For me, this started young.

I came across a journal from when I was maybe 10 or 11: it had a list of “good” and “bad” foods that somehow correlated with a list of things I wanted to do to be “more popular” in school. Although cringe, it surprised me that at my young age, I was able to think cognitively about my own body and how food could directly impact it. More importantly, I had made the connection that in order to gain popularity, being skinny was a necessary component. What struck me was that I had obviously googled these things before neatly writing them down in my notebook.

My first evidence of research involved seeking out information about dieting.

Although things never progressed into an eating disorder, as I suspect I have always loved food too much to actually deprive myself long-term of it, I still felt an overall keen awareness, transcending into early adulthood, of what my body looked like. I also suspect that because of my ADHD, I struggled to be consistent and found myself getting bored if I didn’t get instant results, and so I moved on to the next project.

My self-perception was often distorted, amplifying body parts and veering into casual body dysmorphia. I stood in front of the mirror, trying to exaggerate a gap between my thighs, or pinched my stomach as I sat on the toilet. It’s all good, it was all the craze, it was the norm. Just a few teens in a room getting ready to do something, turning to each other as we express:

Oh, how I hate my body!

All of these things, unfortunately, are quite common—all symptoms of the patriarchy and capitalism. It tells young women and girls that being beautiful means you are rewarded with good things, things that you and all other women want to and should have: such as a boyfriend, love, attention, friends, and popularity. Being beautiful was an indicator of success.

It’s also, then, to no one’s surprise, that messaging during our youth targeted this pain point. Movies around the 2000s always focused on the glow-up, which meant the main character then caught the male lead’s eye—despite the initial messaging that the main character had always been a good person, just unnoticed. The takeaway: beauty meant you were worth perceiving, and being a good person wasn’t enough without it.

Let’s analyse the relationship between beauty and skinniness. In the 90s and early 2000s, these went hand in hand. A nerdy girl couldn’t become beautiful if she weren’t already skinny. Bigger girls, or girls who were built differently than the mould, were side characters meant to uplift the image of the main character. It was clear that being thin was a prerequisite for being perceived as beautiful.

Think of Victoria’s Secret fashion shows. These models were the pinnacle of beauty and perfection, and what girls “should” aspire to, since they represented the ideal male fantasy. Thigh gaps were the goal, chubby women were ridiculed in magazines and above all, whiteness was virtue. Even in movies like Mean Girls, Regina George's concern about her butt getting bigger was a major plot point.

To be outside of conventional attractiveness meant staying invisible and not being desired, and who were you, as a girl, if not desired? What was the point of having this sexualised body if it piqued nobody’s attention?

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Thinness and Diet Culture in Asia

As an effort to reach the impossibly ridiculous standard of skinniness around that time, online media and print magazines were all monotonous in their advice: eat less!

Whilst diet culture was at an all-time high, Asian culture was no different. Think of the Japanese saying, only eat until you’re 80% full. Or the casual fatshaming of strangers and family relatives alike in China. There was also a very real association between thinness and being upper-class, and the opposite notion of being fat and therefore poor. Being slim was a form of self-maintenance, a grooming procedure that became routine. You gloated about how small your portions were, how full you were from an unfinished dish—it became an internal competition that required an external audience and validation.

In China, the focus was often on height and weight: the goal was to be no more than 50 kg, the taller the better (although short and cute also has an appeal), a waist the size of an A4 piece of paper and some disproportionately big boobs to go with it. This also extends to Korea and Japan; just take a look at every season of Single’s Inferno and see how all the most popular girls fit this mould. Even better if you’re light, close to the colour white. The skin whitening creams would be there to remind you of that darkish layer to remove.

As a mixed-race girl who was naturally curvier, I had always felt bigger in comparison, and as such, uglier. An asian S was a UK 4, and I, a size 8-10, was a Medium or Large.

Even though I rarely stopped eating or loving certain foods, I did grow more ashamed of my appetite. I didn’t like being associated with liking food (which was my reality) and struggled to match the nonchalance other girls my age seemed to have about it. In my eyes, I didn’t have the discipline to give food up altogether, to “watch my portions” in the same way.

I thought at the time that it meant I had less self-control than others, or that my hunger for things was beyond the normal amount. I was simply listening to what my body wanted and needed, and I refused to stay hungry for very long. In retrospect, was it an act of defiance, a refusal to make myself smaller?

Safe to say, I don’t miss the specific mindset around food and the cardinal need to stay skinny above all. Being a young girl in the 2000-2010s era came with various challenges to prove your skinniness, which has left a good portion of us fighting to achieve body neutrality and healthy eating habits in adulthood.

Back then, it was all about the show, as long as you looked good, an eating disorder wasn’t too bad. It’s messaging we’re all scraping out of inside our bodies and minds to discard. Tell your younger self she was perfect, embrace the external insecurities she harboured, and most importantly, set yourself free of the current ill-will you spout at yourself in front of the mirror—we all deserve to be seen and loved as we are.

Did you hear that thumping loudly? It’s a drum—no, the dryer. Actually, it’s your heart, thundering away in its little cage, refusing to quiet down.

It’s okay, all okay, and you know this to be true. Is there any way she can know it too? You breathe, in and out, the box exercise, every breath is intentional. And just as it starts to slow down, you remember, and it speeds right back up.

Your stomach decides to do flips: it’s as if you’re on a boat, swaying and unsure. Soon, you’ll be over the toilet bowl, retching and gagging. Your face will feel numb and distant, and you’ll be fighting the nausea.

Just add some water; it’ll make the bile less bitter.

Your hands are shaking. Your whole body feels both deadened and hypersensitive—how odd, how terrifying.

You want to cry, but it’s not quite coming out. You’re too distracted; with thoughts racing, questions unanswered and quandaries simply loose. You want a hug, or something to crush you a little. You want your whole self to slow down, to bypass your frazzled nervous system.

Finally, a thought makes you cry. Silently at first and then a weep. This! This is the thing that is slowing your perturbed heart, but my, how painful it is to weep. Your eyes are red, and your sniffling draws attention, but you want to disappear, just for a desperate moment.

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You breathe again, this time it helps. The feeling lingers all day, and your heart lurches at every new notification. Do not disturb.

Perhaps you need the quiet, or maybe you’ll thrive in the buzz. Pause—that’s a lie, the buzz never helps, the buzz makes you feel insane as you try to hide the obvious within. But a distraction? Perfect. So you’ll watch that YouTube video, or play that game: The Sims, your Switch, or your latest phone game. Or maybe you’ll scroll on TikTok or Reels.

The Do Not Disturb never comes off. You’re in no position to answer to others. You think of who you can call from your list of friends, mentally organising: helpful or harmful?

The day has been wasted by the time things calm down. Maybe if you had been richer, you could have had a bath. Maybe if you had been braver, you could have had a hug.

But a new day always arises, and you tell yourself, with lingering hope, that tomorrow won’t be all that bad. You’ll see, just there in the distance, that the cause of your anxiety was never that big to begin with. Or perhaps there is simply nothing you can do but acknowledge it.

This is good, you’ve survived this. This is growth—an exposure therapy of sorts. Tomorrow, you’ll be better.

This is my tribute to the anxious girlies who sometimes feel it all at once! As someone who used to suffer badly with anxiety, this is a message to both my younger self and anybody else who may be suffering.

Sending you courage and endless support for your tummy issues x

With love,

Natalia

There’s a constant buzzing or hum, a distraction that requires my full attention, or this feeling that, despite the very real reality of my functioning legs, I feel like it’s impossible to get up and out of the house to complete a task. And they’re mundane tasks, like groceries, or an item I’ve been needing to purchase for a small thing I need to do, but keep pushing back.

Maybe it’s about the urgency, knowing I could be late to something can spring me into action, but as I get older, I find that this method works less when there is always the possibility of opting out. But it comes at a detriment, and so I find myself pushing past a spiritual exhaustion to keep in contact with people. Yet, I crave closeness and intimacy.

Last night was the second night in a row that I woke up before my alarm at a shocking time. I woke up crying, distraught at whatever nightmare came my way and shocked me awake like a child needing its mother. I’d also fall asleep at odd times, blinds still open and my lamp still on, like I’d drifted so randomly and deeply because of this profound lethargy.

Now, as I am writing this, it is 1:30 am. I woke up from a nap at 10 pm, one that I thought would be quick when I first closed my eyes around 6 pm—I found myself blinking my eyes open to darkness, lost as to what had transpired. And I’ve been even taking my iron tablets consistently this week. What a farce.

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Multiple times, I’ve sat in front of my laptop, attempting to write something down and finding myself lost. There is a moving scribble inside my head, causing a fuzziness of thought and a loss of sharpness. Perhaps something is missing there, just at that moment when I open my laptop.

I imagine form and shape, colour and patterns on my blank canvas. The body of text that I plan on writing is there, somewhere underneath the scribble, but details are unavailable to me, and each attempt annoys me more than the last. The sentence is too heavy, I’m bored with this part of my writing, it needs something more.

Maybe I’m just pressuring myself too much. I see goals pass me by, and I fight it with internal imperativeness that doesn’t translate into bodily action.

Some call it ADHD, others call it burnout. Does it really matter?

Maybe this piece is the colour on the page, the form that is fleshed out—the necessary first step to getting yourself out of a slump. By tomorrow, I’d like it if my head were clear, and by next year, I’d like it if I had multiple articles published somewhere. Maybe the trick really is to push past and continue creating even if it is shit.

Someone may find value in the words I so easily discard.

A very relevant piece I posted at the end of last year! I’ve come very far since, but sometimes, you just need the reminder!

It was a small ache, one she’d been accustomed to but continued to persist beyond reason. It was like a tingle, an itch that manifested itself outwards, engulfing everything, everything—every part of her being.

She’d scratch until she bled.

It’s okay, honey. You’re doing so well. Soothings of a mother to her child. Although no longer a child, she was always her child. The sense of belonging appeased her itching for a short while, but never long enough.

She felt red in front of the mirror, blotches forming where she hadn’t been able to contain herself. Scratch, scratch, scratch as she found more to pick at. The mirror was a portal, or perhaps a magnifying glass—its clarity helping her identify, hate, love.

There was something innate about her discomfort. She could settle or rest peacefully, and she found it hard to fall asleep immediately. The tickle of a fluff, or an imagined bug, kept her restless and exhausted.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

She wondered whether it was the heat of the shower that scorched her skin, or the cold biting wind of winter, or even the texture of a fabric brushing against her skin. She looked for solutions in a space where there were none.

It’s nonsensical, they said. Doctor after doctor telling her she imagines things; her imagination is just so grand. And the thing is, she does imagine things: she imagines a life without itching, a body without scars, and a smooth skin.

There’s the tickle again. Right there. Now expanding from one small spot on my arm to the whole area. The back of my leg also screams for attention. It’s satisfying, oh so satisfying to itch.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

She used to wonder if her teddies enjoyed watching her as a child. When she did something wrong, it felt like testimony for them to be there—the silent witnesses of her glaring flaws.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

There was always makeup to hide the worst of it on her face. But makeup never hid the bumps, and as she touched her face, she felt another urge to pick.

It’ll settle tomorrow, she told herself.

Maybe her friends thought a lot more about her than they let on. Maybe they harboured a secret disgust, and watching her itch constantly made them sick. She could never be sure.

It must have been some sort of evidence of her evil nature, deep down within. One of her ex-girlfriends had called her mean-spirited and controlling. Controlling? Nothing in her life had felt in control.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

In bed, she tossed and turned. The friction of the sheet against her skin was nice, but it was getting warmer and less fresh. She thought of the dust mites and their microscopic existence. Maybe they were the ones at fault—her skin was too sensitive and their presence too noticeable. Yes, they were causing the itching. It wasn’t because there was something inside her that was rotten and bad.

She got up just then, inspecting her skin once again. New tones of red flourish across her skin, glaring back at her in accusation and disappointment.

Yes, tomorrow I’ll be good, and everything will be better.

Fact: they cost so much; feeling: it’s not a financial sacrifice I want to make; fact: they become your number 1 priority; feeling: I don’t want to give my life away to them.

Being a mother is a stamp, a scarlet letter imprinted on your skin for the rest of your life. You’re both glorified and depersonalised. You become a symbol, supposed to represent certain qualities. Falling short of expectations means you’re on the receiving end of hate and disgust, your shortcomings exposing a fatal flaw in your personhood.

You’re expected to be okay with the lack of identity, to be relegated to “mom” without true understanding of what it means to be you. You’re constantly lacking and making the wrong choices: eyes prying on your every move, ready to butt in, comment, or suggest.

I started seeing messaging early about the selfishness of childless women. It was then that I also understood that womanhood meant duty, meant serving, and meant giving your life away.

I am not cattle, nor sheep. I exist beyond the labels and expectations, and flourish in the freedom.

I need time and care. I am my own child, needing of love and support—I have to pour into myself to grow. I cannot bloom if I am too exhausted to think.

I crave the silence of sunny weekend mornings, the ability to blast music at will and decide when my dinner time is. I feel enslaved by forced routine and trapped by excessive responsibility. I crumble and cry and am defeated. Let me succeed at taking care of me.

Perhaps a couple cats will do.

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I can’t remember when I first had thoughts of being a mother. It had probably been cemented into me from birth. After all, adulthood to me was the career, the family, the kids. I wanted three children because, even as a six-year-old, I felt like two wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t until later on that I started having doubts. I saw YouTube and TikTok videos by women explaining they felt they didn’t want children, listing the reasons: selfishness, uncertainty about being a good mother, and the freedom (both financial and personal) of being child-free.

It got me thinking.

I became an adult in a time when the world was in strife, and I was experiencing sexual harassment daily. Covid meant that the men had less access to women, and so strangers were yelling absurdities at us from cars, or undressing you with their eyes as they walked by. They couldn’t observe quietly; their presence always had to be known, so aggressively.

This was a time when I wanted a boyfriend, but I struggled with the constant sexualisation. The men I spoke to were normal until a random right-wing thought crossed their lips—about women’s roles, or feminism, or how women “have it so easy nowadays”.

Then there were the millennial women, who were surprised that their kind boyfriends had become unempathetic husbands and fathers. Where roast dinner was supposed to be ready on the table three days post-partum. And again, I had doubts.

What started as a reluctance to raise children with a man became an assurance that maybe I wasn’t in a space to handle motherhood well. I feared pregnancy, pregnant with the knowledge of endometriosis pain. I also know so instinctively that I would suffer with post-partum depression.

When I was young, I would put my hands on my belly, extending it out with air and trying to understand what it would feel like to have something growing in me. Later that same very thought scared me. The idea of my body changing physically and chemically, feeling heavier and exposed—DNA being passed down and taking a gamble at its healthiness.

I started understanding my own shortcomings, borne from a neurodivergent mind which is so easily overstimulated and overemotional if not given the proper time or space to recoup. As well as my constant tiredness—pouring water into a cracked glass.

But you can’t press pause on motherhood, or shirk off your responsibilities. That would make me a bad mother.

On Thursday, I saw If I Had Legs, I’d Kick You with two friends. Although I understood motherhood would be at least one of the themes of the film, I hadn’t quite understood that it was the most important one.

The story makes you feel trapped and claustrophobic from the jump, with a still close-up shot of the main character, Linda, listening to her daughter express in therapy that she feels her mother is malleable “like putty” while her father is headstrong. We see Linda having difficulty with this emotion, and she is not supposed to centre herself in this moment despite the fact that they are directly talking about her as if she weren’t there.

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Throughout the movie, we are constantly bombarded with cries of “Mommy! Mommy!” while the rest of Linda’s overstimulating day goes on. She is never allowed a moment of reprieve, even as her daughter is sleeping, since she has to carry around a baby monitor to make sure nothing goes wrong with her feeding tube machine.

Linda is living out of a motel after a giant hole has formed in her bedroom ceiling, and she forms a fixation on it. It is metaphorical and appears in several other instances, like the hole in her daughter’s stomach.

Linda is drowning in responsibility, while having no time to herself and no support from her husband, who expects her to get on with it without any care for her mental health. Linda is on the verge of a psychotic breakdown, and with every reach for help, she is denied or simply not seen as a person with individual thoughts and feelings. It is only in the end credits scene that I even realise her name is Linda, as I didn’t remember anyone else calling her by her name in the movie.

Watching If I Had Legs, I’d Kick You was interesting. It cemented my positioning that motherhood is not for me, by exposing me first-hand to the difficulties of motherhood in a system that does not support mothers and their children. The movie was two-and-a-half hours long, and I found myself constantly hoping it would be over soon, that I could retreat back to my life, where I would no longer endure the screams and cries of Linda’s (maybe) nine-year-old and simply exist in silence.

Situations went from bad to worse, aggravated by Linda’s own flaws, simply because she was unable to be left alone to think and rest. Instead, she was pouring from an empty cup into patients and her daughter.

I found myself cringing and squirming in my seat, the discomfort continuing to seep deeper and deeper inside me. I would turn to my friend every so often, and with one look, we understood each other's feelings. Some situations made us mad, when Linda was screaming for help, and everyone at every turn refused to listen, or we were uncomfortable, having to process our feelings of annoyance at a child just being a child.

After the movie was over, everyone let out a deep sigh. I had tears in my eyes that had begun to prick. Linda’s “I’ll be better” left me feeling exhausted for her. How could she be better without any help or support? It also made me ponder the relationship with my own mother and what expectations I had built up for her. Overall, I felt sad for Linda and so sure that I could not manage the things she had gone through during the film, without equally crumbling, and much earlier at that.

My friends and I had to process the movie afterwards. Even today, I am still thinking about it. So much imagery I’m sure I’ve missed, and so I’ll need to read several reviews and rewatch soon. All three of us discussed how we viewed the movie, how we interpreted the art on its own and how it related to us too, both our own stances on motherhood and the way it made us think of our relationships with our mothers. We spoke of community and capitalism, and how the system has failed us at every turn, and was there a future where things could be better?

I don’t envision motherhood for myself for now. I could change my mind in the next ten years and maybe find more purpose in it, but as I figure out myself, my creativity, my career, my chronic illnesses and my neurodivergence, I find it all to be too much for me. I don’t dream of babies or experience a rush of baby fever, but I also love my girlfriend’s six-year-old sister (whilst remaining very sure that I can’t hack it full-time).

Motherhood doesn’t speak to me.

Before we begin, here are my credentials: I am a queer woman who grew up in Asia, and an avid sapphic media consumer. I started watching yuri anime when I was twelve, under the pretence of being a very good ally (you thought!). I was smiling and kicking my feet as two girls held hands and stared deeply into each other’s eyes (peak teen sapphic yearning).

Enjoy this deep dive, laced with a sprinkle of personal storytelling and the odd nostalgic collage!

One of my first exposures to TV was anime—growing up in Tokyo from ages 4 to 9, this wasn’t entirely uncommon. I didn’t have access to Disney Channel or Nickelodeon. Instead, I remember being tucked under a blanket, sitting on the floor with my brother, staring up at Princess Mononoke on the big screen.

On holidays, when my parents wanted a break, I watched episodes of Tokyo Mew Mew and Mermaid Melody in my hotel room that my dad had pre-downloaded for me. I was submerged in a world of magical girls; beautiful transformations, catchy songs, cutesy outfits, and above all, good beating evil.

It wasn’t until I moved to Hong Kong that I learned of anime’s “cringe” reputation outside of Japan. I just became quieter about watching it. Then suddenly I had access to my own computer, which meant one thing: I could watch whatever I wanted.

This is where my yuri journey started.

Terms can get tricky if you’re not an anime watcher, so I’ve added more detailed definitions in the footnotes.

The concept of the implicitly queer-coded relationship is nothing new. When I grew up, I lived on shoujo ai1 (non-canon girls’ love) and yuri2 (canonical lesbian relationships) in anime. I enjoyed watching different AMVs3 (anime edits) and deciding which show to watch next based on whether anything looked interesting.

Oftentimes, I would start a show where an edit suggested a yearning romantic relationship between two female characters, only to be disappointed that nothing explicit had been done with the palpable chemistry between them (NANA, I’m looking at you). The shows that left the biggest impact on me always ended in tragedy, with at least one female character dying (usually as a sacrifice) and the other having to grow up and move on.

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Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magica

I only watched Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magica in 2023, even though I’d seen countless edits of this show since I was a teen. You could argue that several homoerotic friendships occur, but the story really focuses on the relationship between Madoka and Homura (left and right, respectively, in the image below). It takes a fantastical approach to analyse the process of teenage girls growing up.

I will be spoiling, so spoiler alert.

To summarise, at the age of fourteen, Madoka is asked to become a Magical Girl and later finds out that it is not all that it seems. As a Magical Girl, you are responsible for killing Witches, usually depicted as very trippy, monstrous and kaleidoscopic. Killing those Witches allows for the Magical Girls to clear their soul gem, which they need to do to stay alive.

The show offers a dark twist to other popular Magical Girl shows of the time and explores the complex emotions of teenage girls and how innocence is exploited.

When a barely-teen transforms into a Magical Girl, she hopes and dreams of making the world a better and safer place—only to “grow up”, become exposed to the cruelty of the world, and become part of the system that exploits her by evolving into the Witches they were fighting all along. Once committing to becoming a Magical Girl, there is no escape from this fate other than death. Of course, this fact is never revealed from the jump, but something they later have to figure out for themselves.

A lot of this might not make sense, but the intricate mechanics of the show offer an insight into understanding the relationship between Homura and Madoka.

Long story short, Homura goes back in time countless times, trying to rewrite history and save Madoka from death or becoming a Witch herself—and no matter how many times she goes back, she is unable to save her. In the current timeline, we’re witnessing Homura’s near 100th time-travel, a fact that is also revealed later.

Every time Homura goes back, Madoka has never met her, over and over again. So inherently, their bond has to start from scratch again, with only Homura remembering all these interactions.

The ending is tragic, with Madoka sacrificing herself to save all Magical Girls and becoming some God-like entity that no one remembers, other than Homura. In the special episode/movie following the story, it is Homura who sacrifices herself for Madoka, instead. Regardless of the timeline, they are never happily together, with the assertion being made that this would be catastrophic for the rest of the world if they did make it work.

Do you see the doomed yuri aspect of it all?

Then again, another movie is coming out soon, and the trailer features a slow dance scene between two, so we’ll see if this is more queer baiting or if they’ll finally be canon.

Japan’s History with Teenage Lesbian Romance & “Growing Out of It”

If there is one consensus in several yuri and shoujo ai shows, it’s that a lot of them end tragically, or the couples simply have no long-term future.

One video delved into the history of shoujo ai and why this may be the case. The consensus was that historically in Japan, female romantic relationships were allowed during their teen years as long as they dissipated by the time women had to get married—a rite of passage in girlhood.

The underlying assumption was that these relationships were non-threatening to men because, of course, women could remain “virginal”4 even in activities with other women. Yep, you guessed it: it’s rooted in misogyny and lesbophobia! Or more specifically, it reinforced the notion that women couldn’t really be lesbians or sapphic, that it was believed to be something that women grew out of. They just hadn’t met the right man. Prime example of lesbophobia.

One of the earliest depictions of lesbian relationships in Japanese written media was in Yoshiya Nobuko’s novels, which existed during the Taishō (1912-1926) and Shōwa periods (1926-1989). At the time, lesbian relationships were seen as a natural aspect of women’s development and depicted as intense platonic relationships that fizzled out into heteronormativity after school, and were depicted as such in fiction.

More modern depictions of yuri manga (1990-2016) followed a very similar storyline and oftentimes focused on teenage relationships between feminine girls rather than adult lesbian relationships functioning in society.

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Anything that was made more explicit (love confessions or kissing, as these are teen girls) tended to become closer to the porn category than the innocent affection and yearning between girls that was depicted in manga and anime. As a result of this outright objectification and sexualisation, that genre of yuri was mostly made to be consumed by men.

While there were some yuri manga that did depict lesbian relationships well, these were less popular, harder to find (let alone translated into English), and rarely adapted into anime, as they did not always appeal to straight men or straight women (the target audiences for most media adaptations). This is also why BL was a lot more popular because of its huge straight-women fanbase. But overall, queer baiting was rampant in both categories, and continues to be as effective fan service without having to provide any stance on the topic.

K-Dramas and “Women Losing Women”

As I got older, I consumed less and less anime (with exceptions, of course) because they often focused on people in middle and high school. Instead, I found myself more pulled towards Korean TV shows, which had similar complex themes and were still set in East Asia, which provided some similar cultural aspects.

After being introduced to Squid Game, I found myself interested in finding more K-Dramas which posed interesting moral questions (such as class commentary or school bullying culture) without explicitly looking for sapphic content. But that didn’t stop me from noticing sapphic notes.

A few months back, I saw an edit on TikTok.

The main caption was “wlw (women losing women)” over a succession of what looked like sapphic relationships in Korean movies and shows. The video (shown below) is beautiful and emotional (most girls are crying), with Francis Forever by Mitski amplifying the visual scenes. I recognised a few shows and films, and I saved the video because I was curious to explore the rest (at what cost, I should mention).

@shsebom @shsebom ♬ original sound - shsebom

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What I thought was interesting was how the “couples” I did recognise had also not been explicitly romantic. Instead, these were relationships reserved for subtext, for the queer individual to sniff out, without the threat of general audiences cancelling the show because of queer support. On paper and to the untrained eye, they were just very close friends or platonic soulmates, not dissimilar to the shoujo ai and yuri anime I’d watched growing up.

What makes these relationships unique is their sheer intensity (reminiscent of early, unknowing sapphic tension and attraction), often masquerading as sisterhood for those who don’t pick up on it.

Squid Game & The Tragedy of Episode 6

When I watched Squid Game, the relationship between Kang Sae Byeok (Player 67) and Jiyoung (Player 240) left a lasting impression on me. Squid Game is no stranger to killing its characters off, and I’d argue this particular episode helped confirm the notion that “no one is safe” with three of its beloved side characters dying.

The relationship between the two girls really flourished in the span of this one episode. Their chemistry did not go unnoticed online, with some deeming it more sisterly, while others picked up on more romantic undertones.

Jiyoung’s death was quite violent. At the start of the episode, the girls pair up, hoping to work together to get to the next game. By this point, they had just decided to start trusting each other, something that is very difficult in an environment like Squid Game, but also completely out of character for Sae Byok, who by this point completely kept to herself.

Over the span of Episode 6, the two quickly understood they were now having to work against each other and that they wouldn’t make it out together. Before they had to decide, they used their remaining time together to open up to one another—sharing their dreams for the future, past struggles, and often quietly realising that a shared future is impossible.

By the end of the episode, their time was up, and they were now forced to play a final game. Jiyoung completely threw the game, refusing to let it up to chance: she sacrificed herself so that Sae Byeok could be reunited with her younger brother and bring down their mother from North Korea.

Jiyoung’s interest in Sae Byok had bordered on adoration several times in the show, and when Sae Byok was finally receptive to her, she was killed off. We were definitely robbed of what could have been between the two.

Mask Girl: Because what is more sapphic than killing your bff’s boyfriend and then running away to raise your baby together?

Here’s Mask Girl, another truly tragic show that, in the span of a one-hour episode, introduces the beginnings of a sapphic powerhouse, only to end in tragedy.

The episode takes place after Momi, the Mask Girl, undergoes plastic surgery and becomes a cabaret performer. She meets Chun Ae there, and they quickly form an intense bond, working together, confiding in and protecting each other. Chun Ae lies to an antagonist hunting down Momi, and Momi kills Chun Ae’s extremely abusive boyfriend to save Chun Ae.

All while this is happening, Momi is pregnant (by assault), and Chun Ae is the only one who knows her full story. Both girls come from a background of abuse and hardship and feel seen by one another. As a result, they adopt this ride-or-die attitude towards each other, which leads them to lying, scheming and killing (the abusive bf) for each other. All in all, they’re just trying to create a haven where they can live peacefully, so we’re meant to root for them.

Right when you think they will run away together to live their blissfully lesbian life and raise Momi’s unborn child together, they are confronted with the antagonist again. Chun Ae first takes a bullet for Momi, then knocks out the antagonist while they are trying to strangle Momi. You then see an emotional scene between the two women where Momi begs Chun Ae to stay with her. Chun Ae does not make it.

This scene was monumental to Momi’s character because, afterwards, she turns herself in to the police and spends the best part of the series in jail. She’s lost all hope and no longer cares what happens to her after losing Chun Ae.

Later on, the series focuses on Momi’s daughter, Mimo, who, just like her mother, has a very intense “friendship” with a peer. After a difficult upbringing as the notorious daughter of the killer Mask Girl, Yechun is one of Mimo’s only true safe spaces. Naturally, this does not progress into anything beyond friendship either.

Friendly Rivalry & the shift to a more sapphic future

Finally, here is Exhibit C: Friendly Rivalry, the series that inspired me to write this piece in the first place.

It was heavily marketed on social media, particularly TikTok, before it came out as a K-drama that centred a sapphic relationship (it was labelled a GL5). The reason it became so popular and so big, despite it not being the first GL K-drama, is that it’s still relatively rare, with the last popular GL K-drama being Mine, which came out in 2021.

It also helped that a popular actor (Lee Hyeri) was playing one of the leads, and that they are both prettyyy! Additionally, they provided a lot of fan service during the tour, leading to dating speculations, which always helps boost popularity. It was just unanticipated that the show would become so popular outside of Korea, hence why it was first broadcast on U+ Mobile TV (a local streaming service), with further distribution on Netflix after it became super popular following its release—the TikTok edits have done it again!

Friendly Rivalry is an adaptation of the psychological and mystery-thriller Webtoon (a Korean-style manga) of the same name, which had been categorised as a GL by fans. It features the dark obsession between two female leads while they compete to be the best in an elite high school.

The show followed a similar pattern to other Korean and Japanese shows and released one episode weekly, building anticipation for the next episode. Because people weren’t 100% sure how the series would develop their relationship, it kept the audience on their toes in a will-they-won’t-they situation.

By the end of the series, you’re left feeling a bit, well… perplexed. The ending is open-ended whilst remaining hopeful, but the characters aren’t exactly together. Their relationship is clearly romantic, as confirmed by the actor Lee Hyeri when Chung Subin asked her if she felt Jaeyi was in love with Seulgi (the answer was yes).

However, in terms of explicit romantic scenes, there is one kiss scene in the bathtub, but it is left up to interpretation whether this actually happened or it was just a dream that Seulgi had. Irrespective of this, everything Jaeyi does afterwards is very emblematic of a queer woman in love, with an element of obsession sprinkled in.

What is interesting is that the show became so popular despite the assumption that lesbian representation wouldn’t be celebrated in South Korea, suggesting a shift in attitudes towards this topic. This comes at a time when we’re starting to see dating shows showcase queer individuals like Jasmine and White Rose in Love Alarm Clap! Clap! Clap! or the first-ever Korean dating show with a fully sapphic cast, ToGetHer. Soon, a new dating show, Stand Bi Me, will feature an all-queer cast.

Similarly, the Japanese show The Boyfriend is the first gay dating show and is beloved across Japan and abroad (available on Netflix). Hopefully, this is the start of a shift in attitudes towards LGBTQ+ couples, and we’ll have a lesbian Japanese dating show next!

Overall, by cementing Seulgi and Jaeyi’s connection as romantic, Lee Hyeri makes it clear that Friendly Rivalry qualifies as sapphic representation. And with Season 2 confirmed, who knows how this may progress?

Why this is somewhat groundbreaking: Cultural context around attitudes towards the LGBTQ+

Although attitudes towards queers and lesbians are becoming more positive as visibility increases, Korea is among the countries with the worst safeguards for LGBTQ+ people. There is still no recognised legal marriage or civil unions for same-sex couples in both Japan and Korea, but studies have found that sentiments towards same-sex couples are worse in the latter. One poll by Gallup Korea in 2021 revealed that only 38% of the public are in support of same-sex marriage.

Additionally, there are no protections in place against discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity in South Korea—amongst other OECD countries, South Korea scores an F (Japan is a D). Bullying of LGBTQ+ children in schools is especially rampant. And because of high Christian and Confucian values, as well as strict gender roles, there is a tendency to view queer people as “morally unacceptable” (56% of respondents in a study), disabled or mentally ill, or even “dirty”. Same-sex couples are also unable to adopt children together.

Japan’s rapsheet is not much better: despite several attempts to improve LGBTQ+ rights, it is still not considered a safe haven for the queers. Stigma around transgender identities in particular is especially bad, with some people believing it to be a mental illness and one law in 2021 suggesting trans people had to undergo a surgical sex change to have their gender legally changed (2021 report). An adviser to the LDP's committee to study sexual orientation and gender identity also publicly falsely stated trans women were a threat to cis women, whilst other members have suggested the existence of queer people goes against species preservation.

In both countries, we see rampant amounts of queer baiting—and it works because of plausible deniability. They amass or bait a queer audience by either making subtle allusions to queerness in a show that only they would pick up and then never making anything concrete of an explicitly sus relationship—all in hopes of retaining the attention of the general audience without upsetting it.

And why are they so tragic? Well, simply put, it’s another plot device used to progress the story and impact the main character. The queer undertone shows how deeply the character cares about someone else without threatening their “straightness” or any connection they may have with a male lead. It’s even more interesting when there is no male lead at all, and instead, you’re just left with this suggested lesbian character who is now alone and devastated. But hey, the show must go on.

So, where are yuri anime and sapphic K-dramas headed now?

Yuri anime has come a long way since the 2010s. We started off with more toxic, tragic or fetishised representations of lesbians (that leaned heavily into fan-service), but as LGBTQ+ identities have become more accepted, yuri anime and manga have progressed to showcasing more realistic struggles of teenage lesbian characters. Additionally, we’re now seeing a genre of yuri that is not all doom and gloom but rather ventures into slice-of-life6, romance or comedy—promoting a positive and light version of events which leaves you feeling more hopeful.

There is generally more thought and effort put towards better representation of sapphic communities, even though output is still small (especially when you consider how many sapphic mangas are adapted into anime).

On the other hand, K-dramas are slowly but surely coming around. Series like Friendly Rivalry or even the side characters in Nevertheless are showing South Korean directors that there is money to be made in queer media, but hopefully that translates into more good representation rather than exploitation for money (and well, we’re still a capitalist society). Lesbian representation is just at its start, but without overall changing attitudes towards queer people in South Korea, I see this shift happening very slowly.

If you want better South Korean lesbian representation, I recommend reading manhwas. These are often for an adult audience, as characters tend to be in college or older (as opposed to middle or high school in manga and anime). The manhwas either feature a reality where queerness is completely normal (and so the focus is on other internal struggles) or deal with more complex topics and discourses around sexuality in a conservative South Korean society. And like mangas, they can either be spicy or completely wholesome.

If there is one thing that is true of both regions, it’s that the demand for more good representation has gotten louder. The sapphics are online and able to cast their votes with their watch time. We’re tired of tragic endings and doomed lesbians, which leave you feeling empty and used. Western societies have come much further in representation, and their audiences won’t be satisfied with half-baked representation aiming to appease homophobes.

Who knows? Maybe our great lesbian anime or K-drama is in the works and coming our way. Either way, I’ll be tuned in.

Other K-dramas with sapphic undertones from the Tiktok:

• Ballerina

• Soulmate

• Jeongnyeon, a star is born

• Kill boksoon

Some good yuri anime I recommend:

• Bloom Into You (one of the best)

• Kase-san and Morning Glories

• Hibike! Euphonium (not canon, but I loved it as a teen)

• Sakura Trick (cute wholesome, lots of kissing, bffs to lovers)

My not-watched category (so watch at your risk):

• Whisper me a love song

• Yurikuma Arashi (a bit odd but very lesbian)

• Yuri is my job!

• Adachi and Shimamura

• Simoun

• Revolutionary Girl Utena: The Adolescence of Utena (iconic, considering it came out in 1999)

Coming soon:

• I Want to Love You Till Your Dying Day

• The Moon on a Rainy Night

• Kininatteru Hito ga Otoko ja Nakatta

The shine brightens everything, even people’s smiles and seems to cast away the greyscale of London essence. I remember how much I love this city, among the yellow daffodils and the green saturated grass—a technicolour display.

Here in Clapham Common, the trees are still bare, just barely beginning to clothe themselves again. The benches are bountiful: couples displaying their love, young Black mothers and their infants, and a homeless man catching some rest.

It is between cold and warm here. The breeze reminds you of the threat of winter, still not completely gone. It lingers, ever so slightly, but it packs a punch as it blows its last breaths.

The schoolchildren are powering through, eager and chatty, an adult at each extremity of the pack—at the front, in the middle, and at the rear.

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I’m sitting criss-cross apple sauce on a piece of concrete that stayed dry. The grass is luscious, but under it rests a still-wet soil. My black jeans are like a beacon to the sunlight; they are warm, hot to the touch, whilst my girlfriend’s orange sweater remains just cool enough. I bought an iced latte for the first time in months. It is 15 degrees Celsius.

Yesterday had been a hard day—difficult at work, and I even shed a tear. But today is full of beginning again, of promise and of potential. I was ushered out by my girlfriend, who promised I would defeat burnout with one good day in the sun. And like a plant, I feel nourished, and my metaphorical slump lessens.

I listen to Adela on the limebike and to Ethel on my walk to the park. When I’m home, I’ll listen to something else, cruising through flats on Zoopla that twinkle with potential, fix up another CV, and then make a cute collage. Is this not the life of an artist—to look for the right conditions that make our life sparkle? And then to memorialise it into song, onto canvases and into the words engraved on paper or shining on our screens.

I should start drawing again, dancing stupidly and singing out loud in the shower. Somewhere on my journey, the discomfort of being less and taking up less space became normal. I need to stretch out—belly exposed, cheeks out my bottoms—and create a new normal.

I’m glad my girlfriend forced me out of the house today.

Not only were they set to be Bridgerton’s first lesbian couple, but they were also filling an ever-growing gap caused by the lack of lesbian representation in media. And don’t even get me started on the draught that is Black lesbian representation!

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We had already seen by the end of Season 3 that Michaela’s presence flustered the rather stoic and pragmatic Francesca (super autistic-coded). Initially, I thought she was asexual, and although she found a kindred spirit in John (her husband), it was clear that there was no sexual chemistry or attraction from Francesca’s side (at the very least). I mean, come on, she looks visibly disappointed after she shares her first kiss with John (at their wedding, mind you), and it is heavily implied that she didn’t feel any particularly enlightening feelings about John (sexually, at least).

Of course, after a show’s release, the media never fails to share its positive and negative feelings. Because Bridgerton is such a massive project with an established fanbase, there was already a certain hype around Season 4, which was only exemplified by it coming out in two parts (apparently, the new format for big shows).

Before it was even released, sapphics on TikTok were uncertain whether the show would actually pursue a romance between the two women, and were afraid of being yet again queerbaited. Furthermore, people were worried Shonda Rhimes would use a cheating storyline to introduce the couple, which would add to the already growing hate that the couple were garnering.

When it aired, we quickly understood that none of those worries materialised, and instead, the focus became on the chemistry between the characters. Although there are several moments of tension between the two, these were initially more hostile in nature until the two grew to become close friends. It is only after John’s sudden death that we have one scene (Francesca grabbing Michaela’s hand), which states the potential romance between the two. Even in that scene, it is only Michaela who realises it, leading to her flighty reaction at the end of Season 4.

After that, TikTok editors got to work, and other moments of quiet chemistry between the two were magnified for a wider audience. A process that I very much enjoyed as a huge consumer of lesbian media, but one that would also bring several critical thinkpieces on why the relationship “makes no sense at all”. These are the arguments I will be discussing in this article.

Ever since the start of Bridgerton’s Season 4, my TikTok feed has been filled with people expressing their opinions on Francesca being a lesbian and Michaela being a woman rather than the original “Michael” in the books.

Thankfully, the videos reaching my fyp are either defending the relationship or responding to others who claim it does not make sense or is not loyal to the books. But at times, you still get a snapshot of the other side in the comments section. But still, in the comments section, you get snapshots of the other side.

“Michael shouldn’t be Michaela”

Now, the least interesting of all the arguments has to be this one—the broad claim that Michaela should have remained Michael and that it makes no sense to enforce this sex change in its adaptation. Why? This varies.

Let’s start with the easiest part. Some of it is just blatant lesbophobia. I make this distinction from general homophobia primarily because there was no uproar about Benedict’s dabbling and enjoyment of homosexual activities in the first three seasons.

Francesca’s storyline in the book focuses on her issues with infertility—something that does get covered in the series in her relationship with John. I have not read the book and have no intention of doing so, but here is my understanding of what others have communicated. It seems that in her book, she doesn’t end up having kids with Michael anyways, so that argument feels a bit forced. And for the people who said “They have two kids later on”, well, respectfully, Julia Quinn (the author) admitted to adding that in (two books later) because of pressures from fans.

Overall, the general claim that the main themes and plot of Francesca's story cannot work because of the gender change is rather boring and disingenuous. So many other changes had been made from book to adaptation that the whole series is only loosely tied to its prototype. Furthermore, the popularity of the show has never stemmed from the books, and most of its main fans have never read the book series.

Queen Charlotte was not a character in the book (to my knowledge), nor were Black people and other POC ever in high society. These were all liberties taken by Shonda Rhimes that we have all embraced. Therefore, why not the inclusion of a lesbian character?

“Eloise should be the lesbian, not Francesca”

There is this widespread idea that Eloise should have been the lesbian character; that they would have accepted it if she were to be “the lesbian one” of the family (like they can’t both be).

This is mainly because it feels more fitting for them, considering Eloise’s outspoken feminist views and her rejection of “societal duties”. Although I would not have been mad at a lesbian Eloise, it also seems to convey a specific insight into how lesbians are viewed by society.

News flash, not all radical feminists are lesbians and vice versa. And another fun fact: feminine women who subscribe to and are emblematic of societal norms can, in fact, turn out to be lesbians. The whole concept of compulsory heteronormativity (aka comphet) rests on this premise and is the reason why some lesbians only realise they are lesbians later on in life.

Part of ‘s essay

“Compulsory heterosexuality isn’t just pressure from a disapproving parent or a church sermon. It is a full architecture. It is the frame through which you understand your own desire before you have the language to question it. Adrienne Rich named it. Audre Lorde felt it. And I lived it… neatly tucked inside the role of the perfect Caribbean firstborn daughter who would one day find the right man, not the right woman.”

Francesca’s femininity being used as “proof” of her being straight demonstrates people’s inherent misunderstanding that all women are socialised as a whole, regardless of sexual orientation, and breaking away from that mode of thinking is not always as obvious as it may seem—especially if you consider Francesca’s neurodivergence and her need for clear systems as direction.

Femme/feminine lesbians exist. Later-in-life lesbians exist. Just because you are only able to understand and come to terms with your sexuality later does not make that sexuality any less valid.

I also want to remind everyone that being a lesbian is not about hating men or the patriarchy, but very much about loving women—the latter is a prerequisite, and the former is a lovely bonus (the patriarchy part, but lol make any assumptions you want).

“But she loved John!” The case against bisexuality

A lot of people were upset with the labelling of Francesca as a lesbian instead of a bisexual character, even though the show goes to great lengths to suggest the former. From the beginning, it is clear that Francesca and John have a connection. As an autistic-coded character, Francesca struggles with a few things during her introduction to society.

It is clear that she wants to fulfil her duty, but has no real joy or desire beyond this participation. She is initially looking for a logical and pragmatic match rather than a love one, which greatly confuses her mother and some of her other siblings. John offers her a much-needed reprieve from the chaos all around her—this is the basis from which their relationship as kindred spirits flourishes.

Let’s not forget that in Season 3, the entire reason Violet Bridgerton finds it hard to accept John is because it is clear Francesca does not feel an intoxicating passion for John. In fact, we hear Violet express how she was barely able to get her words out when she first met her husband, something that Francesca had dismissed at the time.

Although the argument for quiet love is valid, it is not quite representative of Francesca’s experience, as we later see her tongue-tied and flushed when introduced to Michaela. The direct parallel with her mother’s experience is also not a coincidence but intentional storytelling for Francesca’s arc.

One thing is clear, though: Francesca does love John, but even in this season, it is suggested that it is more of a deep platonic love than a romantic or sexual one. Not only is the fact that she isn’t able to have any orgasms a clue, but during sexual encounters, she is more focused on the result (the lack of pregnancy; again, this is the very first thing she says to John after sex) than displaying any real signs of sexual enjoyment, which I think is quite honest and faithful to her character. Later on, when she fakes enjoyment after having lied about experiencing orgasms with John, he is uncomfortable and calls her out for it.

The impression I got was definitely not of someone who is sexually attracted to her partner. Once again, we need to think critically about why this narrative was used when we got very little screen time of Francesca and John’s relationship—and these are the scenes being shown… Methinks she is a lesbian because that is what I’m seeing!

The other issue I have with the arguments that Francesca is bisexual rather than a lesbian is, why does it truly matter that she might be a lesbian? A lot of people claimed that suggesting this was biphobic, and to be honest, I’m a little bit lost at this argument. Queer representation is indeed limited, but there are a lot more depictions of bisexual characters than there are lesbian characters, and I suspect that it’s because of this exact response to suggesting two women love each other without the involvement of any male attraction.

All too often, bisexual characters are used to show a brief same-sex encounter or relationship before swiftly returning to a heterosexual partnership without exploring an experience like Francesca’s. Even with Benedict, we see how this has been the case.

Unfortunately, being bisexual is still seen as a lot more palatable by the general audience because of its proximity to straightness and to men. When you see lesbian-centred shows being cancelled left, right and centre (yes, I am mourning the cancellation of IKAG and the second seasons of so many other series), it does show that we still operate in a very male-centred world.

We can acknowledge that Francesca had very deep feelings for John and that she is still a lesbian. I think we also need to move past the idea that romantic love is the only form of love that matters or is valid. Just because her feelings for John weren’t romantic doesn't diminish the real grief she feels. She loved John but was not in love with him. At least that was my interpretation, and a position which the show goes to great lengths to portray without outright saying it—but I reckon we’ll have to wait until her season officially arrives (in however long).

The masculinisation of Michaela & normalised misogynoir

One unfortunate aspect of residing on the internet is my constant reminder that too many people hate Black women. When Daphne married Simon (a Black man), there were no issues. After all, the universal consensus was that it was hard to hate on Regé-Jean Page, who was, at the time, as dark as some women meant when they expressed their “tall, dark and handsome” type. I also won’t deny that he is beautiful to look at.

But let’s take a quick look at the other Black Bridgerton women: we have Marina Thompson, Queen Charlotte (old and young versions) and Alice Mondrich, who are all mixed characters, and before this season, Lady Danbury (both young and old) was the only darkskin Black woman of the whole production. This had been previously criticised, and so I am glad to see that we now have another dark-skinned Black woman gracing our screens with poise, beauty and lesbian representation (another front where diversity had been lacking).

Most of these Black characters had often been sidelined or were useful plot devices for the story, rarely being at the centre. Queen Charlotte was the sole exception as she was the main character in her miniseries, and it is still praised as being one of the best “seasons” yet (even though it was a spin-off). One thing I did not see, however, was the idea that any of these Black women were too masculine, so it came as quite a shock when I heard that other Black women did not accept Michaela as feminine.

Evidently, Francesca and Michaela are polar opposites when it comes to temperament and style. The reason people struggle to see Francesca as a lesbian is because of her more obvious feminine qualities. Whether we like it or not, she is the blueprint for white femininity: soft features, a virtuous nature, innocent, petite in stature, and often clad in pastel colours.

Michaela, on the other hand, is bold, outspoken and curvy, often wearing bright reds and vivid blues. Then you have the addition of her queerness and how Black lesbians are often even more masculinised than straight Black women—especially when people imagine Michaela as a pursuer and Francesca as an innocent maiden.

There is an automatic need to categorise a “man” and a “woman” in queer relationships without regard for how queer dynamics work, and that two feminine women can date without the need for gender roles. And please, let’s not equate dominance or being a top with being a stud. They’re two different things.

Now, the other consideration I have for those who read the books and obviously cared to voice their concerns is that Michaela being a woman, when she is normally a man in the books, does set her up for this type of debate. But if you actually watch the show, one look at Michaela reveals a very obviously feminine character, much like every other woman on the show, so this nitpicking at her femininity is grating.

Final Thoughts

The actresses themselves have been gushing over their chemistry and excited for their season, and it’s disappointing to see so much negativity around something that hasn’t fully started yet.

By simply existing in such a mainstream show like Bridgerton, the characters can reach a new audience who might see themselves in Francesca or Michaela—especially at a time when lesbian representation is getting scarcer by the minute. For Michaela specifically, by being dark-skinned, feminine and lesbian, as well as in a period drama, she is forging a path ahead for others!

Also, on one final note, Michael is pretty much an abuser in the book (or so I have heard), so surely this is so much better than that anyways!

Anyways, Franchaela is loved in this household and can’t wait for their season!

I wondered when you’d be coming.

I waited patiently and patiently, curling my toes over each other, sitting on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. The door was locked: the only place I could experience true privacy. I also had my first orgasm in that bathroom—stunned at the rapid escalation of pleasure.

But most times, I cried in the shower.

I wondered at times whether people felt true loneliness as I had. Depression has a way of making you self-centred and selfish, engulfing everyone’s attention and still needing more. I was revived by moments my friends could never give me—crumbs of affection by a boy who did not love me back—and destroyed again by his cruel tantrums. An ego that was constantly starved and fed itself off a compilation of my reactions. A hand on a thigh one day, a racist joke the next.

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But still, I held foolish hope that some great love was coming my way. I thought I would find it in the arms of this boy, whom I loathed as much as I loved. Then I thought that I would find it in a sweaty crowd, straining to hear words and ultimately deciding that I didn’t really care. Lips against lips, wiping away the saliva, feeling temporarily satiated with not desire but acknowledgement. I took other people’s lust in place of love.

I wanted to feel real.

Something about being a Black woman made me feel vulnerable. I once read that it was the state of being simultaneously hyper-visible and invisible, and for the first time, I felt seen in a book. I didn’t understand Blackness or the concept of race until I was repeatedly called “the African”. Chalk it up to naivety or neurodivergence, I was just mad that he was wrong.

In school, I navigated life as an extra, a background character waiting to be picked up, waiting to be liked, waiting to be enough. It was so ingrained that I believed it to be true.

Will you look at me, truly, and say that I am good? Great, even. I want perfection, I want to be beyond reproach.

I was willing to be ruined, destroyed, in the name of love. Was all love not tragic in some form or another? So I ached and ached and ached until I couldn’t ache any longer. Then I felt tired, I wanted to rest and do nothing else. Rest isn’t an option when deadlines need to be met.

Am I still good? Am I lovable even when I’m not excelling?

Oh, how I long to tell myself the truth. Worth isn’t something to be found in the hands and eyes and words of others. Authenticity was my one true love, and forgiveness helped me let go of the shame of being flawed and human.

It also doesn’t hurt to be welcomed by the arms of a pretty woman, to be raw and ugly-crying and still loved. My, how I relish in queer Black love.

Now my hair is pink, and I smile when the sun is out. But sometimes I grieve the girlhood I never experienced.

Months back, when my therapist asked me plainly—an innocent question that caused me to ponder a little—“When is the last time you had a month without pain, and everything felt good in your body?”

Hmm, well, when was it again? Before my first period?

I had been having conversations with my girlfriend about taking my health seriously after my last terrible flu. There was always a constant underlying something going on. A bad throat and inflamed tonsils from what I suspected was the long-term effects of a mould problem two flatshares ago. A lower back which hurts when I stand, or sit in a chair, for too long—all stemming from a slip down the stairs in my first year of university. Or even the ever-present fatigue, the recurring colds, the returning migraines, and now my second ear infection in two months. Then we have the real killers: the endometriosis and the IBS (which gets worse with high anxiety).

Trust me, I’m tired.

I had gotten so used to living with pain that I hadn’t stopped to think about what life was like without it. A good day, perhaps—that did exist. If I was truly lucky, I would have a good week. But a good month? Or even a good year? The concept was foreign. And worse yet, I had normalised the chronic pain. I’d learned to expect it and work around it, or find a quick fix.

If there is one thing I hate the most about being in pain, it’s how lonely it is

Here you have it, the real constraint.

Often, I’ve had to cancel plans because I’m in pain or too tired. And there were so many ways for me to be in pain! It was astonishing each time something new came up, like a Pokémon I had just unlocked. And I felt guilty when I had to cancel. I was missing out, to be alone, curled up in bed.

The week before my birthday last year, a friend had hosted a party, and it happened to be the week of my period. At first, I thought I could make it and strived to rest up during the day. But by the evening, my cramps had gotten much worse, and I felt nauseous from the pain. I explained to her I couldn’t make it, and afterwards, because of an amalgamation of it all—the pain, the hormones, the loneliness and the guilt—I cried about how much I would have preferred to be in a different body.

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with my body. It affected me in so many ways. I felt heavy and convinced myself I had these heavy and dense bones which made certain acts like walking and running harder. I never felt particularly light. Even mentally, I was often weighed down by dark and panicked thoughts, or literally battling against migraines.

I felt too conscious of my body; I wasn’t simply existing, unaware of my body, but rather it kept reminding me of its presence, through something uncomfortable going on within it or outside of it. As a teenager, when I sat in jeans, I felt the pinch on my stomach and a fear that the top of my bum might be out. Afterall, things that fit me while standing rarely felt comfortable in any other position. But size up, and it’s too loose, and I felt frumpy.

Later on, I grew to view my body image differently. I wanted to embrace myself and took steps towards doing that until it stuck. I exist in an even bigger body now than the one my younger self already thought of as “too big”. And what? I think to myself. A bigger body doesn’t mean I am any less worthy of love.

But let’s move past body image. I still disliked how my body chose to cope with any struggle ever—slowly, achingly. Even now, the way my whole world stops when I get sick is incredibly frustrating. I spend days and nights clutching my lower stomach and trying to find a position which offers me some relief. I still have to bargain whether something will get so bad that I need a painkiller, or maybe I’ll just front it for today. After all, monthly painkillers cannot be good for you and treating the symptoms rather than the root cause only works in the short-term.

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The harsh truth is that being in pain means seeing less of your community. I’m often simply at home, scrolling on my phone to pass the time, watching a series or simply sleeping. I feel my least productive as I cannot concentrate on my creative endeavours, which then makes me feel stagnant or that I am falling behind others my age. I wonder how far I could get if I didn’t have to put a stop to everything every few weeks. Would I have finished projects? Would I have continued without any lost momentum?

I’m also so sick of apologising for cancelling. I’m apologising for disappointing whilst simultaneously being disappointed. The double whammy! I almost feel like I’m making it up as I type it or say it out. I feel fraudulent, like I’m making a big deal out of nothing. After all, endometriosis affects 1 in 10 women—are they all doing absolutely nothing one week of the month?

Reframing How I View My Pain

This is where my actions started to piss my girlfriend off.

To be honest, before I had met her, I didn’t often meet people who took my pain seriously. After constant ailments, my parents struggled to give each one of my problems adequate attention, and similarly, I grew accustomed to the issues and then normalised them.

My girlfriend, who had now seen me sick and in pain several times over the last year, had suggested I properly investigate each of my health matters—something that I had initially dismissed as too much trouble.

Part of it was that I didn’t like dealing with doctors. I have always found admin tasks especially frustrating and difficult. I often forgot to do things, and the NHS system didn’t make it any easier (since you need to be on top of it at all times). Then there was the worry I had when waiting for results. Oftentimes, I was told that nothing was really wrong, which furthered my auto-gaslighting of my symptoms. It didn’t make me especially confident in advocating for myself, and instead, things were reduced to anxiety.

At the end of 2024, I had to get an endoscopy and colonoscopy to look into the issues I had with my stomach. After going through a breakup, I found it extremely hard to eat without throwing up. The tests I had done were submitted before this, because, as always, my stomach had been acting up. I was often in pain while digesting, felt nauseous often and had constant issues in the bathroom. After the tests came back with inflammation and blood in my stool, I found it hard not to panic. The GP had requested the colonoscopy to check against cancer. Although the chances weren’t incredibly high, it was still very scary and worrying for me.

Fast-forward to the appointment. Well, all came back normal. They didn’t see much inflammation, nothing untoward. In short, they thought it was IBS. This result frustrated me as I had long already suspected I had IBS, and no advice was given beyond a pamphlet explaining the symptoms and a low FODMAP diet. Once again, I found this tiring.

In 2025, my stomach was feeling better. In high anxiety moments, I could still feel it a sharp pain develop and nausea mounting, but more pressingly, I was dealing with the constant sore throat and the back pain and of course, the endometriosis. It felt like I often could not catch a break.

The reality was that this long list of issues had been sitting there, creating a backlog of problems screaming at me to be addressed. My initial thoughts—that things would get better on their own—were evidently incorrect, and instead I found that I got sick more often, not less. My girlfriend was good at making sure I built better habits around my health, and my therapist reconfirmed that she was right and tried to help me through a lot of the shame I had around chronic pain.

Looking forward in 2026

Just last week I spent hours at A&E waiting to be seen by someone for a terrible ear infection. I was almost deaf on my left side and unable to get through the day without being on painkillers. This came the next week after my period when I was just emerging from a pretty bedrotten state, and so I felt like I had lost two weeks to being in pain.

I had already decided that 2026 was my health year. In other terms, I was going to make a concerted effort to document, investigate and pursue inquiries around my numerous conditions. Sadly, just saying you are committed to these things does not make the real life problem go away. It’s an ongoing journey and unfortunately not a quick and easy one as appointments and referrals take weeks to materialise. And I’ll admit, I am not an especially patient person—I lose motivation easily and feel discouraged. But I am also someone who loves a restart.

It’s a constant up and down that is indeed exhausting, but it shows my capacity for resilience nonetheless. As I try to get an official diagnosis for my endo, and some answers and solutions to all the other issues, I hope that slowly but surely I can live a life that is more sustainable.

Pain-free may not be realistic but damn, a whole month without pain sure does sound nice!

Last year, I wrote about my frustrations with society’s renewed infatuation with skininess. And considering that it is one of my more popular articles, it clearly resonated with other women.

No matter where you looked, the messaging became stronger and the beauty standard more rigid. It isn’t just about weight—whiteness is also centred (as per usual), as well as heteronormativity.

Since university has ended, I’ve tried to embrace the parts of me that I was used to hiding and shunning. I had gotten so good at this process that at times I wasn’t even sure what I truly liked, and therefore who I really was without the presence of other people. Perhaps there was a part of me that even hated myself for them. But something about getting out of university, learning about and then embracing my queerness and neurodiversity, allowed me to feel less shameful about myself.

In two days, for the first time, I’m dyeing my hair pink (finally). I grew up watching anime in which funky coloured hair is not uncommon, and then being surrounded by queer people who embraced colours and funky patterns did something for me. It was exposure therapy teaching me that there were no grand consequences to being fully yourself. Or rather (because let’s not discount all the phobias), the benefits outweighed the negatives and people who were true to themselves were happier.

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So let’s unpack that. What is being true to yourself? For me, that meant unlearning a lot of the things that society had taught me, the things that are becoming the norm once again: that a woman is supposed to be feminine, that being fat is a sign of laziness or suggests that someone does not take care of themselves, that a woman who does not conform kind of deserves the bad things that might happen to her.

When you start questioning why certain behaviours are glorified, you tend to find that it all comes down to concepts of patriarchy, capitalism and control. But today I wanted to express my love I have for the women+ who don’t fit the ideal. January is usually a tough month, mentally and financially. For anyone who may be struggling with their self-image after being unable to stick to goals, this is me telling you you’re beautiful, and you’re doing.

Now here are 10 things that I’ll continue to do despite all types of messaging that I shouldn’t:

1. I won’t be shaving. Frankly, ingrown hairs are uncomfortable, and I’m starting to like my armpit hairs. And I’ve always been a bush girly, I really never cared (and neither did anybody I ever slept with).

2. I will have my belly out. Low-rise jeans are cute, crop tops are cute. Flat stomachs are also cute (duh, we know), and so are the chubby or outright fat tummies. If you want it out, have it out. I only ask that you also have the badass confidence to go with it! We’re letting go of “not made for my body-type” shame in 2026.

3. I’m wearing those mini skirts and shorts. It’s winter now, so with tights, but honestly, who cares about cellulite or flabby thighs? I certainly don’t anymore (we’re liberated girlies!!).

4. I’m still gonna tower over people (heeled boots and Mary Janes only for me, I fear). This one isn’t unconventional, but it’s less about the idea of suffering and being in pain for beauty, and more about feeling confident about your height, especially if you present femininely. I’m a tall-ish baddie, and I want all my even-taller baddies to keep rocking their height. Towering over the world is so fun, and you’d be surprised by how many men in TikTok comments love to drop the word “mommy” whenever they see a tall, feminine woman (especially if you’re jacked too, and they’re extremely right).

5. I’m not checking the scale. Unless this is for a medical purpose (it’s good to have an idea of your weight), I will not be checking daily or every other day to see if that 0.5kg drop was indeed just the shit I took or real weight loss.

6. I’m not falling for that clean girl shit! I love colourful clothes and colourful makeup, and maximalism, and mixing and matching patterns. Make fashion playful again!

7. Not everything is about trying to look as skinny as possible. This one freed me so much from so many fashion “rules”. Sometimes I wanna look like an oversized Cheeto bag with legs. Sometimes I wanna be in a itty-bitty top that’s slightly too small. Not everything is about being the perfect hourglass shape, and that’s okay. Have fun with shapes and silhouettes! I do enjoy showcasing the dump truck though, you’re welcome!

8. I wanna keep looking slightly off-putting. Just enough so that it’s not completely flagged by HR (because I’m still in a corporate job), but an act of resistance altogether. I’m gonna start bleaching my brows again and dying my hair—my next colour is a raspberry pink. I find it so fun, and honestly, I thrive most when I get stares from bewildered older people and nods from approving baddies.

9. I actually do not care what men think of my body/attractiveness, and I don’t think I ever will again. Maybe this one is only here because I’m queer—in my opinion, my first stepping stone, but most definitely not a prerequisite to decentring men. But honestly, viewing myself through my own standard rather than anyone else’s (and especially a man’s) has been super cute. I find that I dress more feminine (clothing-wise) and more naked (in safe spaces like queer clubs) than ever before. It’s almost like I’m existing without objectification and sexualisation. I still, however, wear a big coat to cover the hot fit in public (the outside world does not live by my same freedom, and harassment is still a reality).

10. I have extra fat, and I love myself. This one still shocks people from time to time, and it’s both hilarious and very sad. And it’s all political. My art, creativity, self-expression and fashion reflect my political stance, and I refuse to minimise myself to fit into body standards. This means I’m Black-Caribbean and proud to be so. I support women’s rights (and wrongs x). I am queer in the labelling and political sense, and support LGBTQ+ rights. And I could keep going. My extra love for myself is also retribution for the lack of love my younger self felt towards herself (you are so precious and so loved, sweetie).

I hope that this may reach at least one person who has felt shitty because of this in-your-face, old and reductive beauty standard. It’s not about you, it never has been, and you are enough. Keep flourishing!

Sometimes I search through the folds of my brain, hands sticky, pushing and probing and searching through layers of pinkish-grey flesh. I’m searching for memory, for an understanding of self through myriad collected moments.

Maybe if I can remember all of it—the intricate childhood, the angsty teenage years, the throws of young adulthood—maybe then, I’ll feel a sense of completion.

I’ll be sure, I think, of who I was and therefore who I can be. My resolve would be steadfast and assured, and the need to apologise for myself would dissipate. I would just be; acting in full accordance with myself.

I would caress my soft brown skin with admiration, admiring the space I take up, finding ways to extend and stretch out, claiming all that belonged to me.

But I live in the grey, enveloped in never-ending possibilities, tireless solutions and mitigating circumstances. I’m full of what ifs and maybes dancing around in my head, skewing the path before me.

I have never read Sylvia Plath, partly because I’ve procrastinated it and partly because of my reluctance to read the words of a notorious racist, but I have heard of her fig tree analogy. The options bearing fruit, seemingly endless, and the inability to act through the boundless illusion of choice. I understand her and refuse to become her all at once.

I crave success but have rarely asked myself why. Is it that I want approval? To be recognised by the masses, as what—a great writer? An impressively creative mind? Is it that I want to start conversations on topics that interest me, whether through fiction or critical essays? Or praise? Or perhaps I want to be an example to other little girls who never saw themselves represented: the mixed Black girlies, the neurodiverse, the marginalised queers, and those who felt the fuzziness of their own identity growing up.

It’s hard to pinpoint. I’ve always been so enthralled by the projects that take up my time. I’d dream about my protagonists, make playlists to visualise scenes, write in-depth character studies and create Pinterest boards of them. And later, as I dove into non-fiction and personal essays, I had to get comfortable with vulnerability and intimacy.

My best work is my most dramatic and personal; a grief or sadness so palpable it comes out poetic. Or perhaps a tender love that allows me to witness the beginnings and ends of my lover.

As I near 25, I think back to those earlier memories, and I find that they escape me. I see the photos and imagine from there. My, have I grown. And my growing hasn’t terminated. Maybe, indeed, I shall become exactly who I want to be: rich and accomplished, happy and fulfilled, writing in a beautiful home with large windows, a reading nook and a cat.

Maybe,

yeah,

that would be nice.

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We’re past the midway mark in January, and I’m seeing it all around me: the natural tiredness, the slow burnout settling in, the tendency to stay in and warm, and therefore seeing less of others.

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It’s always a bit complicated at the beginning of the year. We’ve all set ourselves ambitious goals, aiming to transform ourselves. Despite the self-conviction that we’ll stay consistent and be faithful to this new version, we find ourselves exhausted and broke at the end of the month. Usually, this is because people get paid earlier in December, leaving them with 6 weeks (or longer) to extend their last paycheck. It's quite tricky to be this new, transformed person without spending a penny and remaining at home, especially if you’re a Londoner and TFL charges can quite literally shock you the next day.

Similarly, after a confirmation of both a vitamin D and iron deficiency, my lethargy and low mood make sense (which I’m actively trying to combat). Then you add on my propensity for sickness, the endometriosis cramps both before and during my period, as well as the mood swings, and you get a fuller picture of how this season may not be my favourite. And although I’ve been wanting to stay snuggled up in bed, avoid going to the office again and limit social interaction, I also know that this usually makes me feel worse.

How do we combat this? Although there’s nothing we can do about the darkness at 4pm or the cold and wet weather of January, here’s how I’ve been trying my best to stay motivated and generally happy so far.

Just this week, I considered cancelling or rescheduling my GP appointment because of a very early alarm. But my commitment to 2026 was to take my health more seriously, so despite my body screaming at me to let it sleep longer, I forced myself up and got ready to go. Once outside, I found that it wasn’t so cold after all, and that I enjoyed the little bit of sunshine that some London mornings have to offer. The bike ride to the GP was refreshing. I lingered outside a little bit longer, catching up with a friend before going back in. It had brightened up my day.

I realised that I wanted to try to work with uncontrollable factors, rather than against them. If the sun is only out for a few hours, I’d try to maximise my time with it. Now that temperatures have been less harsh (we’re closer to 10 degrees than 0, although I doubt this will be permanent), I try to walk a little bit more outside rather than taking the tube or the bus.

I’ve also been maximising my time out of the house. I tend to not be as productive at home as I am when I’m working in a cafe or hotel lounge. And since I still want to see my friends, I try to coordinate working in a cafe together. It’s both a motivator and a slight distraction—but one that is still more fun than watching a screen to pass the time. The only downside to this is definitely the cost factor; the longer you stay out, the more likely you will need sustenance and have to pay for it (since you know, bringing your own food in these establishments is taboo or simply not allowed).

Overall, I just want to remind you to stay kind to yourself, despite the depressing mood, and to connect with your community if you need to (here are some of my tips on how), as well as recharge when you feel more antisocial.

You are not a failure if you’re not making as much progress as you expected on all your listed goals. Being productive is easier when the weather is nice and inviting, and you can accomplish your goals in a sunny park. Give yourself some grace and then focus on how you can reach your goals realistically.

Lots of love,

Natalia

Sometimes I find a growing nub in my chest. It expands and expands, and it begs to be noticed. It’s full of doubt, anxiety, pressure.

Every so often, I rub it away, just as my therapist instructed. Tend to it, acknowledge it, and then let it seep away, she’d say. And so when the night got dark earlier, and I felt the day escaping me, I’d rub and rub, soothing and petting, soaking it in warm water, then wrapping it up in a warm blanket.

The next day, it’s a little smaller, less able to control so much of the narrative.

It’s January, I whisper to it. A new year, a new start perhaps? Or maybe it’s a continuation of December, not really detached altogether, but just merging and blending.

February is my birthday month, and along with it, the birthday blues. The nub is already growing in anticipation, in pure wonder at what I have decided to do with all 25 years of life.

I’m evolving—the nub has less of a say in my life, and sadness, anxiety and worry pass with time. Perhaps next year it won’t exist at all.

Sensitive at times, tough at others, but I always felt a lot. When things felt difficult, I found it challenging to manage my stress. I didn’t know it then, but I hadn’t learned how to regulate my emotions because I’d never felt supported through them when I was younger. I was taught to swallow it down, and my belly always felt too full.

This year, I’ve taken pride in several things. It’s been a year of growing and learning, but mainly it has been the year of letting things go. As a child and teenager, I used to claw at what was abandoning me. I felt it viscerally, a reflection of a personal failing or a reflection of not being good enough, perhaps. I believed those things, and I found it hard to understand why. I then moved towards apathy, still hurt but giving up on the whole outward emotional debacle. Internally, I was a wreck, but I wanted to fake it ‘til I made it, so I learned to be better at keeping it all down.

Now I understand things differently. My life is one long flowing river, and just like time, it keeps moving forward, encountering different sceneries and fish along the way. Some river life may travel very long with you, while others do not. They are not equipped to withstand both the strong currents at the top and the slow currents at the bottom. But some rocks follow along with you until you reach the sea, weathering along with you. Not everything is in my control, and that is okay. I’m not carrying the weight of failure, of negative self-perception, anymore. I let go, not yet instantly, but much quicker than before, and with renewed composure. I grieve these things and allow myself the time to feel fully, then, like the river, I keep flowing.

But yesterday, I found myself in a pickle.

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Despite the ups and downs, I’m still grateful for 2025 and everything I’ve learned about myself. I learned to be more confident in my skills; everyone is at different points in their journey, and what may feel like a level one for you might still be beyond imagination for someone else. I’ve learned to be more gentle with myself, be more in tune with how I feel and respect those feelings. I’m still working on unlearning people pleasing and feeling more comfortable with unmasking (kinda goes hand in hand), but the steps and strides I have made have felt freeing and like I have respected the integrity of my younger self.

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One thing I really wanted to avoid falling into was the messaging around rebranding yourself completely in the new year. Although winter and the end of the year are times used for reflection and introspection on how the year went and what we would like to carry into the new year, I also think it is important not to burn ourselves out too early, just to feel like a failure.

I have also been a victim of this in the past, which is why I want to do things differently. Instead, I will be carrying the lessons I’ve learned in 2025 into this new year and make small changes in areas where I feel can be improved. I started and ended 2025 feeling very unwell, and carrying sickness around has been somewhat consistent with me. In 2025, I want to focus more on my health and on myself more generally. I want to organise myself a little better so that I can start reaching the goals I set, rather than feel stuck and then not put any action into kickstarting things (very ADHD of me, but oh well).

If you’ve been finding yourself in a spot where you feel like you haven’t been advancing the way you would have liked, or that you’re not quite in a place where you’re proud of anything, take a step back and look at the basics. What’s your home environment looking and feeling like? What’s an optimal base for you to be your “best self” (whatever that means)? What is “your best self”? Ask yourself these questions and think about what small changes you can make that are sustainable, rather than asking you to transform into somebody else.

I also want to celebrate my wins of 2025, and I urge you to do the same! I’m proud of where I’ve gotten with Substack. I’ve been (fairly) good at posting weekly (as was my goal for the second half of 2025), and I really grew my audience from 0 to 46 subscribers! I’ve also become much better at advocating for myself, having difficult conversations and trying to be as open and honest as possible. These things were almost unheard of for me the year before (looking at you, people-pleasing culprit).

But what are some of the sick things I want to achieve this year, you wonder? Well, this year I’m going to start off pink-haired. I’ve always wanted to do a funkier hair colour but have been half-worried about how bleach would affect my curls, and half-worried about being over-perceived in public. But with all the other things I did to have last year—like my nose piercing, second lobe piercings, bleached brows AND momentarily pink brows—I’m actually quite excited to just have fun with my appearance. I’m only 24, after all. And we’re amping up the chaos, and whimsy, and the unhinged energy. I meet all my favourite people that way. <3

When it comes to creativity, I’m so so excited about some of the bigger projects I have lined up for this year. I’m working on creating a Queer WOC magazine, which is in and of itself the biggest project I have led yet, and I am excited for it to be fully executed and finished this year. Although it has also been the most challenging thing I’ve been working on, it’s been incredibly gratifying. I’ll have to learn to use new skills, such as graphic design and being a better project manager, but I’m excited! Less organising and more doing for 2026! It’s also provided wonderful ways of collaborating with other creative people, who all deserve their flowers! I made a Substack newsletter for it last year, which I will be adding some more content to this year, so definitely keep an eye out on there for more updates!

And what about this newsletter? Well, I will continue to post on Notes by Natalia weekly, but I’m switching it up a bit with three free posts and one for paid subscribers only per month. Although I’ve been loving the slightly lower-effort aspect of my Substack posting schedule, I’ve been itching to do work that takes me more time and effort. The writer in me wants to spend more time editing, perfecting, and writing longer posts, but I’m confining myself to doing this for one piece per month, which is why it will be under the paid umbrella. And who knows, maybe I’ll go back to my roots and some fiction writing will be making an appearance again?

I wish you all a happy, hopeful and amazing start to 2026, lovelies!

I’m angry and disappointed.

(some cute soundtrack to go along with your read)

In this last year, we’ve seen the slow and excruciating normalisation of celebrities and influencers becoming the white skinny housewife, a return of the old-money aesthetic. We’re seeing it on TikTok with trad wife and Mormon content being shoved down our throats, and we’re seeing it on Instagram where celebrities like the Kardashians are shedding off their BBLs and breast implants for a smaller tinier body. They’re blackfishing less and looking less racially ambiguous, and instead have adopted a more white-coded soft feminine look (think angelic and biblical)—and I’m noticing they have the matching personality to go with it.

Think Ariana Grande, who previously had cosplayed every other race, finally leaning into her whiteness and the full transformation of her voice, essence and stature. Think Rosalía, who had been criticised after winning several Latin Grammy awards (considering she is Hispanic and not Latin American), now leaning into her whiteness with her new album Lux with several biblical imagery.

All of it makes me feel… well, rather uncomfortable.

Earlier in the year, I remember seeing increasingly more #skinnytok content, where an influencer felt incredibly comfortable fat-shaming women and calling their lack of motivation or desire for a smaller body as lazy. I thought hmm… people in the comments are finding it funny but something like this would not have gone down well the year before. She might have played it up as some kind of tough-love persona to be humourous, but you could tell she was serious. I knew back then that we, as a society, were headed somewhere dark after that.

Then there was the nataleebfitness incident and the opening of her transphobic gym. The reason why there was so much backlash was mostly because of her insistence, at first, that it would be a safe space for trans women as a women-only space. She even went out of her way to ask trans women online how she could make the environment safer for them. So the backtrack was definitely a shock to many, especially as a Black woman who understood the impact of discrimination and perpetuating harmful narratives. Instead, her suggestion that including trans women would threaten the safety of cis-women was confusing at best, and suggested she was equating trans women to cis men. While all of this was happening, trans rights were being attacked in the UK law system—trans women are no longer legally recognised as women.

So how does this relate? Well, all these things are interconnected, I fear. We’re leaning towards skinniness, softness, “flourishing while subdued”, and whiteness as the beauty standard for women again (think of that wretched Sydney Sweeney ad which I will be discussing very soon), which means that being queer, trans, Black/non-white or fat now makes you an outlier yet again. We’re literally regressing folks!

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Why do we even care about beauty?

There’s always been this underlying sentiment that being beautiful, which was often tied to also being skinny, was the secret to getting everything you ever wanted as a woman. It can get you job opportunities, love, attention—by virtue of being attractive. This is only a minute benefit amongst tons of other drawbacks under patriarchy. After all, women still need to look presentable to be respected.

Then there’s the added racial undertone behind the beauty standard. Whiteness has always been the standard by which everyone else should conform to in order to receive respect—especially if you consider the long lasting effects of colonialism on POC populations. Black hair had to be managed (straightened, braided or in wigs), habits that still persist today (although I will argue there are also other motivations at play today).

POC, especially those with darker skin, were considered dirty, the antithesis of whiteness (both the colour and the people), which was considered pure or clean. East Asians were also stereotyped heavily, dehumanised and only slightly benefitting from their proximity to “whiteness”. The beauty standard is an amalgamation of cherry picked traits and features found primarily in other races, whilst simultaneously demonising them on these same races. And the opposite also occurred: POC women with “white features” were considered more beautiful, whether that was a smaller upturned nose, lighter skin or a looser hair texture.

Another Substack piece I read called “on keeping women skinny so they don’t get too powerful”, skillfully explained how we waste our time on trying to be skinny (which of course means you will inevitably have less energy, and spend a good portion of it obsessing over your weight). It simply detracts us from bigger and more important things, like say, advocating for our rights, or our ability to aim for bigger things and accomplishing them. And I agree.

But I get it, everyone wants to feel attractive, me included, but I don’t want to feel like I need to be fit a hyperspecific beauty standard that was never made to be accessible to all. After all, the whole point is that it can only be achieved by the few, and if you wish to be part of those few and weren’t genetically blessed, then you must have the money to either do all the treatments for clearer skin, less cellulite, luscious hair, toned abs. And if all else fails, you need the money to make aesthetic surgical accommodations. And then you need to have even more money to keep up with the inevitable shift of beauty standards as they transform to something else entirely (dissolving fillers, reducing BBLs, removing implants and so on).

The whole of it seems obsolete, and in reality, it is. So you might as well accept what you have and be happy with it. Who knows, at some point the beauty standard may well shift back to being who are you are right now.

Now, I’m growing beyond these standards

Although I have this unequivocal stance on beauty and body standards today, this was not always the case when I grew up. In actuality, it was only until the beginning of 2024 that I was able to focalise on things other than how my body looked. I spent years trying to mould and shift my body to what I imagined would be the perfect body, only to be disappointed at how my genetic structure wasn’t quite following suit. So I get it. I, like many other girls, wanted to be loved and thought this was a surefire way of achieving it.

For me, moving away from needing male validation, and seeing myself through the “male gaze”, is what healed this self-objectified view I had of myself. My second Substack post touched briefly on my relationship with my body and how being in the queer community and in a sapphic relationship changed this relationship for the better. The queer community celebrated being different, looking different, bigger or smaller, being “too much”.

My body being loved by someone else made me feel a lot less shame towards it, and through that, I was able to explore myself through fashion and personal identity, making the changes I had always been too scared to make before. I wore the crop tops with my belly out, I bleached my brows and dyed my hair, got that nose piercing. None of these are obviously revolutionary, but I was afraid of being different on top of being Black mixed race and curvier. My younger self would be both terrified and so proud.

The reason this shift encouraging repression of self makes me so angry is because of the fact that it comes after years of promoting body-positivity and body-neutrality. It simply feels like a regression [and is!] and a way to reinstate shame and docility in women who are currently being vocal about their upsets with society, capitalism, misogyny, racism, the patriarchy, etc (the list is ever-long, unfortunately).

Although I don’t expect things to change quickly—things becoming more right-wing by each passing month—I personally will not cower and conform to this renewed and inaccessible beauty standard. And next week you will hear about all the ways I am doing exactly that x

As a writer, reading is the best way to get inspired and to also expand on different structures and perspectives, and Borderline Fiction’s distinctive style was not only thought-provoking, but also immensely entertaining.

Written as one long internal thought with very limited paragraphs, and separated between the perspectives of Marcus, the main character, at nineteen and then at twenty-five, Borderline Fiction captivates you with its wittiness, vulnerability and unique perspective.

I usually characterise a good book by what it brings me—I like to expand my perspective on topics I know less about, but I also like to be brought into the world of characters whose live are both different and similar to my own. I know, contradicting, but let me explain. Stories need to feel somehow outside of the conventional for me to take true pleasure in them, and this is also why I don’t enjoy reading books written by straight white men anymore (see below one of my previous articles for a more expansive explanation of this).

As such, even stories that reflect experiences similar to my own—whether that be queer, Black, mixed-race, incorporating international upbringings, or more generally about womanhood—they still reflect experiences outside of the conventional straight white male perspective I was talking about earlier. Growing up I was deprived of these stories which is why I seek them out now, and also they’re interesting as fuck! I equally like learning of other “unconventional” experiences being put into writing [what I really mean is not usually common or considered typical in the popular sense of what the literary world tends to publish].

In Borderline Fiction, we follow Marcus who is a young Black man who grew up in London primarily (as well as a small town in East Anglia) and who has borderline personality disorder, something that is rarely discussed, or accurately represented without further stigmatisation in writing. As someone with a psychology undergrad, I know a little bit more about the condition and I will say it’s also not as commonly seen in non-white people and less spoken about in “pop culture “as a mental health condition which also affects men (the focus that I’ve seen in media usually being on women as a way of playing into the manic pixie dream girl trope). Because of all this, the premise piqued my interest from the beginning.

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Marcus is interesting because his voice at nineteen and twenty-five are completely different. Although I found younger Marcus more entertaining (he has a very heavy use of London slang, which expanding my vocabulary in the process) and older Marcus a lot more reflective (he loves poetic and flowery language). But it does feel in both occurrences he adopts the personality of the environment around him, which is then also reflected on in the last chapter of the book by Marcus’s friend who also has BPD (but has been diagnosed).

The book does a great job at showing the impacts of BPD on Marcus in a way that is still subtly weaved into the storyline and not too on the nose. For instance, we can see the ideation phase of BPD (Marcus’s specific ways of making the focus of his romantic love into perfect beings), and the depreciation phase (specifically with Adwoa as well as other important characters). But we also see how his mental health takes the biggest toll on himself and how it externalises through drug use as a means of coping. We do see the differences between Marcus at nineteen and at twenty-five which shows how with maturity some things change, while others simply transform into something different.

I also loved the addition of untranslated Twi phrases incorporated into the book. Although I don’t speak it, as someone who is also bilingual I respect the act of adding it in, and to me it feels like it really does reach the crowds who could most relate and see themselves in Marcus. London really is a culmination of different culture, and I find that being Black British is always interesting to unpack from an identity standpoint. You both belong and don’t belong, in Britain and in whichever other African or Caribbean country your ancestry is from. The use of language brought that to the forefront—both the untranslated Twi, the London slang which incorporates this same melting pot of cultures, and the more “formal” Britishness of Marcus at twenty-five, using language as a poetic tool.

Funnily enough, I read a few reviews that mentioned that they weren’t impressed by the dialogue, but I wholeheartedly disagree. Although the lack of “he said” or “she said” meant that, on the rare occasion, I had to backtrack to understand who was speaking, I found the dialogue very realistic and was even more engaged because of it. Arguments felt like they were happening in real time and I could imagine facial expressions and tone throughout.

I liked the open-endedness of these interactions, I was very much experiencing it with Marcus as he views the world, rather than being all the details that as a writer you could provide for further context. The point is that Marcus is flawed, and so is his perspective. You’re getting an unreliable narrator because, inherently, all our memories and perspectives are skewed by what we choose to focus on, our feelings in the moment, making us all equally unreliable despite this belief that our truth is the most objective.

Spoiler ahead

Overall, the focus of the story is about love. In both phases, Marcus is in love and idealises the girls whilst refusing to allow for true vulnerability by being completely honest about his feelings. At nineteen, this is reflected through this macho “roadman” personality that he sees reflected around him as the true representation of masculinity. This is something his cousin also calls him out on as being disingenuous. He chooses to deny the existence of his feelings altogether, leaning more into anger and violence (often self-inflicted but not only) rather than vulnerability and empathy.

At twenty-five, although he is gentler and more aware of his feelings, he chooses more often to conceal his feelings and answers questions with his own questions to keep his thoughts ambiguous, and acts the way he thinks the girl he likes will like. A repression of self, per se.

The last thing that really stood out to me and made me reflect after the fact was the ways in which every description of sex was pretty traumatic in the book. Not only is this less discussed by men, as Marcus was often a victim of at best ambiguous situations and at worst outright sexual assault, but it was often a bit confusing at first as I realised that Marcus refused to see these experiences as anything out of the ordinary, even if at times he felt used after the fact. If anything, the way he discusses and experiences sex can at times feel like a way of self-harming (which I do think is intentional on Derek’s part).

Spoiler part done!

Both perspectives made me reflect and it was a very engrossing read, especially as tension starts to rise in younger Marcus’s life. I would fully recommend Borderline Fiction, and this was a good way to fully relaunch my love for literary fiction—and the unique character studies they provide—back into my life. Also I met Derek and he’s so lovely, so check his book out!

⭐⭐⭐⭐ — 4.5 star rating

I wanted to read more of it by the end! But I think the open-endedness was also clever, but here were some of the things I was more curious about:

• How Marcus found out about his diagnosis (if he indeed actually got it or whether he is being medicated for something else)

• The aftermath of how things ended with Adwoa, especially considering how things panned out

• I wasn’t convinced by Marcus’s connection with San (maybe I just didn’t like her much), but I wanted to somehow see the dissolution of this relationship or at least understand a bit better where things were going with this one.

I’ve had my fair share of chaos over the last few months, from moving, moving again, dealing with a potential bed-bug situation (which meant I had to repack everything I had just managed to unpack), getting perpetually ill and dealing with chronic pain… Point is, life has been a lot, and as things get dark early and cold, and everyone is more prone to the sniffles, it’s natural to want to stay in and recoup a bit away from everyone else.

After all that stress, I needed a breather. Here’s my favourite things to do during this time and some of my winter recommendations.

1. Tap into childhood creativity

If you haven’t painted or crafted or collaged since childhood, now might be a moment to try that out again. Think of it as a cute little self-love exercise with 0 expectation on the result—this part is extra crucial if you’re a results-driven baddie that hates when they get things wrong. I try to remind myself that it’s more for the sake of activity rather than how it looks at the end. But also if it looks great, kudos to you!

This can also obviously be done with other people as well but for the ones who need that solo session, I recommend a big glass of the herbal tea of your choice, a cute little Spotify playlist to go with it and if you run cold like me, then a blanket (or heated blanket) of your choice!

2. Get lost playing the Sims 3

This one is a great one if you want to be locked in for a few hours. I’ll usually play for like a week or two at most because I get a bit bored of the repetitiveness of it—I haven’t gotten a new expansion pack in like two years and the last one was Seasons and the celebrity city one but not City Living. Best one is still Island Paradise by far.

Nevertheless, if you’re a part time gamer girl (which really just boils down to my slight tendency towards short-term obsession as a dopamine booster), then rebooting that old computer or downloading it onto a capable laptop with enough storage space and decent RAM is the way to go (very crucial here or it will crash and all your gameplay will be naught—a tragedy).

If you need a little challenge to get started and keep things entertaining, you can try:

• A rags to riches storyline: this one never fails to entertain me somehow, I usually try to play without giving myself insane amounts of money, will try to build homes from scratch, leave a lovely little family struggling or a pair of friends just some ambition and a dream to scrape by and do the long tedious work of getting them somewhere the slow route.

• The 100 baby challenge: I have yet to do better than like 10 babies without crashing out from all the virtual babies screaming and everyone’s moodlet bar being constantly low and aggressively red. Especially the mother, maybe this was where my first hint of aversion to motherhood came home.

• Building property like you’re a designer: this one takes time, energy and a good eye to be honest. I’m still learning how to make the houses interesting and cool rather than just practical.

• Breed out the ugly: this one just felt a bit mean to me personally and I also like spending at least 2 hours making my Sims. But the concept is you have two Sims with terrible features and see how many generations before the features go away altogether. If any of you have given it a go, let me know how that went!

3. Become a musical genius

Make a playlist! Fill it with new music that inspires you. If you’re a Spotify user (which I am unfortunately, not that I endorse the brand much), take a look at Discover Weekly first, then once you’ve finished that, go to the radio of your favourite song on there, check out the artists’ other music and have fun along the journey!

The tip to a good playlist title is to really capture the mood of what you’re trying to make. If I’m extra lazy I just say the month (as my novice self used to do), but I try to still add a twist, an extra word describing it or an alliteration (like Moody May or Jovial June LOL). For the more experienced ones, try to have fun with the titles, I personally cycle my music taste through the seasons but also like at least two contrasting vibes within said season, so my title tends to reflect that.

Then the other way I like to name a playlist is through straight up vibes. Last year Summer I was all about Lesbian and Girly Pop music which felt like a reconnection to my childhood self, so I made a fat ass playlist.

And last way to have fun with this to specialise it for someone (friend or lover, or crush), or around a specific trip you’re going to, or around a very specific sentence, phrase or experience.

As a curator (according to my Spotify wrapped and the apparent 361 different genres I listened to this year), fine-tuning music for a specific ambiance other than I like it is a very gratifying experience if you get it just right. When I make my girlfriend playlists I like to incorporate songs I know she’ll like and also push the boundaries of what I think she might enjoy discovering. Music for a specific location or experience is also about bringing out the experience of it, and I may focus more on the acoustics of a song than the direct lyrics. For example, a slightly funky and slutty electronic beat for my Paris playlist, and an easy-going but upbeat playlist that reflected the mood of when I went cycling with my girlfriend on a weekend date at the start of summer.

Also a picture you add yourself makes it fun, but if you’re feeling extra creative you can either go into Canva to make a cute collage or if you’re lazier you can just use the edit tool on Spotify directly and add a cute and silly collage like the one I made for my girlfriend so she’d stare at my face every time she opened this playlist:

Anyways, I’m a passionate girly when it comes to music (will start learning how to DJ soon—another good solo activity if you want to get some practice in), and making playlists is honestly such a fun pass time and ensures you always have some lovely music for a specific occasion (such as a party) or for your long ass TFL commute (unescapable I fear).

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4. Strum an instrument

This one is always a great one for when I need a little self-soothing or reconnecting with myself. I get super locked in for a couple hours and it feels gratifying most times.

The first few times I was trying to get back into playing the piano, I had to cut up a sticky note into tiny parts to fit onto the keys and annotate each key from A-G until I memorised them (which took months). So essentially I understand that the learning stage of playing an instrument is always a bit rocky. I used to play chords alongside my singing so once the memorisation part was done it was easier to tap back into the motions of picking up where I left off.

If you haven’t played your instrument for years, it’s amazing how much your muscle memory kicks in. Somehow I still remember my grade 2 piano piece (which I failed to graduate, mind you), and recently I’ve been trying to learn new pieces through YouTube. My go-to is going on ultimate tabs guitar, picking a song and playing chords to back up my singing for some practice and a little heartwarming downtime.

It’s fun, you should try it too x

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5. Read a book, write about it

Now I won’t pretend to be the master reader that I used to be. I haven’t been reading nearly as much as I should have this year (with the exception of a few good non-fiction audiobooks)—mostly due to my suffering attention span and stressful times. Again the ADHD be ADHD-ing. But I challenged myself to get back into the motions of reading literary fiction (my original one true love) by starting and finishing Borderline Fiction by Derek Owusu in about 3 days.

I will say, telling people to read a book in their free time/alone time is nothing new. However! I’m challenging you by adding this extra step: after you finish a book, gather your thoughts and write a review!

It doesn’t need to get posted, although more comfortable with proclaiming your ideas publicly is never terrible (unless those opinions are bad LMAO). But I will say, forcing myself to think more critically about the media or art I’m consuming does not only help me learn about topics I’d otherwise understand less about, but also makes me feel more confident about my opinions. It’s okay to give it a minute though, let it cement and sit with you, read other people’s thoughts before you come to your own conclusion. Writing it out helps you cement your ideas which is also a fun thing to read back on in the future, and gives your future self an insight into how your past self felt.

And lastly you can incorporate your opinion super casually into conversation and be an even more interesting person—trust me, expressing critical thought after consuming media makes you look and sound smart, because it is!

So, I’ll pat myself on the back of reading Borderline Fiction and provide my thoughts and review, coming next week!

6. Make a soup, grill a sandwich

My favourite thing to make in the winter when my throat is all cold and dry and I’m trying to fight the lingering tonsilitis that refuses to go away, is a tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich.

Now I find this one easy as the steps are quite simple and beginner friendly:

1. Grab a whole load of fresh tomatoes and onions, cut them in half, place them on a baking tray alongside a whole head of garlic (or two if you’re garlic-obsessed like me) and some olive oil,

2. Leave in the oven for like 30-45 minutes (please check though). If you’re lazy like me or simply forget to preheat your oven, I’d lean more towards the 45 minute mark, but make sure to either flip or move around the contents at the halfway mark to avoid burning.

3. Then you blend the whole thing up (squeeze the garlic cloves out please), and add it to a big pot. I usually add some chicken stock and a bit of butter. Some people add cream, that’s up to you.

4. Finally grill your cheese sandwich or grilled cheese, whatever you call it. I toast my bread very lightly, add in the cheese between two slices and then pan fry it on both sides. A grill also works here.

And now you have a tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich! Enjoy!

Another soup that an old housemate had made (and let me try) that I keep thinking about is this creamy chicken and leek soup. I still dream about it sometimes.

But anyways, if you’re home, try cooking up something a bit more time consuming and warm, and have a glass of wine alongside it and blast some music while you cook. Keep the glass as you have your dinner and watch something gripping like Stranger Things (if you’re watching it), or Physical Asia (because it’s that good)!

7. Watch the Diddy Documentary

Since we’re on the topic of watching shows, here’s another recommendation. If you’re nosy and want to understand what everyone is talking about (especially everyone Black), then watch the documentary.

It’s a quick 4-episode limited series packed with info and gives a good insight into Diddy’s early life and shares the story of some of his victims, as well as his involvement in some very well-known murders.

At the very least, it allows you to be in-the-know (good for all my peeps that have FOMO) and enjoy all the amazing memes, Tiktoks and their amazing comments section that have given me a right laugh!

Some final bits…

I wanted to add that I also just started learning how to play Sims 4, and although not better than the elite Sims 3, it’s also a fun time. As a side note, I have absolutely nothing to say about the original Sims and Sims 2 so…

Another one I wanted to add but didn’t have much more to say on the topic is literally if you have a bath, take one. It’s a good 20-40 minutes of laying in a warm liquid blanket, reflecting on life, or simply thinking to yourself that it’s either too hot or too cold. Regardless, it can be a good way of slowing things down when things are overwhelming.

This one is for when you want 0 productivity but want to be left alone for a bit (a bit like the Sims), and still feels better than being on social media: play a phone/laptop game! This can range from absolute brain rot to more big-brained ones (I do love a sudoku, icl). I want to get more into the story-led ones (like role-playing games). My personal favourites at the moment are Hole People, Number Tiles and Happy Clinic. But… I see on Tiktok tons of RPG games that I may want to get into with a bigger storyline and sometimes sadder themes like Omori, Mouthwashing, and Life Is Strange. Alternatively, pick up a Nintendo DS and play Pokemon (personally vouching for this one, a childhood favourite), Nintendogs or Mario Kart.

If you don’t already have one, and you tend to run cold, buy a heated blanket. Best choice of my life actually to brave the UK winter.

And if you’re melanated or tend to get slightly depressy in the winter, take your vitamins! I should really take my own advice here, I’m working on it!

Enjoy your antisocial day!

The Original Reflection (written end of 2024)

As a woman, a lot of the focus of our lives is around our relationships, with an almost detrimental emphasis on romantic love above all. But it is not to say that friendships do not hold an equally important role in our lives—now with discourses surrounding patriarchy and de-centering men, we’re also investigating more closely how much of our friendships center discussions around men or reflect underlying dynamics of internalized misogyny.

Your 20s is objectively a time for self-discovery—you finish university (if you decided to or were able to go), you often start your first “big girl” corporate jobs, you’re likely to experience adult romantic love, and most importantly the nature of your friendships change.

In my teens, friendship was upheld by a sense of time; you spend all your time with people and learn to like them or at the very least tolerate them. As you get into university, you have a bit more agency, but sometimes harmful behavioural patterns can repeat if not actively questioned and improved. Past university, you make conscious choices of who will come along with you in this next step of life, often reliant on purposeful meetings rather than happenstances of casually running into each other.

In a recent book club I went to, The Casual Readers Club, we discussed Acts of Desperation by Meghan Nolan, in which we follow the journey of an unnamed main character in her mid-twenties detailing the abuse and toxicity of her relationship with a man, Cieran. However, as we discussed it, I found it interesting that we reflected the ways in which friendship was displayed in the book or rather the lack of the main character’s want for friendship, which was instead pushed aside to make Cieran her focal point and purpose in life. Within our discussion, the idea of being a fully-fledged person, or having a strong sense of identity, was equated to having friends outside of a romantic relationship.

The older I get, the harder I find it to make friends with the same ease. That is not to say that I have issues meeting people, being liked or liking others, but somehow in a big and busy city like London, that shift from acquaintance to close friend is one that requires an engaged effort by both parties. Your twenties is a time where you change, grow, expand, cut down, form new habits and hobbies as well as find your purpose in life. This process can be daunting and difficult, and finding alignment with others as you’re ever-evolving can take a lot of trial and error.

Part of me reflecting on this is also about the sense of community I felt when I entered the room of this book club. It was set in the heart of Shoreditch, the room being filled with majority Black women, some of them queer, each outspoken and reflecting their own sense of self through the debate of this book. Originally, all the literary spaces I’d been in had been incredibly white, along with the stories that were popularised and shared. I thought, these are my people, this is where I feel included.

It also made me reflect on how before this next stage of life—the “post-uni”—I hadn’t actively sought out these spaces before and why not? After BLM, I knew I was more interested in hearing the voices of those who understood and represented me, and in university that environment was hard to come by (because of a small Black population and even smaller queer one), and therefore quite lonely.

As I came into my queer identity, I found myself being increasingly unsatisfied with friendships which always revolved around men and male validation, especially if there was an underlying sense of competition or measuring up against each other to impress a man (or worse, to impress all men). But I recognise that we also all wanted to feel loved and liked, we were figuring ourselves out and, much like Meghan Nolan’s main character, constantly yoyo-ing between rejecting and loving ourselves.

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The Zine Launch

A few weeks ago, after months of seeing and then missing events by The Casual Readers Club, I decided to go to their zine launch. It came at the right time: in the last year, I had often pushed myself to go to social events alone, but felt more or less motivated to do this depending on my continually shifting mood. This time round I had spent a month living at my girlfriend’s as I found myself between flats. I’d finally just moved into a new place, and as such, I was itching to do things alone and cement a new routine.

I had also wanted to feel inspired again to continue making my own magazine, which had reached an uncomfortable hiatus as I tried to find stable ground beneath me to call home. I felt pulled towards this event where I knew, after my amazing experience last year, that I’d be able to meet more likeminded people.

As I reflected on last year, I find that a lot of niche spaces, literary or otherwise, tend to lean white. Don’t get me wrong, I have no specific issue with this, but there is a different sense of relatability and shared experience that you get with BIPOC spaces which is heartwarming and revitalising.

I came unbearably early. I hadn’t timed this quite right, and turns out I had looked at the wrong time for when the event started: 7pm instead of 7:30pm. I was there at 7:15pm. Despite this, I knew this was the perfect way to step out of my comfort zone. I used the fact that I was naturally social and quite talkative and (unfortunately or fortunately?) opinionated on all things literary to spark discussions with the people in attendance—and boy, was it interesting.

I met so many people that made me think, wow, what an environment I missed! I tend to write in solitude, read in solitude, and reflect on these things internally (or slightly more outwardly if you consider places like Substack). Having a space to share these thoughts out loud, deliberate over writing methods with published authors, discuss recent queer experiences and feelings on polyamory with new people, I found myself so fed and rejuvenated with social interaction!

The following week, I went to a book launch with my friend of one of the authors I met that evening. I spoke to familiar and new faces and I realised how much I really loved and needed this Black literary space which fostered and inspired my own personal growth. I felt like a plant that had received the right kind of fertiliser for the first time.

I hadn’t grown up with other Black people around me, and when I was young I felt this tremendously. My yearning for London had come after having spent my placement year there. Coming back to Loughborough had been eye-opening, as I felt myself culturally and artistically starved, as well as isolated by the primarily white population. I had come back to London equipped with the knowledge that my peers existed here, as well as the newfound lust for self-discovery as I prioritised figuring out my queerness.

Back when I went to my first Casual Readers Club event, I had pushed myself to really try something myself, that I hoped would fulfill this need for community. I had bought tickets before, and somehow not found the time or motivation to actually go, so this attendance had been a personal milestone, and one that I had greatly enjoyed. This is what also gave me to confidence to go to this zine launch, knowing that the environment would be inherently inviting, and honestly, even if it hadn’t been, I told myself that the act of putting myself out there would be beneficial on a personal scale regardless.

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The Nature of Friendships (in the modern 2025)

As I reread back my reflection that I wrote last year, I realised that in some ways not a lot had changed about my thoughts on friendship. I still found myself, over the last year, reaching for community, attempting to create spaces that allowed it to flourish (like the craft-making event I hosted), and trying to find small ways to spend time with people (like working simultaneously or going to events together, rather than simply eating and talking).

Maybe this is just the spaces I’ve been exposed to, but I do find that free spaces that allow for this type of community building can be hard to come by. London is expensive, with transport to places automatically taking a chunk out of your budget, on top of the prices for tickets to attend events (& any unexpected costs such as drinks, snacks, food). And now that winter is settling itself in with near 0 degree weather and dark hours before 5pm, it’s felt like there is this collective reluctance to leave the house.

I also think we’re starting to care a lot more about our social presence but in different ways. It’s now less about being as curated as possible, but also not completely informal. It’s in some ways your visual portfolio of who you are (if you choose it to be), and I’m learning to have fun with being more experimental with it. But remember, followers isn’t everything—it’s cool to make new connections, it’s even better to follow up and find ways to deepen and grow these!

As someone who is easily affected by this type of darkness and lack of sun, I’ve pushed myself to go to more events, and luckily found people that equally want to build community and explore new facets of themselves through art, culture and shared experiences. As such, although I agree (making these deeper friendships does not come more easily), constantly stepping out of your comfort zone, building that inner confidence and staying curious about your own interests attracts the right people.

I also think we need to become more okay with the idea of transience. Some people will stay in your life in a specific capacity, others will drift or flow away, some will stay close for a while. Each person brings something new into your life—whether that is a virtue or a lesson—and I’m starting to be more comfortable with this part of life too.

So what’s my advice?

1. Put yourself out there more! Rejection is tough but honestly, if you don’t even try, you don’t get anything in return. I’m continually thankful for my Bumble BFF friends, we created our profiles and sometimes it clicks!.

2. If you’re in need of a chill, relaxed space to discuss books filled with majority Black women, Casual Readers Club is your space! Just make sure to sign up to their newsletter and grab those tickets quick! [They’re always gone within the hour!]

3. Keep that creativity flowing! There is nothing more interesting than trying and trying even more new things! It’s okay to not pigeon-hole yourself into expertise of one thing, try crafting, making jewelry, painting—once you know what you like it’s easier to figure out where you’d like to specialise in a bit more!

4. Beat the cold, dark winter! Get yourself up and out of house, take your vitamins [I fr need to take my own advice here], and force interactions with other people, it does get more natural over time and you never know who your new bestie (or more?) can be!

5. Find your community. This one can be harder to do, but think to yourself, what do you enjoy? Where do you feel safe? From there try to find events that promote these criteria on platforms like Eventbrite, honestly Instagram pages too, TikTok at times, and word of mouth (don’t be afraid to ask!).

6. Suggest a different hangout—invite them to join a book club event with you, or a night at yours making some jewelry or painting or making a bookmark! Try making or painting a mug, or if you’re cheap, create presentations under one theme (these are usually quite hilarious). Being creative with hangouts can feel long at first but is always more rewarding!

Thank you for reading! I’ve recently just turned on my paid subscribers on for whoever may be interested in more content like this! I’m aiming to do more advice-type posts on here as well as some fiction writing (I’ve just started getting back into it after a long hiatus, we love it!!).

But! I wanted to ask you guys what you would like to see more of (because of course, anything paid should work for you too), so feel free to comment below the types of content you’d like to see more of.

But a lot of my writing does not take place in such a spur of the moment fashion, and I’m realising this difficulty I’m having of putting out more of my writing is coming from a shift in tone in my writing (from personal essays to more cultural think-pieces) which need to be more well-thought out and researched. Essentially, I’m not just talking about myself and my feelings, so that means it takes a bit more time to write and form.

On the other hand, I’ve been more frustrated with my writing, finding that some sentences are too convoluted and could be simplified, that overall I tend to ramble, and my lack of structure is excruciating upon reread. But I also feeling something bubbling underneath as I reword sentences, change up paragraphs and cut off a sentence: I’m growing.

Although completely aware of these struggles, I still find myself somehow embracing this difficult part of creativity. On a particularly low moment when I felt uninspired and my PMS decided to come full swing, I cried to my mother on the phone about feeling slightly directionless. But then I managed to comfort myself in the moment as I came to realise that this was just part of the process of developing my craft and that this too would become simplified as I improved.

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There’s really nothing uncommon about not feeling good enough. It is most definitely a product of both capitalism and the world that we live in that instills in us from a young age that we need to be excellent to deserve things, and the older you get, the more you realise how hard and daunting that task really is.

One thing I’ve realised with this new chapter of my life is that life will always throw things your way, that much is always true, and usually in incredibly inopportune and unexpected moments. Often these are things out of my control, and whilst I still get upset, at times violently so (I’m just an emotional girl), my main goal is to not let it keep me upset for too long.

When it comes to your creativity as well, failure is maddening, and when we don’t progress at the rate that we would like, it is especially easy to give up on it altogether. Even more so if you’re also an ADHD girly that struggles with routines, keeping habits, and staying disciplined when you’re not feeling inspired.

The one thing I can say is to keep going. Even if it is bad or mid. I titled this originally referring to Substack articles — I use the word “posted” not because all your work needs or should be made public, but rather as a mantra to myself to keep up the writing. I often choose to never finish an article if I think I won’t post it (usually as it’s specifically for Substack), but that might not work for someone else, and that’s also okay.

Today I’m writing my feelings down about the creative process and next week I might finally have my article on the normalisation of racism and white supremacy in celebrity culture posted (a heavy topic, hence the time it’s taking me). Or I might have a cute post about friendships and community in your 20s.

As always, I have to remind myself that I’m now choosing to explore the activities my younger self loved, which needs to be done with the same curiosity and a MUCH less pessimistic eye. This is supposed to be fun, for fuck’s sake!