Barbie was childfree. She was invented to be that way.

Her creator, Ruth Handler, way back in 1959, was disheartened to find that the only dolls her own daughter could play with were baby dolls. “My whole philosophy, of Barbie was that, through the doll, the girl could be anything she wanted to be.” Ruth wrote in her 1994 autobiography. “Barbie always represented the fact that a woman has choices.” Barbie has since had 200 careers - she’s been a doctor, an astronaut and, yep I just checked, a journalist. And she’s faced what all women face, the pressure to become a mum: in the 1960s fans, at a time of both extreme tradition and extreme rebellion, called for her to just get married already, and have Ken’s babies. Barbie (or should I say Ruth) remained steadfast in her decision, she didn’t want to reinforce the idea that young girls should be aspiring exclusively to get married and/or have children. In 1982, there was a pregnant Barbie doll… but it wasn’t Barbie herself, it was Midge her best friend. Midge was also discontinued. The best said about poor Midge the better really… 

Of course, if you’ve watched Barbie The Movie, you’ll know all of this. Barbie’s history is impeccably documented throughout. So… if Barbie herself was a child-free ‘icon’ (as many other opinion pieces have labelled her) then why did I leave the cinema with a niggling feeling that the movie really wanted me to be a mum? The answer is obvious, I suppose, but I’ll get to that later. 

I’d like to preface this with a few things: the first being, I had a very nice time at the cinema watching the film. I haven’t been in the cinema in ages. The Barbie world is so fun, and frothy, and it’s such a clever replication of Barbie’s world, there’s campervan Barbie with her headscarf! Ski-mobile Barbie! etc etc etc. The swimming pools in Barbieland are stick-on, her Dream House has the slide and Margot Robbie moves her body exactly how we all play with dolls: she hinges at the waist, she lies forward on her back. It’s clever, funny and I laughed a lot. I’m happy that a female-directed film is the first to make a billion at the box office. As for the feminism? I came to the film too late. By the time I watched it (on Friday) there had already been so much hype about it being a feminist masterpiece I was only going to be disappointed. It’s entry-level… and that’s OK. We can’t expect one movie to be able to represent all of feminism. 

But… the film is also an advert. For Chevrolet (there was no need for that car chase scene… other than to showcase just how well this car can reverse), for Birkenstock (don’t be so silly and wear heels! Buy pink Birkenstocks instead) and (so obvious I feel I don’t even need to type it out) for Mattel and the Barbie brand itself. Product placement is nothing new, and neither are films created around a product (e.g: The Lego Movie). We live in a capitalist society. The film gift wraps us empowerment, and sells it to us. I’d like it to be different… but it isn’t. *shrugs* Sorry to sound so defeatist. 

The reason I raise the whole ‘I watched an advert for two hours’ thing is because, a few days later (perhaps I should have got there sooner) I realised why I felt such niggling upset about the overarching mothers are amazing, mothers rule the world undercurrent to the film. It wasn’t because I, in particular, was being overtly sensitive, as I had been telling myself. 

Because I know that, as someone who has lost her mum, and isn’t going to be a mum, I was always going to view it in a particular light. I am also aware that art focuses on different aspects of different people’s lives, if every film, TV show, book, play tried to encompass all of our existences the resulting product would become an absolute mess of caveats and trigger warnings. The show’s director and writer Greta Gerwig has recently become a mum herself, and said “it was only ever going to be a mother-daughter story”. It’s natural she’d want to create something to celebrate how glorious being a mum can be. And she’s achieved that. Vogue called the film “the ultimate love letter to mothers” and BuzzFeed said the film is a “reminder your mum was once just a girl with hopes and dreams.” TikTok is currently full of women calling up their mums, crying down the phone and thanking them for all they’ve done.

This is all lovely. A little twee but lovely. Despite my own personal situation, and decision* I believe in celebrating mothers, and motherhood. If this film makes people feel comforted, in a world that takes the work of mums for granted, while also piling extreme pressure on them, then that’s great. I’m not here to yuck on your yum. 

It’s just, to me (and a few other people I’ve spoken to) it was so pro-motherhood that, by the end, I felt that Barbie’s initial message (that we don’t have to follow a traditional path) was lost.

There was the end montage of babies being born, mothers and daughters hugging in soft, Hallmark card lighting, that not-so-subtly painted the picture that a ‘good’ life involves having children, while one of the stand out lines from the show (hailed, by some, as “the best line in the movie”) was “we mothers stand still, so our daughters can look back and see how far they’ve come”** (said to Barbie by her ‘mum’ Ruth Handler, in ghost form). Others might feel differently, but I left the cinema feeling as if I’d just been fed a pink, strawberry flavoured potion that was trying to sway me into believing that motherhood is the happiest, most fulfilling path of all. 

(** side note: how do you read that quote? I was enraged by it at first… as it seems to be implying that mothers should step back, provide and not have any life of their own apart from allowing their own daughters to flourish, which seems a ridiculously backwards view of motherhood. But, it could also be interpreted as you can use what older generations went through as a yardstick to see how far we’ve progressed, in which case I approve of it as, particularly as times can seem so tough, it’s good to be able to look back and see how far we’ve come. Mostly I think, for such a massive moment in the film, they should have used a quote that wasn’t so hard to interpret.)

Which is why, a few days later, pondering on my feelings (and, as usual, trying to dismiss them as being too sensitive) I felt a lot better once I came to terms with the fact the movie is an advert. As, despite Barbie herself being proudly child-free, I’d wager that the Mattel board of directors don’t particularly want to push that agenda. They need to be pro-natalist, as the more of us that have children, the more toys we’re going to buy. Noticing how pro-natalist the world is, and why, has been one of the most comforting and enraging lessons in my journey in becoming happy, and confident in my child-free status. As, I could have analysed this niggling feeling I had after the film in a different way. I could have read it as: ‘oh I feel a bit weird and shitty about not having kids after seeing that, maybe it’s because I want them…’ Whereas now I can recognise it for what it was: a natural reaction to a film, a marketing ploy, coming from a company that needs more people on the planet so that they can buy more stuff. 

I wrote this piece, not as a take-down of the film, or anyone who loved it but simply as a reminder to myself (and anyone else who might find it useful) that this world can be tough. It’s filled with messages that try and convince you to be traditional, to go one-set-way as that set way is hugely beneficial to our capitalist society. These messages will infiltrate you, in even the most unsuspecting environments (such as a movie you thought was simply going to be a fun, feminist Friday night out) and the more aware you become of this, the better you can examine any doubts or worries you may have.

I hope it helps! I’m not a big fan of writing reactive opinion pieces, as I like to take time to analyse all sides of an argument, and sit with my feelings for a while. Usually by the time I’ve come to a conclusion on the ‘hot topic’ of the moment it’s passed. And that conclusion is usually ‘it’s complicated, with lots of different sides to it.’ Anyway! Let me know what you think in the comments below!

Leave a comment

*The fact that being child-free is a decision I’ve made, rather than one that was forced upon me, undoubtedly makes not only watching the film, but dealing with society’s pro-motherhood stance a lot easier, if you’re someone struggling with infertility, have you seen it? What did you think? Feel free to message me privately.

Hello!

I’m sorry this is late but… it’s been my birthday! I turned 38 on Friday and had the most special weekend doing so many wonderful things. We cycled 40 miles, from Brighton to Hastings (something I thought I would not enjoy… but really did) and stayed in a hippy’s Air BnB which was full of crystals and Buddhist teachings. We went on a jittery rollercoaster, drank pints at noon, wandered antique shops and I added to my collection of vintage postcards (I like the ones with the writing on the back) and even had food from my favourite take-away, which has shut down in London but has a branch in Hastings. Then, to top all of that off, I ended the weekend watching Pink perform a somersault over my head while singing.

I’ve also been working on a feature, all to do with self-awareness, and – as part of it – have had to go back through various things in my life, and figure out my life’s lessons from that. I definitely don’t have the whole self-awareness thing down yet (I’m not even sure it’s a true destination) but I have enjoyed thinking about my life, and the lessons I derived from it. So, because it’s my birthday I’m being very self indulgent and sharing 23 (my favourite number) of them below, life’s order…

ONE: A goat might eat your work.

When I was little, a goat broke into our cottage and ate my dad’s play. It’s one of these memories that, perhaps, my family might say has been implanted there, as the story has been told so many times over the years. That I didn’t actually see the goat. But I have an image, that almost floats at the back of my brain, of hiding behind my granddad’s footstool, while a goat roamed our living room. I don’t know where it managed to nab the play, pull it into its mouth, and chew my dad’s beautiful words into mush. But it did. This was in the days of typewriters so those scenes were digested and destroyed, lost to that goat’s stomach.

This story would lend itself perfectly to a ‘back up your work’ lesson and while yes that’s valuable advice I am continually confused by the cloud and have no right to preach. Instead, I am going to use it to say ‘perfectionism is the killer of creativity.’ I see it over and over, people being afraid to file their work, or put it out there (whatever it may be) as they want to spend hours and hours crafting it. Stop it, you’re ruining it! Yes, take care, re-read things (I’m speaking of writing here), put it in a different font so you can spot mistakes easier, even put it in a drawer (virtual or real, if real lock it in case a goat gets it) and please, if you’ve been given a word count, try to meet it.

But if you fuss over something too much, it almost gets messy in how neat it is. So… just put it out there. See what happens. After all, a goat might come along and eat it before you can. (on reflection the goat thing doesn’t really suit this lesson… but I’m going to include it anyway… done is better than perfect, after all.)

TWO: You have to face things.

I was standing at the bus stop when one of the most popular, and intimidating, girls from school sauntered over. “Katie, see tomorrow, I’m going to fucking batter you,” she said, while her friends, stood by, laughing. I went home and retreated under my Garfield sleeping bag. I didn’t want to tell anyone. Even back then I didn’t want to worry anyone, least of all my parents. But my mum coaxed it out of me, as I hiccup sobbed and declared “I can’t go to school tomorrow.” I thought she’d agree. Who would send their child to school to get beat up? But… that’s exactly what she did. She told me I had to face up to whatever was waiting for me, that if I didn’t go in this girl would think she’d won, that I could be played. That it would only get worse.

“Besides,” mum said. “At some point you have to go into school, you’ll have to face this. You can’t avoid it forever. One day, she’ll find you. It'll be easier if you do it straight away.” So, I went in. Sat at my desk, and I thought of my mum. I pulled my shoulders down and pretended I wasn’t afraid. The girl sauntered over, “Katie,” she said giggling. “You know all of that was just a laugh don’t you?” When I got home my mum burst into tears. She’d been so afraid she’d sent me in for a beating.

This isn’t advice as to how to beat bullies. It could have gone the other way. I could be telling you the story of how I got my first ever black eye. But, when I think of all of the years that followed, how often I’ve tried to run away from my grief, from pain, how it always circled back to find me, I think of what mum taught me about facing things. They find you. It’s easier if you face them sooner rather than later.

THREE: Bryan Adams is lying to you.

My mum used to sing in the kitchen. She’d hum while she worked. On holidays we’d blast out the Empire Records soundtrack scream singing ‘til I hear it from yooouuuu’ and, all the while, mum would teach us little life lessons. One of her main bugbears was Bryan Adams telling whoever it was he wrote that song about that “everything he did,” he did it for them. “Liar!” she’d say. “And even if that was true, you don’t want that.”

She told us that we should aim for relationships where we do things for each other yes, but also for ourselves. Where we’re independent. Take on opportunity and chances and holidays and adventure without our ‘other half’ (I don’t know how she feels about the term ‘other half’ but I think she’d hate it as much as I do.) I’ve been in a long-term relationship for 18 years now, and I do think that a huge part of our success is living our own lives. You can’t get everything you need from one person, that’s not only impossible but it’s also really boring. There’s so much out there to discover… and you need to explore it for yourself. (I wrote about this lesson in more detail here by the way)  

FOUR: Be the worst person in dance class

Up until I was 12 I was so active. Jazz, ballet, gymnastics, trampolining… I threw myself into hobbies and trying new things. But ballet was my constant. I’d twist the key at the back of my candy-pink jewellery box and watch the Polly Pocket size dancer twirl around and around. I’d tell people “I want to be a ballerina when I grow up.” The problem was… I was actually quite a crap dancer. Still am. I’m clumsy, don’t know my left from my right and (sadly this still seems to matter) chunky. One day, my teacher broke this to me. Told me I’d never make it as a professional dancer. I was mortified. I dropped out of ballet and all my other activities. I felt as if my joy made me a joke. I didn’t exercise again for over a decade.

Until, I got a job at a magazine that required me to try new fitness classes and review them. Forced out of professional obligation I began trying anything that was offered to me – I strapped on boots with massive springs on the bottom of them; I canoed along the Thames; my first spinning class was sat beside Victoria Pendleton while someone filmed me… I’d tell myself ‘it’s only 45 minutes of your life’ and ‘even athletes get out of breath.’ I discovered how much fun it is to throw yourself in, try something new and laugh when you fuck up.

Through trying all of those things I discovered the exercise I find more fun than other things (boxing, weights, reformer pilates) and the stuff I really don’t find fun (mostly being shouted at while rolling in the mud, oh and running). I still hold a lot of hang ups to do with fitness, from that experience (and PE horrors) and often have to remind myself of my achievements when facing a new challenge. I just wish that I could go back and tell 12-year-old me that anything you find joyful is worth pursuing, no matter how bad you are at it.

FIVE: Your Beanie Babies aren’t worth anything.

Yes, even with the tag protectors. Yes, even the Princess Diana one. But it was fun playing the Ty stock market for a while, so I guess in memories they really are worth something. (actually I think this would be a terrible lesson for a gambling addict to read…)

SIX: You might feel sick because you’re stressed

For a few years, during my childhood, I went to the doctor as I felt sick constantly. Each time, I was told there was nothing wrong with me. But there was. I was being bullied in school, and what I was feeling was both very real but also entirely created by my mind. I was sick with anxiety. I now know I hold my emotions in my stomach, and, as someone with a tendency to pretend everything is just fiiinnneee until my body literally tells me I am not, if I begin to feel sick for no reason I do try to take a look at what else is going on in my life and what I’m avoiding. Not always. Friends of mine now know this about me (shout out to Heather) and if I complain about feeling sick will gently remind me it could be an issue in my life. It’s hard alright, as sometimes I actually AM sick!

SEVEN: One day, you’ll laugh

When I was fourteen I was on a catamaran with my crush. The wind was in my hair, I think he even laughed at some of my jokes. Then… I went to jump off. I don’t know how it happened but… I got stuck. As in I was hanging, from a boat, by my bikini bottoms. The captain (do catamarans have captains?!) had to tear my bikini right down the back to free me, which meant I had to walk back to shore, my crush behind me (and now ignoring me) with my entire ass hanging out. To make the whole thing worse, a lot worse, all the other school trips got off their catamarans at the same time and began yelling “put your bum away, no one wants to see it.”

I went back to my tent (I don’t really know why this trip was camping and watersports but it just was) and I cried, very, very quietly into my pillow. Now? I just tell that story if I’m a bit bored by someone’s company at a party. I recently had to ask people what they thought my greatest strengths were (for that feature, not an ego boost) and my ability to laugh at myself came up a lot. It just makes things so much easier. A bit like that famous Nora Ephron quote “everything is copy” pretty much everything embarrassing can become a funny story and relief really can be found just dying laughing at yourself (even if no one else is joining in)

EIGHT: Let people be themselves.

Why would you not want someone you love to be happy? Why would you force someone to wear a body that doesn’t fit? When my dad came out as transgender it felt very simple: she’s not happy and this might make her happy. It also wasn’t my life, it was hers. I’d adjust and sometimes that might be tricky but it would be worth it. And you know what? It was. It really, really was.

(for more on this, I wrote about our relationship for Cosmo, found here)

NINE: Don’t lie about what you like

I don’t get embarrassed easily (see point seven) but something I did, almost twenty years ago, still makes me shudder a bit. A boy I liked really loved the Tom Cruise movie Cocktail and I told him (so he’d, OF COURSE, fall in love with me) that I did too. I’d never seen it. And, was quickly exposed with a casual stupid comment (I could go into it but it would provide spoilers for the movie, mind you can you *spoiler alert* a film that was released in 1988?!) I used to do this a lot. I worked in a theatre and would copy others opinions on the plays, I told my now-husband I loved drum n bass nights when really I was at my most comfortable doing Steps’ 5,6,7,8 (a dance I think is actually quite sexy… but that could be delusion) and generally hid a lot of the things I truly loved as I didn’t consider them ‘cool.’

In some ways, it was a good discovery process – by pretending I liked drum n bass I learned that I actually did enjoy those sweaty clubs, flinging my legs about… But there’s a difference between being open to try new things and fabricating your entire being based on what others like. Now I can see that so much of the basis of what’s ‘cool’ is down to what men deem ‘worthy’ and life’s so much more fun if you gravitate towards what you actually find fun, versus what you’ve been told to find fun.

TEN: Zip your tent up at festivals. Bring extra socks. Use them as trade. A bag of brioche actually makes quite an effective pillow. Try being filthy. It’s freeing.

ELEVEN: Optimism won’t save a life, but it might save you

My mum had an inoperable tumour, clinging wickedly to the roots of her brain. It ate away at her. She sat and she muttered to herself, sometimes confused, sometimes in rage. And I… really fucking appreciated that the J20s in the hospice cost just 50p. And she… filled her sink with bottles of Vinho Verde and wrapped herself in jewel-coloured shawls. She wheeled her way up to Christian Slater in a bar once, saying he had no choice but to speak to her (and me, mum wasn’t that fussed about him I don’t think) We were having a horrible time, the worst ever time, and we found joy within it.

Optimism can be sneered at. It’s confused for naivety. During that time I would lie on my mum’s chest and listen to her heart beating, knowing any minute it could stop. I’d listen to the revolving door of visitors say “oh she’s so upbeat, isn’t she” and I’d want to scream, spit flying into their face. I stood in an ambulance bay, awash in blue light, and called my crush listening to the phone ring out. I needed to tell him that we’d just turned off my mum’s life support.

I was not cheerful during that time. I was also not naive: I was being force fed how unfair life can be. But every day I focused on one piece of joy to pull me out of bed and into the present. Into her presence. Happiness was something I worked on every day and it still is. Learning that is probably one of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever been taught.

Share

TWELVE: Love will hold you up

I find it hard to talk about romantic love. It’s so hard not to fall into cliches, and I also don’t like to perpetuate the idea that we need it (some of the greatest loves of my life have been my friends) but I met my husband three weeks before my mum died. On the outside I was this messy, buck-toothed ginger girl with a fondness for knitted baker hats and tying various scarves round my waist. I smiled a lot. On the inside I was crumbling. Boys weren’t so much into the crumbling side of me. But he was. Or maybe it’s not that he was into it, more that he knew it was a part of me. I asked him once why he didn’t run, once confronted with all that fragility and he replied, “I just knew I liked you so much we’d figure it all out.”

I think of him saying that often, when I’m reading about people conjuring excuses as to why they can’t be with someone, or why someone can’t be with them. I know I’m lucky, that the dating game today is vastly different, but I do believe that the right person will be strong enough to be by your side while you figure everything out.

Psst… for an alternative love story, consider buying my book

THIRTEEN: For good sex, celebrate yourself

I choose this for number thirteen as it’s not a very nice story. But so many of our lessons come from weird, shit times and this is one of them for me. When I was in a Rome campsite I got very, very drunk playing Circle Of Death (tip: don’t drink the mucky pint if it’s curdled, please) and I ended up in bed with a boy. I was fuzzy-headed, clumsy, confused and I began to cry half-way through, admonishing myself for “being bad in bed.” On reflection, he should have stopped having sex with me. Instead, he told me I had been good in bed, right up until the moment I began to doubt myself. And then he carried on.

I now don’t really believe in the concept of being ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in bed, instead it’s about finding people you feel comfortable and fit with. But what I should have taken from that experience is that the sex was bad because I wasn’t enjoying it, but I’d been so focused on the conditioning that the man’s sexual experience was paramount that I totally missed this. Women have been taught for so long to hide our desires, our wants, our needs, our pleasure and I wish I’d known earlier that tuning into them, voicing them (though not easy) and celebrating them is key to excellent sex. (I go into this in more detail here, in this Cosmo article, sex for the story)

FOURTEEN: If you have a pair of tights that always fall down, put a pair of pants on top of them. If they still cause you grief AS SOON as you get home, put them in the bin. Don’t let them get back into the tights cycle.

FIFTEEN: You don’t have to talk about mortgages

Seriously. It’s like at a certain age everyone decides that they’re going to be play grown-up and discuss mind-numbingly boring shit like mortgages, their Keto diet and how ‘god can you imagine clubbing these days? My knees would go in.’ If you like talking about mortgages, Keto and staying in, go for it. But don’t feel as if talking about them makes you seem older or wiser. It doesn’t. People are just bored. I think you’re bored of yourself! In fact I’m sure I once read a study that said that thinking you’re “sooooo ollldd” actually shaves years off of your life. Try talking about something (anything) else and see what happens.

If you have enough money for a mortgage… or even just a coffee habit, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. If not, please just share my work, on your socials!

SIXTEEN: VIP is just Dean Gaffney in a corner

Grace Dent said something of this effect in a column once, and I’ve quoted it ever since. I used to be obsessed with getting into the most exclusive area of a party, I imagined being funny and charming and befriending celebrities. It just doesn’t happen. There’s more fun people out of the area (particularly as some VIP areas also have people who have paid to be there, so they’re just rich and snobby, you’re lucky with DG) and celebrities can be alright, but it’s never, say Pink in there, and even if it was, your friends are better company. But… saying all of that, if there is free drinks or food in said area, you should probably still try to get in.

SEVENTEEN: Don’t stick strange things up your nose

When I was a child I decided it would be really fun to stick a bead up my nose. I can distinctly remember telling my mum that it was because “I wanted to see what I’d look like with my nose pierced.” This was a lie. The real reason I did it was because I wanted to see what would happen. I ended up in A&E with a nurse, hooking the damn thing out as it was stuck. This lesson can be applied to other scenarios… but I’ll let you figure them out.

EIGHTEEN: You’re on a different path, you’ve not failed

Around the time everyone starts talking about mortgages (it’s usually around 29/30… the most boring ages I’ve found, despite the big parties) a creeping fear can settle in. Engagement rings sparkle under your nose, baby scan pics arrive in your feed (surprising you as just a few months ago that person was in a Lycra jumpsuit bumping ketamine off of a key) and deposits are placed down on houses.

If you don’t have these things and want them, it can feel incredibly lonely. If you don’t have these things and don’t want them, it can also feel incredibly lonely. We’ve been conditioned into thinking that certain things make our lives a success, we hate uncertainly so we want to live a life of check-lists. But nothing is certain. I’ve seen very unhappy people with all of the things we’re told to want, and seen very happy people with none of them. Try to dig beyond what you think you want, looking beyond what’s expected.

If you still want it, then great, go for it – but maybe approach it in a different way to how you think it should go and let time do its thing. I really do believe that what’s meant for you won’t pass you by and I’ve seen this play out in my own life, and that of my friends’. Don’t panic, it’s going to be OK.

If you relate, please share with someone who you think this could help! It will also BONUS help me!

Share

NINETEEN: If you’re feeling anxious, record all of those thoughts into a voicenote. Or, if you’re near the sea, go throw rocks into it, yelling your anger into the wind.

TWENTY: Don’t get whipped up into a frenzy

Anger travels faster on the internet than any other emotion. It’s very, very easy to get caught up and full of rage and forget that almost every situation has nuance, and behind every seemingly stupid/ignorant comment is a person. Take a breath, a walk, let your heart go back into your chest, fact-check any claims made and, if you’re still mad, write a structured response (you could even leave it overnight and post it the next day) but also know that, not every situation needs your perspective. It’s OK to leave things. It doesn’t make you look stupid.

TWENTY ONE: Clothes are meant to be fun

For a while they almost got me. I gained some weight, found clothes shopping and finding things that fit harder and harder and obsessed over my stomach showing in outfits. I settled for a life of fit-and-flare dresses, in plain colours. Then I realised that it’s much better to wear something fun, crazy or silly than wear something boring and uncomfortable just because it makes me look thin. Diet culture has been sewn into your jeans. Remember that, and also… everyone looks their nicest when they’re smiling.

(for more on my style journey, writing this article and working with stylist Amy Bannerman changed everything)

TWENTY TWO: Be as excited as a teenage girl seeing Harry Styles in concert

All the feathers all over London reminded me of something. Harry Styles was playing Wembley and all his fans wrapped themselves in feather boas and screamed their happy, loving hearts out. That’s an infectious energy, just loving something so much and being right there in that moment, connected to a tiny dot on stage. I’ve watched people lose that as they get older, people begin to think it’s cool to be bored, and it’s uncool to like popular stuff.

When I was a teenager my friends and I were so fucking ridiculous. We dressed up as potatoes for a party, and served all different types of potatoes (mashed/crisps/roasted etc). We spent hours crafting each other notes, doodling and saying how much we loved each other. We were passionately silly and unashamed of it. Thankfully, we’ve remained that way – when we’re together we’ll chuck ourselves down water slides, play ‘guess the kitchen appliance’ game (where you have to pretend to be, say, a toaster) and generally just laugh so, so much. The older I get the more I want to tune into my passions and silliness and shake off all expectation of who I should be, and I’m so lucky to have friends who will never tell me to ‘grow up.’

TWENTY THREE: Just follow what you find fun.

I wanted to just end this on that line. But then I worried you might fall into the same trap that I have in the past – where you confuse what we’re told is fun, with what we find fun. I used to think having fun was staying out all night, endless parties and meeting new people. And I do find those things fun. But I also find dead-lifting heavy weights to the Spice Girls fun. Sitting in my window seat reading a thriller fun. Doing my job and interviewing interesting people fun. I just find it’s a much easier emotion to tune into than happiness, or joy, but that the more you pursue fun, the happiness then follows. I’d say almost every single piece of advice I’ve given has an element of me finding the fun within a situation, and following it.

Anyway, I’ve found writing this FUN! I’d love it if you could let me know your life lessons below!

Leave a comment

I used to think that, by turning 30, I’d change - overnight and quite naturally - into someone different. “So what’s being in your thirties really like?” my 29-year-old self would quiz others, as if I was about to enter into another dimension, one where everything would look and feel entirely different.

The reply was often similar. “You just begin to care less what others think of you” or “you just don’t give a fuck any more.” I was someone who occupied my body as if it was an ill-fitting outfit. I often choked on my unspoken opinions. I cared, I really, really cared what others think of me. I was ready to shrug all of that off, mature into someone brand new.

I’m 37 now and… I’m still waiting.

If anything, I’m perhaps more anxious, more people pleasing than I was in my twenties. I could be being unfair on myself. I don’t have the same hang ups that I did back then but my people pleasing has morphed into a new form.

The curtain twitching, grass-on-your-neighbours, don’t-kill-your-granny attitude mixed with the constant rule-changing during lockdown left me within a state of panic. I remember once, when the pubs re-opened, wailing at my kitchen table that some influencer had told me (via her followers, though you’d think considering my tears she’d come to tell me off personally) that “we should all be imposing our own lockdown.” I desperately wanted to see my friends but felt pull-my-hair-out guilty about it. Ian was baffled by me. “Why do you care so much? You have to do what you think is right… not what [name redacted] tells you is right.”

This is where it all gets muddled. As I couldn’t answer him. Why did I care so much? Why couldn’t I figure out what was right for myself? Had I lost, somewhere along the way, my ability to view myself clearly? Do I now only view myself through the iPhone lens of others?

As, of course, this goes beyond lockdown… Instagram was invented 12 years ago. I can’t remember precisely when I got the app but it will have been in my late twenties. It was a more innocent time, one where I’d take a picture of rain soaked cobblestones, shove a Valencia filter on top, think it was incredibly arty and be pleased with my two or so likes. Over the years Instagram (and indeed all social media) has morphed into an entirely different beast. You don’t need me to tell you that. I also don’t have the space to go into how social media has fucked with our self-esteem. There have been entire books written on the subject. But I couldn’t write about my people pleasing without acknowledging that, of course, social media has played its part.

So, what form does my people pleasing take today? I initially struggled to answer that. I almost reached for my phone to ask my friends… and that, I realised, is the answer in itself. I turn to others for their opinions far more than I turn to myself. I often struggle with not-so-much writer’s block but a writer’s pause where I imagine what others could be thinking reading my words, and when I do that, the words themselves twist and morph into something ugly. (I’m doing it right now.) When I meet new people I pick and choose the parts of my personality that will make them like me, over how I’m actually feeling that day or what I want to talk about. I feel the glare of people looking at me, from all angles, a lot of the time. A comedian once followed me on Instagram and, upon seeing he viewed my stories, I - for weeks - tried to make jokes that he might find funny. None of them were funny.

I’m an attention seeking, people pleaser and… the irony is… this behaviour makes me like myself a lot less.

So…as I approach my forties can I shake off the expectations of others? Tune into what I feel and think above what others do? Do I even want that? After all, my people pleasing tendencies have got me this far. I’ve also never wanted to be the “casually cruel in the name of being honest” type. I enjoy making people happy (and yes, egotistically, I like when people like me)…

Share

Is there a way to do both? I believe that our greatest strength can also be our greatest weakness. But I also don’t think it’s healthy for me, or my relationships, to prize ‘being liked’ so far up my list. In my most ironic move yet… I decided to ask OTHERS FOR THEIR ADVICE. ON SOCIAL MEDIA.

Here’s what they had to say…

‘I now ask ‘do I like them? rather than ‘do they like me?’

“I used to really care what people thought of me. In my twenties I was really involved in the ‘scene’ and was out all the time. I took drugs, barely ate, smoked and drank loads. I had more new ‘friends’ than I could ever dream of. I was never short of male attention and looking back the very shallow foundations of myself were rooted in validation from others and were very appearance based. “I feel like shit but I look great,” was practically my mantra.

It took a really long time for things to change but they did eventually. I reached a point of burn-out with the partying. I took up running but damaged my hip, meaning I had to rest for six months. I was also on medication for depression and ongoing anxiety, as well as undergoing counselling and CBT.

Through all of this, over the next decade I gained 15kg, my friendships became more meaningful, particularly those I’d neglected for the more superficial and I began to invest in my interests - sewing and making jewellery. I cut ties with people who were bad for me and I began to consider what impact they had on my life, and self esteem. Taking that break helped me see things clearer and I have since rebuilt some of those relationships.

I moved from London to the countryside, almost exclusively wear second hand clothes, let it all hang out by the pool, cellulite and all and I’ve never been happier. I now ask “do I like them rather than do they like me?” I spend time doing things that I find enriching, rather than what it looks like in a picture. I realise that my memories, my experiences, my relationships, my health, my happiness are most important… and I’m the only one who can assess how they are going.

J

“You should be enjoying your life, not merely appearing to enjoy it.”

“We shouldn't be chasing achievements just to prove something to other people. If your motivations stem from a negative place, e.g.  ‘I’ll show them,’ or to make someone jealous, like an old enemy from school, and they're still occupying your headspace, then they've already won - because you’ve allowed them to have that long-lasting impact on you. Letting go of such trivial and damaging habits and training yourself out of that way of thinking is hugely liberating and has amazing effects on your confidence and happiness. You should be enjoying your life, not merely appearing to enjoy it. If you’re impressive, people will know, without you trying to impress them.

“There are some people, like friends and family who, of course, you should care what they think. But it's important to get in the habit of categorising when it’s beneficial/worthy of your time or, essentially, emotional self harm. If you are strict with yourself and don’t indulge those unhelpful feelings, and instead tell yourself: “I shouldn't care what this person thinks - and I’m NOT going to.” Eventually it will happen automatically." 

E

‘You have to find a balance’

“I think it’s hard to say you don’t care about anyone’s opinions. I care what certain people think but anyone who isn’t my close friend… I don’t give a shit. Particularly with superficial stuff, I think it’s other people’s problem.

It helps me to think in terms of situations rather than a blanket rule. I also practice a lot of positive self talk! I do also have a diagnosis of autism which probably helps me to not care in certain social situations. But if anyone says they don’t care at all what people think of them… I would tend to think they have narcissistic tendencies. Or they have been really hurt by others in the past. There has to be a balance. I think I can be a people pleaser at times but it’s when I want to be… and I want others to feel good.”

‘You need to value self respect over people thinking you’re cool’

“For me it’s about conviction in your own character and a commitment to (what I only learned recently) stoicism. You need to value nurturing self respect over people thinking you are cool, or rich, or being jealous of your life. I’m in no way saying I’m of perfect character but I spend a lot of time just thinking. Working on my values and what would make me proud of me, how I react to situations and what the root of feeling negative is, is that because it clashes with my values?

Joan Didion’s ‘On Self Respect’ has always been my favourite piece of writing because it’s a perfect description of what it means to make mistakes with dignity. “People with self respect know the price of things.” If you’re going to make a decision you know is wrong you can’t make excuses. That’s a little off topic but I think it’s at the core of not caring what people think, as it’s about valuing your own opinion.”

E

Leave a comment

What do you think? I’ve got so much more to say on this topic. On what I’ve learned pondering it for this letter for the past few weeks. On the fact I even asked others for their advice on it! But this is already quite a long letter so I’ll save it for another time. Part two coming up soon (I was going to write ‘let me know if you want part two’ but I didn’t! I’m learning! I want to do part two so there will be a part two.)

Also, you’ll notice there’s little discussion of grief in this letter. This is a self-care style thing, it’s hard to write about grief every week. But don’t worry, I’m not straying away from why I set the letter up. But I will be writing about different, unrelated topics every now and then. Today’s is free but it’s going to be, from now on, additional content for my paid subscribers. So if that’s not you then please consider upgrading! Thank you!

I can tell you exactly how many Weight Watchers points are in a Terry’s Chocolate Orange. How many are in a crumpet. In a bag of Walkers Salt and Vinegar crisps. A small glass of white wine. A Curly Wurly (although there is some debate on that… but I won’t get into it here.) 

For five, or was it six, years I worked as a junior writer for Weight Watchers magazine. I’d write the swaps pages, you know the ones “eat this, not that”, often themed around Christmas, Easter, even Halloween. I’d seek out lower point alternatives to ‘treats’ and I’d grill our real-life case study stories on how they lost weight. Often these were women who, at their ‘before’ weight and size, were still smaller than I was, sitting there, in my 14-16 body, hearing how they’d ‘ballooned’ from a size 8 to a 12. 

I’m not telling you this to take down those women; how we feel about our individual bodies is complicated and personal. I’m also not writing a critique of Weight Watchers or its programme. During my time at the magazine (which, on the whole, I adored) I met people who had lost weight and then found the confidence to leave abusive relationships, toxic jobs, friendships… Those who had lost ten stone, and found themselves going from not being able to walk around their block to competing in Iron Mans.

But I also met people who told me they were ‘scared’ to eat things when they weren’t 100% sure of how many points were in it. Those who would cry on the scales after putting on one pound. I learned how sensitive you have to be to interview people about their weight. How tangled and twisted our body image is with so many other aspects of our lives. How vital a role it can play in our sense of self, in how we conduct our daily routines. In how worthy we feel we are of adventure, of love. 

Subscribe now

How did this period of time impact my own body image? My own sense of self? I don’t follow the programme and I haven’t written about Weight Watchers in years, yet those points to random items of food remain firmly lodged in my brain. I’ve forgotten so much - joyful and silly memories; the vital statistics that will help me win a debate in the pub and yet, I’ll pile a crumpet onto my plate and suddenly bam its value will pop into my consciousness. 

I’ve been thinking of that job recently as, of course, it’s January. Which, typically, is ‘diet season.’ But, over the past few years, it’s also morphed into something else. A month where think-pieces about diet culture’s damage dominate. On my own Instagram feed (and I’m are this will be down to my algorithm) I’ve seen plenty of posts slagging off diets, but very few advertisements for the diets themselves. I’ve seen that quote “the most rebellious thing you can do is to love your body in a world that screams at you that you shouldn’t” (which I believe is from Laura Bates) in various type-faces, on a variety of different pastel coloured backgrounds. 

It’s a welcome change. I hope it will make a difference to the generation before mine. But as part of my new pivot into examining rebellion I want to try to figure out what this actually means.

Do I love my body? Did I love my body during that time when - I suppose some could argue - my 9-5 was spent in the HQ for self-hatred? 

On the whole, I do think I’m alright body-image wise.

I run across beaches in bikinis, jumping off of cliff-faces into the salty ocean. I have sex with the light on. I wander through changing rooms in very little. I skinny-dip. I’ve even done naked yoga. Just a week ago I lay on the floor, wearing just a black nightie and a red cardigan, and my friend pretended - in front of 15 people - to perform a cow C-section on me (an odd example, but an example all the same.) The point is I don’t let any hang-ups stop me from living the life that I love. 

But…

I pick only the photos I look the ‘thinnest’ in to post on social media. I have three bags under my bed, full of clothes that no longer fit me, that I’ve kept as motivation to ‘slim down.’ I will pull them out, every now and then, to shame myself with. Recently, when researching feature ideas, I stumbled across forums for a ‘miracle’ weight loss drug. One that would cost me £400 a month. That had a pretty stark list of side-effects that included cancer, in bold letters. I still considered ordering it. 

I didn’t like typing that. One of the things that makes me hate myself the most is how hard I find it to love myself.

How impossible it can feel, some days, to be that rebellious character, that strong feminist. I swing constantly between completely agreeing with the anti-diet rhetoric while secretly, shamefully, wishing I was thinner. I once ordered a book rallying against diet culture and it showed up in the same package as a set of diet pills I’d purchased a few days before… 

Considering the eras I grew up in (first the heroin chic of the 90s, then teeny-tiny American Apparel Disco Pants and the big hair, skeletal frames of the ‘Zoe-bots’ in the early 00s) I should be kinder to myself. It’s really not easy to shake off decades of toxic messaging and, hey, I’ve done naked yoga, alright! I know an alternative New Year’s Resolution is to not diet and instead work on embracing one’s body as it is. I could try that, really push for that rebellion. But then I wonder, wouldn’t it be better to focus my attention elsewhere? To move away from the physical and, instead, work on the eternal? The things that I can love about myself when I’m 90, and everything has drooped and even my bones aren’t ‘what they once were.’ 

After Weight Watchers I went onto work for other women’s magazines, eventually landing a role at Cosmopolitan, working under Farrah Storr, undoubtedly one of the greatest magazine editors of all time (and who I learned a great deal from, I’m sure you already subscribe to her Substack but if you don’t, it’s here.) I was there when Farrah put Tess Holliday on the cover. It was a decision that caused worldwide controversy and people could not stop talking about her body, in an emerald swimsuit. Some people loved it, some people hated it, Piers Morgan said we were ‘glorifying’ obesity (bla, bla) our Twitter mentions for months after were full of debates surrounding it. For a while, everyone was talking about her body. 

But, if I remember correctly, it was also a decision that, initially, had nothing to do with her body whatsoever. Tess is an incredibly inspirational person with a life story everyone should read, but which, I suspect, most of her critics didn’t bother to. That’s why Farrah wanted her on the cover… because she’s a cool person with lots of hugely interesting things to say. 

This has always frustrated me. How when we’re caught up in arguments on body image and who should appear in adverts, on television, on the covers of our magazine, we’re completely forgetting that we are all more than our bodies, more than our outer appearance. When we discuss what makes someone confident it’s usually them being ‘brave’ for accepting their ‘flaws’ and wearing the damn outfit anyway. Or, it’s because they look how we expect someone who is happy in their body to look (“how can she have insecurities when she looks like that? She’s gorgeous” sort of thing…) Rarely do we consider that those who are truly confident are that way because they love themselves from the inside out. They know their attractive qualities extend beyond what they see in the mirror. 

Looking again at that list above, of the things that showcase my love for my body (sex with the lights on, the faux cow C section, you remember…) they’re all actions I’ve taken confidently because of my personality, not the figure that carries it. I know that I am a fun, nice person to be around. That I’m someone who seeks out pleasure in almost all situations. I should stop this inner tug-of-war to both love how I look in photographs while also erasing the ‘be skinny or else’ messaging of my past as that’s a time-consuming task. I should instead spend my days doing and being all of those things. Fun, happy, interesting. The qualities that will allow me to feel confident in my own skin.

I don’t think it will be easy. But I guess, the most rebellious acts rarely are…

What do you think? How is your relationship with your body? When it comes to body image what do you think counts as true rebellion?

Leave a comment

Also, just in case you missed it, this is still a grief-focused newsletter, I just - for my mental health - can’t write about grief every week so, every now and then, will also be writing about rebels and rebellion.

Subscribe now

This is the cow c-section by the way…

Truthfully, I don't know what they did. I know this moment only through five minutes, told to me, by a stranger. I was in a church hall at my grandma's funeral. I was letting a tea, thick with sugar, deliberately burn my hands. And then this woman said hello. I can’t remember her face, or her name but she broke me out of my fog with a simple story. Of how my grandma gave her a (tiny) dose of revolution.

It was just after this woman’s husband had died, she explained. My grandma had phoned her up and invited her to Edinburgh to stay. This was a woman my grandma knew from her church in Peterhead, a small town she had lived in for many years. It's where my granddad is buried. It's where she is now too. But Grandma moved to Edinburgh to be closer to us, and therefore suddenly had the means to invite this woman on a "girls weekend."

It sounds small. Booking a coach, or a train, travelling a few hours to see a friend. That's standard for most of us. But it wasn't. Not for this lady, not for my grandma.

How can I explain how big this weekend was? They may have looked, to outsiders, like two older women in dour tartan skirts and properly pinned brooches. Women who stick to the rules. It’s how I viewed my grandma for many years: she didn’t drink alcohol, she never wore trousers and always wore a hat to church. But underneath all of that, there was a woman slowly breaking free.

Long after she died, I bought a copy of Marie Claire. It had a coverline that read "I grew up in cult." The cult in question? My grandma's religion. Its odd extremities had, for me, until that day, always simply been part of the fabric of my life.

Whether her extreme subsect of Christianity (I won't name it) is a cult is not for me to say. My grandma attended her church pretty much until the day she died. It brought her a lot of joy. I don't want to diminish that. Her life is not one for me to tell. But, this article and my subsequent research that followed, showed me that it will have restricted her in ways I will never truly know.

So even the smallest things she did, from cutting the hair that she always wore so long it trailed down her back, to playing television on Sundays, took courage. Rebellion doesn't always display itself in punk clothing or outrageous acts. It can be small and unnoticeable. Seen only as bravery by those at the very heart of it.

Share

And inviting this woman, who, like her, was shunned from the group for suddenly being "single" certainly was an act of rebellion. They didn't disobey the rules of their religion, the community that raised them. Even when the community was literally turning its back.

My grandma was a rebel. And no one knew it. So was my mum. In a way that everyone knew. Both ways take courage, I suspect my mum's took a lot more. She broke away from her religious family as a teenager. Flew to San Francisco. Partied. Decided not to marry a traditional Christian man. Fell in love with my hippy dad on her return. Spent her life's work writing and fighting for feminism, long before it was cool to wear the word around our necks.

They had so much in common. I wonder if they knew?

So, why am I telling you this? Well, I'm currently on a plane and... things feel clearer in the air. I'm in between time zones, I'm head-shrinking(ly) high and away from any contact or (most likely) perceived criticism. It's helping me see what I need.

I've been struggling to write the newsletter lately. Time, yes, has been tight. But a tiny time frame has never held me back before. If I want to do, or write, something enough I'll squash it in. Always.

This, I think, is an unconscious (until now) form of protection. I can feel the delicious temptation of sinking. Sinking into my own grief.

I could easily be swallowed by my own sadness, plucking it out even when it's not there. I have begun to frame every second of my life within the gaze of grief, examine and prod and poke and question  "who would I have been if this specific set of circumstances didn't happen to me?"

We all could. We are obsessed by our own suffering, as if knowing every detail of our wounds will cure them. And it might. I believe discussing our lives, openly and honestly, is one of the best ways to move forward. It's helped me immensely.

It's why I set up this newsletter. I'm also not going to stop doing it, or asking others to speak of their own grief. The aims set out at the start remain the same.

But I can't do it every week.

I'm a happy person. I work at this.  It's not easy but I choose, each morning, to be happy. If you don't feel happy right now, please don't read this as a judgement, as if I'm telling you to work harder. That's not what I mean. I'm just always trying to learn what's right for me. I know there have been times when I've choked on my own positivity. It's why I decided to dredge up my darkest parts. Doing so has changed me in many ways, mostly, I believe, for the better.

My grandma hid her sludgiest, saddest parts. I don't think I ever saw her cry. She wasn't unusual, stoicism was the making (and breaking) of her generation. I love how we are rewriting the ills of our keep-calm-and-carry-on history.

I also speak a lot about balance. Hopscotching our way through the light and the dark.

And, personally, I can't continue to make deadlines out of death.

Not if I want to continue to, on the most part, feel happy. As even when I’m not writing about my own grief I am trying my best to, with guest posts and interviews, take the upmost of care with others grief. That takes a lot and I don’t want to rush it. But I still want to write each week.

So, I've made a decision! As one of my aims of this newsletter is to discuss the joy and lessons that come from grief I'm seeking that out in a new way. I want to celebrate the lives of those I've lost, those who I may lose. And the thread that stitches them all together is rebellion. I believe that same thread stitches my own seams.

It's a quality that is shamed. It's also, sometimes, celebrated too much. Defining ourselves as purely a rebel can drive us into mistakes, adopting personas that aren't our own. I'm interested in examining that. So while I'll continue to do exactly what I set out to do (be as open and honest about grief as we can be) I also want to interview people about their own acts of rebellion.

This newsletter will be a mix of both. I hope you'll join me on the journey.

Leave a comment