How can we accept all sides of ourselves?
When the treadmill of self-improvement leads to self-doubt...
I had a happy influx of new subscribers this week, thanks to a recommendation from (the author, and friend, who got me hooked on historical fiction again… if you haven’t read one of her books, you should!) so hello everyone!
Welcome! I write about grief, of all kinds, from the traditional grief of losing someone you love, to the grief of our daily lives, drifting from friends, drifting from the person we thought we might be… I interview people, open up the space for others to share their stories and, like below, I sometimes just try to ponder on my thoughts and try to untangle them. I hope you’ll enjoy being here.
I have a hangover from crying. My eyes need a Solpadeine. I keep ordering take-out on a Tuesday and going for naps that last longer than I ever intended.
I feel grimy, coated with the city’s sins.
This was not who I was two-weeks-ago. Two weeks ago I was small in a forest; two weeks ago my skin was soaked in sea water; two weeks ago I told myself I was a better person.
Then, I got off a plane and stepped into a body that felt like a merry-go-round: jet lag made everything squint. Every email in my inbox felt like an attack and, deadlines looming, my skin broke out in hives. I was having an allergic reaction… to myself.
But, instead of saying: that’s natural, you can’t feel good all the time, I chastised myself. ‘I thought you’d changed’ I scolded, as I soaked in the sweat of my own shame. ‘You were meant to return, at one with nature, zen, and… and… and…’
This is my issue with self-improvement. I love to learn and I want to be better: better to myself, and better to those around me. But, when I aim to change, who am I actually doing it for? Am I doing it to make my life happier, my loved ones happier? Or, am I squishing myself into a mould created for me by others?
We see reflections of ‘good’ all around us, and all they tend to do is make us feel bad.
I have worked in magazines for well over a decade. I’m on the features desk and, unlike the fashion and beauty teams, I’m not reporting on physical trends, instead emotional ones. What are people talking about? How are they living their lives? What’s underneath all of that? Are the habits labelled healthy really so healthy, or is there a darkness under the surface? What topics are actually worth examining, and talking about? What can micro-trends teach us about wider society?
This means I am chronically online. Where does my brain end, and Google Chrome begin? Even now, as I type, I can feel myself slipping into a language that is not my own, but instead adopting a common lexicon: internet speak. Of course, you don’t have to have my job to feel this way – just a smartphone. Most of us are hooked up to a never-ending drip of other people’s lives.
And… I feel like it’s fucked me up. But, not necessarily in a comparison trap way. I don’t look at an influencers’ abs, then look down at my own pale, and round, stomach and feel awful. It isn’t as stark as that. It’s more this feeling, constantly, that the way I live my life could be improved.
There’s always a life coach, or a guru, or simply just an ordinary, shiny-haired person, waiting to tell me what one trick changed their lives, sharing how they got sober/began meditating/moved to the seaside/joined the 5am club/saved £5000/started bullet journaling/invested/stopped caring what other people think/kicked their take-away habit/manifested gold/went viral and got a book deal…
I could go on.
Two weeks ago, I felt like one of those shiny-haired gurus. I was standing within a forest, on the outskirts of Vancouver, inhaling air that wasn’t just fresh, it was herbal… It smelled like mulled wine spices, and, deep in my lungs, I felt as if it was healing me. I sat on a tree trunk and meditated, feeling the deep wisdom of the trees sink into my soul…
Then, I was back in London. This city that I love but which is, undoubtedly, bad for me. The pollution turns my snot black, I cram into tin-can carriages and feel the breath of strangers on my neck. I commute for two hours a day, to a job that sees me hunched over a blue-light emanating screen. I drink in dive-bars, skip the gym and, have been known, to spend sweaty weekends rotting in bed.
I don’t think many life coaches or TikTok gurus would approve of how I spend my days.
But… I also, meet fascinating people, I’ve found that London’s anonymity, it’s thriving streets, attracts those who want to live in an unusual, unique way. Each day is different. I write for a living, a job that takes me across the globe and I have a strong network of friends who love me, and I love them back. I like being coated in orange-street light, in a city full of chaos, never knowing what tomorrow will bring. I’m not good with routine, or the quiet, and – if lockdown taught me anything – it’s that I am an extrovert in the truest of senses, without a huge variety of people around me, my body and brain is drained of its charge.
I am happy. Yet…
Sometimes I feel like I’m not happy, quite simply because my life doesn’t match what I’m told happiness looks like.
Or, perhaps, because the happiness we’re shown excludes the reality of life.
I remember once, during a three-month sobriety stint, coming to a revelation, while yellow supernoodles dripped down my chin. I was honking with laughter at FRIENDS, avoiding the task I really needed to do, and I’d just Deliveroo’d myself toilet paper. I was not the person I’d envisioned, when I had embarked on this lifestyle change.
Similarly, I always remember a friend of mine, who (seemingly) was on the trip of a lifetime, one of non-stop adventure and intrigue. I expressed my jealousy and she told me that no matter how far you go, what life you are living, there will still always be a part of you that wants, needs, to rot in bed watching Netflix.
If I lived in Vancouver, and spent my weekends hiking and drinking Spruce tea, I would probably also still order take-away, take guilty daytime naps and sit in sweaty, stained pyjamas.
It’s not that I’m saying I am going to stop trying. That there’s no point as, deep inside, I am unalterable. It’s more that when I do so, I need to do so as to move forward without labelling myself as a ‘before’ that needs a total and utter lifestyle overhaul.
I need to recognise that, often, society portrays meditating, in nature hikers as the best kind of people, and party girls in ankle-twisting heels as the worst kind of people. There’s a deep misogyny to this also, where it can feel like – as a woman – we are handed a set of guidelines to live by, and when we veer from that, we feel like we’re the wrong ones. It’s a pressure that many face, but, particularly as someone who is child-free, I often find myself feeling a little out-of-place living a life that is at odds with what we’re told is the life of a ‘good woman.’
I have to get better at accepting all sides of myself. I’m an on-the-list city girl and someone who throws herself into cold-water, nature plunges. I can switch between hiking boots and heels. Neither one is better, or worse, than the other – as long as I am still enjoying myself, and caring for others while doing so.
What do you think? Mostly I like to gather my thoughts and share them, in the hope, that others feel the same. So please do comment or message me and let me know! Also sharing my work is a great way to support me, so if you relate please do share with someone. Also, find below, a poem I once wrote which I feel sums up this internal tug of war I have with myself…
Duck my head under Jagged water Sink my toes in seaweed Squelch Coat my skin in salt Suddenly rosy with health Damp towels, gritted with sand Touch The same soft flesh That held his silky weight These sea wet lips belong To the mouth That opened, baby bird In a darkened field The pill as smooth as a pebble Then pulled me into the mud I am everything Even when the Earth Tells me I'm nothing Flood my soul Before splitting me in two Tell me Which part is better