I’m having a memoir / essays moment this year. One conquest was I Feel Bad About My Neck and other essays by Nora Ephron, which was published in 2006. She died just six years later, at the age of 71, and will forever have a seat at my fantastical dinner table. It doesn’t even need to be that glamorous; I’d love to go to the pub with her or just ask her for her thoughts on stuff in a quick WhatsApp.

It’s all the more bittersweet that the primary thread of her collection is a complex relationship with ageing — battling it, pondering it, coming to terms with it. This isn’t something that occupies a great deal of my headspace yet, but maintenance — the title of another essay in the set — most definitely does in this age of weight loss jabs, collagen and matcha over coffee.

Nora is the reason I’m currently typing this with very stubby, brittle fingernails after eight years of religious manicures. She was right: it’s not worth the time nor money to lose the use of your hands for an hour every three weeks in aid of something as small as a fingernail.

But it’s the broader theme of feeling bad about things that I want to respond to. It’s often said to be a uniquely female experience, this constant self-chastising, and I don’t know how true this is but it’s certainly one I live through day in, day out.

Below are some of the things I feel bad about. I’m writing them down, and attempting to let them go. Please feel free to do the same in the comments, so we all feel a bit better.

I feel bad about…

1. Dedicating a lot of time to nebulous pursuits

By nebulous, I mean there is no return on investment or even sometimes proof it happened. It’s genuinely really hard to tell someone you are not free on Saturday because you need to spend three hours revising a short story that may or may not go anywhere. It’s hard in a way that’s not hard if you’re playing a tennis match or going to a pottery class, and that’s annoying.

2. Not living in the same city as my friends

I’m not a city girl, and left London for Gloucestershire — where I’d never set foot in my life — at the tender age of 21. My friends are fabulous, and we still manage to have a lot of fun, but it’s impossible to not feel a bit like you’re the one preventing further frivolity when you’re in the minority geography-wise. You are inconvenient, especially given the state of British train travel right now.

3. Finding a 9-5 really tiring

Honestly, I can hardly keep my eyes open sometimes. Maybe it’s an undiagnosed iron deficiency, but it’s probably just that an office job doesn’t suit me. I feel bad about this because lots of people work incredibly long days and still manage plans after work, but I simply can’t. I need five coffees and probably two diet cokes to remain functional after 3pm. My sole consolation is I’m quite good between 6 and 8am.

4. Watching barely any TV

I’ve missed out on a lot of quality television. Admitting this is doubly bad, because people assume you think you’re above it. I wish, but please see point 3 — it’s more about laziness. There aren’t many hours available outside that dreaded 9-5, so I’m pretty ruthless about my pursuits. Those pursuits include reading, writing, lying down and staring into space. This means I have barely seen anything at all, besides my core comfort shows of Friends, Gilmore Girls and Schitts Creek. I dread nothing more than an office conversation starting: “Have you seen…?” Let me stop you right there: I haven’t.

5. Not voting last week

I think I’ve voted in every election I’ve been eligible to vote in, until last week. I did not vote in my local elections. I am young and able and live in a democratic country and I did not vote. This time I can’t point to lack of time — I’ve just never felt so out of the loop with party politics, nor so disinterested in participating. I feel bad about this and hope it doesn’t last.

6. My hair

Very Nora-coded, this one. She famously had her hair blowdried at a salon twice a week, while I struggle to get it cut every three months. My hair plagues me, and I’m sure my Mum describing it as ‘rats’ tails’ when I was young has done permanent damage (if you’re reading this, you do not have a right to respond). The truth is, it bores me. It looks like a Springer Spaniel’s ears in that typical English girl way that means no one ever remembers you when they meet you a second time. I’ve tried everything — I used to dye it dark purple out of packets in my university dorm room, I’ve had more fringes cut in and grown out again than anyone I know, I’ve gone short and sophisticated and long and bohemian and the sad fact remains that the Springer Spaniel is still my best look.

7. Not being close to my sibling

I get along with my sibling just fine — pretty well in fact, these days. I have an older brother, so I’m hardly expecting hair-braiding sessions, but I want them nonetheless. We live in different countries, with very independent and fulfilled lives, but a childish part of me still longs for the sort of sibling mischief and magic that filled the pages of my books.

8. Elderly people

I cried in a coffee shop this week because the two grandchildren at the table next to me had met up with their grandfather, just to spend the whole time on their phones rather than speaking to him. This is not an unusual occurrence for me. Beyond family obligations, I don’t think British society treats the elderly that well (beyond our obsession with war veterans) and I’m not doing enough to counteract that. It’s easier to assume the very old person next to you occupies an entirely different world, life, headspace than it is to acknowledge that they know an awful lot more than you and might lend you a fresh perspective if you could just be bothered to put your phone down, ask their name or write them a letter.

9. Not picking up the phone

For someone who loves to communicate, I’m remarkably bad with phone calls. Supposedly this is classic Gen Z, but I’m not sure about that because I have never been very classic Gen Z. The truth is sometimes a phone call is called for, and I do not follow through. Friends abroad, friends going through something, my godmother who still operates solely by landline… My suspicion is it has more to do with mental overload, and a false sense that this will be in some way harder than one-way, delayed communication.

10. Wanting a cleaner

I have never seen a speck of dirt in my Indian mother-in-law’s house, and I’m pretty sure she would recoil at the idea of paying a cleaner to do that work for her. But I want that. For some reason, cleanliness and tidiness — or rather a lack of both — are probably the single biggest drivers of skyrocketing anxiety for me. I’m sure there’s a bit of scapegoating going on here; after all, is it really the bomb site of a home office or the defeatist inner voice that’s stopping me from getting it done? Regardless, I do think tidy desk, tidy mind is a cliche for a reason and this extends to every room of the house. I can’t afford one at the moment, but I’m just putting it out there that I want one and I feel bad about that.

***

Woooooosh. I feel better for feeling bad in public. Your turn — what do you feel bad about?

Of course, this ecosystem is pure survival of the fittest.

New year's resolutions fall, inevitably, by the wayside. Bucket lists — those absurd endeavours to capture all the things you want to do before you die, before you’re 30, before you’re 60 — fail to recognise the ever-changing nature of our desires. To-do lists are made every week and are condemned, barely ticked, to the graveyard with the others.

I think lists are often associated with ‘Type A’ sorts — those who are meticulously organised and possibly squeeze the fun out of every scenario by planning it to a tee — but I want to argue there’s a little more of an art form to the list. Even the lists that don’t make it serve a purpose.

Some lists are about reducing cognitive load and anxiety and making sense of the chaos. Others — the ones I’m going to share — are about adding: sparkle, pizzazz, enrichment. They show potential, rather than obligation. If I were to pick out a more practical shared theme amongst the below, it would be documenting the past to inform the future. Above all, it’s about making life easier for a future, Type B me.

Let’s begin.

1. Outfits that make me feel great

You know it, I know it. You’re standing in front of an overflowing wardrobe, but you have nothing to wear. Maybe you’re a little overtired, or ate three bowls of pasta last night. You cannot remember ever owning a decent piece of clothing and are teetering dangerously close to self-loathing.

I hate this feeling so much I decided to take a stand. Whenever a happier, healthier version of me wears something that makes me feel great — dopamine dressing, if you will — I write it down in full. That’s everything from hair accessories to shoes.

“Long sleeve leopard print top, black pinafore dress, black boots and a colourful beanie hat.”

The beauty of this log is I’ve now got enough outfits in there to cover every scenario. Packing for a three night city break and can’t remember which of my clothes go with one another? There are outfits for that. Work in an office with zero sense of temperature control? There are outfits for that. Date night? There’s an outfit for that.

Yes, this is definitely about reducing cognitive load (and spending), but it's also a reminder to myself that I’ve got style, and options.

2. Everything I’ve ever read

Call it performative, if you like, but vowing to take my reading seriously a few years ago was the best thing I ever did. Books are a core feature of my quality of life, so of course I’m going to document them.

I no longer rate books; that caused me too many headaches and too much regret. But I log each book I read and then I can look back on a month or a year and remember the favourites, the duds, the unexpected adventures.

There’s a less selfish motivation behind this one, too. If you read a lot, you know this doesn’t make it any easier when a friend asks you for a book recommendation. As soon as I’m asked this question, my brain thinks I’ve never read a book in my life. Keeping this digital journal makes it easy for me to filter by genre and recall the right books for the right people. The same goes for my Substack reading guides, of course.

I’m a StoryGraph girl, if you’re wondering (lblundell_23).

“It’s no bad thing to celebrate a simple life.”

J.R.R Tolkien

3. A culture calendar

Diaries and planners fill up fast at the turn of the new year, and this has always made me feel anxious because of the lack of room for spontaneity. I finally accepted the empty weekends were unlikely to come and, if they did, I was more likely to spend them rotting on the sofa instead of doing something I’ve always wanted to do.

So, I set up a culture calendar; a month-by-month record of all the stuff going on near me, in London or in other parts of the UK that I might be interested in. It includes shows, talks, exhibitions and more.

Again, this is not a ‘to do,’ but rather a menu, empowering future you’s choices. ‘What do you want to do today?’ ‘Oh, you know what I really want to do? Go to the Wallace and Gromit exhibition in Bristol.’ Useful for friend dates, solo artist dates and the like.

“I can make another list because the choice is mine. A list of what to do. So I won’t be listless ever again.”

Johnny Rich, The Human Script

4. Future gifts

Game changer. Until this year I’ve kept ad hoc lists of potential gifts for people around events like Christmas or our wedding, but I now keep a rolling list for special people in my life.

If I see something special in a shop or online that I just know they’ll love, I pop it into Notes on my phone to return to in the run up to their birthday or another time of year. Currently, loved ones have special editions of books, beautifully designed hairbrushes and artisan vases against their names.

This one’s definitely about spreading my admin load across the year, but it’s also just a nice thing to do.

If you can’t tell, gifting is my love language.

5. Upcoming opportunities

Similar, but more work and less play…

Grants. Short story competitions. Calls for submissions. Adapt as you will for your creative outputs, but keeping a list of these gives you options and — if you want them — deadlines.

I’ll often pick something from my list to loosely work towards, absorbing its theme, word count parameters and deadlines, and it becomes sort of irrelevant whether I actually end up submitting there. Instead, the opportunity acts as a supportive framework — scaffolding, if you will — for vague and nebulous creative projects.

If I have a story rejected by my target magazine, I’ll scan the opportunities list and see if anything else coming up would be a good fit for it.

The art of this sort of list is, essentially, about creeping up on yourself. It’s about lending a subtle hand to a future, more stubborn and defeatist you.

—> Tell me, what lists are you keeping?

More from Penny’s Worth

‘I love my friends’ is nothing new, of course, but I want to write about it anyway. If I were to narrow down the premise of this post somewhat, I’d say it’s the idea that our need for meaningful friendships only gets stronger as we grow older and seemingly more independent from them.

Similarly, the purpose religion serves in people’s lives has made increasing sense to me the further into adulthood I venture. I identify as agnostic at best, but am an increasingly spiritual person. When life becomes more confronting, when injustices and tragedies lead us towards despair, it’s our belief in and connection to something greater that pulls us through. So, in the absence of a church, where do I go in my darkest hours?

I worship at the altar of the sisterhood.

Outside of religious teaching, faith is often defined along the lines of: “Great trust or confidence in something or someone.” It’s a given that I feel this way towards my husband, or I’d never have married him. He’s just one man, however, even if it sometimes feels he has the capacity of many more. Regardless, you need more emotional connections in life than the bond you have with your romantic partner. Without the three women who preceded me down the aisle on 12 February 2026, I doubt I’d even have found the love of my marriage in the first place.

And yet, it was not always this way. Growing up, I’d watch portrayals of female friendship in pop culture and think: I will never have what Monica and Rachel or Samantha and Carrie have.

Whenever anyone mentions year nine, I flinch. Year nine is (and I will die on this hill) one of the worst times of a child’s life – especially a girl’s. For my US readers, that’s around age 14. Everything is about appearances. Boys break your heart and girls even more so. Social media is the engine that fuels these repeated heartbreaks and I’m a whole-hearted advocate for the ban until age 16. On the surface, I had lots of friends in year nine, and yet only three of those were invited to my wedding. Most fell by the wayside naturally, while others ended with fireworks or simply tears.

Your friendship group is whittled down over time, making space for the occasional new entrant and generally adapting to a quality over quantity approach. It’s survival of the fittest, in a way you only come to appreciate after the tough break ups.

My bridesmaids date from fairly late in my life — university — and I’m grateful for that. By that age my pre-frontal cortex was getting bashed into shape and I was starting to realise who I wanted to be. That meant less awkward conversations when you realise you have a different set of values or simply don’t enjoy each other’s company any more, but it was also early enough that we shared plenty of formative events together.

Back in October, these three people came together for my hen do in Amsterdam. We bonded over ill-advised cigarettes and espresso martinis, ruminating and over-sharing until we wept and hugged and dissolved in fits of giggles on the drizzly pavements of the city. Over dinner, we encouraged our respective whims to travel forever, to make career changes, to move to another city, to start our own businesses. In each other’s company, everything felt possible in a way that transcends the restraints of ordinary society.

At that time, one of us was due to be married, another was in a long-term relationship and two were firmly single and on the prowl. Just a few days after the trip, though, that long-term relationship unexpectedly dissolved. All of us, after our shared escapades of the previous weekend, felt the shockwaves of her heartbreak like it was our own. That’s the sisterhood in action.

When the macro scene is so grimly littered with violence against women, the sisterhood is — more so than ever — an act of faith. It’s there in our refusal to leave another member alone in the club or in our insistence on Find My Friends for a first date. Unfortunately it’s been made clear on numerous occasions that we cannot rely on the appropriate authorities to keep us safe, so instead we have faith in one another.

But this invisible spider’s web connecting us pervades the everyday, too. It’s there in the compliments paid in girls’ bathrooms every day by complete strangers who don’t have to, but want to.

It’s there in the sad smiles I exchange with my nail technician when she talks about her baby daughter back in Vietnam, while she grinds day in, day out to build a future for her.

We have a tendency to trivialise the sisterhood, with its girl dinners, Aperol spritzes and many, many voice notes. Yet, while we lean into silly trends and stereotypes, the topics that bond us together grow ever heavier; in fact, trivia and trauma go hand in hand. In my closest circles we’ve dealt with serious illnesses in parents, lost parents, eating disorders, heartbreak, redundancies and plenty more besides.

Over the Caesar salad, fries and sauvignon blanc, something sustaining, life-affirming and magical is being built. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The sisterhood: a reading list

Female friendship is often on the sidelines of the novels we read; a sub plot at best, rather than centre stage. Even in iconic teenage reads like Angus Thongs, friends are merely a vehicle for discussing the real deal: boys. Ferrante is perhaps the most obvious listing with her paean to a childhood in Naples, but the below list also spans literal sisters, more tenuous friendships and non-fiction works.

• Everything I Know About Love by Dolly Alderton

• Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman

• The Land in Winter by Andrew Miller

• The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares

• Darling by India Knight

• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

• My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

• Friendaholic by Elizabeth Day

• Yellowface by R.F. Kuang

• Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller

That’s very much a starter for ten. What would you add?

The problem with most resolutions, except the fact they make you a sitting duck for targeted marketing campaigns come January, is two-fold. Firstly, they focus on outcome, not input. Is it really, truly within your powers to guarantee promotion? Is it about losing weight, or eating more healthily? I’m just not buying it this year, but I am big into resolutions — so what should they look like?

Well, that brings me to my second point: traditional New Year’s Resolutions deprive, rather than bring joy. They talk about cutting, reducing, minimising. You only need to glance at my home to know I’m no minimalist; so why live like one? I’ll never be a tech boss who wears the same black turtleneck and trousers every day — thank goodness. So you can keep your bio-hacking: my resolutions are about maximising the joy.

1. Be part of more live audiences

We have an increasing array of experiences at our fingertips, thanks to the wealth of digital media available in the modern age. I’m all for this — it helps to increase accessibility by lowering costs and physical barriers to absorbing culture. However, I also know there’s nothing like the thrill of being part of a live audience and I want to prioritise these experiences over the coming year. I live in Cheltenham, aka ‘the festival town,’ so there’s lots of opportunities there, but I'll be looking further afield, too. Free or paid, lecture or play, being part of a live audience fuels our natural need for community and connection which is increasingly underfed in the digital age.

2. Do more with my hands

Given the amount of time I spend typing in and outside of work, this may sound strange. But beyond reading and writing, I’m keen to lean into more tactile experiences in 2026. The obstacle has often been that I’m not very good at crafting nor cooking, but I’ve decided not to let that bother me anymore. Being outcome-focused has driven too many of my life decisions to date, and now I want to look at what I get from the process. As this will also be the year of saving money, I’ll be spending more evenings and weekends at home and will need hobbies to sustain me. At the moment, I’m thinking about collaging and junk journalling, doing lots of puzzles (which calms my mind like nothing else) and painting (badly). Please do hit me with your handsy recommendations for the supremely untalented.

3. Spend a year with Shakespeare

This post is full of little hints as to the nature of the big old change I’m making in 2026, but I’m keeping that on down-low for now. However, I do need to start brushing up on my Shakespeare. While I have read a few of the Bard’s plays and seen some of them performed over the years, there are definite holes in my knowledge. I’ve picked several plays I want to read over the coming year, and I’m going to supplement these with RSC production recordings and film and television adaptations —recommendations welcome. I’ve recently been listening to Shakespeare: The Man Who Pays the Rent, Judi Dench’s memoir of sorts which is told through the many stage parts she’s played in Shakespeare’s plays. It’s absolutely wonderful, and I highly, highly recommend it. More on this and my Shakespeare journey in my January newsletter.

4. Build my dream second-hand wardrobe

I resolve to become a thrifting extraordinaire. Buying fast fashion simply makes me unhappy, and I’ve done it over the years due to budget constraints and the ‘ease’ it offers. No more! The motto is going to be quality over quantity, sourcing a vintage piece or two each month to build a dopamine-stimulating wardrobe of my favourite colours, patterns and brands. Not only does this mean I'll avoid looking the same as everyone else, but I’ll also put more thought into my purchases and avoid the inevitable regret and donation cycle I’ve been stuck in for the last few years.

5. Embrace my inner frazzled Englishwoman

If my 2026 were a Friends episode, it would be an all-time classic — for better or for worse. The one where they get married and have a career change and… lose the plot? Hopefully not. On the face of it, you might expect very chic and organised resolutions for the new year. Not so, because I know that would be utterly unrealistic. I’m going to be short of money, I’m going to be busy, I’m going to have a lot of competing priorities. If my first few years of adulthood have taught me anything, it’s that if you can’t laugh when the car doesn’t start and you spill coffee down yourself — all before 9.00am — then life will start to feel like a grind very quickly. In 2026, I’m romanticising my inner frazzled Englishwoman and learning to find humour in the setbacks and tedium. That doesn’t mean I can’t be fabulous while doing it: think Kate Winslet in The Holiday or Bridget Jones.

Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions of the compassionate variety? I’d love to hear them.

Twenty-seven. Past my Leonardo di Caprio sell-by-date. Firmly in the X-Factor Over-25s category. The age associated with tragic losses like Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain. My fertility will be on the downward slope by now. There are positives in this article, I promise.

I’ve always found birthdays a tricky concept to get my head around. It’s a lovely opportunity to claim the centre of attention and get together with loved ones, but what is it exactly we are celebrating?

On the most basic level: being born and surviving this long. On other levels… maturity? Wisdom? Achievements? Perhaps, although such thoughts have rarely penetrated the champagne and cake induced hazes of my own past birthdays.

This year I thought I would indulge in some such reflection, because I think — and the irony is you can never be sure until you’ve lived longer — my “late twenties” are proving to be some of my most formative years.

In many ways, my life to date has come full circle. I’m not back in nappies or finger-painting, but I’m much closer to my young self than I was in my teenage years. Self-acceptance and diminishing social anxiety is drawing me ever closer to the precocious, book-obsessed, antique-enthusiast of a history-nerd I was.

The awful teenage years — and they were pretty awful, to be honest — are a kaleidoscope of competing influences, from parents and teachers to the good friends and the bad ones and the hell-scape of adolescent boys.

I care much less about what anyone else thinks now, so I’m free to embrace the status of a crazy cat mum who never stops learning, wears clashing colours and makes the occasional scene in beer gardens.

On a deeper level, I have also cultivated my own set of guide-rails. These are things I know to be true, at least in my field of vision. Staying roughly true to these tends to yield good results.

I feel like I’ve spent the last five years in a rock polisher (this was legitimately one of my childhood hobbies), whirling around and shedding more and more of that which doesn’t serve me — false ideals, toxic friendships, insecurities — all while grasping ever-tighter to these emerging ‘truths.’

So, what’s changed and how does life look now?

I no longer measure success the same way

I set my sights on everything from being a marine biologist or famous author, to a newsreader or barrister between the ages of about 12 and 21. I put myself under an enormous amount of pressure academically and made myself really quite miserable at times. Part of this is an innate work ethic which is still part of me and not something I’d wish to lose, but part of it was also a blind pursuit of those things I thought would bring money, clout, fame, or some combination of all those. Much of that pursuit was driven by peer comparison, the school system, and the many myths society and popular culture filter into us.

Leaving London at 21 was one of the best things I ever did, though I didn’t know it at the time. I was driven out by the pandemic — out of my student flat, where I lived while completing my masters degree and working night shifts in radio for paltry sums — and back to my family home.

The months of enforced reflection that followed made me realise I didn’t want to mindlessly grind amidst the rat race while struggling to pay rent for a crumbling flat. After years spent looking ahead to London, where everyone I knew went after school or university, I realised I was already done with the city.

Next came a hodge-podge of marketing jobs in the Cotswolds — somewhere I’d never visited before in my life. My mind was still a jumble of confusion when it came to ‘what I wanted to be when I’m older’ and it’s only recently I’ve realised that such a concept will likely be parallel with, rather than equal to, a day job.

What I want to be is financially stable, with the mental freedom to pursue creative projects, volunteer for causes I care about, and spend time with my partner, cats and friends. This is a delicate state to be in, and I’ve spoken about misalignment burnout before, but I’ve made strides recently in carving out time to shape and live the life that fulfils me alongside the constraints of a full-time corporate job.

I have no interest in climbing the ladder, glamourising long hours, or making six figures. This life is fleeting, and that’s not how I want to spend it.

Being kind is not just for others, but for me

My temper has always been part of me, and probably always will. I am a loving and loyal friend, but I have limited capacity for bullshit and have been known to bite heads off either in my own defence or that of someone else. I am more or less allergic to injustice of any sort, from bullies in the playground to those in the White House.

But I’ve also learnt that the cortisol spike that comes with an impassioned outburst or confrontation tends to leave me feeling worse than if I just remove myself from the situation and take a few deep breaths. On a day-to-day level, it’s part of life to come across unpleasant people and this is something I’ve struggled to understand in the past. The older I get, the more I realise this reflects unhappiness on their part and it pays to remember this when interacting with them.

Unfortunately, I’ve also learnt that a total lack of empathy or understanding on someone’s part will not prevent them from rising to CEO of a company* — especially if they’re male. But hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day and I hope to see seismic change to the workplace in my lifetime.

*Was there something about a Coldplay concert the Internet recently?

I’m so glad I’m a woman

I’m kind of surprised this is one of the things I now know to be true, because on the face of it womanhood only gets worse as you get older. Myself and some of my friends have had some considerable battles with ‘women’s health’, against the backdrop of a system not built for us and professionals who don’t have the knowledge to advise us properly.

Someone at work will label you hysterical or emotional at some point, you will miss out on an important opportunity because it involves a day of golf, and you will have to struggle 10x as hard to disentangle your appearance, style and interests from your professional life.

But goodness me, I wouldn’t trade the the direct and indirect community being a woman places you in for the world. From the line of female ancestors, each trying to do a better job of being a mother than the last, to the mentors who have shaped my career to date, to the friends I’ve had for decades and those I’ve had for just a few months, I simply wouldn’t be the person I am without them.

On a more trivial level, women have got it good. Granted, I’m not exactly a tom boy, so I’m absolutely talking about shopping for dresses, swapping makeup, drinking Aperol spritz by the gallon, making new friends in the toilet and having someone to wipe away your tears or tell you your label is hanging out.

Long live the sisterhood.

I have no interest in (party) politics

Growing up I found politics interesting and by my teenage years I conflated it a great deal with my own identity and that of those around me. I now allocate little to no energy to blue and red ties and backbenchers and rebels and Mr Speaker. In fact, it all seems completely absurd. It’s virtually impossible to separate political outlooks from personal circumstances, naturally, and so the vitriol that exists on both sides is as futile as yelling at one another from different planets.

What I have come to care far more about is the macro and the micro. It’s difficult to change the macro — climate change, wars, socio-economic inequalities — but it’s even harder to ignore these issues because they are so seismic. What I can’t stomach any more is the Old Etonian merry-go-round of picking fights over solving problems. I’m not apathetic or disenfranchised, I’ve just learnt to separate the issues from the theatre.

Then there’s the micro. I’m beginning to understand why, growing up, elderly people cared about distributing the village gazette, campaigning to save the local primary school and protesting the felling of an ancient tree. Firstly we actually have some agency in these settings, but these small changes and ‘moments’ also show how impactful being part of a community is on our own wellbeing. I’m convinced this is how to stay sane in a world that has quite literally gone mad.

Buying stuff makes me feel worse, not better*

Looking back at some of the trends and societal pressures I’ve fallen for makes me want to hide under a rock. To give myself grace, it’s very, very difficult to resist this sort of pressure when you’re a teenager and then a young woman in the age of Instagram.

You’re made to believe that a ‘capsule wardrobe’ needs jeans and t-shirts in every colour, cashmere knitwear and several hundred pounds worth of trainers. Then there’s the other stuff; the collagen skincare, the claw clips, the hair stylers, the ‘magic’ beauty products, the vitamins and supplements… the list goes on.

I can list on one hand the things I’ve bought in the last year that I genuinely love: the suede notebook that launched this newsletter, a beautiful mosaic headband from Palma, a funky charm bracelet from Stow-on-the-Wold and a staple black linen dress. Of the rest? Some of it is necessary for work, exercise or other pursuits, but most of it is detritus destined for the charity shop in a few years.

*The exception to this is books. My insatiable capacity for buying and reading books has worried me over the last few years, but ultimately nothing brings me so much joy. We are allowed that, surely.

I never want to live without animals again

I appreciate they’re not for everyone — and you absolutely shouldn’t keep pets if you cannot ‘keep’ them properly — but I never again want to live in a home that’s not shared with animals. I had a string of Springer Spaniels growing up who were always there to greet me at the end of a rough school day and join in with family celebrations, and I missed the proximity to pets during my university and rental flat years so much it was like missing a limb.

The plot twist is I got two cats, rather than a dog, when the opportunity finally arose. Merry and Pippin are quite literally the centre of our universe, and if you must add something to your house make it a living creature — they have the best return on investment. You can read about my journey to becoming a cat person here.

What were your most formative years, and why?

Most people have experienced it at some point: the all-systems crash after an intense project or exam series or simply folding under the pressure of too many spinning plates.

But I wasn’t aware of the term misalignment burnout until I read Feel Good Productivity by , who writes about his own experiences as a doctor and content creator. I think we’ve all become a little exhausted by ‘self-help’ books that rehash age-old concepts in glossy new packaging, but Feel Good Productivity is a refreshing take on the genre.

What is misalignment burnout?

Ironically, this term has become a bit of a corporate buzzword lately. In that context, it usually describes a mismatch between a company’s mission and the values held by their employees.

I find that a strange concept. The 1000+ employees of a corporate organisation are not a homogenous entity; communications strategies seeking to align company and individual values are barking up the wrong tree.

Instead, I’ll offer Ali Abdaal’s definition, which holds more relevance to the creative life:

“The third type of burnout happens when we’re working towards something that doesn’t feel aligned with our internal values. Our goals don’t match up with our sense of self…

Often, misalignment burnout occurs when our actions are driven by extrinsic factors that contradict our own personal intrinsic motivators. You might be working long hours for a promotion, but what you really care about is pursuing your creative hobbies.”

Now that I can relate to: the gnawing worry that we might be expending our energy — a finite, precious resource — in the wrong place.

‘Don’t quit the day job’

I work full-time in corporate marketing and enjoy it on the whole. It’s challenging, involves writing and creative thinking, surrounds me with impressive people, and pays the bills (someone had to say it).

Right now, though, I’m living something of a double life. I squeeze writing into the hour before I leave for work and perhaps half an hour afterwards, while dinner’s cooking. I submit fledgling efforts to competitions and devour author success stories on my lunch breaks.

This duality sometimes feels like a ‘lose-lose’ situation.

I panic when work mounts up in my day job because it eats into my time for creativity. I panic when I excel in my day job in case it leads to a promotion which leaves me with less time for my genuine passions. I panic when I enjoy my day job because I doubt how committed I am to pursuing writing as a career.

What’s more, my metrics for success in writing — an essay or story acceptance once in a blue moon, a new subscriber on Substack, or a completed course or workshop — are so fragile that one knock (or 50 rejections) makes me feel like the house of cards is tumbling and, as the horrible old adage goes, shouldn’t ‘quit the day job.’

I know I’m not alone in often wishing I worked in a bookshop, publishing or something else relevant to my creative goals. But I also realise that being surrounded by books and success stories can be the loneliest place to be as an aspiring author.

That brings me to the final section of my thoughts on misalignment burnout: overcoming it.

[ said it first ^]

How I tackle misalignment burnout

Some daily mantras that help me get over myself and keep at it.

You’re not special

I need a day job to facilitate even the barest notion of being able to write. Sometimes cold, hard facts are the most effective remedy for an identity crisis.

Khaled Hosseini wrote The Kite Runner while working as a physician full time.

Stephen King wrote around the long hours of his job at an industrial laundry.

J.D Salinger was a Director of Activities on a cruise ship — can you imagine more fertile grounds for inspiration?

Jane Austen wrote her novels in a house full of SIX brothers and one sister. I only have one brother and can only imagine how tricky this was — and she didn’t even have noise-cancelling headphones.

If I’m feeling melodramatic and want to romanticise the grind, I tell myself I’m part of a long tradition of legends who have paved the way for living a creative life against the odds.

It’s not a double life

Contradicting myself within the same short essay? Naturally.

Whenever I find myself lamenting the ‘double life’, I give myself a metaphorical slap. There is value in working hard to make a living, just as there’s value in creating beautiful things for no money at all. What’s more, the two are not mutually exclusive but rather mutually dependent.

Life is the source of all art, whether a painting, poem, sculpture, novel or film. The life lessons a challenging job gives me — the opportunity to connect with people I like and loathe, the wonderful and unsavoury things I witness daily — are the seeds of every half-decent thing I’ve ever written. Where would I be without those real-world experiences? Navel-gazing, probably.

Virginia Woolf extolls the virtues of having a ‘room of one’s own’ to produce art. This short book is full of brilliant advice but ought to come with a warning to today’s readers to take it with a pinch of salt. In my experience, ideas don’t come to me at my dedicated writing desk – they come in the middle of a long, boring meeting that could have been an email or on the train to a conference.

I’m not a corporate marketer, a writer, a fiancée or a dedicated cat mum. I am just me; a smorgasbord of all my experiences and influences. Labelling is a fast route to creative death.

“Don’t ‘be a writer.’ Be writing.”

William Faulkner

Look after yourself

There have been days where I haven’t made it to my day job or written anything because I’m laid up in bed with a savage cold or simply feel defeated by life.

Lots of ‘writer-influencers’ will say you need to write every day to have a chance in hell of success. This is so unhelpful and presents the danger that, if you miss a day or life gets in the way, you may as well throw in the towel.

The other day I came home from work utterly exhausted in mind, body and soul. I told my partner I needed to lie down for a while and take some notes on a book I’m reading. He gently suggested, wise man that he is, that this wasn’t exactly rest.

Just because creative work doesn’t necessarily have us on our feet all day or making big bucks doesn’t mean it’s not tiring. Trying to write when I simply don’t feel up to it is like trying to get blood out of a stone. It also results in pretty awful writing.

If I’m going to make this writing thing work, I need to avoid martyrdom and take care of myself.

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Suddenly everyone’s buying gradual tan moisturiser and talking about bonus percentages. Can you imagine how weird our ancestors would find the concept of the financial year?

This is the season of ‘almosts.’ Shall we go for a drink in a beer garden after work? It’s almost warm enough. Shall I do the seasonal swap over to save space in my wardrobe? It’s almost time, but I’ll probably need that fleece next week.

The abundance of crocuses and daffodils pop up teasingly and promptly disappear before you’ve had time to fill a vase with them.

Spring is the time of plans and projects.

Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy

Spring is judging me

I love having seasons — my brother lives in Dubai where there are just two settings, hot and hotter — but this transition is not one of my favourites.

The light evenings and increased sunshine are lovely, except when they expose quite how dirty our windows are and how many cobwebs are clinging to the corners of the house. Let’s not even cover trying on a new pair of jeans after months of baggy jumpers (petition to ban unflattering fitting room lighting?)

Spring feels like nature (and advertising) is telling you to GET IT TOGETHER.

Forecast: showers with a side of social anxiety

Perhaps my complicated relationship with spring reflects a deeper need for control amidst the chaos.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked why I’m having a February wedding, as though this is a heinous breach of social convention. There are many answers to this question, including not wanting to be another cross in someone’s already overflowing summer diary, but also because I know what I’m getting in February. It’ll be bloody cold, and that’s fine — at least I won’t have to worry about a freak summer storm.

Coming out of lockdown in a fledgling relationship in spring 2021 brought ‘Springxiety’ into sharp relief. My partner and I had enjoyed the privileges of merging two single households and spent the entirety of this long second lockdown going for walks, drinking a lot of wine, and watching films and the Six Nations on TV.

When the government lifted restrictions a few months later, we were like two freshly hatched chicks tottering about on unsteady legs. Bars and beer gardens felt overwhelming, the idea of meeting one another’s friends and family was terrifying, and suddenly we wanted the walks, wine and TV back.

The dregs of social anxiety exacerbated by the pandemic linger, and the season of booking holidays and buying festival tickets still prompts low-level panic.

In the spring I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.

Mark Twain

It’s not all Enid Blyton out there

As society yawns and stretches its dormant limbs, so — of course — does nature herself. Spring is a time of fertility, but also one of brutality. Budding flowers killed off by a late frost or blizzard, prey emerging from hiding only to fall into merciless hands.

For the last 26 years, my family has spent pretty much every Easter on the remote Scottish island of Mull. In lots of ways this is an ideal way for me to see in a season I find so fraught; we have no neighbours and the nearest pub is an hour and a half away.

But these annual decampments also meant witnessing spring in a far more raw and unedited way than depicted on Hallmark cards. It was usually the start of lambing season when we arrived and ewes staggered around groaning with offspring. Not every birth went smoothly, such is the harsh reality of nature, which meant seeing things you’d rather not see at 10 or 11 years old.

Is it just me?

It wouldn’t be a complicated relationship if I didn’t love spring just a little bit. The positives are endless: more daylight hours, trees shrouded in blossoms, digging out old favourite dresses, reading and eating al fresco.

But something about this shoulder season makes me feel like I’m malfunctioning — continually on the cusp but not quite getting anywhere, stuck in a holding pen between winter and summer.

I’d love to know if you feel weird about spring, and why you think that is. Let me know in the comments!

I’ll admit it’s not the same love, exactly. I saw a meme recently that said if cats could text back, they wouldn’t. Cats are cooler than you, they seem to be born streetwise (or literally on the street as ours likely were), and it sometimes seems as though they could take you or leave you. A bit like having teenagers.

We were looking for a puppy when my job suddenly changed and I needed to be away from home considerably more. I was resigned to a pet-less existence for a while longer, thinking nostalgically of my animal-filled childhood.

Then, one day we were sat in a family friend’s garden with their cat, affectionately known as Big Ginger Len, who was basking in the sunshine, and I remembered there are pets out there other than dogs.

In the car on the way home from Devon I sat in the passenger seat doing my due diligence. I looked at our local adoption centres, the ins and outs of raising a kitten, and the costs involved. By the time we pulled into Cheltenham, I was set on adopting a kitten within the next three months.

My partner Sha was, as with many of my whims, into it but not necessarily as invested as me.

The research continued and I soon found out it was easier to have two kittens than one. At this point my partner’s concern kicked in. Two! Double the cost? Double the chaos?!

But I soon convinced him that having one another as a playmate would create more independent, sociable cats and relieve some of the burden on us.

A couple of weeks after deciding a cat would be the answer to all my problems, Blue Cross for Pets - one of several wonderful organisations I had alerts on for - posted about a pair of two-week old kittens, Ronald and Rosie, who had been found abandoned in a cardboard box in a McDonalds car park in Bromsgrove.

One look at these teeny tiny babies - both jet black, the boy with a dash of white on his chest - and I was a puddle on the floor.

We made our enquiries, applied to adopt, and before I knew it we were a week out from bringing them home.

Cue a mad rush to get the essentials in order, as well as some non-essentials (aka a ridiculous number of toys they continue to neglect in favour of household objects), before hitting the M5 up to Bromsgrove.

We have had Ronald and Rosie, renamed Merry and Pippin after my favourite hobbits in The Lord of the Rings, for six months now. Put simply, neither of us can remember what life was like before them.

Coming home from work to have two little life forms waiting for you in all their glorious weirdness is a balm for bedraggled and harassed souls.

A couple of months ago we put them in a cattery while we went on holiday and I bawled my eyes out all the way to the airport.

They have chewed through all my fairy lights and I can’t help but laugh at their guilty faces. When they get given a special treat (anything but kibble), they make a noise that can only be described as a foghorn.

I’ve even taught Merry to play fetch, so take that dog lovers.

Best of all, though, they’re a hot water bottle after a bad day and so heartbreakingly affectionate in the dark hours it makes me want to stay up all night telling them my worries.

They sit beside me on the windowsill while I write, by my feet while I read, and on my lap while we watch TV.

When I attempt heatless curls and look like Marie Antoinette for the night, they look at me with such bewilderment I can’t help but burst out laughing.

These are all lovely quirks and perks of having cats, but what I didn’t expect was the more profound effects.

My partner and I are closer because of the shared joy we find in co-parenting them. I feel less anxious and highly-strung than before, and I find it easier to handle life’s trials and tribulations. Looking after animals takes you outside yourself, and brings a little magic to the everyday.

On Tuesday, I fed Merry and Pippin their own miniature pancakes for pancake day. There is no denying that I have become a certified cat person.