Grief is a normal part of life.

That’s what everyone says. That we will all have to come to terms with our own mortality sooner or later.

It’s probably why we have all developed such a fascination with those who are untethered from the passage of time. The infamous immortals that litter prose and pop culture with equal measure.

Our fixation didn’t begin when Bella met Edward, or when Elena met Stefan, or when Buffy met Angel. The hope that this isn’t ‘it’ has been carved into ruins, scrawled on hieroglyphics, and recited in folk tales for as long as we have been on this earth.

The ephemerality of the human condition hangs over us.

The death notices on the local radio. The second of silence to honour the hearse as it goes past. The inevitable flurry of tissues outside the funeral home. Woven into the tapestry of our comings and goings, nodded off with phrases like ‘Ah sure, they’re in a better place’, or the scandalously excited whispers of ‘Did you hear??’

It’s a testament to the human condition that we can just carry on. As if you let yourself get weighed down by it, there’s no room left for life to breathe.

In Irish culture in particular, we are very exposed to our own finite existence. Wakes are a huge part of our culture. We greet the deceased in the centre of the room like it’s nothing. They’re surrounded by flowers, crosses, and the sweet yet sharp smell of incense. Ears full of assurances that they are ‘looking well’.

We all clutch their hands or kiss their foreheads as we walk by. The shock of the steely coldness of their skin is never commented upon. We go from the slick hands of the grieving to the stony hands of the deceased in one movement.

Amongst this charade, we all accept that one day we will lose those closest to us. If there is any fairness to be found in the process, we will at least depart in age order.

Suddenly, the fight for the top of the queue, with the childish protests of 'well I’m the eldest ’—no longer feels as fun.

The real hurt comes when that order is betrayed, with the figure of the Grim Reaper picking and choosing (seemingly at random) who goes first. Who goes next? How do they go?

While everyone feels the immeasurable pang of grief at some point in their lives, my first real exposure came when I was thirteen years old. Like so many, I was touched by the effects of cancer, the ugly disease that took my loved one away.

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Every year, I wrote about how I felt on the day of her anniversary. That’s thirteen years of tracking grief.

The early years were the most confusing, with my grief mingled on the same page as other mundane life updates. The phrase, ‘life goes on,’ seemed scrawled in the subtext of my schoolgirl sagas.

In certain years, it absolutely floored me. I couldn’t understand why the physical pain in my chest was still unhealed, why a photo or a memory could rip the stitches clean open, even after a decade.

Through the tears, my diary held it all. I sometimes wonder how the sheer enormity of my grief didn’t burst from its pages. It’s the canvas where I asked questions, reminisced, and plodded slowly through my grief, and continue to do so.

I know that not every article or piece needs to have a greater purpose. You can simply read this out of sheer curiosity or because you stumbled upon it on your internet travels.

But if you have been touched by grief and wonder what lies ahead, your algorithm may have just steered you down the right path.

Note: Where necessary, names and details have been changed and some parts have been redacted to protect the privacy of the individuals featured in this story. A college tutor of mine, the great Carlos Gebler, once said, ‘Never write about anyone until they’re dead’, and while a little on the nose in this case, this is my attempt at adhering to that rule.

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I’ve had two major breakups in my short life.

Friendship breakups, that is.

While I have also experienced a soul-crushing, anxiety-inducing, and truly toxic romantic breakup in my time — it pales in comparison to the end of a female friendship.

The bottom line is, friendship breakups are the worst. The worst of the worst. The fallout is far more catastrophic. It stretches out into every facet of your life.

The girly bathroom chats, the silly getting-ready conversations, the shared zeitgeist of shows, music, fashion inspirations. The chaotic voice note conversations — the insane lore of the group chat.

In my life, I’ve always said that relationships come and go, but my female friendships are forever.

However, no matter how good your intentions are, life doesn’t always work out that way. Not to skip to the end, but the truth is that not everyone is meant for you, even on a platonic level.

Friendships should lift you in life, make you feel supported, safe, and authentically yourself. The goal should be a reciprocal friendship, where they would do for you what you would do for them.

That’s the goal, even if that’s not always the reality.

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Ireland, being an adored nation, may also feel like the norm.

However, these two concepts have reached a cataclysmic collision.

On the streets of London today, there is nothing that will boost your street cred quite like announcing you hail from the Emerald Isle.

If an Irish accent reverberates through the room, you’re sniffed out in seconds. People smile coyly at you, waiting for their chance to approach.

Inevitably, someone will declare their lifelong dream of walking the streets of Dublin. (Even though it’s only a 50-minute flight away)

They will declare ancestry in a county they have never been to. (What’s a county?) Citing relatives they have never met. (Do you know any Murphys?) They will label ‘The Devonshire’ as their ultimate hidden gem. (Do you like their Guinness?)

Admittedly, it’s kind of intoxicating to bask in their Kerrygold-tinted glow.

As they clutch their Guinness, letting an already tragic-looking head go flat in their warm grip, they dance sheepishly around their North vs. South curiosities. They might even dare ask if you know Paul Mescal, or have ever journeyed to Dingle? (They’ve been invited to a stag there next year.)

Recommendations will be requested. Glossy-eyed glances will be exchanged. Total ignorance of the one-sided beef will hang thick in the air.

It goes without saying, I’ve taken poetic licence. Ladening on the Leprachaun for one last jig.

I can’t help myself. That Irish banter in my blood oozes onto the page. Queue the wink-wink-nudge-nudge of it all.

With five years of ‘boots on the ground journalism’ to my belt, I have witnessed a supreme shift in attitude toward the Irish in real time. To laughs over pints and many a chilled red, I have coined this change as the ‘Irish Renaissance’.

Note: I mentioned this coinage to my equally-Irish partner, and he questioned “is it a renaissance, if we were never liked here before?” A valid point, but ‘The rise of the Irish’ didn't convey my intended message.

When I arrived here on the cusp of the post-COVID era, with two suitcases, a Smeg kettle stuffed with my best knickers and a dream, my Irishness was nothing special. It was more of a hindrance than a hero moment.

So, how did the Irish go from our era of pariah (circa. No blacks, no dogs, no Irish) to practical house party royalty? Can we put all of the credit at the feet of Paul Mescal, or at the gates of Guinness Storehouse?

I don’t want to totally delve into a history lesson, but some key facts have to be mentioned in order for everything else to make sense.

While many Brits might be totally oblivious to why the Irish might not be their biggest fans, it doesn’t come from nowhere.

Before I decided to board a Ryanair plane in 2021, my family (and others like mine) had a short history with their British neighbour.

1950’s - Employment opportunities

On one side, my grandmother (through marriage) was welcomed into the UK as a nurse in the 1950’s with relative ease – due to the shortages the labour market faced at the time.

My granddad left his farm in the Midlands of Ireland to seek job opportunities in London, settling in Brixton. He was a bus conductor for a short period, but on all accounts had a very negative experience and returned to Ireland shortly after.

1960’s - “The boat to England”

Since I was a child, I’d always been aware of young pregnancy chatter centred around “you don’t want to have to get a boat to England”.

Simply put, since Ireland only legalised abortion in 2018 (my first voting opportunity and landmark victory), many women were forced to access services in the UK. Usually in very heightened, distressing, and on occasion, life-threatening circumstances.

If you’re wondering the alternative, I encourage you to research the Magdalene laundries.

1980’s - “Lonely London”

My step-dad journeyed to London in the early 80’s as a young teenager to work on the building sites.

Shipped out on buses to likely asbestos-filled sites, he has no happy memories of this cash-in-hand period of his life. He did return for a few short years in his rock-loving twenties, but recounted it as some of the ‘loneliest’ years of his life.

I moved to London on a whim after a very quiet final two years of college in lockdown circumstances.

I secured a flat and a job within a week, and with a barrel load of savings from working all through my degree, I linked arms with my best friend and hopped on a Ryanair flight.

On my first night in London, having emerged from a Covid-speckled and curfew-enforced landscape, it was a novelty from the moment we landed.

After a first day of Primark visits and bewilderment at the sheer quantity of Pret’s, we ended up in a nightclub in Clapham talking in feverish tones about the impact of the Potato Famine on the Irish people to any misfortunate Brit in earshot.

It was absolutely ludicrous that our closest neighbours could know almost nothing about us. Or most preposterously to us at the time, that certain members of the British public could withhold a disdain for us – I was once asked to “thank” a signet-wielding Brit for all he had done for my country in a club queue.

After enduring these kinds of questions throughout my first years here, they slowly started to peter off.

The shift occurred silently. Suddenly, being Irish went from being ‘interesting’ in a museum artefact kind of way, to the type of interesting that warrants actual house party street cred.

So, what was the turning point? Is it truly the presence of the Irish creatives that did the groundwork?

Can we lay it all at the feet of Paul Mescal (whose London lore is infamous in itself)? Does it date back to Cillian Murphy, or despite his distinct lack of pride from the Irish themselves, can we give a pat on the back to good ol’ Bono? What about Guinness and the UK national shortage that ‘splitting the G’ caused?

Is it CMAT’s impact? Or do shows like Derry Girls or Bad Sisters deserve some cultural kudos? What about Jonathan Anderson or Sally Rooney? Have they carved out a creative cultural kudos for us, worthy of this shift?

You can even see the shift from a sales perspective.

The Brits famously drank the Guinness kegs dry in London last year. Claddagh rings and adorned items have become all the rage. GAA shorts are present in London Fields (also known as Paul Mescal’s slutty shorts). Kneecap are perhaps unknowingly attracting a whole new demographic. Irish delicacies are appearing on menus. Queues are forming by Emerald Eats on Broadway Market from the Brits themselves. Abercrombie released a Guinness collection.

While we’re used to the adoration and attention of the Americans, British interest could only be categorised as indifference. We were known for our “craic”, and our pubs would be sought out for some fun around the globe, but not much else.

Personally, I’m enjoying the change. How could I not?

I like being liked. Sue me.

My personal question is whether this affection for the Irish — our accent, our culture, our landscape, our craic — does it shift the power dynamic?

Who is on top? Does our creative weight trump even the Brexit-sized shift?

Economical or political theories may be above my pay grade — but I, for one, shall enjoy it.

Zoë x

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About two years ago, I was stopped in my tracks on my commute. As the London bus trundled past, I did a double-take.

“Did I just see an ad for divorce plastered on the side of the bus?”

There was no way.

I read it wrong.

It must have been another multivitamin or insurance brand. I continued my descent into the station, ploughing toward the Victoria line with my learned London gusto. Stepping to the right on every escalator, no loitering, everyone has places to be.

My eyes flicker to the left.

There it is again.

On every poster slot, the prime time escalator position was an ad for ‘amicable’. A platform with the tag line ‘Divorce Made Kinder’.

The ads themselves were actually quite amusing, focused on helping your friend or family member through the process by recommending amicable.

The jokes delivered with the casualness of a toothpaste advertisement.

Everywhere I looked, the posters were there. Then, this week, they reappeared. With a new onslaught of activity, proudly reminding folks near and far that divorce shouldn’t be a dirty word.

As a marketing girl myself, I applauded the 25-year-old who likely pitched that copy. Imagined the nodding around the table as the alliterative line made it through the rounds of compliance and testing.

Because yes, divorce is so normal now. Marriage is no longer viewed as a forever thing, even the romantics caveat their love-struck statements with ‘all going well’ nods.

Things are allowed not to work out, and the legal system has agreed to that.

As touched on in fan-favourite Downton Abbey, being a ‘divorcée’ was not as chic as it sounds. After all, the whole abdication saga within the British royals stemmed solely from the disdain for divorce.

But now, only a relatively short time later, that’s all been forgotten.

When I was a child, I was the only one in my class in Catholic primary school with divorced parents.

However, as a precocious little princess, I thought it was 100% the chicest thing ever. After all, I had four parent-figures who adored me, all telling me that I was the best thing since sliced bread.

Every year, I got two Christmas Days, two birthdays, two Easters. I had two additional sets of grandparents to call my own. Two bedrooms, two wardrobes, two social schedules.

I had two “First Communions”, two dresses, and two day-outs. There’s hardly a child on earth who wouldn’t bask in that glory and attention.

Obviously, it was all more complicated than that behind it all, but that’s not 100% my story to tell.

What the ad campaign has successfully tapped into is that divorce is still a dirty word in many contexts. In my own experience, I always feel awkward bringing it up. As saying ‘my mom lives here..’ and ‘my dad' lives here..’ has always been one way to kill a conversation stone cold.

People generally don’t know how to respond, as they don’t want to offend. Which usually leads to a crass joke falling out of my mouth. Get them laughing so we can sidestep away from a conversation they don’t want to collude in.

The only change in this conversation dynamic has been with people who have experienced it themselves. I was stopped in my tracks when someone in my first job deadpanned, “So, are your parents still together?”

I stuttered my negative response, barely catching my breath before my colleague launched into a ‘divorced parents’ bonding session.

Then it happened again. And again. I attended a house party last year where one of my friends said “Raise your hand if your parents are still together”.

Two people did.

I was suddenly in the majority, not the minority.

It may be uncouth to celebrate, but it really emphasised the sheer shift since I was a child. Is that good? Bad? Does it signify a devastating moral free fall from the sanctity or marriage and the lifelong obligations that those vows are meant to entail? Or is it a culturally nuanced acceptance at the altar that forever doesn’t actually have to be “forever”.

That it’s never actually too late to start again?

Maybe.

But at least I’m in on the joke.

Zoë x

Stone cold take: Corporate life doesn’t leave space for creativity.

After almost a year away, I returned to corporate life last October.

This gap left space for a minor mental health break, a foray into freelancing, and an arduous job-seeking process.

To say that stepping into the office again was a shock to the system would be a wild underestimation. I had forgotten about the politics, the crammed calendars, the defeatism of being told ‘you’re on mute’.

During my time off, I managed only minor moments of creative expression, despite having copious quantities of time.

Now? I truly believe my imagination is locked away. Muted by Slack notifications, bill reminders, and the ferocious fear of failing.

There are examples of people who can “do it all”.

Quite a lot of examples, actually. The Grace Beverleys and the Steven Bartletts of this world.

Who can climb the corporate ladder, retain a healthy social regime, exercise, eat well, get 8 hours of sleep, and find time to build and fuel an enviable side hustle that fulfils their creative urges?

In the era of “grind culture”, this multifaceted behaviour is almost mundane.

You’re also expected to wedge in the time for the tasks required to keep yourself alive.

To clean your home, stock your fridge, prepare meals, do laundry, change your sheets, wash your hair, and brush your teeth.

While also watching the latest Netflix show, which somehow, everyone else has found the time to watch.

I do attempt to keep it flowing. After all, I don’t have children or a jam-packed sporting schedule. I have a desk job in an office with a rotating bar of protein-packed snack options.

I have the luxury of time

Just enough to go to the gym 5 times a week. To see my friends frequently enough that I get accusations of frivolous spending. To call my Mom. To meal-prep Emily English recipes.

It’s all a bit like playing Sims.

The rush to fill your hunger, social, fun and hygiene bars, feeling like a rapid race against time. Before the energy bar ultimately drops to zero. So you find a spot to sleep on the floor.

The space in between hardly feels like the moment to run to my laptop and express myself creatively. That finite energy is usually funnelled into a meticulously curated ‘proof of life’ Instagram dump.

Reading this back, it sounds like I’m struggling with simple ‘adulting’.

Exasperated by my social feed telling me everything I could be doing if I just set my mind to it.

Taking a step back from my spiral, let’s use that famous corporate term and circle back.

The ironic joy is that my job is actually creative. That I get to write every day for my paycheck.

Am I the Andy Sachs that I imagined I would be? No.

Do I enjoy my job? Yes.

Do I have the money to live out my Sex and the City fantasy? No.

Do I have enough money to pay my rent and occasionally visit a small plates restaurant? Yes.

Do I have enough time to resuscitate my Substack and put the final dregs of my creative juices to a purpose that I can be proud of?

Let’s find out.

Zoë

P.S. I promise to contribute more to this space than egocentric rants about the state of my corporate life. Pinky swear.

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I’ve always loved the festive season. In theory, at least.

As a sucker for anything cosy, I really thrive this time of year.

In fact, as I write this, I have my newly erected Christmas tree perched merrily in the corner, candles glowing in every crevice, and a roast in the oven. The highlight of my day is opening my Advent calendar, and it’s a miracle that a ‘Christmas Jazz’ playlist didn’t make it into my Spotify Wrapped.

This scene of total festive serenity is a welcome distraction from the dark cloud that looms over my almost over-emphasised festive cheer. Behind it all, I actually find Christmas really difficult.

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There are three main reasons for this Christmas conflict of interest.

1. As a child of divorce(s), this time of year has always been complex. Being passed over from one parent to the other, wrapped in whatever festive ensemble Santa Number One had left in my stocking. (I don’t take it for granted that I have the luxury of being so loved — that my presence is fought over — I know how lucky I am not to be lonely this time of year.)

2. Christmas is also a time that provides an aching reminder of those who are not present. Grief hits especially hard at Christmas, and that’s a burden I know that I do not bear in isolation.

3. I want everyone I love to be happy 365 days a year, but this urge to please really kicks into overdrive this time of year. Putting so much effort into making everyone else feel good can take the joy out of the whole thing altogether.

Before I dive into some admittedly personal anecdotes about my life, I’d like to recognise that Christmas is realistically just one day out of the year. The hype around it, while originally religiously symbolic, is now primarily commercial.

Yet the emotional, financial, and mental pressure to get everything ‘just right’ never seems to wane. Perhaps through writing this piece in the first place, I’m leaning into that concept even more heavily. But forgive me for being relatable.

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A question that’s been on my mind recently: “Should a Type A personality automatically end up with a Type B personality?”

Is this what they mean when they say opposites attract?

Which one do you identify with?

While I might adjust the wording, I’m most certainly a Type A personality.

It’s just how my brain works.

A therapist might tell you that a mildly chaotic childhood led me to find order in other aspects of my life. Controlling the controllable, with colour-coding, size-ordering, and alphabetising becoming my de facto settings.

To this day, I find calm in the chaos with organisation. My wardrobe is still colour-coded, my spice rack is lined up with militant precision, and yes, I’m most content when ‘pottering’ in my flat — also known as putting things in lines.

I may be mocked for my excessive organisation, but if you’re on holiday with me, I’ve been told it’s a joy just to follow me around. I thrive in these scenarios, as my ‘go with the flow’ compadres can take a mental holiday as I take the planning reins.

In these scenarios, I’ll wear the badge of ‘Type A’ with pride. After all, I’m being useful, proactive, and productive.

However, do these traits really define my entire personality?

Type A + Type B is seen as optimal in partnerships, with one person steering the ship and the other happily strapped in for the ride. This Yin & Yang balance allows one to always pull their partner toward a steadier equilibrium.

Type A is in a state of panic because things aren’t lining up, whether in life or in their bathroom cabinet — this is Type B’s cue to come in and take the edge off. Make a tactful joke, dispel the clouds of confusion, and replace them with more solid solutions.

While maths has never been my strong suit, A+B in this case = C, ie. The relationship redeemer itself — Compromise.

Type A +Type A would surely have a spotless living space, and the thought of even having a ‘junk drawer’ is outside the realm of possibility. However, there’s an obvious personality clash present. What about if they don’t like the same lines? Is it going to be a constant silent battle of how the coffee cabinet is organised?

Can two A’s come close to the C of compromise?

Then there is the deadly combination of Type B + Type B, two kindred ‘go with the flow’ kind of people.

*shivers*

I’ve always tended to organise. “Pottering” is a full-time hobby that keeps my hands busy while my mind is sorting through and de-cluttering the drawers in my head.

Financial worries, career plans, article ideas, the weekly menu, my bus route to the office — all sectioned off in a way that makes it easier for my brain to digest.

This ordering system is easier to derail. One rogue thought can leave my brain space in tatters, with no room left to move from one thought to another.

My frustrating lack of control inside my head makes my determination for outward orderliness even more deliberate.

I can acknowledge my own perfectionism.

That if you make the bed, I’ll probably silently redo it. If you offer to make my breakfast, I’d rather do it myself — the stakes are simply too high when it comes to the perfect peanut butter and banana bagel (with just a drizzle of honey).

With all these acknowledgements in place, I’m admittedly in a Type A + Type B relationship myself.

It’s led to some issues, where stresses from my inner life make it almost impossible to understand why my partner didn’t do the dishes as soon as his final bite of dinner was journeying down his oesophagus.

*deep breath*

I won’t put him (or myself) in the firing line with any more examples, but it’s definitely been a learning curve. One that didn’t have a solution when I first sat down to write this article. However, returning to it several months later, I have some greater conclusions that I’d like to share.

No one is fully Type A or Type B.

There are aspects of my life that I let things slip, get messy, and forget about. Then there are things that I’m so nuclear militant about that it ruins my day if they are done incorrectly.

The same goes for my Type B friends; there are some things that they take very seriously and won’t ‘go with the flow’ with. It might be their professional life, or their sporting habits. It might not be booking holidays or remembering to hang out the washing, but it doesn’t mean that they can’t have Type A moments.

That right there is where compromise comes in. To find the middle ground in the ebb and flow, and to find that person where you can switch your brain off. Where you don’t have to be the ‘Type A’ friend, because your loved one will take the reins for you.

Ebbs and flows, Type A hats and Type B hats. Compromise.

Maybe I’ve dropped from a Type A to a more nuanced (and dare I say mature?) version of the stereotype.

Even though I still insist on colour-coding everything.

After all, compromise can’t compete with common sense…

Your Type A girl,

Zoë x

“My hobbies can be categorised as things people could have done in the 1800s” — Taylor Swift

Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

From the outside, I’m aware that people might slot me into one of these categories without a second thought, as I know I can come across as super bubbly and outgoing. (There’s no way to say this without it seeming self-indulgent, so take it as you wish…)

In many aspects, the quick-fire conclusion of an extrovert is correct. Nothing charges my batteries like a night with my girls. I even get a kick out of the smallest interactions with baristas or even my dentist, which admittedly puts a sparkle in my step.

That, once again, would put me in the category of an extroverted personality.

However, there is nothing in this world that makes me happier than being tucked up in bed, skincare done, with my latest novel in my grasp—all before the clock has struck 9 pm.

My main hobbies consist of reading, scribbling in my diary, solving my NYT puzzles, watching shows I’ve seen millions of times before, painting, crafting my dream home in Animal Crossing, cooking new Emily English recipes while drinking Chin Chin wine, planning my next dinner party, sending increasingly ridiculous stickers to my group chat and considering a career in pottery making.

However, every blue moon, when the clock strikes twelve, a rogue Zoë can be found on an East London dance floor. Usually, after an impromptu turn of events at a small plates restaurant or after emerging from a house party with my closest friends. Don’t get me wrong, I have so much love for those nights, but even at the ripe age of 26—I would probably choose a night in every time.

Unless my algorithm is entirely skewed, this desire isn’t a rarity amongst my generation. My feed is full of girls in face masks dancing around at the prospect of cancelled plans. Or people believing that the getting ready process tops any other part of the night out.

In fact, I’m pretty sure the Gen-Z snowflakes are being singled out as the sole cause of the demise of the late-night industry. If I’m to be the spokesperson for my particular demographic, the only way I’d be found on the sticky floors of a club is… Well, actually, no scenario would warrant me paying £20 to complete the loop of dance floor, drink, bathroom, smoking area, before someone finally breaks the cycle with the announcement of a desire for chicken nuggets.

The decidedly biased slant of that rant eliminates the need for guessing about where I stand on the subject.

However, I’m aware of a few circumstances that have signalled a swift exit from the realm of the ‘out out’ life.

1. I’ve been in a relationship for almost five years, and therefore don’t have the need to meet any prospective suitors under the disco lights of the crowded dancefloor.

2. Growing up in the era where ‘pre-drinking’ was the only viable option (tragically called ‘prinking’), I still shiver at the thought of dropping €15 on a watered-down sugary beverage. (This may also implicate me in the whole ‘shutting down the clubs’ argument.)

3. My hangovers have gotten decidedly worse since my early twenties, when I could go out five nights in a row with barely a painkiller to my name.

4. The thought of ‘but I have to do a run tomorrow’ has come into my mind when considering night out plans.

5. I had a horrendous panic attack the last time I stepped into a late bar.

Some of these disqualifying attributes are widely shared amongst my peers, especially now we’re known as the ‘health-conscious generation’. You can’t walk through my local park without being effectively bulldozed on route by the North London run clubs.

In fact, you can see the myriad of social outlets that have sprung up for those who have a non-negotiable desire to be in bed before 10 pm. I’ve attended book clubs, craft nights, and, admittedly, a few run clubs in the past year.

(It’s worth mentioning that London can be achingly lonely, which is why fifty girls are crammed into these rooms. It’s not solely because they’re rebelling against the ‘out out’ lifestyle, but simply because they need a friend. That’s a topic worth tackling another day.)

My boyfriend is baffled by my unwavering giddiness at the thought of a ‘cosy night in’. He comes home from the office most nights to find me in matching pink pyjamas, already curled up in the confines of the couch. He’s even tried to hide the clock when we’re watching a new series, as he knows I’ll announce that it’s ‘too late’ to watch another episode.

“But it’s 9 pm…” Exactly, honey, it’s bedtime.

He does not share my affection for this routine, as he jumps at the chance of a few wines leading us to the later hours—or early hours, depending on the occasion.

Whereas my favourite part of the night is usually getting ready with my girls, or watching my guests dive into the over-ambitious spread I’ve laid out for them. While my 17-year-old self would gawk at the notion, I actually am perfectly immune to the concept of FOMO.

I could guide my guests out the door with a smile on my face, clean the dishes, and dive with glee into bed.

I’m starting to think I’m just obnoxiously boring, so let me pose a small rebuttal.

I’m far from being a recluse, and if I have two glasses of wine, it will likely be me who presses order on the Uber to Dalston Jazz. I love the glory of a spontaneous night out with my friends, but nothing about my enjoyment stems from the locale of the club.

Which is why the non-alcohol-infused interactions have taken centre stage, and perhaps fueled an intentional dislike for a boozy Saturday night out.

Other than the reasons that I have outlined, I think that my status as an only child is probably the therapeutic analysis of my granny-like habits. I am very comfortable alone with my thoughts. Or maybe it’s the habits instilled in me during the lockdown years. I feel safest when cocooned in my covers.

The real question consistently posed to me, by both my errant thoughts and my party-fond friends, is “will I regret my granny years later on?”

Namely, will I mourn my choice to stay an elusive myth in the night out scene in my twenties? As technically, it’s just about still socially acceptable for me to frequent some of my old late-night haunts (and even then, I felt ancient compared to my 18-year-old clubbing counterparts)

Or have I inadvertently scheduled a midlife clubbing crisis in my future? Will I experience some sort of metaphorsis in my mid-thirties, where a weekend won’t be considered well spent unless I wake up with a club stamp on my arm?

Guess we will have to wait and see x

In honour of Alopecia Awareness Day, it seemed fitting to make the first edition about my hair loss journey. It also lines up (almost to the day) with when I first noticed the extent of my *bald patches*.

For the first six to eight months of my journey with hair loss, I didn’t tell a soul outside my closest circle. I dreaded the thought of anyone catching a glimpse of my hair, and I tried so hard to resolve the issue myself that I ended up making it so much worse.

Despite my fear of being found out, once I was out of the woods and my family had stepped in, I started to document my regrowth journey. This was intended to be just for my eyes only, as I wanted to see if there was any visible progress.

Instead, when my first fluffy tufts started to reappear, I decided to chat it all out in a TikTok video that received such a positive response. This gave me the confidence to share a more in-depth exposé of my journey, and the response has genuinely been very overwhelming, giving me the confidence to keep talking about it.

Sharing for me didn’t feel scary; it genuinely felt like a sigh of relief.

While not everyone in the world follows me on social media, it just felt like ‘everyone knows now, so I don’t have to be as paranoid about my bald patches showing’—it made me feel less self-conscious and started the slow journey of rebuilding my confidence.

Even writing this, I feel like I’m being so dramatic about my entire experience, as I’ve never been a fan of talking about health, especially publicly or online. It’s my inner voice that naturally is like ‘it’s not actually that bad’ or ‘no one wants you to talk about that all the time.’

But, based on the responses that I’ve gotten, I know that it is important to add to the conversation and hopefully help someone going through this skip some of the steps that I had to endure—and make it through the journey in as positive a way as possible.

So without further ado, this piece documents my experiences through the early days of Alopecia, using real accounts plucked from my diary entries. Since it’s my diary, it’s probably my most vulnerable account—treat her kindly.

I hope it helps.

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I have a happy announcement: I’m officially out of my reading slump.

We’ve all been there, the empty trudge through a reading drought. It’s a sad state of affairs when my bedside table book collection is gathering dust, or when I’m struggling my way through a novel, with every chapter punctuated with sighs.

After a period like this, there is simply nothing better (for me, at least) than finding a novel that reignites that passion.

Sometimes you can stumble upon something in a bookshop that just *clicks*, but usually my greatest reading finds come through recommendations.

I’m hoping that’s the gift I can give to you today—your next reading obsession.

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Fresh Water for Flowers, Valérie Perrin

A story of love, loss, and the path of life, told from the perspective of a cemetery keeper.

It isn’t something that I would think would be my next favourite read, but admittedly, the pastel perfect cover drew me in… And I’m very glad I did.

This is one of those books that slowly pulls you in, allowing you to piece the puzzle together slowly. You guess at why Violette has ended up working and living in a cemetery. You wonder if she’s happy there. You wonder if she’s ever experienced love, especially when she can come up with such profound conclusions about the mourners that weep at the gravesides of their lovers.

These questions are all answered through a narrative that effectively weaves together past and present, as it slowly gives us hints about her reality. Tackling grief and loss in often momentous accounts, unfurling layers of anger in a way that made me physically put down the book and pause to breathe.

Lots of twists and turns, and the potential to trigger lots of tears, give this book the time to sink in, and you won’t regret it.

Read this if: You’re a fan of ‘All the Light We Cannot See’ by Antoine

Table for One, Emma Gannon

This book did the rounds on my feeds before it even came out, and the concept (and the cover) really drew me in.

Flipping the traditional love story, Willow’s life quickly turns from her partner’s assistant booking her a ‘table for two’ for date night to being forced to accept her status at a ‘table for one’.

As a critic, my greatest gripe has always been with cliches. There are books that have physically made me roll my eyes (I’m sorry, Coco Mellors, but I am looking at you), with concepts that never quite land. This usually means I steer clear of certain genres, or writing styles, and this concept—of self-discovery through a break-up—could have been too cookie-cutter for me.

However, this one just skirted around the edges of this trap, with enough sub-plots and side nods to sidestep the potential ick of a ‘break up glow up’ kind of novel. I appreciated also that she didn’t just shove in another romance plot line, and that platonic friendship actually gets a moment to shine.

Personal highlights for me were the very real depictions of what it’s like to be the ‘single friend’—how do you navigate being a good friend and being a good partner? Society tells you that you have to support both, but you can be criticised for putting one in front of the other.

As she gets the opportunity to restart her writing career, through following the ‘Single Girl Messiah’, Naz, this novel tackles cancel culture, influencer mentality, and rediscovering your own passions post-break-up in a way that isn’t too ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ for the modern reader.

Read this if: You’re a fan of ‘Good Material’ by Dolly Alderton.

Evenings and Weekends, Oisín McKenna

This was the book that got me out of my reading slump.

Picked up in the airport departure lounge, I had my nose buried in this book for the entire duration of my trip back to Ireland, and was gutted when it was over.

Taking place over one sweaty weekend in London, you get to watch the myriad of couples in this story work their way through conflicting emotions, sexualities, and life choices on the streets of a North London summer.

I feel like there are so many novels these days that tackle confusion in relationships (a broad statement, I know), and this seems to get to the crux of that sexual conundrum really effectively.

While you don’t exactly get the opportunity to root for them, it’s an exploration of how messy relationships (and in fact, life) can be in the modern world.

Read this if: Honestly, I can’t find a book to compare this to… But maybe that’s a good thing in itself.

Long Island, Colm Tóibín

We all crave that ‘20 years later’ scene at the end of a film, but it rarely lives up to the expectation we’ve crafted in our minds.

Having read Brooklyn many moons ago, and having adored the film, I didn’t realise the cover I was seeing everywhere was actually a continuation of that story.

As soon as I saw the name ‘Eilis Fiorello’ on the back cover, my heart genuinely leapt out of my chest. A chance to see what really happened, and if she did make the right choice.

Colm Tóibín has such an incredible gift at weaving together the fabric of Ireland and its people. The characters feel so familiar and so alien all at once, with Eilis truly having grown into the strong woman her first years in Brooklyn moulded her into.

Personally, as a Jim Farrell fan from the outset, this book allows you to root for that love story in new ways while asking so many all-important questions. Are two people really destined to be together? Can time change everything? Or, is life simply too complicated for the concept of a happy ending?

Read this if: You’re a fan of Brooklyn, and want to reenter that world.

Tender, Belinda McKeon

Is there such thing as a platonic cosmic connection?

Upon picking this up, I thought that I was indulging in a love story. I hardly ever dip into the romance genre, so in sunny Barcelona, I thought this might be a change of pace.

Discovered in the most incredible bookshop called ‘La Centrale’, I purchased this along with an iced coffee, and spent the rest of my day looking for shady spots to keep reading.

Admittedly, I had become very bored of ‘books based in Trinity’ after the surge of stories that appeared in our post-Sally Rooney era. Thankfully, it didn’t deter me, as this narrative really wrapped its way around my heart, and at several points squeezed so hard it made my head spin.

For those who have been in those kinds of intoxicating relationships, where every decision you make revolves around that one person. Where one look from them can make or break your day. When you can’t account for the rush of jealousy that surges forth every time someone mentions their name. That fight for attention and affection is so beautifully captured in this book, to the point that it genuinely made my heart race.

There’s also a section where McKeon changes the writing style, breaking up the syntax in a way that captures that erratic train of thought that left me taking breaks and breathers.

Having been released in 2016, I’m surprised it took me this long to discover this book, but I simply can’t rest until everyone else has read it too.

Read this if: You’re a fan of ‘Intermezzo’ by Sally Rooney.

These are just five of my recent reads that I had to put on your list, as each one stayed with me, even after I’d long completed them.

On my bedside table currently, I have a switch to non-fiction with ‘Three Women’ by Lisa Taddeo, but am already on the hunt for my new piece of storytelling.

So, what’s next on my list?

• ‘Talking at Night’ by Claire Daverly

• ‘My Friends’ by Fredrik Backman

• ‘Wilderness Tips’ by Margaret Atwood

• ‘Moderation’ by Elaine Castillo

• ‘Finding Grace’ by Loretta Rothschild

Until next time,

Zoë x

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Harking back to the past is hardly a new trend.

For my generation, the notorious Gen-Zs, we seem to be far more interested in what happened before than what is to come.

I know what you’re thinking, there’s a pretty simple synopsis for why we’re feeling like this.

Namely, the fact that we’re constantly bombarded by statistics that it’s never been more difficult to own a house, never been more expensive to buy your weekly shop, and never been more likely that we could experience a world war.

If you’re like me, those very real concepts make you want to climb under your covers and never come out. With our fight or flight instincts triggered, but with a lack of tangible solutions, it sends us running for a safe haven.

*The past.*

This isn’t just about the desire to crawl into your parents’ big bed and let them tell you that everything will be okay. It’s going back beyond our own lifespan, nostalgia for the life of our grandparents’ generation.

Obviously, we want to go back to a romanticised version of this era. We want to keep the advancements we’ve made in society, and just trade out the bad parts.

That’s where the rise in desire to trade out the new for the old stems from. We have all this new technology and new options, but I’m one of the many who craves going back in time.

swapping out the smartphones

The most obvious change would be removing our most vital technological lifesource—the phone.

I remember when the first iPhone came out. The wonder and novelty that this tiny little device brought, as it felt like it had been pulled from our sci-fi dreams. It was all about ‘Talking Tom’, playing labyrinth, and pretending to drink beer. Then it was on to heavily filtered square-sized Instagram posts, and the novelty of being able to fact-check everything said at a dinner party.

With these original iPhones now discarded as relics in our drawers, we’re all guilty of picking up our smartphones first thing in the morning, and forgetting that life used to go on without them.

This overexposure to social media has fostered a desire to go ‘off the grid’. For many, it’s a reactionary step—a break-up, a mental health wobble, or a need to focus on work or study without distraction.

Phoneless retreats have capitalised on this desire to detox, and I’ve even booked one myself. Lured in by the idea of being 100% present, and paying lots of £’s for the privilege.

While they don’t physically deprive you of your phone, you are encouraged to lock your device in a box and replace it with an emergency Nokia. Since we’re also not used to having no ability to document our existence (and therefore no way to let everyone know you’re on a phoneless retreat), they also provide you with a disposable camera, with the option to buy extra film at £10 a go.

capturing the moment

This desire to switch back to ‘real cameras’ isn’t isolated to social retreats. Polaroid cameras came back into the popular imagination in my pre-teen years, and now it’s all about film and digital cameras. With the thrill of going to get them developed, we have been sidestepping our usual preference for instant gratification.

More than that, it’s another grasp at the concept of anonymity.

My mom’s generation used to go on a night out without the fear of being photographed in a compromising position. They could get a little tipsy, be a bit silly, and while they may have woken up with “the fear,” they weren’t worried about getting tagged in some less-than-flattering photos on Facebook.

Unlike our generation, when our parents tell us about their wild youth, they can’t pull out photographic evidence.

While we all may curate our Instagram feeds, there’s something so enviable about that freedom.

No pouting, no posing, no boomerangs, no story mentions, no comments, no texts that derail your night, no shady social follows, no checking snap maps to see who’s out, no unsavory social conduct greeted by a sea of recording phones.

Sounds like bliss to me.

the art of being inaccessible

At this present moment, we are all extremely accessible.

We are all very contactable, through WhatsApp, texts, phone calls, FaceTime, emails, and a plethora of social media channels.

We are also incredibly traceable, through apps like Life360, Find My Friends, or other location-tracking apps.

Finally, we are also very accessible through the social media accounts that we update. Allowing people to peek into the life we choose to show them.

My Granny often tells me about arranging to meet her friends back in the day, where they’d rendezvous on the agreed date and time under the clock at Cleary’s. If one was late or simply didn’t show up, it didn’t faze them, as they assumed something had come up.

One of the big perks of this age is, of course, the ability to keep in touch with everyone in our lives. We can make plans, check in with people, and maintain relationships across the world.

But the thought of that untethered freedom—it is appealing.

memories of the meet-cute

I’m not the first person to wave my fist at the dating app age.

It’s only in the last few years that saying ‘we met on Tinder’ has become more socially acceptable. I’ve been guilty of creating false narratives for my relatives on how I met my romantic partners.

This was more believable during my college years, as running into someone in a bar was genuinely plausible. During the COVID years, this was not only unlikely but entirely impossible. So I either had to get very inventive or just confess that my dating life was solely tied to online pursuits.

Even though we all do it now, there’s a definitive lack of romance around saying that you met your partner on Hinge. We all crave the tales of genuine meet-cute moments, the stories that are told in hushed tones at your girls’ night out, or put pride of place in the wedding speeches.

There’s just something cosmic about two people just being in the same place at the same time.

Can you tell that I’m a hopeless romantic at heart?

It’s not just the meet-cutes, it’s the relationship path overall. Classic date night tropes were going to dances, dinner and movie nights, and well, a very fast-track path down the aisle.

There were no talking stages, no exclusive chats, no ‘You up?’ texts, and most certainly, no situationships.

You were either dating or you weren’t. You were either together or not. Yes or no, black and white, rather than the blurry lines we try to manage today.

Now that’s something modern dating could take some notes on.

a simpler life?

This one might be a stretch, but the way that our past generations describe adulting feels very straightforward.

Maybe it’s our 'snowflake’ status that makes us more fearful, but it certainly does feel scarier to do the usual grown-up things.

Our grandparents and parents’ generation seemed to just ‘buy a house’, ‘get married’, and ‘have kids’ without all the fuss that seems to come with it these days.

While the housing and cost of living crises are genuine causes for concern, perhaps some of them are not being exposed to as much conversation around these topics. You just went and did them, because that’s what you did. Simple.

No social media moms telling you that you’re doing everything wrong, no Reddit forums tutting at your apparent inaptitudes, and no social media warriors cursing the way you chose to decorate your ensuite bathroom.

Nowadays, we arguably have too much access to knowledge about these topics. You feel like you can’t do anything—whether it’s roasting a chicken or consulting a doctor—without asking the internet first. Or, more recently, asking a robot for assistance.

A fact that would probably send our previous generations into giddy spirals, or perhaps have them turning in their graves.

(I feel they’d be disappointed with us that we haven’t managed to make flying cars mainstream yet, but that may be a conversation for another time)

Overall, there’s this craving for something simpler.

We’ve all caught ourselves daydreaming about a different era, picking out ones that we’d like to live in. Idealising the possibility of genuine time travel, but no longer centered on going forward to the future, but going back.

I, of course, do not mean this as a Handmaid’s Tale desire for regression. Unfortunately, there’s enough of that banging around already.

It’s simply a craving for nostalgia, for everything to be simpler. To feel more romantic, more straightforward, more achievable, and perhaps, more human.

While I won’t be putting on a tin hat, and can recognise my current state typing furiously on my keyboard with my phone by my side, this yearning is not an isolated feeling.

Do you feel it too?

My name is actually Miss Zoe Dots.

Admittedly, I’ve leaned into it.

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The origin of the story is straightforward. My name has always been Zoë, with the dots, but since the letter ë is a ‘symbol’—I’m never allowed to use it on digital platforms. Similar to my Irish friends with the fáda in their names, it’s an instant rejection.

So, that’s where Zoe Dots was born, as I made an effort to sneak my dots back into the equation. And well, it’s sort of stuck.

I’ve been writing for my whole life, scribbling in journals, furiously typing into one computer or another, and always planning my debut novel.

I started writing my life biography when I was seven, so you could say I got a bit of a head start.

Once a blogger, always a blogger

My first blog was christened ‘Teen Times’ when it hit the internet in 2012.

Despite warnings from my mom that I would in fact not be a teenager forever—which seems highly unlikely to a thirteen year old—I wanted to create my own newspaper (hence the name) on what it was like to be a teenager.

Giving the teen or tween a voice space online.

This was created in tandem with my weekly column with a local online news site, called ‘Zoë’s World’ and my monthly column in a local print magazine. All of these channels, including my own blog, were entirely mouldable to whatever I wanted to write about.

Topics included everything from fashion round-ups to political commentary, beauty reviews to hormone-fueled rants.

As my Mom warned me at the time, I did eventually outgrow this title, and my blog was rebranded as ‘The Dots’.

This was my outlet during the COVID days, when I released a serialised novel throughout the lockdown. Titled ‘Duplicity’, it was partly an examination of modern dating and partly a study for my thesis that was due the following year.

(I ended up getting published in ‘The Independent’ for the former, and I got a first in the latter—so it was a good year!)

When I left blogging behind in 2021, I always wanted to bring this format back in some way. I missed writing about things that matter to me, rather than writing for the brands that I have been ghostwriting for (within my London career)—and I have a few ideas on the topics that my now twenty-six-year-old self wants to touch on.

Introducing ‘Connecting the Dots’, the rebrand: take three.

We are so back.

I am so happy to welcome you to my new little corner of the internet.

I’m still moving things around, putting things in place, setting the tone, tweaking the lighting—deciding how much I truly want to share.

So, what can you expect from this space?

• ✏️ Direct Dispatches - free for all subscribers
  Day-to-day thoughts and essays, sharing pieces from the archives, and tapping into relevant topics that send me to my keyboard.

• 💌 The Dotted Line - free for all subscribers
  Recs, obsessions, seasonal fixations. Books, links, products, beauty bits, good reads, weird gems.

• 🧠 Deeper Dots - only for paid subscribers
  Longer, more vulnerable writing about things like alopecia, mental health, identity, beauty standards, burnout, and self-image.

• 📓 Dear Diary…. - only for paid subscribers
  I’ve been writing diaries since 2010. These leather-bound books have held all my thoughts, feelings, and revelations for almost fifteen years.

  As a ‘primary source’ of my true feelings, I want to connect the dots between my feelings then and my feelings now. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, if you will!

  Expect unedited entries from various periods of my life—tackling subjects like grief, friendships, make-ups, break-ups, sex, career wobbles, and everything in between.

Most posts will be free.

To put some value on my deepest essays and entries, this content will usually be kept under lock and key for paid subscribers.

I usually can only write when creativity strikes, but I promise to post weekly-ish, or when it feels right.

If you’re reading this, thank you for being here.

Let’s connect the dots.

— Zoë

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