2024

In many, many ways, 2024 has been one of the hardest years of my life. And yet there has been laughter, there has been swimming, there has been light shooting through the shattered glass of what I thought I knew, like a stained-glass window. Giving hope. There has been hope.

2024 taught me to crumble, to collapse, to fall to pieces and that there is no shame in crawling through your days with grief because it is from the rubble we sift through and work out what we would have liked to have saved, and what I choose to rebuild. I chose to rebuild.

The fallout spiral and Armageddon of losing my partner, my job, and my house in a week knocked the life I knew out of me. Whilst the ammunition fell at the end of last year, it was this year that the slow impact finally blew everything apart.

I got COVID twice, once because of an unopened window and once because sometimes bad things come in tens. My tenth infection was one of the most painful I have ever known. It made me think there may never be a time again in my lifetime when I'm able to socialise again with people with immune systems which let them forget about others. Or what a privilege health is. And one, I hope, we all live long enough to realise it was just chance, circumstances, genetics or economics, after all. I hang on to the thought that I'm grateful some people haven't had to think about this yet. It stops me from getting bitter. And when the bitterness creeps up on me, I often end up realising it tastes a lot like grief.

I acknowledged you’re allowed to want things.

I saw the Northern Lights brighter than a sunset. I ran down streets with a friend, squealing with glee and knew this was a night I would remember forever.

I moved to a town where I knew no one. A bold move on the surface, but in truth, no one visited me in Hackney anymore, so I thought it didn't matter anymore. In truth, I thought I didn't matter anymore. I let these words slip casually from my mouth one day in a field of over 100,000 strangers, and one of my friends I've known the longest took me by the shoulders and said, “You matter. You matter to me. Your existence matters to me.” and these words probably saved my life. Never be frightened to speak your love out loud. Never be stingy with your reminders to your friends that you care. You never know when your word bubbles may turn into lifebuoys. I saw memes telling me to read Wintering. I had friends tell me to read Wintering. My teacher wrapped me in a hug in a room full of others and whispered in my ear that I should read Wintering. I read Wintering.

I taught myself to walk without my stick more often. And more often than not, I managed it. I brought my walking stick to a dance floor and was brought a chair and surrounded by women that I had known for minutes, who formed a circle with me and included me like my body wasn't a problem anymore. Someone tried to save me from Covid and lost themselves the best weekend of the year in the process. I saw turtles and was told I did not know what crabs looked like. I didn’t drink enough water. When did I give up on that carefully honed habit? In truth, I cared about myself less than I should, this year. And all in good time. I realised that I really needed to pause and work out if I wanted things before I was distracted by them. I realised that when you lose track of whether you want something or not, you get yourself in all kinds of muddles. Sometimes, I did not think I was going to make it.

Turns out being dumped as a friend is one of the most painful endings I’ve ever known. I’d learnt this lesson before, but then my dreams had been built on solo imagination not mutual words cast away in a day. I lived on a beach for a month, and thought “Who gets to live a life like this?” and I thought “I do. I do.” and moved to one.

I swam with seals. I watched someone sing karaoke with a mouth full of marshmallows. Someone lost their shit at me over something on Instagram so much that I ended up having nightmares. I lived an in between space which was made of can’t let gos. I flew halfway around the world to see a dog, and I'll do it again. I put two children through school. I was called part of the problem. I went on holiday and read 11kg of books. I sat on stones and wrote my heart out. I lay on pebbles with bags full of shopping and stared at clouds which rained on my head, and allowed my tears to roll back into nature, like they should. Like they should. I left a restaurant because someone was a misery. I didn’t make it home in time. One day I woke up sad, and realised, with huge irritation, that I probably knew enough people in this new town that I couldn't just sit on the beach and cry on my own and feel lonely. And it made me laugh out loud to myself in my new, high ceiling flat. What a daft, daft life at full speed. I felt loved.

I went to Carnival, on my own, and danced with my dearest. And had so much fun that her mum joined us. I spent the day with a one of my friends, who never tires of me telling him that my life is better because he exists. Or at least he knows me well enough to know that’s probably not going to change. I ran into new friends in a crowd of 2 million and left with an ego boost.

I found out I can actually be attractive, sometimes. Something I had not believed for a long, long time. I realised for the first time that sometimes if it goes wrong, it isn't my fault. And it isn't always wrong.

I wished on bay leaves and baked bread for the first time. I missed the train I was sat in front of, because my brain forgot how to get on trains. I got funding for my workshops programme for a year. I decided I wanted to wear more makeup before I die. I waited heart by heart, with a friend, whilst we waited for a river to give back her sister's body. I cooked food for my chosen family in their deepest of grief and chased squirrels with children so that adults could cry.

I packed up my why-do-I-own-so-many things and left Hackney, and said goodbye to my life, my home and my garden. I took solace in knowing when the world crumbled around me that the flowers I had planted with my mum would bloom again, just without me there. My garden was dug up shortly afterwards, and seeds to my past were cat aside. Probably, as they always would do at some point, but boy, did that one sting. I was rejected for a horror film. I was told my life wasn't worth saving. I received an e-mail which was the last e-mail someone would ever send. I was told I was just a tax break. I watched a friend launch a book. I did 67 empowerment photoshoots. I went to a banana-throwing festival. I argued with a cockroach that was the size of my hand. I coached people to remember what they already know: that there really is nothing wrong with any of us. We're all just trying our best, and things are, on the whole, a lot harder when we're judging ourselves the whole time.

I got caught off guard by the worst chat-up line I've ever heard in my life. I realised that although external validation gets a bad rep, it's actually really, really nice.

I followed someone I thought I knew and instantly regretted my choices and still burn with shame. I was told I should lose weight by strangers. I was told I was too fat by my friends. I was advised to take weight loss injections by family. I was laughed at for being fat by people I never liked anyway. I was told I was rejected because I was so enormous. I was told I should not have let myself go. I was told that if I lost weight, other people would like me more. Not realising, I that this year, I was trying to care less whether other people liked me more. I was told I could even be someone's wife if I was just a bit thinner. I contemplated injecting myself with popularised chemicals just so I could live a life that was a little bit easier; not because my body is wrong, but because I'm tired of being treated like a zoo animal, who needs to be reprimanded. I was told people sometimes tolerate fat people, like me. I decided, for now, that will have to do. But if I do ever have a sudden loss of weight, please don’t congratulate me. My body will still be none of your business.

I discovered some of the nicest Sri Lankan food I've ever eaten. I struggled with finding peace with an old friend who's a Zionist and realised all of the answers lie here and I need to try harder, on my own doorstep. I recorded episode 100 of my podcast (Spam Filter For Your Brain, thanks for asking). I held space for others. A shared cake with a new friend. I made new friends. I chanted with new friends.

I found what I'd always known, that my life is better when I stare at the ocean. But now I do it daily. And it is just as healing as I always dreamed it would be. In the clearing out of my old life I found letter after letter after diary entry after journal saying I needed to live by the sea. And now I do. And luck was on my side when the most beautiful flat I found also turned out the be the cheapest. Every morning, I am awash with gratitude. I walk into the front room, and a voice inside me chirps, “Don’t forget to look at the sea!” I do, and it is wonderful.

Going back to renting has been brutal. Leaving my home was brutal. But here I am. And I am, I am, I am. I danced to four songs and left at the Macarena. I had some Sisters come together and tell me I was held, even when I was falling. A cat slept on my head. I made a promise to myself to work my way out of my overdraft by the end of the year, and last week, I did.

I found I could make mistakes and not be rejected. I had long phone calls with people whose heartstrings hold me like a canopy. I watched a friend fill a cocktail glass with ice which was tumbling off a tent. I saw a bright green comet. I hugged a friend we all thoughts we had lost. I opened the heart of someone I thought was heartless and there were tears. Yes.

I lost a job by outing a rapist. I lost someone a job by outing a rapist. I will always choose the voice of speaking out. Once you are silenced and found your voice, being silent is no longer a choice. I will banshee until my last breath. And I know it will cost me. Bring it.

I watched poets and painters and crocheters create just to create. And understood that when curiosity meets creativity, the beauty is found and it is essential.

I remembered that, all in all, this life is worth living. Just for a while there, I forgot. I realised that when I am at my most desperate, I am alarmingly pragmatic and that is a very dangerous trait. I sang my lungs out with 350 others and made a composer cry. I had a photoshoot and looking at myself made me cry.

I spent a night where I thought I would not see the dawn, I knew I would not make it to hospital in time and I was not afraid. In the morning, I was given random leaves to chew and the fever broke within hours. An unqualified Dr told me that I'm a hypochondriac. I saw an Eclipse. A dog forgave me for leaving. Turns out, watching a dog sulking is one of the funniest things in the world. A friend picked me up in her rickshaw and took me to dinner with her dad, I found a friend in the ocean. A monkey threw a coconut at my head. I introduced my sister to woodlands of palm trees and showed her there is a village on the other side of the world who knows my name like the one at home does. I won award for my work with survivors of domestic and sexual abuse. I stayed in a storm. I found friends I could not talk to and we smiled a lot. I walked into the Indian Ocean just as a whale breached, and I have never felt more alive.

I chose to stay in a hotel because I was sad. I was too lost in self-pity to ask one more friend if I could stay one more time. A man tried to attack me in the night and I foiled him by going full Kali. I wrote a book. Maybe next year, I'll publish it. I gave someone some (solicited) feedback on accessibility, and it cost me over £5000, and I got kicked out of a coaching programme. I spent a lot of time wondering what my life may have looked like if I wasn't trying to be chosen. I tried so hard to hold on to promises which had been broken, that I forgot to stop to notice if I even wanted them to be true. I realised some times clinging to the pain is just an excuse to still feel connected.

I photographed a rebirth. I found foxes at dawn. I walked a wall of lost lives, as I said goodbye to my own. I found some penguins in a lifeboat. A friend refused to say goodbye so I cried on his doorstep instead. People I loved sent me flowers and reminded me that I am loved. I lay in a foam storm on my birthday, by a beach wall, whilst a friend slept beside me in the tiniest corner of sunshine out of a gale. I was told I made the gods quake, and told it was rightly so. I got sunburnt indoors. I swam in sequins. I said no when I didn't want to do things and that felt like a yes to me. I took my family to a snowstorm. I held a Pity Party and it was a pivotal day for so many, for so many reasons.

I held a workshop on how to disrupt racist conversations. I found some old text messages and decided I no longer wanted to tolerate aggressive men, no matter what their excuses. I watched sunrises and moonsets and had my 31st friend die since the beginning of 2020. I lost the language for grief. I was one of the last of the last who still wore a facemask. I sat on a bench and was told I was infuriatingly predictable. Someone I love tried to shake my hand. I fought mealy bugs. I got locked out and did nothing. I got locked in and sat in my sadness. I bought myself a present. I feasted with friends.

Being involuntarily childless is one of the most brutal griefs I have ever had to navigate. And I haven’t found my way through. Yet. It echos around my empty body like a pinball machine which is seized up, derelict and neglected. It is hard not to blame my body for the fact that I quite simply was never chosen by any man to want to write that script with me; and that is a painful, painful arrow through my story and all my decades of try-hard-to-try-not-to-want-it-because-that’s-when-they-arrive platitudes people used to layer on me like butter to soothe themselves. Well, you were wrong. They never came. And look at me, so proud and mighty and right, I can’t help but wonder if I caused it all by spending so many years trying to convince the world there was something wrong with me that it turns out they believed me. What a sad, hollow, barren, victory that turned out to be. It draws a razor wire sharp triangle thread between my desire for my Mum to be near (and say exactly the wrong thing) and my Nan at the end of her life and this missing template outline of the child I will never have. I want to hold these dead women and ask how, throughout the whole of time, how every single woman in my line got to be a mother, and yet I couldn’t. That I’m sorry, I played the game wrong and it stops here. The whole line of everything they knew, loved and lived stops here. And I think I did play the game wrong. I just didn’t know it at the time. Rather than getting to be a parent, I birthed a business. I’m now on my fourth. I just never knew it was an either or. Turns out, two decades of being tied to my inbox and one day I looked up and my choices had been taken away. No wonder I am so fiercely anti-capitalist. The illusion of choice. Only the only person to tell you that you played a bad hand, is the smirk of hindsight.

I began to write poetry again. A moth landed on my nose when I was swimming and sat there until I swam ashore and then it flew off. I asked for help. I learnt being hypermobile means I can’t control my body temperature, and that's what's been going on this whole life. I ended up on a cardiac unit. And I had a broken heart. The irony. A friend saw how much I was struggling and bought me a washing machine. Hackney will always be in my heart and it's probably never going to be home again in this lifetime.

At various points this year, I thought, “What's the point?” As a childless, disabled, single person who is dealing with pain on a daily basis, this is a question which takes my breath away and catches in my throat and chokes me. And at the moment when I was failing to see beyond the day, I realised that maybe this is the point: maybe all I need is only ever one day at a time. And somewhere in the middle of this, I saw some silly, social media post about an elder who was asked what words she wanted to leave at the end of her life, and the words she said were “It was all so much fun!”. And these words felt like empty shoes I craved to slide my feet into.

I closed my eyes in the ocean, and breathed in the sunshine, and daydreamed through my closed eyelids and realised I could now do this one afternoon, on a weekday, because this is my life now, and when I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by a dancing ball of mackerel flashing like sliver slivers of mirror in a murmuration.

I watch circus with friends. I was given free pastries and mince pies and hot water bottles and greeted with love like an old friend when I was a stranger. I gambled on 2p machines my own one whole afternoon. I sat in a room of activists and realised that I am old enough to know I will not see any of these changes in lifetime now. It is really interested to reach an age when you realise you’re old enough to know you don’t have all the time in the world any more and you’re going to have to keep making choices and saying goodbyes, and at each turn, as Cheryl Strayed once said, there is a ghost ship which never sets sail.

I carried my own spices. I was looked in on, and looked after, and I had someone check I hadn't been kidnapped. I was barely able to leave the house for three months. I realised it was just going to be alright. And there are going to be many, many times when it is not alright and I have the resources to survive most things. I realised when I allow myself to feel my way to the jagged, ugly, brutal edges of my emotions, they clear like a weather front, rather than settling in and setting into my cells. I know I am proof of the tools I teach at SelfCareSchool.co.uk and this year, from where I have been, to where I am now, I'm evidence this work works. I wouldn’t say I've bounced back, I would say I'm more myself than I have ever been. And I never realised being more me would involve letting go of so many dreams. And it will take time to untangle how many of these had an undercurrent of obligation. I realised if there is no rush and no future, you just get to set your own timetable. I realised I can sleep 3 hours a night and survive and I can nap sometimes and no one will ever find out. I realised in my bones that we've not yet met everyone that we will ever love. And I hope to remember this again and again my whole life.

I giggled at the irony that I realised that my life is now directly above the rose garden, and so it quite literally smells of roses now. I miss London. I always will. But if this year reminded me of anything, it's that it’s perfectly possible to love something and let it go. And sometimes that’s all you can do. I booked a holiday because I wanted one, not because I need one. I began to tell stories for me, not because I need others to hear them. I began painting again. I paused to acknowledge, given the year that I've had, the fact that I'm still financially solvent is nothing short of a miracle. I kept my business going when I was not sure I could keep myself going and that is incredible. Incredible. A small part of that is covered by hard graft, but mostly by inexplicable optimism I used like firelighters.

I was loved. This year I was loved. Sometimes softly, sometimes in the quiet in moments I had no words left, and sometimes viciously by friends throwing me a ropes from a burning building, and often fiercely, recalibrating by myself in new ways, as I learn this new life I lead. It's rare that you get the chance to do it all again with folk you love. But I do. When people tell me that they don't believe in reincarnation, I think to myself, take a look at this life, take a look, take a look at this big, big old life.

This year I have been in life without the armour.

This life I have been with love without my armour.

And I chose it, I chose it.