I used to think love was just someone caring for me, planning nice things, showing up, remembering my birthday.

But care isn’t the same as love.

Love isn’t just about doing things for each other; it’s about truly seeing each other, supporting growth, and showing up in the moments that matter.

Once I realised that, I couldn’t look at love the same way again.

The other night, over drinks, my friend looked me dead in the eye and said,

‘I still can’t believe you’re dating men.’

And honestly? Neither can I, sometimes.

She’s dating women now, happier than I’ve ever seen her.

People will always have opinions on how you should handle conflict, what you should say, how you should respond, how to make it easier for them.

But at the end of the day, the only person who has to live with those choices is you. Some people move through conflict like it’s a passing storm.

I move through it like it’s a chessboard, because I’ve had to.

Turns out, I don’t just buy clothes, I love fashion.

The planning, the experimenting, the joy of rediscovering pieces I already own.

I thought everyone did this.

They don’t.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how style isn’t just what you wear, it’s how you put things together, how you evolve, how you make something yours.

And I love that.

For kids like me, working-class, first gen…achievement wasn’t just a goal.

It was survival.

You work hard, you push, you climb. And I did. But no one ever tells you what happens after you 'make it.'

No one tells you that even when you get there

I used to think stress was just part of being an adult, something you carry, something you push through.

But I’m realising now: my nervous system has been speaking to me this whole time.

In the way my body tenses in certain spaces, in the way sleep slips away when my mind won’t quiet, in the deep exhale that only happens around the right people.

She asked me for help.

Which, in itself, was something to be proud of. So after she smashed it, I told her, ‘I’m really proud of you.’

And then I added, ‘I’m also really proud that you asked for help. Because there’s a whole community of people who want to help you.’

And the second I said it, I realised, I needed to hear that too.

I’ve spent too much time waiting.

Waiting for things to shift, for people to get it, for the work to feel meaningful again. But no one told me to wait.

No one asked me to pause my own growth while the rest of the room figured things out. That was me.

That was fear, ego, and the false hope that if I just stuck it out a little longer, everything would click.

Jo is the kind of person who has an idea and does something about it.

No hesitation, no waiting for the perfect moment, just action.

Meanwhile, I spend more time thinking about doing the thing than actually doing it. But being around her makes me braver.

Makes me want to close the gap between idea and execution.

This is me, trying to do just that, putting words out into Beyoncé’s internet instead of overthinking them.

We’re taught to believe that if we just work hard, do great things, and show up as our best selves, we’ll be recognised. But the truth? Not everyone is going to like you.

And that’s not just inevitable, it might actually be a sign I’m doing something right.

Because if you’re always everyone’s cup of tea, are you really showing up as yourself?

I’m stuck in the messy middle, the part no one talks about.

Not at the start, not at the big breakthrough, but in the in-between, where everything feels tangled and uncertain.

Under the Tuscan Sun made it look easy.

The centipede story reminded me why it’s not.

Some people are meant to be chapters, not the whole book. Some people come in, shake things up, and then leave.

Because their job is done.

And that’s okay.

Because this isn’t their story. It’s mine.

Some relationships feel like Wi-Fi—the connection just works. No passwords, no second-guessing, just ease.

But some?

Some feel like a constant game of trying to guess the code, only to find it’s already been changed. That’s why Olivia Dean’s Password Change is on repeat for me today.

I used to be the girl who sat quietly in the corner, avoiding small talk. Then I landed in New York, thrown into a job that required me to network, to talk to strangers. I hated it. But I learned.

Now, years later, I sit in rooms full of senior leaders, adding my voice to loud conversations. And sometimes, I still feel her, the quiet girl who isn’t sure she belongs.

But I speak up anyway.

I am often told that speed wins. That the best work is fast, scalable, efficient. But what if that’s the problem?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about craftsmanship. The kind that values depth over pace, intention over output. What if we treated our own work that way? What if we slowed down, let ideas breathe, and created with care?

I don’t have a neatly packaged answer. But I do know this: when I make space to think, the work feels better. More me. And maybe that’s the point.

I did what we were told—leaned in, climbed, took my seat at the table. And now? People expect answers. Decisions. Leadership.

But maybe I don’t have to keep climbing. Maybe I can just hold—steady, strong, not rushing to the next thing. And maybe, that’s enough.

Lately, I’ve realised I’ve been playing it too safe. And honestly? I don’t want to live like that. I want to be slightly unruly, a little more mischievous—the kind of woman in her mid-forties who surprises herself. Maybe that starts today.

Most people want to help, to solve, to offer a way forward. But sometimes, what we really need isn’t a solution. It’s space.

This weekend, I was reminded of the rare gift of people who just get it. No fixing, no judgment. Just presence.

And in that space, something shifts—not because the problem disappears, but because I don’t have to carry it alone.

I woke up at 3 a.m. with my jaw clenched, my body holding a stress I never agreed to. A dream had pulled me into a frantic loop, not of mistakes, but of proving I hadn’t made one.

I don’t want to live like this.

So I’m learning, slowly, imperfectly, to set it down.

Noticing isn’t mind-reading—it’s paying attention. It’s the quiet act of seeing what’s unsaid, of choosing to engage when it’s easier not to. Not everyone does it, and that’s okay.

But the ones who do?

They stand out. And when I find them, I hold onto them.