There’s something uniquely unhinged about being lied to badly. Not cleverly. Not convincingly. But in a way so sloppy, so poorly constructed, you have to stop and ask: Is this performance art? This essay is a tribute to that kind of lie. The kind that arrives wrapped in passive aggression and bad tech excuses. The kind that tries to assert dominance but ends up revealing far more than intended. And the kind that—despite the chaos it attempts to cause—ends up being the easiest thing in the world to dismantle.

When James Acaster released Perfect Sound Whatever, I did what any emotionally unstable woman with a deep reverence for sad lyrics and cardigan-based catharsis would do: I read it immediately and pretended it was a TED Talk directed exclusively at me. I agreed with nearly all of it. I nodded so hard I gave myself a tension headache. I even forgave him for being a man. But something didn’t sit right. And I’ve finally figured out what it was: he’s wrong. Just… fundamentally, adorably, Britishly wrong. Because while 2016 may have been a banner year for musical innovation and emotional meltdowns, it was missing one key component—August and Everything After by Counting Crows, the most flawless album ever created by humans or gods. And since that album came out in 1993, I’m afraid the math is mathing, and James is incorrect. Which brings us to this essay: a meticulously researched, uninvited rebuttal published six years after the book came out—so not late at all, just fashionably accurate.

This is a completely unnecessary response to a tiny, harmless quip made by Scottish comedian Daniel Sloss in a video he will never see. He simply joked—joked!—that some people start their day by heating up milk. And because I am both a woman in her forties and completely unwell in the best possible way, I immediately took it personally. Not in a real way. In a “laughing out loud while simultaneously spiralling into a feminist calcium spiral” kind of way. Because while Daniel will age like a fine Scotch in a temperature-controlled cabinet, I am bracing for the moment my skeleton quietly crumbles during a routine pharmacy visit while a doctor pats my hand and says, “Take your supplement, sweetie.” So here it is: a deeply uncalled-for defence of lattes, warm milk, and the brittle dignity of womanhood.

After months of preparation, weeks of nerves, and days spent wondering if anyone would show up, the festival has come and gone—and I’m still trying to find the words to describe what it meant to me. This was my very first appearance as an author. My first time behind the table instead of in front of it. My first time putting myself out there in such a vulnerable, visible way. And what happened was more beautiful, more affirming, and more overwhelming than I ever could have imagined. Here’s what I want to remember—what I want to share—about that extraordinary day.

This is the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written—not because it reveals some deep secret, but because it’s coming from right here, right now, in the days before my very first appearance as an author. I’ll be attending a festival, meeting readers, selling my books, and stepping fully into a dream I’ve held for as long as I can remember. It’s exciting. It’s overwhelming. It’s beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. And before I stand behind that table with a stack of books and a pen in hand, I need to say this out loud—to give voice to the fear, the hope, and the astonishing truth that I’m doing it anyway.

We talk so often about love, about compassion, about being there for one another—but when it comes to the everyday moments that ask for presence instead of poetry, for small kindnesses instead of grand declarations, we falter. This essay is an exploration of that quiet, painful truth: how often we fail the people we love, not because we’re cruel or incapable, but because we underestimate just how easy it is not to. Not to abandon. Not to look away. Not to choose silence. These are the failures that leave the deepest marks, and they are almost always preventable. This piece is for anyone who has been left—and for anyone who wants to choose better.

There’s something to be said for the path no one chooses willingly—the long, unforgiving road that asks everything of you and offers nothing upfront. I’ve lived most of my life there, navigating heartache, grief, and the relentless ache of becoming. This essay is a reflection on that path. On the grit it takes to keep going when the world makes quitting look so easy. On the quiet, bruised power of choosing the hard way—not because it’s noble or brave, but because it’s the only way that ever felt real. If you’ve ever found yourself knee-deep in the wreckage wondering if it’s worth it, this one’s for you.

Some love stories never leave us. They shift, they soften, they echo—but they remain. The Afterlife of Art: How Storytelling Keeps Love Alive is a deeply personal meditation on the way fiction holds what time can’t, how writing becomes an act of preservation, and why some feelings deserve to live forever. In this essay, I explore the quiet magic of turning memory into narrative—not as an escape, but as a devotion. Because in the act of storytelling, we resurrect what mattered, rewrite what broke us, and keep loving the people, the moments, and the feelings we weren’t ready to lose.

In a world that so often demands our sharpness and rewards our rage, this essay is a love letter to the quiet power of choosing softness anyway. The Softness In Surviving: A Feminist Argument For Tenderness explores the radical, resilient, and revolutionary nature of gentleness in a culture that mistakes cruelty for control. Rooted in feminist thought, lived experience, and intergenerational wisdom, this piece argues that tenderness is not the absence of resistance—it is resistance made intimate. It is strength shaped into compassion, survival carried in open hands. This is an invitation to reimagine what it means to endure, to lead, and to love. Not despite our softness—but because of it.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the strange psychology of social media—especially the impulse some people have to offer uninvited opinions about things that clearly weren’t meant for them. As a writer, I’ve learned to expect that not everyone will connect with my work. But what I still find puzzling is the need to publicly announce that disconnect, often in spaces built around love, healing, or community. This essay is my attempt to unpack both the personal and psychological layers of that behaviour. It’s about why I write what I write, who I write for, and why it’s okay—necessary, even—for not everything to be for everyone.