon as I stood up to it - it lost all its power over me.

I challenge negative self talk beliefs by writing down positive statements to negate them and also listen to positive self talk playlists on Spotify.

3. I let go of my instinct to play small + shallow

I told myself I was going all in on my business earlier this year - and you know, it worked - I made more money than I had in ages. But I was doing it in the hardest way possible. I was trying to be everything to everyone, spreading myself thin and keeping myself overworked with small clients that were harder to book and harder to keep. I initially thought I was just blindly self-sabotaging when it started to fall over, but the truth, I think, was that it was entirely unsustainable, and not really what I wanted at all.

I wasn’t working smarter, leveling up and challenging myself - I was running myself into the ground.

But I had told myself (or at least the bully had) that I wasn’t good enough to have big clients. That I was safer playing small, in the shallow end.

That was a self-esteem issue, and honestly, my business was just a manifestation of everything that was wrong in my mindset. I decided to shutter it for good.

4. I let go of the idea that I was running out of time

I didn’t even realise how deeply I believed it ‘til I caught myself saying it out loud. My lungs filled with air, tears threatened, my throat tightened - this was a big one.

Ever since I was released back out into the world in 2020, I’ve felt like I was playing catch up.

When you give your all to a relationship, you do so thinking that you’re building your future. And when that future disappears, when you have a family to support and a career to revive, it suddenly feels like a very frantic race against time to establish yourself again.

Coupled with the fact that women generally experience their highest earning years between 35-54 and I was hitting that window without a run up - I re-entered the workforce in a state of panic.

I stayed that way for five years, starting new projects constantly, never letting myself rest for fear of getting further behind.

I slayed that demon with a simple sentence: I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, at the exact right time.

5. I let go of other people’s idea of success (and stopped using it for revenge)

There’s something about an earth-shattering rejection that fuels you like nothing else - your ego is hurt, and it will do just about anything to prove it still has value. Honestly, my ego has been driving me in just about everything in my life for the past five years.

I needed to feel bigger and better than. I was comparing myself and my success, measuring myself against a standard that I didn’t even want - that’s how blind I’d become.

When I actually stopped and realised that my life, my career and my success weren’t something to prove a point, I didn’t feel like performing anymore. What was the point of evoking envy in someone that I didn’t even care about anymore?

6. I figured out what I really want from life

I wrote down my goals at the start of the year, and they couldn’t be further from what I want right now. That’s how fast my life has changed, how fast we’re capable of changing when we really put our minds to it.

Having shed self-sabotaging beliefs, let go of my warped standard of success and the idea that I was running out of time, my whole perspective shifted.

I started writing down what I wanted for my life and it finally sounded like it was coming from me, my real hopes and dreams and desires.

And as soon as I was able to get it down on paper, start steering myself in a new direction that actually feels true to me, everything just makes so much more sense, and things are already falling into place.

7. I learnt how to be productive

I’ve struggled a lot for years to stay on task; to look after myself, to look after my space. I’ve been living in this state of constant distraction, which was fueled by a cocktail of low self-esteem, my fear of running out of time and the internet.

An ex told me I had ADHD and encouraged me to get medicated, and I truly started considering it for the first time, but the jury’s still out - I think there are a few other things at play here.

I think I had become chronically distracted (whatever it was that was doing it - likely a coping mechanism) so I started trying hacks; techniques to hold myself accountable, reframing tasks to keep me focused, and the way I work has changed COMPLETELY. Whether it’s cleaning the bathroom or client work, I’m a new, highly productive person and it’s just sticking.

I’m a massive fan of body-doubling now and I use Focusmate daily - it’s a game changer for people who work alone!

8. I found a way to fall in love with where I’m at

I’ve spent the last few years hating my circumstances. Living in that victim mindset, and also believing, deep down, that this is all I deserved in life.

My faded little hatchback, my small and crowded house, my limited funds - every day living in this space, driving that car and barely making ends meet has felt like a depressing song I can’t stop playing.

I had believed that the only way I’d feel happy was to upgrade everything and I was never in a position to be able to do that.

In the process of changing my view of myself and my outlook on my life, I’ve started seeing my circumstances in a whole new light.

My car is now my incredibly faithful and thrifty wagon that I appreciate, genuinely, every day (we just found out it can play DVDs!), I’ve started deep cleaning the entire house, metre by metre, pouring love into every corner and turning it into a space we love, knowing that it’s not forever and we’re incredibly lucky to have it. And my bank balance? It’s a reflection of where I’ve been at for the past five years, and not a projection of where I’m going. I’ve kept us afloat and that’s no small thing.

I’ve become so aware of all the ways I’ve been holding myself back; sabotaging myself, victimising myself - consciously and subconsciously, and I’ve made massive strides to improve my life in just a few months, but the work has only just begun.

I know that this is just the beginning of what is a whole new experience of life, but also a whole new me.

And all this because I finally stopped searching for something to make me feel better and faced the truth of who I’d let myself become.

Crazy, huh?