I don’t have the answers to life, its meaning and the universe, but one thing I do believe in is Karma. I believe in Karma and I believe in justice.

Justice has got me in trouble in the past. I feel a deep routed need for justice. I am and have always been willing to take responsibility for my own actions, even when I am wrong. ESPECIALLY when I am wrong. I am, within my power, as fair as I can be. So, when people are not fair in their actions towards me or I am blamed for something that I did not do, or called something I am not,  my inner sense of justice is triggered. I feel a rise from my toes to my ankles, up to my knees, through my thighs, deep in my belly, punctuating my heartbeats, rising through my chest, up my neck, prickling my tongue and burning my mouth. “JUSTICE!”  I used to proclaim it. I used to scream it. I’d tell you it wasn’t fair. I’d stamp my feet. I’d inhale too much air. I would huff and I would puff, but somehow your house would stay firmly in place. You see, justice is tricky. Justice is louder than I could ever scream yet quieter than I could ever muster. I have found that protesting my innocence doesn’t equate to proving it.  I’ve found calling you out doesn’t change your behaviour. Sometimes with justice, you just have to wait.

My problem, traditionally anyway, is that I have always been loud. But I’m learning to shut my mouth and trust justice. I’ve learned that broadcasting my innocence or correcting narrative errors can be a waste of my breath to the people that don’t want to hear it. That is the most frustrating part. If you are also awaiting justice, solidarity friend. I feel you. But trust me. Or don’t. Trust justice.

Let me give you some context, but by no means is this the full end to my experiences over the past few years. Fairly recently I heard a version of a narrative about me that I not only did not agree with, but was being freely perpetuated to people that I would rather not believe that telling of me to be true, because it wasn’t…and…you know…justice. Instead of raising my voice and stamping my feet I went straight to the source, something in my adult years I would always recommend. Fool me once for thinking this would be a way to seek my justice because it wasn’t. I then found the issue was bigger than I had realized and this person had been against me for months and had actively tried to sabotage me in a very underhand and uncomfortable way. Toes. Feet. Ankles. Knees. Thighs. Belly. Heartbeat. Throat. Tongue smashing against teeth. But I kept my lips firmly shut. I realized the network ran deeper and it was my word against theirs. Aside from the people that truly love and know you, nobody cares for the just version of the story. They want the gossip. So let them have it.

In the end actions speak so much louder than words. I have realized I don’t need to use my voice to tell people that you are wrong and I am right. This is not a campaign trail I care to be on. My energy is better spent on bettering myself and my situation.  I will let our actions do the talking.  

When Phoebe pulled my tarot cards for the year, my ruling card for the month of March was Justice. Call it a talking point, call it indicative or call it preemptive. Call it nonsense…call it venom. Call it what you want. But here, on the last day of March, I am feeling comfortable with my relationship with justice. I have kept my lips pressed and I have plugged on. There is only one horse in my race and that is me. My eyes remain on my prize and justice has been rewarding me for my hard work.

What will become of you, the game players and the speakers of non truths? We will see. I hope you feel comfortable with your relationship with justice. The universe is powerful, and justice always prevails.  To quote Beyoncé, if I may: “Always stay gracious, best revenge is your paper.”  Mm…hmm.


The Moon Part II & You

78AD9F36-ECCD-429B-B531-643460F09015The Moon Part II. And You.

There was a Full Moon in the middle of this week and it felt good. My favourite way to see the moon is the first few moments of dusk, when the sun is setting and the moon is rising. Day and night held together in one sentence. 

On Tuesday night we walked out of a pub hand in hand. It was the first day of Spring  and you bought me flowers. I looked up and saw the Full Moon shining pale but determined over the  city, which was glittering back the reflected orange light of the sunset. You know I love the moon. A few months back you bought me a necklace that reminded you of the moon and tonight you bought me yellow tulips because they reminded you of me. And as the first days of Spring begin, after a year of icy cold winter, I feel myself warming up to you. 

December 31st 2017. New Year’s Eve. The night before the Full Moon. It was frigid. It was so cold that I didn’t want to go out and face the night,  but it was New Year and you were going to be there. I hadn’t seen you since I got back from my ill-fated trip to California. What it was about you, I didn’t really know yet but when I hugged you that night it became clearer. At parties I’ve always known where you are in a room. It had always been that way, I just didn’t think too much about what it meant  but that night, in the muddle of the New Year crowd, I could feel you out with my eyes closed. Will was there too. We were hanging on by a thread and your edges were sharp. 

I’m not a shining example of how to act. Not for that last month anyway. I curl into a ball and grind my teeth at night when I think about some of the ways I handled things then. When the midnight moment came I spent it with Ruth, who above all is my greatest love in all rooms, but also I felt so deeply that I couldn’t kiss my broken down boyfriend in front of you. I didn’t want you to witness a moment that wasn’t real. That, and I’ve always had my own New Year superstitions. I’d rather not be by the side of someone I know deep down wont be around for much longer and  on that night, I knew that was Will. 

You eyes met mine at midnight. Green on dark green. Muddy waters. We were in trouble. 

Later you and I took a Polaroid picture. Smiles and a ridiculous party horn. You still carry the picture in your wallet. You kept it better than you kept me last year. It still looks the same as the night the image appeared from the camera, but I certainly don’t.

The next New Year you were in the room too and again I knew exactly where, but I spent the night avoiding your eyes for fear of how deeply they might cut me. Muddy water is better than bloody water and I had had enough. 

But that night, that day, the first few hours of 2018, the three of us shared an Uber home. We all sat together in the back, me in the middle, my broken down boyfriend on one side and you on the other. Our knees touched and neither of us moved them away. What was I doing? What was was this sad sitcom. When I got out of the car, the moon was shining cold, clear and judgemental. Ever the voyeur to my drama. 

January 1st 2018. The first Full Moon. The last Full Moon.

A week later, The Moon was waning, slipping just like me. It was my 29th birthday and I had a space themed party. You came dressed as a Moon Man. Of course you did.  Whatever that is. At that point I had to admit it to myself and to Will. Within a week it was over for good. He left for England on a moonless night and I cried in our dark house for days, knowing that MY days were numbered. I started gathering boxes. 

The Moon shon bright the night we kissed but shouldn’t have. We couldn’t stop it. It hadn’t quite finished setting the next morning when I took a brisk walk by the lake. Little pale moon in a cold blue sky. It has always been there watching and judging and pulling and pushing. It offers no advice, but reflects back what I already know to be true.

A week later and Will and I did a grand switcheroo in England. I arrived as he left. We met at Liverpool Street Station and cried over a Whetherpoons burger and chips. It had come to this. Salty salads and real ale. We only had an hour until he had to go. Toronto to London. London to Toronto.  The cities so involved in the making and breaking. It was only right they were both involved at the very end. 

There were no Full Moons to greet me in my motherland. A process of waning and waxing for three weeks, just like I needed. When I got back though… well, you already know I moved into my new home under the light of a Full Moon. Somehow it’s always there. Through the big decisions and the landmark moments reminding me there is always something bigger than me. 

I remember each of the moons in 2018. The second March moon, the second Blue Moon of the year, was a little light of encouragement after one of the most difficult yet liberating months of my life. I looked to April’s Pink Moon for help on an outdoor step in Orlando, Florida. A hot tight throat and a gin and tonic in my hand. Cheers to you, Moon, your constant ebb and flow reassured me.

I smoked a cigarette on the curb outside my house under May’s Flower Moon. I hated you then, but by June I was drinking beer on your porch and thinking this was it. You came and went like a lunar cycle last year. I expected it of The Moon but each time it came from you I was surprised.  I didn’t think I would be able to forgive you. 

Phoebe, Caroline and I formed a bond over our love of The Moon. They could feel it too and we’d toast to it and smile. Last night I bought them both a moon stone. A little reminder of our connection and a reminder that there is something else bigger than us out there.  One cold winter night Phoebe bought me a deck of tarot cards. A surprise as we sat at a bar drinking cocktails. They have to come to you, so they say. I firmly believe that you should believe what you want, so if I’ve lost you here then that’s cool, but know one of the cards I pull most often is The Moon. It seems as drawn to me as I am it. 

I stood defiant in New York City in a yellow coat and black boots two nights before December’s Cold Moon. By this point I was alone but determined, determined that the last moon of the year would be the last that presided over this mess. I was going to sort my shit out. There was no reason not to. The cusp of 2019. The cusp of 30. The entire universe beyond our little satellite was telling me to step up, it was screaming it at me, and so I did. 

The Moon shon wild and bright the night I arrived back in England for the second time that year. This time after an unplanned journey through Budapest. What a 24 hours they had been. What a 365 days these has been. We had almost done a full rotation and the circle I had been drawing around my broken heart was almost complete too. I was almost healed. It turns out I had to be rid of the both of you to figure out who I was at the centre of it all. I was beginning to really like me.

You came back and I didn’t want to let you. I held up my hand and said “no”.  I had learned my lesson. No more waxing and waning. No more knees touching in cabs. Just me. At  my brightest. I didn’t want to forgive you, but one night I took a walk through a snowy park and The Moon was so sneaky looking, like a caricature. A perfect slice. You sent me a message to tell me to look up, so I did and I realized for the first time you were looking up too. Perhaps you also needed to draw your own circle.

So Tuesday night. You and I. Hand in hand. The Moon. Spring winds. A change of tides. Tulips. A new beginning.  I think I’m ready now. The next full moon comes on Good Friday. Over to you. 

I Am A Badass, And Please Don’t Forget It

Hey. So you’ve been reading these for a while and I think at this point I ought to make something clear. This isn’t a story about how sad I am. This isn’t even a story about how lost I am, or was. It is true that throughout these tales I have been both lost and sad. Truly, truly sad and at times very lost. But do not think for one second I have ever given up hope or thought that any of it was too much for me to bear, because it hasn’t been. This is a story about survival. This is a story about success. This is a story about living my best life despite the shit raining down on me from the ceiling fan.
The thing about me that I want you to know, the thing about me that I need you to know is that deep down at my very core, I am a badass. I am a true badass. I am a badass for the ages. Strength of character is all I’ve ever had. All we have had. And it turns out that that is all we have ever needed.

I come from a line of badasses. We’re a dynasty. It’s in our blood. It comes from my mums side. You see, she is a badass too. So is my sister. She is probably the most badass of them all. My mum got dealt a shitty hand. She, for all intent and purpose, lost her husband before her 40th birthday. Except he didn’t die, he was brutally injured and not only did she have to deal with that, she also has to raise two young children on her own. And raise us she did. Expertly. My sister is 32, she has two amazing young children and is a senior manager in a very good company. She isn’t afraid to ask for what she is worth. And if she doesn’t get it, she isn’t afraid to ask again.  She travels the world when her job requires and she is still there to pick her son and daughter up from nursery and read them books before they go to bed. She fights for women’s rights in the workplace and she has come out to Canada to drink cocktails and eat brunch with me because she wants to. Because she can. There is nothing in the world that could stop Julia. Trust me.
And me? Oh, I’m formidable too. Don’t get me wrong, I like smiling and being kind, I like making cards for my friends and baking cakes for birthdays and being the person that always buys the balloons. I like being calm and I like long walks. I cry at Rom Coms and bite my lip when I stub my toe…sometimes I cry because everything gets a bit too much…but make no mistake. Beneath my soft and sometimes anxious and awkward exterior roars the soul of a lion that is absolutely done with your shit. In one move, I’ll be ready to rally. I always have been and I always will be.
I survived a car accident, I was teased for the way I looked and acted at school, my childhood was a bit of a mess but I got through it. I studied and I got the grades. I went to university. I got a First Class Honours degree. I managed to find a job that served me in London, it was hard but I made it work. I saved my money, I moved across an ocean, I settled in a new city. Again, it was hard, but I made it work. I found two jobs, I made ends meet, I pushed and I pushed. I wrote for free, I took what I could. I built up what I had. It was hard. But I made it work. When the time came, I asked for more because I felt like I earned at and deserved it. I didn’t always get it, but that didn’t stop me trying again and finding ways to get it for myself. I broke up with my boyfriend, who moved here with me. I was afraid. I had to move out. I found my own home. I now live alone and I actually like it. It was hard. But. I. Made. It. Work.
I’ve never known what it is like to be rich. Perhaps I never will. But I know what it is like to make my own fortune and my own abundance. I work for my paycheques and when I am done with my 9-5, I work some more. Everything I have in my home and in my life I have worked for. It isn’t much, but it’s everything I need and that feels really nice.
What did I take from everyone else? The only thing I would ever accept. Love. They say it takes a village and I think they are right. Being a badass is easy when somebody loves you. I don’t think being a badass means going it alone. I think it means moving forward knowing it isn’t just you holding the sword. The more people that love you and you love back means the more people ready then join you in battle when times get hard. I think having an open heart is very brave indeed, although it has never been a choice for me, instead, a reflex I can’t control.
England, Germany, France, Canada… we little warriors have spread far. It makes me happy in some ways to know I have people in so many places. I think of them sometimes, half way across the world fighting their own fights, but never alone. We’re a network of badasses. My friends are fierce. And although we know there are some fights we have to mainly get through solo, we’re there for each other. I’m on the other side of the phone. Just give me a call and I’ll pack my bloody shield. Lol. I have no idea at what point this blogpost turned into medieval warfare but…I don’t know, I think I’m here for it. I’m here for them.
I am a badass.
For now, remember.  You won’t crush me. You will spur me on.  My spirit is strong. I will work with you but never for you. You do not own me and you never will. I am agreeable but not subservient. I might cry but that doesn’t mean I am weak. On the contrary.  I know there are good times and there are bad. I know the battle is never really over  but I do know I will always be okay, even if that okay doesn’t look the way I imagined it to. Why? Because I am me. And me has got this. I am badass. And please don’t forget it.

Those Who Go / Those Who Stay

Those who go

I walked the halls of the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan alone. I was alone for the whole trip. By choice but also very much in practice. I was jogged from my thoughts as I saw them. I had no idea they were here. Three paintings that had struck a chord with me nine years ago. I remember the day I first laid eyes on them in a book in a lecture at the aggressively trendy art school I attended in South East London. Goldsmiths. That is a whole different chapter, filled with the iron clasp of skinny jeans, activism and men with haircuts reminiscent of birds of paradise. I’ll save those stories for another day. 

States of Mind: The Farewells, Those Who Go and Those Who Stay. Umberto Boccioni. An Italian Futurist who died after falling off a horse in 1916 age 33. He painted a series of three images in 1911, which were eerily preemptive of the mass divide that was about to strike Europe in 1914; the onset of World War I. While the first painting in the series is moving, it is the final two that have always rung around the passages of my brain. Those Who Go. Those Who Stay. Two sides of a coin. Both defined by one another, but can never exist as one.  

At 19 I felt a strong connection to these two pieces, despite only having had the smallest taste of “going”. I was only 60 miles away from home back then. An hour on a train. It pales in comparison to the 3,537 miles I live with today.  Yet I think that part of me knew, even then, that I would one day be away. Of the two camps, “Those Who Go” and “Those Who Stay”, I knew and have always known that I am going. That is the thing about me. I’m always going. I can’t stop. I can’t sit still. The going in me led me, after learning about futurism and modern art for the first time, to board a train to Paris to see it all for myself. The Pompidou. It was quite the adventure. 

I have never been one to miss out on an adventure. Never. Its not like I’ve ever had any money but I’ll always make it work. I HAVE to go. I have to see. I cant miss out.  

Yet…there has always been something that has drawn me to “Those Who Stay”. I cant say that I know too well what it’s like to stay, but I know that the scene depicted  by Boccinio was the real price of my departure ticket. The thing about going is that it also means leaving. I’ve never been under any impression that life stands still without me there. The place and the people I have left behind continue on their path. It’s just…in all my going I can still feel them. And sadness, and regret, and love and loss that I can’t be with them and be somewhere new at the same time. And I know that they feel me too. They feel me somewhere unplaceable deep inside as they continue their lives knowing that it is their choice to be where they are and that it was my choice to leave them there. As I, alone, came face to face with Umberto Boccioni’s paintings at the Museum of Modern Art I also came face to face with my own deepest conflict and sadness.  

Those Who Go. Those Who Stay. 

I was going again to see the people who stayed. I had a plane ticket back to England for Christmas. Being of the “Go” camp, I hadn’t had a December in the UK for four years. Whatever the season, I’m always filled with the Go/Stay conflict when I fly back to the UK. Those who go will know what I mean when I say this…returning home is utterly bizarre. Flying over England, seeing it from the sky makes me feel something very deeply. Something like placing Boccioni’s paintings on top of one another in a few suspended moments of reality where “Those Who Go” and “Those Who Stay” can live together side by side again.  Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Return. Stay. Return. Go. This is never more poignant than at the airport. It doesn’t matter whether you are one who goes or one who stays at this point, because we’re both sad. We are both defined by the other.

That’s the entropy of life though, isn’t it?  We can’t all go and we can’t all stay, if not nothing would ever change. And change is the very crux of all life and everything, if you really think about it. 

Ha. Spoken like a true goer. 

My sister sent me a parcel. A gift passed along from one who stayed to one who left. It was a beautiful book. Not so ironically it was “Oh, The Places You Will Go” by Dr Seuss. She reads it to my niece and nephew and I read it to myself and for one moment it doesn’t matter who stays and who goes because we are all sharing something and I like that. 

I think about the whole cycle some more. Staying and going. Despite being one that goes, a lot of things have stayed for me. My family are still there, and I am still here and we know we will be in the same space again … at some point. Love transcends geography. It doesn’t have a coordinate. If we all knew where to look for it, then it wouldn’t be so hard to find.

My best friend stayed by going…or coming…here, but in doing so started her own cycle of going and staying. In many ways I have stayed the same person. The reason I have always been a person that goes is because it has felt right not to stay. I stay as long as staying feels good and then I go when going calls me. And it does so, often. 

I think I’ll know when I get there. I hope so anyway. Or am I destined to never settle? 

On Tuesday you are going and on Tuesday I am staying. This is the right thing for you, but fuck does it feel weird to be one that stays.  For once. 

For now, I await the call with bated breath. Again.




It has  been one year.  One year since the day that started in England and ended in Toronto, Canada. One year since I woke up in a hotel room in a gigantic shared bed with my sister and fell asleep alone on a mattress in the middle of an empty room in a place I didn’t know. It was the only furniture I had.

I found the apartment a little under a month before. Will and I had broken up and he had left the country for a few weeks leaving me to get myself out. Pack it all up and leave. We had lived together for almost four years, and over two in the basement under a Starbucks on a busy Toronto street. Our first home together was over 3,000 miles away. A studio apartment in an only slightly dodgy area of London. It had a wall that separated a bedroom the size of a Queen mattress from a kitchen and living room with no space for an oven or a table. The London real estate dream. 

Our Toronto apartment, albeit dark, was much bigger. I loved it because it was where we had made our home, but I missed the light. This time I wanted light. I was a seedling ready to grow and I needed it. 

I was making one of the scariest decisions of my life, ending a six year relationship at the age of 29 and going it alone, so it seemed important to me to live alone too. I was sad. I was worse than sad. I couldn’t deal with having to fake a smile over my cornflakes in a shared apartment with people I didn’t know, knowing full well they had heard me screeching and crying into my pillow the night before. “Yep, I’m great thanks Jenny, how are you? Amazing. Have a good day at work! Ha, yeah, see you later !” End scene. 

The small talk. The sterility. No. I had to get through this alone. 

You had gone and I had planned to take up your spot in England when you got back. A cross over. Five and a bit weeks without seeing each other. Time. Space. But I knew I had little time to find my own space so I spent a cold Saturday traversing the West End of the city looking for a place to call my own. With a heavy heart and a painfully light bank balance, I was prepared to settle. But then I found my new home.  

It was still a basement, but it’s only half sunken and the bedroom has a huge window looking out into street. Light. I’ve spent Saturdays and Sundays laying in bed reading in the light and thanking my lucky stars to be alive and in the sunshine. There is also a little living room for entertaining around the corner from a small kitchen and a dining space as well as a little bathroom with a bath and shower. Perfect for just me, and just me was going to be perfect, wasn’t it? I’ve always had hope. 

It was more than I could afford, it still is, but the sacrifice for my own space seemed worth it. I’m lucky that I review restaurants as one of my many invaluable side hustles so I assumed I would just about still be able to eat and live and laugh, even though at that point in February 2018 laughter seemed as distant to me as Jupiter. 

So I got it. I had a move in date. A move in date that coincided with my return date to Toronto. What now?  Momentum has always been something I am excellent at summoning up but I find the bit afterwards, after the propulsion, after the flinging, after the landing…the bit when it’s over and you have to sit still…that bit…that is the bit I find difficult. My mum always says I can’t sit still. She is right. 

I had been in England escaping my problems and crying into different pillows for over three weeks and it was time to come home, time to move out and time to move in. And time to move on. All in one day. 

My last night in London was a grand affair. We had been celebrating my mum’s 60th Birthday with a trip to the capital. We had been on a pilgrimage up The Shard. We drank a glass of champagne in a white out as snow fell over the skyline. 3000 miles for more snow. When the clouds finally shifted the view was breathtaking. It’s a hard feeling to describe.  Looking over your old city, a place you lived for 8 years but is now mythical to you except in the one or two days a year you see it in the flesh… It’s a feeling that to me moves from the legs, to the gut, to the fingers. Make of that what you will. 

We had had a three course dinner and had been to see the Lion King on stage.  When it was over, Julia and I climbed into our shared hotel bed like we were kids again and giggled until we fell asleep. But the next morning came and I had to go. Fuck. Please not yet. 

We had breakfast at a Wetherspoons in Gatwick airport and mum tried not to seem too concerned that my day was going to involve a 8hour flight, a final goodbye with my ex boyfriend and a night alone in a new house. Her performance was unconvincing. “Do you have to do this all in one day, Bex? Couldn’t you stay with Ruth tonight.” I could but I wouldn’t. Momentum, remember. I was full speed out the final chapter and into my new book that I hadn’t thought too much about what that new first page would feel like. 

God I hate the security gate. The point of no return. I had never cried in front of them when leaving before. I’d always saved it for a private moment in the toilets but on this day I wept. Despite all my best momentum I knew deep down I didn’t want to go. My family, the people I love stood here in front of me in England, in safety and security, and my life lay in tatters in Canada. Why would I want to go back? But I had to and my time was up and I wiped my eyes and I got through it. Just. I was that girl crying shoeless at the security conveyer belt. “MISS, coat OFF please.” 

Okay, just give me a break. 

I was still crying when I had my shoes back on and my bag rezipped. Ugly crying, no less. This had to stop. I checked the last of my UK bank balance. £18.50. That would do. I found the champagne bar. The one only 50 year old business men drink at, the one with oysters on the counter and drinks placed on napkins. With all the grace I could muster, I sat down on a high stool. I was the only woman in sight. I ordered a £14 glass of pink Möet. Cheers to me. Cheers to this shit show. Cheers to the end and the beginning all in one day. Cheers to facing up to the chaos. Cheers to 3000 miles and no sleep and no legroom and big cases and…..after a while I had run out of things to cheers so just watched the bubbles rise and fall to try and distract myself from the pit growing in my chest. My flight was boarding so I downed the last gulp. Cheers to time being up. Cheers to the moment being now. Cheers to movement. Cheers to momentum. 

It’s weird, the only thing I remember about the flight was the take off and the landing. The middle is a jumble of phone notes and action plans. The beginning and the end were calm, though. The aerial views of my two different homes. One ebbing away for yet another day, and the other coming into view and settling back into reality. Toronto feels like my home now. As the plane landed with barely a bump, I knew I had to get back to it. 

Bus, subway, bus. One day I’ll be rich I’m sure but for now, inconvenient travel is the only way I do it. The stretch between my house, my old house, and the bus stop was eternal and tragic. I didn’t even need to put my keys into the lock, you heard me coming and opened the door. I’ll never forget the smell of that home, or of you in it. We’d seen each other for one hour at London Liverpool Street Station in our cross over and here you were opening the door to our home for me for the last time, biting your lip the way you do. 

Things had changed inside. All of the things I had packed three weeks before were now neatly stacked in a corner. You had bought a new sofa and some houseplants and a rug. You offered me a cup of tea. We drank together in tears. 

You left because you said you couldn’t watch. I couldn’t either. Ruth came and together we took my cases to my empty new home. It was late. It had been a long day. She helped me unbox my new mattress and made my bed up for me. A mattress and a lamp. That was all I had that first night. 

There is so much to be said about the next day, the next week, the next few months and I am sure I’ll get to saying it. Not least because the next day was when I had to see you, the other you, again. Our relationship was something else. A storm waiting to rage I guess? 

My friends helped me unpack and build my new furniture. We ate pizza on plates made of Ikea instructions. When I had a table I started to invite people round. At Easter I held a lunch for 16 people and as the months went on this house has seen so much laughter and joy and love. I may be the sole resident but my visitors have been constant and welcome. We’ve sat outside in the sun, we’ve watched movies on my bed, we’ve drank cocktails in my lounge. I’ve had parties, I’ve spilled drinks, I’ve broken plates. I’ve lived. Here. 

Sometimes I get home after a few drinks and I feel the warmth of my house as I open the door. Like actually coming from the walls. I know that it may sound absolutely insane but I actually think that my house LOVES me as much as I love it. I feel happy and safe here, when on that first night I wasn’t sure if those were things I would feel again. 

Yes, I’ve had sad times too. I’ve cried in just about every spot there is to cry in. I’ve cried in my shower the most. On New Years Day I cried on the floor of the kitchen while holding a mop in one hand and my face in the other. It isn’t always easy. But it always gets better. And living here has seen me be better and do better. 

Tonight I am holding a dinner party for those who have been on the front line for me this year. The people who have helped me build my furniture, scrabbled together miss-matching chairs so we can all eat together at my table, the people who have all involuntarily shouted “oooh” as we popped another bottle of Prosecco. I want to thank them and these four walls for being here. Thank you friends, and thank you house. Happy one year anniversary!