Today, I am thirty-six years of age. It’s cliché, but I’m genuinely not sure how that happened?!

In a strange way today doesn’t even feel like my birthday. It feels like another day I’ve got older, while my actual birth day is still pending. Like there’s another older version of me waiting, and I won’t quite meet her until i’ve given birth to my child (which is a flipping intense sentence to write, by the way. Am I being dramatic?!)

I find ageing such an honour. I love getting older, and there’s something mega about being on the other side of 35. I’m already intrigued by 40. Watching so many of my friends reach that milestone has made it feel like such a wonderful age to embrace.

This last year has flown by. Quite possibly the quickest one yet.

Around this time last year, I wrote about feeling like a child bride. Not old enough to have a wedding, never mind be legally married to another person. It all felt like grown people’s business, something a child like me had no business being involved in.

Typical. A year later, I find myself yet again in another grown-arse ordeal. A teen pregnancy.

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I turn 36 today and in my third trimester. Wild.

This last year has changed me forever. I’ve spent most of it pregnant, or processing the pregnancy journey, having experienced two pregnancies in the space of a year. I’ve understood the enormity of it all from the beginning, but understanding something and actually believing it’s happening to you are two very different things.

A recurring theme in my birthday cards and messages this year has been “the last one before you become a Mum”. The last one before my life changes forever. And it’s a beautifully strange thing to sit with, actually.

Because while I know I’m not going to suddenly stop being myself, there’s something quite magical about knowing that the life I’ve spent 36 years living is about to change in a way I can’t yet fully comprehend.

And I guess that’s true for so many moments in life, innit? We spend years becoming ourselves, only to find that life is constantly asking us to become someone new. Sometimes through choices we’ve made, sometimes through circumstances we never saw coming.

We don’t always recognise the last time we’re experiencing a particular version of our lives. The last time something feels familiar, the last time a routine is ours, the last time we exist in a chapter before the next one begins.

Maybe that’s what makes this birthday feel so weird. For once, I can see the change coming, even if I have absolutely no idea what it will feel like on the other side.

So much of pregnancy is spent preparing for someone else’s arrival. Making room for another person in your life, your family, your home, your relationship. But, there are two people arriving, and possibly one person leaving.

Should I say see-ya to this version of me?!

That feels quite exciting and quite sad simultaneously. There’s a weight to it that I can’t quite get my head around. Because I love my life, the healing i’ve done, the healing I’m yet to do, even the therapy sessions I’ve still got ahead of me to unpack the things I haven’t quite figured out.

Will all of that shift? Maybe. Probably!

But maybe the person I am now doesn’t have to totally disappear for someone new to emerge. Evolving is what becomes of her!

I don’t think we ever really finish becoming ourselves. And I think that’s why I love ageing so much. There’s always more life to live, more to learn, more to question and more versions of ourselves to meet.

So here’s to 36! To the person I’ve spent all these years becoming, and to whoever I’m about to become next.

Although, for the record, I still don’t feel old enough to be responsible for someone else’s tiny toes. Help.

Like, get over yourself.

I’m trusting that it will reach the person it’s meant to reach.

This is Part One.
Part Two will follow.

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I think we’ve all imagined what we’d do if we physically came under attack.

Not Metaphorically. Not emotionally. I mean really. If someone or something approached us in a way that felt threatening, invasive, dangerous.

We imagine a version of ourselves with almost no hestiation. Clear judgement. In some cases, clear precision. All skill, no thrill.
enough to protect ourselves, in whatever way that might be.

Fight or flight.

I used to believe I knew exactly who I’d be in that moment. But when it actually happened to me, my body didn’t do what I thought it would.
Any maybe that sounds. strange. That I had already imagined it at all. especially as someone who believes that words carry weight. That thoughts shape our reality.

There’s a reason spell sits inside spelling.

But as a woman, preparation doesn’t feel like imagination. It feels like instinct.
It lives in the body. We all know that walk home. Keys threaded through knuckles, hyper-aware of footsteps behind us. Like we’re ready to pounce at any moment like Wolverine.

But when it comes to it, would we?

Because staying prepared isn’t the same as being prepared. And the truth is, you can’t be ready for something like that. Not in every moment.
I felt the shift before it happened. A change in energy. Something off. I’ve always prided myself on that, I have the nose of a Bloodhound. But unfortunately not the strength of a pitbull.
It started in a way that felt almost routine. A grab of my arm. Not unfamiliar. Not entirely unexpected. The kind of moment you think you know how to handle, especially as a woman.

So I reacted. I pulled away. Taking my body back, physically.

But this time it was different.

What followed wasn’t just contact, it was force. An attempt to override me completely. A battle between what was mine, and what they decided was theirs.

I fought for control over my body. It felt like a push pull. My main job was to stay rooted in its ownership, in my power, in real time.
But I was disarmed.
Not in the way I’d rehearsed it in my mind. Not the way I imagined strength would look.

And this isn’t about them: The Men that did this. Not really.
We’ll get to that in part two.
Yes, it was horrifying. Yes, there are parts of me that wish it never happened, mostly because of the pain.
But what stayed with me wasn’t just the moment, it was what happened afterwards. That was the part I couldn’t understand. Not what happened, but how my body responded to it.

Because I didn’t feel pain in the moment. I didn’t feel fear in the way I thought I would. My body reacted quickly, instinctively. I pulled myself off the ground more than once. At one point, I laughed(!). Something I still struggle to explain. I think it came from shock, or the amusement in the disbelief.

Surely this is not happening to me?

I know I’ve got the strength to fight this.

I was fighting, just not in the way I imagined.

When the adrenaline finally hit, it felt like it had been injected straight it into my heart. It pushed me forward, before my mind had time to catch up.
But, as we all know, adrenaline doesn’t last. Not long enough to undo what’s already happened.

For a long time, I couldn’t understand that version of myself.
Why did my body respond in ways that felt so far from the version of strength I had always believed in?
But the truth is, in that moment, my body didn’t fail me. It protected me. It chose survival, even if it didn’t look like strength to me.
Not performance.
Not pride.
Not the version of “fight” we rehearse in our head. But the kind that gives you the best chance possible of getting through it. And no one really teaches you to recognise that as strength.

What I hadn’t realised at the time was that my body had absorbed everything. Not just the moment, but the aftermath. There were bruises, I had to use crutches to walk.

The real impact didn’t show up immediately. Over time, it started to surface. In tension. In pain. In ways of just being that didn’t feel like me. A fear of being outside, even travelling to work. Every time I left my home it felt like I was leaving for it to happen again.

Then there came the one defining moment, the breaking point.

At that point I knew and understood something deeper:

The Body Keeps The Score of the moments the mind tries to move past.

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I didn’t stop to face the moment. Not the next day, the next week, the next month. I went straight back into my life. It wasn’t as if it never happened, but almost.
I didn’t give my body space to speak, never mind stop to actually hear it.
The autopilot switch flipped on the moment the sun came up.

And it didn’t go off.
Until I physically couldn’t move.

About a month after the attack, the nosebleeds started. They were relentless and sudden. I was exhausted by that point.

I was carrying everything. Physically. Emotionally. It was a bag of shit I refused to put down. I felt like I was being watched. I found it hard to trust strangers around me. My husband would collect me from work, crutches in hand. My mind was telling me I was going bonkers.
I’m stronger than this!

There were conversations about escalating it. About finding them. About consequences. But for me, the moment they imprinted on my skin, the only thing that mattered was survival.

And that didn’t change afterwards. Because I knew, if I held onto the need for justice, for something to happen to them, it would grow inside me. Like a tumour of hate.

Waiting on a system that wouldn’t give me what I needed would have broken me before I even had the chance to process it.
So, I had to let it go.

Or at least, I let those thoughts go.
I’d be dammed if I put myself in jail, while they got to enjoy their thoughts.

My body started to move in monthly cycles. Not the kind I expect every month, but something else entirely.
I’d feel it coming in the days leading up to it, there was this deep dread building up in my body.

I couldn’t sit through it.
I couldn’t sleep through it.
I couldn’t move.
I’d spend the evenings screaming in pain on the bathroom floor. It felt like something inside me was trying to force its way out with nowhere to go.
And it took me months to realise:

It wasn’t random. My body wasn’t breaking, it was remembering, processing the moment I hadn’t allowed myself to feel the first time.

and when I finally understood what it was doing, everything changed…

Thank You for reading Part One.

There is so much I still want to share in Part Two, including one of the most profound healing experiences I’ve ever had in my life.

I hope you’ll come back for it.

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Every response, every flare, every shutdown isn’t random, It’s a message. A way way our bodies try to make sense of stress, of fear, of care, of survival. It feels etched into our walls.

We don’t choose how we enter the world, but our beginning sets the tone for a lifetime. Our gut, our immune system, even how we handle stress. It all starts there, in those first hours and days, in ways we might not understand until much later. Sometimes decades later!

My birth date was earlier than expected. I was labelled premature, into what I can only assume was a really scary moment. My Mother and I came out stronger, but I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been in those moments and first few days. Even at the very start, my body had been pushed, challenged, and set on a course that has probably shaped the way it reacted to the world.

And while I didn’t get to choose my early interventions, my premature birth, or the inherited stress I carried, I do get to choose how I show up now, how I respond, and how I listen.

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There’s a lot I’ve learned since about how early life stress, can leave an imprint on the body, both internally and externally.
Eczema / Atopic Dermatitis isn’t something I was “born with”. It’s been my body’s way of communicating since the beginning.

My earliest memories are scattered in between irritation and impatience. I obviously have no memory of my birth story or being a newborn. But, I’ll never forget being banned from playing in a sandpit because my hands were covered in water blisters. I’ll never forget fearing the summer holidays because it meant that ‘playing out’ would be in the warmer months and surrounded in grass.

From ten months old my world revolved around my eczema. My mum tried everything she was recommended. Goats Milk. Steroid Creams. E45. All with the hope that each “thing” would finally help. It did. Until it didn’t.
There was calm at first, but then the same burning sensations quickly followed, and they burned more. This circle continued into adulthood. And I surrendered to the fact that this was just how my body was meant to be.
Now, I notice how much of that cycle was choices made for me/for us, and I’m now learning to make different ones. There is so much noise to latch onto, it feels almost like it’s distracting from our own bodies.

When I was in my final year of Junior school on a random weekday, my body went into shutdown.

Around twelve years old, on what seemed like an average day. I developed Meningococcal septicemia, also known as meningococcemia or meningococcal blood poisoning, a blood infection caused by the bacterium Neisseria meningitidis.

The immediate recovery was antibiotics via drip and hospital isolation. The long-term meant more antibiotics, crucial sight and hearing checks. And, you guessed it, GP visits.

The pain was unbearable being attached to that drip, the medicine forcing its way into the veins felt like liquid fire. But it quickly just slotted into another part of the prescription.

It felt like I spent most of my childhood in my GP practise. I practically grew up there. I knew the doctors. I knew the receptionist. They knew my name before I could even reach the desk.

Even after I moved to another city for university, I stayed registered there. It was easier to get the goods. I didn’t have to reintroduce myself. I didn’t have to explain my body from scratch every time.

I’ve got an itch.
That cream isn’t working.
What’s next?
Can I get something stronger?

Prescriptions became routine. Predictable. Automatic.

And because they were free, I rinsed them. Like samples at Costco, if one didn’t work, I’d go back for another. Something better. Bigger. A different label. Higher Percentage.

I didn’t question it. I didn’t know how to.

My GP was my dealer.

In a very clinical and completely socially acceptable way. A system designed to suppress the symptom, quiet the flare, keep me well, keep me alive. And I had to keep going back for more.

Otherwise I’d crumble.

But today, I see the difference between what is done to me and what I now choose to allow for my body.

In my final year of High School (yes I call it high school, soz), I was revising for my GCSE’s and struggling with exhaustion — which seemed normal for me.

But again, my body was showing intense signs of inflammation. My classmates noticed before I did. High School kids are incredibly creative with their insults.

One day a lump in my neck felt inflamed and sore, so off I went to see my trusty ole Doc.
Sat waiting in the waiting room.
Staring up at the Patient Display System.
In the same seat I’ve sat in for years, back row, far left. Close to the leaflets and toys.

So, what was it this time?

Glandular Fever.
GREAT.
Oh, and you can’t cure this one either.
Even better, I’m not really the cured type Doctor.

Another reminder of the immune system being permanently on edge.

For a long time, I saw these vents as isolated incidents. Expected bad luck. Just “my body being my body”

But the older I get, and the more I learn, the harder it is to see them as random. The messages are clearly there, sometimes written on my skin. My role is to listen, rather than suppress (which I’ve found so easy to do)

For a long time, I thought my body was just unlucky.

Premature birth.
Eczema.
Asthma.
Hayfever.
Septicemia.
Glandular Fever.

It read like a fragile beginning. And I became this little fussy, irritated being.
The truth is, it wasn’t about just being premature. I’ve come to the conclusion it was about stress, early stress, inherited stress and the stress i’d learned to normalise.

It was also about intervention. The relief that came fast, and left quietly. The cycle of calm and flare. The way my body was managed, maintained and sometimes stabilised.

I don’t think the choices were wrong. They were survival. They were ‘remedy’. They were care. They were love. They were the best we knew at the time.
But every choice made for my body taught me something.

So when, four years ago, my body was confronted with physical trauma at the hands of someone else, it responded with everything it had learned, carried, and stored over decades. My history, my inherited stress, my early interventions, my premature being. It all surfaced. I knew I had to listen with intention. I had discovered way too much to be able to quiet this. But it was difficult, and ignoring it wasn’t an option.
Every reaction my body shows now is dialogue, a result of choices I’ve made for myself, not just history repeating. This is not me saying every reaction is my fault, it’s me recognising that my body carries everything. And I must care for it intentionally.

This feels long-winded, but I hope it’s a helping hand in discovery. How life’s events are carried and stored in our body.

This is where the next part begins…

How I faced the most excruciating, tangible pain I had ever experienced, and the ways I found to work with my body, internally and externally, to reclaim myself. A real test of the years of love I poured into myself was challenged in a way I thought I would easily survive. And again, I did — until I didn’t.

The next part comes with a lot of vulnerability from me, so it may take some time. It’s been something I’ve wanted to share for a while now, and not really knowing how. So, bear with me and hopefully see you there — I’ll need the support.

Love, Yas x

Every year I was consumed by pain and discomfort. It’s easier to count the moments that are pain-free than the ones that weren’t. Pain and discomfort were my normal. So I came to the conclusion that eczema/atopic dermatitis and everything that came with it was just who I was. And who I was always going to be.

The evidence was there. My Granny. My Aunties. My Cousins. We were all scratching away at our croc-like skin, covered in dark patches, broken, bleeding in the creases of our arms, scratching the backs of our throats when the “allergies” kicked in.
We were like a row of Hermès Birkins, an orchestra of our lineage. It seemed like it was in my DNA. My past, present and future right there in front of me. In my eyes it was the inevitable. And strangely, I loved that it tied us together.
I didn’t feel alone, and I genuinely believed it would be who I was and what I represented for all my life. I was so wrong, thankfully.

I was fully aware that my mates could lie on the grass in summer, stroke every dog and cat they passed, play out in the rain, go horse riding, wear whatever clothes they wanted and enjoy their holidays without a full-body routine. Or in my care hiding under two pool towels so that sun (or bugs) could get to me and irritate my skin. Their version of normal felt like theirs.
And my normal…was normal.

So normal, in fact, that I didn’t realise how tired I was.
Not tired in the way that sleep fixes. Although sleep is a real cure for a lot of my inflammation, and I’m talkin’ that nine hours kinda sh*t.
Exhausted in a way that becomes invisible when constant.

I thought I’d accepted it. I thought I’d made peace with it. I told myself, this is just who I am.
My skin became my biggest teacher, beyond it’s itchy self, because it taught me how easily I was mistaking endurance for acceptance.

My skin led me home to my body.

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When I stopped using steroid creams, the first thing that arrived wasn’t relief. It was fear. It was patience. It was persistence.

The fear showed up because there was no direction. I had lived my entire life with something to reach for and without it felt really revealing. I was standing in my own body, exposed, with no knowledge of what was coming next. Without that familiar crutch, I felt alone.

Persistence came from the body and my skin. Years of steroid use meant that Topical Steroid Withdrawal was my next battle. And it felt like a sucker punch. Eczema and now this?!

But that’s where the patience came in.

At first, I thought it was eczema, which was expected. But it changed form, and it changed quickly. My face swelled. My eyes were painfully sore. My skin thickened, turned dry, and began to flake and peel aggressively.
My entire body felt as though it was covered in fire. An intense burning. Deep red colouring. This wasn’t the itch I knew. This was something else.

Topical Steroid Withdrawal (TSW) isn’t eczema. And my normal wasn’t so normal after all. I was so desperate to figure out how to be.

I thought an appointment at a Harley Street clinic would be the instant change. I walked away with £300 worth of tablets. I cried in the street that day, not because of what I was given, but because of what I was hoping for. I was more desperate than I’d ever been, and I still had no sense of direction.
Those tablets stayed in my bedside drawer for years. Truthfully, they scared me. I’d get them out, toy with them, until one day I threw £300 in the bin.

Desperation made me curious.

The first steps were simple, almost mundane and very predictable. It was hard for me to do anything but pay attention to my body. I looked at what I was eating, blamed the bread, the cheese, the sugar, the lack of sleep, the cocktails I enjoyed. I tracked reactions, tried to understand the difference between intolerances and allergies after a skin test.
There was an unexplained reaction to peanut butter, a reaction to apples that made my face and gums to itch (quite a common condition called OAS). I started small, making one change at a time, because trying everything at once felt impossible.

Goodbye gluten. Goodbye dairy. Hello Vegan, one of the biggest changes to my life.

I’m not sure when desperation became curiosity, maybe sometime during the two years of TSW. But like a social media algorithm, my whole life started to shift towards the tools I needed.

Conversations were different, Google searches led to many rabbit holes, YouTube videos, monologues and book deliveries.

Gabor Maté’s When The Body Says No changed my thinking and was one of the tools in lightening the load of punishment for me.
This book explores just how strongly the correlation between emotions and physical illness is.
I started to understand that it wasn’t all my fault. I wasn’t trying to undo the damage that I personally inflicted. And what I understand now is that there are so many things that have affected the outcome.

More on my premature 4 lb 14 oz Origin Story later…

The next layer of exploration was natural remedy, or plant medicine, or Herbalism, nature, whatever you would like to call it.

Now, you can “woo-woo” me all you like but, to me this form of medicine has been my compass in coming home to my body.

Seamoss gel has become one of my lifelines for around six years now. When I first tried it I didn’t know if it would help my skin at all. I just knew I wanted to try everything to naturally “reset” my body. Every morning, I scoop two tablespoons straight from the jar into my mouth. I won’t lie, it’s not the most pleasant thing, there’s zero taste and it smells as you would expect, what with it being actual Sea moss, and the texture is almost like hair gel (ironically it’s great to use topically on hair and skin)

No, it isn’t the cure. But it is an integral part of my healing, and I absolutely notice the difference in inflammation when I haven’t stuck to my routine.

Seamoss Gel is nutrient-dense, plant-based, and made from raw Irish sea moss harvested in clean ocean waters mainly in the Caribbean, soaked and blended with water to produce a gel/jelly-like product.
There are said to be 92 minerals in the product; Iodine, magnesium, potassium, and antioxidants meaning a lot of people talk about it for immune support, for energy, for gut health. Seamoss gel has become more than just a product or a ritual. It’s showing me that I can take small, intentional actions to take care of my body, that my body can respond when I actually listen to it. It wasn’t a miracle cure, and some days it felt like it didn’t do much at all. But over time, I noticed the difference in inflammation, in energy, in the way my body became less reactive.

This really isn’t about perfection or instant results, I’m just trying to show up, to notice and experiment with care.

And yet, even when I celebrate these small victories, my body has so many more stories that come up. Stories of trauma, of deep physical pain, and of the scars — both visible and invisible — that have accumulated over the years.

I’ve really wanted to dive into all the chapters and share, for simply a helping hand. How it all shows up in the body. and what I do to manage some of the most excruciating pain I’ve experienced.

Bloody hell, this journey really isn’t just about skin — it’s about the body remembering, responding, and slowly, reclaiming itself.

See you for the next part.

Love, Yas x

This skin i’m in has been my biggest teacher. It has forced me to reconnect with my body in a way I’m not sure I would have found otherwise.

My Body & I have battled together through a few autoimmune skin diseases in our Thirty-Five years together: atopic dermatitis/eczema, psoriasis, vitiligo, alopecia.

Living with autoimmune skin disease taught me something early on: pain is rarely random. For years, my focus was on what showed up on my skin, the flares, the red patches, the broken scaly skin. The visible discomfort and the unbearable urge to rip off my skin because no itch or scratch, will ever be enough to soothe the enraged feeling.

I realised that healing, at least my version of it, wasn’t as simple as fixing a symptom. The cause ran deeper than I could see on my skin, or even imagine.
It’s been almost ten years of focus. Ten years of learning and experience. Ten years of really feeling. It hasn’t been — and still isn’t —easy. But it’s been far more rewarding that instant relief.

Ten years of lessons have led me to land right in the centre of my body.

Instant relief is recurring. And that’s not the longevity I want.
These days, when pain shows up, in any form, I try not to panic. I feel it. I process it. I try to understand where it’s coming from before I decide how I respond.
Now, I’m not saying the itching doesn’t still happen. Sometimes I catch myself looking for the corner of something that can give me a niiiiice bit of scratching potential. And yep, I feel absolutely enraged, like I want to rip my own skin off, when I have a flare up. And honourable mention to the scolding hot shower releif — if you know, you know! (and I do not recommend.)
But, there is no panic. I reach for a grounding solution. Sometimes a natural remedy. Sometimes simply stillness.

…and sometimes I give in.

It’s not always pleasant, and theres not always a solution. There have been moments in the last few years when the pain has been so overwhelming I’ve nearly made an emergency call. That experience was humbling, frightening, and necessary. Something I will dive into at a later date.
It reminded me that listening to your body doesn’t mean abandoning help, and that not everyone can, or should, let go of what they need.
Healing isn’t purity. It’s choice.

And before I go any further, this matters:

I do not hold a title, certificate, or qualification that gives me the right to tell you what to do with your body. Im not a doctor, nurse, nutritionist, herbalist, healer, magician or expert.
I am simply a human being who was living in a body that felt out of control, through skin conditions, gut issues, physical trauma, and the quiet grief of not trusting myself anymore.

This is not advice. This is a record. A relationship. A remembering.

I just really hope this helps, a little.

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I’m definitely the Wtichy-Woo one in the friendship group — in a non preachy way! I just have the remedy for that thing you’ve been trying to get rid of. So, I wanted to share more. Because the relationship I now have with my skin and my body didn’t appear overnight — and it didn’t begin with herbs.

It started when I realised I wasn’t healing at all. I was surviving.

Steroid creams would calm a flare for a moment, then symptoms would return, louder, angrier, more demanding. The prescriptions stronger, but my skin thinner. I became careless, I abused them so much that I burnt my skin entirely through overuse, desperately chasing relief.

At the same time, my body was unravelling in other ways, quietly. I was intolerant to more foods that I could count. My hormones were out of sync, everything was completely disconnected. I knew that my body was carrying more than it could process.

So I stopped. Cold Turkey.

No prescriptions. No pain relief. No Lemsip, paracetamol - nothing!
My body had stopped responding the way it once did, and I was exhausted, I had to stop numbing the symptoms and start listening to the message.

What followed immediately after wasn’t healing, it was a test of patience and perseverance. My body purged. Topical Steroid Withdrawal. Intense cystic adult acene. More vitiligo. Food intolerances I’d never experienced before.

It was confronting. It was slow. And it forced me to stay present in a body that had no quick fixes left.

That period is what built my apothecary.
Well, technically it’s just my tea cupboard. But Apothecary makes it sound more magical, and it’s my pride and joy — makes me feel fancy!
Four drawers crammed full of herbs, teas, tinctures, oils, and anything else i’ve gathered in an attempt to understand and support my body rather than fight it.

It’s a far cry from the cycle of prescription steroid creams, ointments, balms and tablets I clung to for most of my life.

Some of what I reach for now has been with me for years. Other things I’m still experimenting with, cautiously, curiously, and with respect. They aren’t replacements, but a way to support my body while it learns to regulate itself again.

So, I’d thought I’d share with you the remedies that have helped me — a tea, a herb, a ritual, a choice. And how it’s shown up in my body, my skin, and my cupboard. Not as advice. Not as a prescription. Just as a lived experience.

From Nettle Tea, Seamoss gel and Temezcal. All of the magic that finally allowed me to let go and gain myself back.

Wherever you are with your body — medicated, experimenting, exhausted, hopeful? You’re not doing it wrong. That is one thing I’m “qualified” to say!

This is simply my way of staying in communication with mine. I’ll share what I learn as I go, and I hope it helps.

Big Love, Yas x

Still not doing New Year’s resolutions though. (Mostly because the New Year doesn’t start until Feb 17th 2026 anyway ☾ )

So, ‘ere we are then and with that the 2025 season comes to an end…

This year I’ve been very clear and very unclear about who and what I am.

So incredibly confident but also concerned.
So passionate about becoming something that I almost forgot everything I’ve lived, learned and survived to get me here. What an ungrateful cow.

I’m calling 2025 my Reality Year.

For most of the year I thought craving “change” meant something dramatic — a leap, a big decision, a reinvention, a jump that would throw me into a totally different version of myself.

But the truth?

All the real change happens long before the jump. The tiny, private moments where you chose yourself. The self-awareness. The honesty. The quiet confidence that shows up even when terrified. The slap across the face when you feel maybe a little …deluded?

This year I became so many things — an actor, a writer, a wife. Titles I was scared to admit I wanted… even though deep down I always knew I was capable. Titles I couldn’t claim until someone else said them first. It feels a little silly really, it’s not that I’ve ever needed someone to tell me I could be something. I’ve just been something else for so long that claiming something new before others could see it felt premature. It’s not about believing you can do it all. It’s about understanding that when you’ve built one life over decades, a new one doesn’t announce itself overnight — it asks for patience before it asks for belief.

I’ve dedicated a lot of time exploring what’s next in my “who” of ‘Who, What, Where’. And I was convinced that to figure that out, I had to let go of what I’ve known in order to discover it.

I thought I had to quiet one part of myself in order to finally shout about the next. Many times I thought about taking a leap, finally letting go, because I had so much passion for what was next.

But here’s where December has hit me with the truth (thank f*ck, not like I’ve been scrambling all year to figure it out):

Confidence and frustration live on a very thin line. My confidence was tangled with impatience, the “I’m ready to leap because I know it can be better than this”, rather than the “I’m going to leap, trusting I’ll land, aware that the next part is ready for me”.

In trying to find the “Who” I was loosing self.

Self-awareness is the doorway to identity.
Identity is the doorway to the life you’re craving.

You can’t build a different life with the same inner blueprint. But you also don’t have to completely demolish the whole house to rebuild a room.

Maybe it’s not about the dramatic reinvention.
Maybe it’s not about abandoning everything you were.
Maybe it’s about upgrading the structure you’ve already built with years of effort, experience, love, mistakes, passion and survival.

I’m realising that change doesn’t always kick the door down.

Take a look at what you’re still carrying. Look what no longer fits. Look at what still matters.

Change isn’t about dates or resolutions, it’s about noticing patterns, showing up for yourself.

….

and yes you can do it! But who are you choosing to be first?

This week’s Substack was meant to be about being a Northerner - because lately I’ve been hyper-aware of how often my Northern antenna twitches at the sound of bAth in a city full of bARths. And I’ll write that piece one day. I will. Just not today.

Because something else has been sitting with me. Something small, technically. Maybe even stupid? Most definitely irritating. Something that - if I’m honest - I wish bothered me less than it did. But, I’m almost enjoying the feeling, weirdly. So, let’s break this down…

Before we do though - again- I must insist don’t therapise this. In fact I want you to read this in the silliest way possible.

Stay “ha-ha” with me in this journey…

It’s deep. But, not that deep.

The crime scene: Someone posted my childhood bully into the WhatsApp group.

Source: It was a selfie.

GASP!

And it wasn’t fear that hit me. It wasn’t even hurt. It was this strange, simmering jealousy that I wasn’t there - in the room - to face them.

It’s not been a thought that constantly occupied my brain. But, whenever I visit the small suburb I grew up in, I come prepared. Almost gagging to bump into them. Alas! My angels are protecting me from any low-vibrational interaction/altercation.

It’s just… It would be nice to have my Charlotte York/Goldenblatt “I curse the day you were born” moment.

.

I wasn’t triggered in the shaking heart-racing, “Oh God not him” way. I was ready. Ready to face them. Ready to look them in the eye. To protect her - the younger version of me who didn’t take the chance to. My reaction to it felt older sibling-like.

Almost like, after all these years I wanted that moment. To show them I’m not the kind to be picked apart. To stand in my power, where they once enjoyed seeing me small.

There’s some sort of arrogance that moves through me at the thought of it. Like I’m better than them now, so time to square up for the moment.

But here’s what hit me: I’m never going to get that moment.

Not because he doesn’t deserve it. But because I’ve been holding onto this idea that my younger self needs defending - when actually, she already proved everything she needed to.

Memory isn’t always linear or logical - sometimes just a live wire. And this one is somewhat directly linked to dynamite, waiting for it to go off. And I realised maybe I can unplug one of the connector pins.

It feels ridiculous doesn’t it? We can really get on with life, we achieve so much, we moisturise, we buy Extra Virgin Olive Oil, in glass vessels nonetheless!! So mature, so adult-money of us. Why are we spiralling over someone from between the ages of 5-12.

But your body says “Danger”

Just to be a bit dramatic here. I think in my case it’s saying attack?

Maybe if I were face-to-face it would be a different story.

But it feels so good dunnit? Ready to curse the day.

I wanna rip his head off and use it as a football, I don’t even know the offside rule but I’d f*ck it up and score a goal. I know that doesn’t even make sense..stay with me. I just had to get that bit out for dramatic effect.

Maybe you’ve felt it too? That strange leftover tension from a person you haven’t seen in years, they haven’t been in your life, but still live somewhere in the wiring of who you became.

We outgrow places, jobs, whole versions of ourselves - but our nervous system remembers every room we once felt small in.

Do most of us carry a younger version of ourselves who still flinches, even if we don’t? Someone we still feel responsible for, even long after we’ve become someone else.

What I know for sure is, you don’t need the showdown. You just need to know you made it here.

I thought I needed to protect the girl I was. Turns out she already showed them.

She survived.

She became me.

And that is the revenge.

F THEM xoxox

Not legally, don’t call anyone. It’s more spiritually, emotionally and in many ways that matter, I feel like I’m too young to be a WIFE and it’s very surreal.

I got married in September, turned 35 in October, and I’m still walking round wondering who signed this off?!

I’m a Scorpio, and yes, I’m telling you that because it might be relevant for you to understand. Or might it be the reason you’ve already stopped reading. We get such a dramatic rep, which…fair.

A few things before you sink your teeth into this.

Firstly, don’t overthink, or therapise me, I am experiencing a love that is so wonderful and I’m extremely happy. We have come together as two people who are great solo and so great as a duo. The whole thing is wonderfully surreal to be honest.

Anyway! Back to the crime scene.

I.GOT.MARRIED.

What the actual f*ck? Is this legal? Did anybody check my references? Did nobody stop and say, “Are you sure she’s not just playing house and making cocktails in a Nutribullet?”

I never fantasised about marriage. Not in any real adult way. I didn’t spend years picturing a white dress, a veil, or a slow walk down an aisle to Jagged Edge, while everyone is in tears and I’m trying to hold in a fart.

I imagined a partnership. A relationship that worked with my life & for it. Someone I didn’t have to chase, decode or mind un-f*ck in order to find love and to commit. Someone who wasn’t “seeing where things go” while I was waiting for whatsapp blue ticks and Instagram story views. I have never enjoyed the phrases that I have heard a lot of marriage people use: “my other half” or “better half” - you’re not half of something without that person.

The Grey Area? Loved it mate. I had a loyalty card for that place. You never get any freebies though, even when you get your 10th stamp (:

Dating apps? did my time, not for me. Actually, I never matched, but let’s not concentrate on those details, maybe the algorithm was just protecting me.

I loved my single life, I still do, I just chose to not do it anymore and be monogamous to a person that adds that extra sparkle to my magic. Single was never my waiting room, it was a life I adored. Then someone walked in who made sharing it make sense.

When I bought my first home, I had lived on my own for almost a decade. I was renovating and building a personality around finding the best version of ME away from anyone or anything else.

Then, in the same mortgage-moment, I met my…Husband. Still not over that word. Every time I say it, it feels like i’m announcing a panto villain - “HUSBAND” boo hiss boo.

He’s not a villain, just to be clear.

The title just feels quite dramatic in real life. He’s more like the Genie! I feel like whenever I say Husband, he will appear, to grant me all my wishes. Basically ‘Husband’ doesn’t roll off the tongue yet. I’m processing it, bare with. Remember… Child. Bride.

Our first date was 10/10. Details excluded because our romance is for me, not the internet - but, let’s just say there was no grey area and this GENTLEman was not signing on for another episode of “What Are We?”

Cut to...

I’m double-barrelled.

I’m Married.

I’m a …WIFE???!!

I held the title of Fiancé for a while. Loved it. I weirdly feel too old for “girlfriend” age-appropriate for “Fiancé” but too young for “Wife”

I feel like we are the Anonymous hackers and we’ve broken in and stolen adulthood data and nobody’s noticed. We’re cosplaying adults. Someone should’ve really given parental consent at some point. It just feels so…ADULT. We’ve bought a house together. We pay our own bills. We cook. We clean. We drive a car on the motorway. We sometimes say words like rhetorical. We know how to set our central heating on a timer (well, he does).

But THIS?! Marriage?! That’s just a step too far, surely?

Now, I wont lie, the process of getting married legally really threw me off for more than second. Firstly you have to ask the government for permission to get married. Sorry -get lost. Then basically you have to take a pub quiz on your relationship. And I’m not exaggerating (shh!) the questions are like: Spell your partners name. What’s their job? Who’s your mum, Who’s your dad? What colour eyes do they have? What was their first word? If they were a Porn Star what would their Porn Star name be?

So, I get it, I totally understand elopement and I understand and respect not wanting to get married. LET’S RIOT!

Ideally? Barefoot in Mexico, specifically Isla Holbox, (we had a really good holiday here once, highly recommend) in the middle of nowhere, chanting and drinking cacao under a full moon. Zero paperwork. Just us. No legal requirement. He would’ve. But, we love a dance floor and to be honest leaning into the celebration and all that comes with it was beyond anything I had thought to imagine.

Don’t get it twisted though, we still did it our way. No aisle walk. No "giving me away” (I’m not livestock). I was the first speech and we both shared our names with each other.

Now, marriage is no measure of adulthood, I think most of us can agree on that? It’s absolutely not the moment you suddenly feel like a grown-up. If anything it makes the pretending-to-function-like-an-adult feel louder. I could also really get into the depth of it all. How marriage, as an institution, makes me want to burn my bra -that I never wear. But, this isn’t about my tits, or maybe it is? I don’t know at this point in the Substack…

But what I do know is…

I’m not buying the formula we’re often sold:

Marriage → House → Baby → Death (roll credits of life)

Honestly? I want to hear about more adults who eat cereal for dinner, don’t know what day bin day is, and don’t open post for two weeks. And let me be clear, I’m not talking immaturity! I’m talking about life in all of its erratic, perfectly imperfect grown-up palava, while still feeling like … am I allowed to be an adult?

Tell me I’m not the only one who still feels 19 with a mortgage (don’t get me started on those bloody things, biggest scam since low-waisted jeans.) Marriage doesn’t make you an adult it just gives you a witness.

So, right now I’m currently two months in, or maybe four? Depending if we’re counting the paperwork in July, or the celebration in September. We’ll figure that out when the anniversary panic sets in.

Where does it leave me?

Well, somewhere between deeply in love and still quoting Kenan and Kel in 2025.

Still shocked.

Still delighted.

Still asking: is this allowed?

Anyway.

I’m a Wife now and I put the screw in the tuna.

Deciding to take a step into something new, especially in your career, is incredibly terrifying. You spend years doing and being that thing, proudly, publicly, loudly. It becomes part of your identity, stitched into your story.

For me, that thing was mostly radio. Broadcasting has never been just a job. It’s been the backdrop of my adult life, my twenties, my badge of identity, my voice, literally and figuratively. I loved it. I still do.

But about four years ago I needed more — more creativity, more movement, more purpose. At first, I thought I’d fallen out of love with broadcasting. But what I really needed was a shift. A shift in location. A shift below the creative ceiling. A shift that allowed me to expand.

I had been quietly dreaming of this thing, stacking up “maybe one day” thoughts, sandwiched between slices of “you’re not good enough to do it” thoughts.
But beneath the noise, the overriding feeling was '“I am capable.”
And I was desperate to learn. Fully, properly!

Acting.

Not as a pipe dream. Not as a side quest. Not as something I flirted with.

But as something I’ve always loved. Something I’ve admired, studied, connected with. Something I could feel, long before I had the language, confidence, or moment to chase it.

It’s what I would have done earlier, if fear hadn’t told me otherwise. If the identity of TV & Radio Broadcaster that I’d worn so comfortably hadn’t felt so fixed. If I hadn’t confused “what I do” with “who I am.”

Now it’s not lost on me that at this point I had been in a creative industry for almost 15 years and so I was inspired internally also by my peers and those who I had the opportunity to meet. I’ve now spent two decades in the creative industry, but I didn’t want that history to be my easy way in. In fact, it hasn’t been, and thankfully so, because it’s made the rewards feel even sweeter.

To show my (home)work and then be hired purely on the basis of having learned this new craft — and learned it well — has given me the greatest gift: reassurance.

Reassurance that this wasn’t a fantasy.
Reassurance that it’s not too late.
Reassurance that I really can do this.

And there’s been such joy in introducing myself to people who have no idea what I’ve done before.
(And trust me, there have been many before: florist, beautician, barista...)

Making the decision to act wasn’t actually the hard part.
I knew I wanted to go back to school and learn. So I made the phone call — and started putting the work in… privately.

That privacy helped soothe the fear at first, but not in the good way. It became this dirty little secret, something only my partner and my acting coach, Geoff, knew about.

Almost a year in, after tackling Stanislavsky, Strasberg, and a few intense monologue self-tapes, I finally felt ready to tell my friends, chest high, “This is me.”

How very Greatest Showman of me.

But honestly? I think I just needed to know, to the core of me, that this was possible, that it was mine. And it was. I couldn’t believe it.

Even writing that now makes me cringe a bit, like I’m being arrogant or lacking humility. But it’s not about thinking I’m some Oscar-worthy actor. It’s about finally being in tune with this passion. Creating something new. Doing it successfully.

And feeling, for the first time in a long time, like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
— Anaïs Nin

The conflict of being so sure that I had the drive to do this-whether I was great or not- while also overthinking other people's judgement (which, let’s, be honest, was really my own self doubt on a loudspeaker) was poisoning my confidence.

How could I be an actor if I didn’t believe it?
But oh, I did believe it. I just convinced myself others wouldn’t.
And then spiralled into: How would I convince them?

BY GETTING OUT THERE — HEAD HIGH! Duh!

How could I expect anyone else to believe me if I was the one ducking my head?

I found it easier, when someone asked “So, what do you do?” to just say, “I’m a broadcaster.” And then I’d kick myself afterwards.
WHY did I say that?
WHY can’t I just say I’m an actor?

I think it’s because I was terrified of what came next.
If I say I’m an actor — and I haven’t been seen yet — I could be anything.
A lion tamer. A mime. A liar?!!!!!

A friend of mine gave me some gold:
Stop saying “I’m kind of…”
Stop saying “I’m an actor… now.”

Those are doubtful phrases.
They don’t stand tall. They don’t claim the thing.
They shrink the thing.

If you're doing the thing, you are the thing.
No matter how much you’re “doing” it — right?

I still couldn’t, and sometimes still can’t, fully convince myself that’s true.
But I want to.

Even after landing two roles in some of the UK’s most iconic soaps, I still cringe at sharing my new creative path out loud.

So what is it?

Why can I be so passionate in the pivot, in the change without my mind spiralling about how other might be receiving this pivot-changey thingy I’m doing?

The reason for Change is so incredibly broad. Change comes in so many different sizes & flavours, different intensities!

Change because of time.
Change because of loss.
Change because of growth.
Change because of endings.
Change because of beginnings.
Change because it’s out of your hands.
Change because it’s finally in your hands.
Change because they leave. Because you leave.
Change because time — literal, relentless time — keeps moving.

Sometimes “change” sounds threatening. Heavy. Low-vibrational.
“Change your attitude.”
“You’ve changed.”
“I’ve had a change of heart.’

But it’s all perspective. The way I’m choosing to see Change now? More positively. It’s not a threat it’s a plan!

I am slowly releasing the need to know how others receive my change.

Change is for ME.

Change is learning.

Learning is growing.

Growing is living.

So live!

So, fuck it! I’m doing this.

P.S. In the last six months, I’ve been cast in Coronation Street (my proud Mancunian rite of passage), and I’ve just wrapped three months of filming on Emmerdale.

The constant self-tapes, the auditions, the no’s — they’re all part of it.

They’re proof that I’m in it. That I’m doing the thing.

That I am the thing.

In Fact it’s absolutely none of that. But let me get the jargon out of the way first.

I can’t believe I’m really choosing to move my body, CHOOSING to put one foot in front of the other continuously at a speed faster than walking.

It feels quite silly.

A few quick reasons why this feels silly:

1. My best friend, Lucy, is an athlete. She has been dedicated to running her entire life and is bloody great at it. When we were about 10 years old, I once thought I could join her team training session. I was so scared that I caused myself to have a panic attack—one I insisted was an asthma attack—just to avoid running.

2. Two years ago, I was physically unable to walk, let alone run, after being attacked on my way home (story for another day) The injuries lasted a long time, and I was convinced running was completely out of the question.

3. The only thing I RUN is a bath.

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But, let me break it down for my fellow non-running folk. Running is both liberation and confrontation.

Last October, I ran my first Half Marathon—21 kilometers. Before that, my only real experience with running was a few lockdown 5Ks and one random 10K. I’ve never considered myself a natural at anything remotely classified as a “sport.”

I had 10 weeks to see what my body could do before embarking on a 2-hour, 40-minute run through the stunning Royal Parks of London. It was tough, joyful, painful, beautiful, and surprisingly heartwarming. Crossing the finish line was incredibly emotional and almost impossible but I did it! What I didn’t expect was the emotional rollercoaster of those ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY MINUTES!!!!!!!

The feeling that surprised me the most was anger. The emotional weight of movement is heavier than I ever imagined. At first, I thought the anger was just frustration-frustration at my aching legs, the stretches of pavements, the extra kilometers I hadn’t trained for. But as the minutes plodded on, it wasn't about the run at all. It was so much deeper. It was old. It was stored somewhere in my body, waiting for movement to shake it loose.

I had spent those weeks cautiously training for this monster of a run, mindful of my knee injuries and taped up, doing everything to prevent any familiar, niggling pain from appearing. But as I crossed that start line, there it was, a big old GOTCHA! A reminder: You absolutely can’t do this!

Bessel van der Kolk speaks about how ‘The Body Keeps The Score’, and my God, movement has forced me to face things I thought I had already processed. Turns out, I hadn’t processed them at all–I buried them. Every step felt like a conversation with my past thoughts and reminders of the times I had been powerless, the times my body had failed me, the times I had been forced to stop. And yet, here I was/am, running. Moving. My body, the same one that had been broken and bruised, was carrying me forward.

That finish line was a battle, it was so overwhelming and joyous yet ridded with conflict. The pain fought to be the loudest feeling, screaming that I wasn’t as new, as fresh, as great as I once was or could have been.

The pain never felt like mine. It felt planted. Forced into my hands. Handed to me like an old, rotting wooden box, dark, heavy, something I never asked for but was made to carry. It was a mark left behind, a way of making sure I’d remember. Just because they didn't take what they wanted didn’t mean I got to walk away untouched. I carried that with me for those 160 minutes, and that box reminded me just how heavy it could be.

The tears at that finish line were of relief and pride, but also grief of the version of myself that barely made it there!

It’s funny because the rhythm of running as a movement feels like meditation. There's a duality to running: it’s healing, but it also hurts. It’s freeing, but it also forces you to confront your limits.

The endurance of it all is both physical and mental; it sometimes feels like homework or revision, especially on the days when your mind is saying HELL NO but the want to be better means there's only one way and that's through.

I used to think movement was something I had to earn. That I needed to be “athletic” or “good at it” to even participate. But running—this relentless, repetitive, stupidly simple act doesn’t give a heck about any of that. It strips you down to nothing but effort. You move, or you don’t. You stop, or you keep going. And in that rawness, I found something I never expected.

Forgiveness.

For all the times I had felt betrayed by my body.
For all the times I had ignored it, pushed it aside, or wished it was different.

Running didn’t just shake loose old anger—it gave me a new relationship with myself.

One where I could listen.
One where I could trust.
One where I could take a deep breath, feel my feet hit the ground, and really know that I am still here.

P.S. My next Half Marathon is next week. Letsfuckinavit!

From a young age I felt like I was given this unfinished or sort of damaged version of a body, always aware of its limits and flaws. I wasn’t just living in it, I was in constant negotiations with it, trying to figure out to exist with something that felt like it didn’t want to be mine. The constant battle with pain was highlighted by endless comparisons: Their skin didn’t do as mine did, their physical appearance wasn’t altered like mine was. Everyone else’s body seemed to just…work.

And if it wasn’t letting me down in our private battle, there were times when it failed me against the outside world.

I feel terrible for writing that, but it's the truth. There have been moments that I’ve felt betrayed by my own body. Moments when I wanted to be face-to-face with it, shake it and scream, “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAVE ME?”

I questioned its strength. I was infuriated by the pain it inflicted on me. Often feeling like “Me and You” were two roommates forced to coexist who didn’t trust each other.

I was given a lifeline once, an end to it all *drama*, at a young age. My skin condition would be something I would “grow out of” by the age of twelve. A professional told me this, and I clung to that lifeline to freedom with so much confidence and arrogance. Who cared if I caused myself immense pain now and mistreated my body? It would all be over soon, and I could finally be a normal kid who could wear a pair of pedal pushers. THANK GOD!

Well, that lifeline birthday came and went, and I quickly realised that this wasn’t a one hit wonder. There was always this dark promise lurking in the background that it would always be this way. I watched the same things eat away at the women in my family, Mothers, Grandmothers, the nucleus of every home. They carried strength and respect, yet were quietly crippled by their sores. Their power was undeniable, but it came wrapped in pain, marked by scars and wounds, a constant reminder of the battles they fought in silence.

I was forced to commit to this long-term relationship, and as time passed, my side of the relationship became all about trying everything I could do to shut.it.up! The routine choreography was learned very early and very quickly: pain, medication, no pain, medicate a little... juuuuust in case, slap it all on and repeat. Anything to achieve that perfect skin, that perfect body that wouldn’t require me to adapt or change something about myself just to avoid discomfort.

I feared change—change in weather, change in scenery, change in the people I met. To counter that fear, I built a thick wall by being the funny one. Laugh at myself before anyone else could catch me. I could outsmart anyone in my path with charm. Every parents’ evening: “She talks too much.” Well, now who’s laughing? (It’s been 12 years of being paid to talk, muahahaha.) It was all a ploy! I needed a bit of joy to distract me from feeling on edge most of the time. What consumed me the most was making sure I was prepared for the pain to kick in. That meant constantly being aware of anything and everything. One wrong move was an instant reminder of what I was dealing with, and I had to avoid that at all costs. I’ve spent my whole life being prepared; even now, my apothecary is full of herbs that could help with any discomfort. I stay ready!

Despite the routines, the medication , the wall of humour, there was something that shifted along the way. There were quiet moments, and truthfully they were the most painful, when the noise of the battle quietened and I could see my body, not as the battlefield but as a partner in one of life’s struggles. There are now more days where I stop questioning it so harshly, the battle days are feeling less and less frequent. I realised that the relationship didn’t have to be all pain, all frustration, all failure, all of the time. It could be more that just surviving, it meant more exploring, more patience and mostly not in a constant war against it.

I couldn’t identify what the point was that my body was calling out for change, so I kept going. One day it physically told me to STOP. It was very clear to me that I was no longer in control and I had never been for that matter. I had to get to know my body again and the more I asked, the more it gave and the more I learned. That meant feeling every single bit of pain I had silenced for years, and by doing this I experienced new levels of pain, most of which I did not recognise. Patience, something I don’t know too well was definitely needed to detach myself from the Babylon(!!)

I thought my body was working against me, an endless source of frustration and limitation. I fought so hard, harder at times trying to ignore it, to silence it to keep up with the expectations of a ‘normal’ body. But as time passed, I started to understand that it wasn’t a battle, it was a plea. My body wasn’t trying to punish me; it was crying out for change, for balance, for release. Every sensation I dreaded was a signal urging me to pay attention, to slow down, to heal in ways I hadn’t before.

It’s taken years to rewrite this narrative, to see my body not as an obstacle but as a guide, a partner on this strange, unpredictable journey. Along the way we’ve (My Body and I) been tested in ways I never anticipated (well that’s not wholly true, I think for most of us have definitely thought of how much we’d fight back if anyone was to ever physically attack us) After years of navigating change, reconnecting with its true feelings, we were faced with a challenge that shook everything I knew about my own strength. It pushed me to new levels of pain, both physically and emotionally. It wasn’t the immediate feelings of pain that I had to process, it was the heavy ones that came after that I had to work through.

But out of darkness came something so much more powerful than I ever imagined. This isn’t a survival story, this is a rebirth. I transformed through finding this unexpected version of strength, like a Phoenix, reshaped and renewed!

I no longer carry the weight of resentment. Instead, I carry a little more grace, a little more understanding, and a quiet hope that I can continue to learn what my body has been trying to teach me all along. I don’t always get it right, and there are still SO many “What the f*ck just happened?!” moments, but something has shifted.

The story of my body is unfolding and creasing in so many ways, it’s ever changing, it feels stronger than ever but full of so many more scars. There are spaces for more wounds to come, but mostly space for the patience and acceptance that has been gifted. I have so much to learn from it, so many layers to peel back, so many versions of a butterfly to cocoon into.

For the first time I am trusting that my body knows more than I have ever given it credit for.

Hi, I’m Yasmin…

Well, this cursor is massive! Innit?

Suppose I’ll start by introducing myself,

I’m Yasmin Evans, a 34-Year-Old Northerner, Scorpio, deep-thinker and even deeper-feeler.

For the last decade I have mostly been someone you listen to on the Radio and sometimes may even be entertained by on the tele. I play music and talk into many different forms of microphones or more often, my iPhone’s front camera. Ironically, I have spent years being listened to by many, yet I rarely stopped to truly listen to myself-tune into my own personal frequency.

I guess January for most of us feels very reflective, fresh starts, back to work, new beginnings, maybe resolutions, realigning and refocussing on the goals for the year. Even writing the numbers *2025* feels weirdly futuristic.

So, in line with that energy, I feel it’s time to share more of what I’ve been creating…

I would have never called myself an author; I’ve kept diaries, I’ve filled countless Pukka pads and while it hasn't always been a straight creative line, the constant joy (maybe I can find a better word later) I’ve felt has remained unwavering. And sadly, so has the imposter syndrome.

So, I’m just gonna flipping do it—call this a soft launch, maybe?

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YASMIN EVANS, AUTHOR.

What do I know? Seriously, what do I bloody know?!

I want to share with you the stories of coming home to my body and being able to communicate with it, most of these are stored in paragraphs on a Google Doc or in old Book proposals from the last three years.

For most of my life, my body and I were strangers—unfamiliar, distant, and out of sync in different coordinates. Dealing with a skin condition since birth and the levels of physical and mental stress that came with it created a fertile garden for the seeds of pain and discomfort. I spent years ignoring its cries for help, covering them up and pushing through the pain, focusing on everything but what “we” (My Body and I) actually needed.

It’s been messy, it’s been hard, but it’s been ours and MY GOD have a lot of those seeds been dug up over the last few years. Our journey has been one of learning to listen, to hear what wasn’t being said, and finally understanding that our journey home doesn’t come from pushing through—it comes from coming together.

And today, I’m finally listening.

Coming home to my body hasn’t been about finding perfection; it’s been about learning to live in it fully—feeling every bit of pain, joy, confusion, and clarity, and figuring out how to process it all. This home, my body, is ever-changing—sometimes I’ll paint it a colour I don’t like, sometimes it’ll need renovation, the plumbing might fail, or cracks will show up in the plaster. But no matter what, it’s still my home. And just like any home, it’s a place I’m learning to love, maintain, and rebuild when needed. It’s not about reaching a final state—it’s about being present through the decorating, embracing the messiness, and knowing that home can still feel like home, even when it’s imperfect.

I might start at the beginning or I might start from a more difficult place but it will always be about what I know. I’ve found it hilarious in parts and heart breaking in others, but the beauty of it all is that I feel so incredibly reconnected to my body in a way I never have before.

I’m here to share my own messy, chaotic, beautiful experience of flowing through the “What f*ck happened?!” moments.

I am not the blueprint for “wellness” just a person navigating life, learning to trust myself again, and figuring out how to listen to what my body needs and a lot of the time still not knowing. It’s about being human, being flawed, and being in the process.

I’m sure we’re not here to achieve perfection, nothing blooms all year round (Google it.)

I hope that you join me in that process, knowing that neither of us have it figured out yet, but we’re both finding our way back.

I look forward to sharing our journey in this vulnerable space (on the flipping internet for all to see - EVERYTHING’S FINE!!!!!) and I hope that you receive it with kindness.

Lots of Love,

Yasmin (Author)

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