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To Be Still

  To Be Still Being still has never come naturally to me, but I realised something out on the paddleboard the other day. I was kneeling near the edge of the lake, letting the board drift on the soft pull of the water, listening for birds, watching the surface shift. The water gave me just enough movement to keep my body calm — not dizzy, not unsettled, just gently carried. And in that strange mix of stillness‑while‑moving, I saw a kingfisher. A flash of vivid blue and orange. I circled back as quickly as I could and saw it again before it disappeared into a tree, impossible to spot no matter how hard I tried. The warmth of the sun, the wildlife noise, the slow drift of the board — for a moment I could have fallen asleep. My balance even slipped because I was so relaxed, which never happens on land. Water has always been my happy place. It was my childhood freedom, probably too much freedom, but it taught me how to swim, how to listen, how to feel safe near something that’s always m...
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No more grab and go.

No more grab and go. Before I choose what to wear, I move through the invisible layers that shape every decision I make. Menopause and neurodivergence sit in the room with me — dyslexia, APD, AuDHD — all the wiring I only understood once perimenopause kicked the door in and forced me to look at how my brain actually works. My mind isn’t foggy; it’s either sharp as glass or suddenly misfiring, like an engine that turns over but refuses to start. Childhood trauma built some of the circuitry, menopause rewired the rest, and I’m still cycling hormonally even without a period for years. The hot flushes, the surges, the moments where my brain stalls — they’re all part of the morning before I even reach for a hanger. Today’s “outfit” is yesterday’s clothes and the honesty of naming what I’m really navigating: the messy, cyclical, unfiltered reality that sits underneath every choice I make. Footnote - A brain changer  Before Perimenopause  After Menopause
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The 12 Steps (Hormonal / ND / Medusa Edition)

  Version ONE  The 12 Steps (Hormonal / ND / Medusa Edition) We admitted we were powerless over the hormonal chaos — that our lives had become unmanageable in ways only ND women understand. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves — the god of rage, the Medusa‑force — could restore us to clarity. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of that inner force, the one that rises when everyone else fails us. Made a searching and fearless inventory of our moods, our triggers, our childhood wiring, our ND masking, our hormonal storms. Admitted to ourselves, and to one trusted human, the exact nature of our overwhelm — the rage, the shutdowns, the misfires, the survival logic. Became entirely ready to let the Medusa‑force burn away the shame we were taught to carry. Humbly asked that same force — the one in our bones — to remove the parts of us that were never ours to hold. Made a list of all the people who hurt us, dismissed us, misunderstood us, or...
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“1973: A Year of Me”

  BLOG POST  — “1973: A Year of Me” Outfit of the day today is 1973. I’m wearing a vintage New York Islanders American football-style shirt — a random Vinted find, £9, and I absolutely love it. I didn’t realise I could wear it like a dress, but here we are. Could I be any happier to have a big 73 in bright orange across the front? This marks a year of doing this — a year of documenting my journey. And I love the word journey . I love everything I’ve learned about perimenopause and menopause. I love seeing all the things I didn’t know. I love seeing my yo‑yo ups and downs, my cyclical cycle even without a period. I’ve always been body-aware — I can feel a loose hair on my shoulder or a speck of dust on my foot. So when menopause hit, it hit hard. I wish someone had told me what was going to happen. I started sharing because so many of my friends had no idea what was happening to them. It floored me. So everything I found, I shared — first privately, then online. Not becaus...
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A One‑Scene Kitchen Moment

  **Short Play: Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. A One‑Scene Kitchen Moment** Scene: A kitchen. Quiet. Afternoon light. A kettle clicks on. Action: The kettle boils. A teabag drops into a mug. Tea left to seep. She walks away — art on the go, thoughts scattering. Silence. The tea cools. She returns. Lifts the mug. Winces. Cold. Microwave door opens. Warm. Walk away again. She returns. Forgets she made the first tea. Starts a new one. Kettle. Boil. Teabag. Seep. She comes back to warm the second tea — and only then remembers the first. End Scene: Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. The ritual of warm intentions and cold cups. Footnote: My mind is always already on the next thing, so the last thing slips away.
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Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat.

Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. Art is on the go — you forget your tea. Kettle boils. Teabag in. Left to seep. I make a cup of tea, then wander off — of course I do. Art starts, thoughts scatter, tea seeps, the mug cools, the moment’s gone. Warm tea: a cuppa of progress. Five‑minute pause, leave after four. Back to the microwave, warm it, walk away again. Make another tea, forget that one too. How many times is safe? Heat, repeat, heat, repeat — trying not to lose the plot or the teabag. Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. The ritual of warm intentions and cold cups.
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