The heartbreak - and strain - of becoming our parents carers. It’s something that isn’t talked about a lot, but what is the right way to look after age family members? Can there even be a right way?
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I regret getting our dog. *Immediately checks for angry mob with torches and pitchforks*
It’s a truth that feels almost illegal to say out loud, but it is true nonetheless. One that’s probably shared by lots of people, but who also haven’t voiced it because of the accompanying guilt and shame (or fear of the righteous-dog-loving-angry-mob with torches and pitchforks).
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I asked a group of individuals, all varying in age, gender and location, what is your relationship like with reading? Have you got a good relationship with books, or do you find yourself reaching for your phone more often than not?
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If you told me four years ago that me and the chap I was dating would one day go our separate ways, I would have called you all sorts of parental- guidance-required-profanities and wouldn’t have liked you very much.
Yet here I am sitting on the floor of an (albeit rather beautiful) unlived-in rental property, at 35, childless, ringless, partnerless, my whole world upside down and inside out and my very nervous nervous system buzzing a different kind of buzz to when we shared our first kiss underneath a bus shelter 365 days X 4 ago.
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It was only when I moved to a big new city at the age of thirty that I began to think consciously about friendship. I remember my first Friday night in my rental flat, sitting on my bed doing endless sudokus for want of evening plans, the city beyond my window alive with the rev of motorbikes and distant sirens. ‘Okay’ I remember thinking. ‘I suppose I ought to go out and… find some… friends?’ The notion was weird. It was as though I’d just learned my hair would no longer grow unless I grimaced and strained.
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For my sins, and my father’s, I’m a Swindon Town fan. Once a proud railway town, Swindon is now better known as the place where hope dies when you’re forced to change trains on the way from Temple Meads to London. A few years ago, I went to watch my team. I walked into the Town End with a group of Premier League‑inclined university friends. Twenty minutes into kick-off, a chant began: “Oh Tommy Tommy Robinson”. I was mortified. It wasn’t just ugly; it was a glimpse into something bigger. I left the ground with one question lodged in my head: why is football such a hotbed for fascists?
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Getting behind the wheel for me is akin to telling my body I am about to fight a bear. The physical reaction my body has is so encompassing - my head heats up, I can’t breathe as easily, I can feel my whole system going into melt-down. I like to think of myself as a (mostly) intelligent person, but in the car I just can’t get a grip of my mind. Something as simple as remembering which side of the road to drive on becomes a genuine feat for me. And what makes all of this worse is that driving isn’t just seen as a skill - it’s a badge of adulthood. It shapes how people see you, and lacking said badge has started to feel like a very heavy mistake.
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Dressed in wide-leg trousers, holding an oat flat white between painted fingernails, and reading a copy of The Bell Jar, it is: The Performative Male. You might have heard of this new label for men and seen various caricatures of it in competition with one another at a performative male contest in-person or on TikTok. The contests themselves have gained virality more than the male himself, but who exactly is the Performative Male?
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Samhain, pronounced ‘SOW-in’ (as in ‘sow’ like a female pig and ‘in’ as in “I hope you are interested in learning about Samhain”), is a festival that was predominantly celebrated by the Iron Age Celtic people living in Ireland. The festival often crops up around this time of year, featuring in articles claiming it as the Celtic progenitor of Halloween or in films wishing to cash in on an extra layer of folkloric spookiness. However, the often-popularised claim that this festival is the origin of Halloween is, at the very least, an oversimplification of history. So, if that’s the case, then what is Samhain? And where did Halloween come from?
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Before I describe my own experience, I want to pause on a word that often enters conversations about abuse: narcissist. It’s a term that has become almost casual in popular culture, tossed around to describe anyone who seems vain or self-absorbed. In the context of an abusive relationship, the word is much heavier. It names a pattern of manipulation, control, and emotional erosion that can leave deep, lingering scars. When I say my ex is a narcissist, it’s not a throwaway insult—it’s an attempt to give language to the experience of being diminished and controlled over time.
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You will die. A lot. My first time fighting Hornet was a real struggle. She’s fast, agile, and shows no mercy. I remember spending weeks fighting her over and over again only to fail. When I finally beat her, I felt this incredible sense of achievement. The failure I experienced just propelled me to keep going, so much so it became addictive.
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Aside from accounts directly promoting disordered eating, TikTok has seen a surge of ED ‘recovery’ accounts, with creators sharing their lives and, therefore, illness, online. The vast majority of these accounts claim to be there to display their journey to recovery, hold themselves accountable and to ‘inspire’ and ‘help’ others.
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The challenging-for-most Channel 4 documentary; ‘1000 Men and Me: The Bonnie Blue Story’, has brought up many thoughts around hustle culture within the sex industry, and the potential harm she may be causing to young people. If there was ever a warning for your browser history, I think watching this documentary might just be it.
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My therapist shared that she’d recently trained in it and had it herself. Swore by it. So I did what most people do when presented with something to ease suffering. Sign. Me. Up.
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So, why do I do this? Why do I take the trouble of travelling globally with two young children when I could have easily gone to the local park or tried my luck at a staycation?
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By now, you probably know what ‘The Ick’ is, and you have probably had plenty of experience with it in your own dating life. It has likely derailed a first date or ruined several months of getting to know someone new. But does The Ick ever occur in a healthy and committed relationship, or one that has been maintained through love over many years? And is it really the deathknell that social media claims it to be?
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There’s not a lot to say in terms of reporting the events. This isn’t a voyeuristic true‑crime retelling. We all saw the video. If we didn’t see the video, we saw the photograph: hands reaching to close an already gaping wound. Within hours, the footage was everywhere, framed as another sign of “unprecedented times”. But America has been here before. Many times.
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Four months after working in recruitment, I had to admit three things: I did not like my job, I was burnt out, and I really, really, really wanted to quit. My colleagues were supportive; I did not want to leave. I wanted to brave it and make the most of the opportunity in front of me. However, midway through the fifth month I had a complete mid-20s crash out and thought “no more!”.
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The beauty industry is ever evolving into something more dystopian than before, and nothing supports this more than Skims' new shapewear…for your face. It does beg the question, what on earth is going on here?
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Not so long ago, the idea of having a “personal brand” felt… well, a bit embarrassing. It sounded like something for influencers or reality stars. Something reserved for people who wanted to be famous. Not something for regular people. Not something for me, or my friends, or the woman running a graphic design business from her kitchen table. But lately, I’ve noticed a shift. All my friends have personal brands now. Whether they’re calling it that or not.
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