Somethings are true about me. I write lots of things down. I forget where I put things unless I am VERY disciplined with myself.

I often find things in weird places and try to recover the mental pathway that got to placing that thing on that surface. What was the plan here? Why did it make sense for me to stash this in that box? Like strange time capsules of a weird little memory pathway. Which is a long way of saying I found a note on my phone from April 2025, and I have no recollection of writing it or where I was when I started. Was I starting a poem? Was it for a longer bit of prose? No idea.

I can see from the words that the human who wrote this note was deep in sadness. And even in my current “I miss Good Morning texts but not the texture” status, I am not that sad. But I also see that they were making CONTENT.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling when I read that note. Like a compulsory requirement to see how far I’ve come. Place it next to a 2026 list, like a Weight Watchers victory photo. Shame at being so sad is allowed because now I’m not that sad, but then performative growth at how few places I’ve cried in 2026. We’re encouraged to be vulnerable about our past, provided we can reassure everyone that we’ve overcome it.

Have I? Have I overcome it and emerged victorious? Do I get to go on The Drew Barrymore Show and talk about my amazing transformation? The obvious thing between that writing and this is a relationship that came and went. Did it heal me or was it just a kind of Ozempic that turned down some sadness, and allowed me to work on other things? Am I not actually healed because I need to get a dig in at an ex, or is that proof I am through the sadness?

Performative sadness. Fake it till you make it, melancholy edition.

Should I blog / vlog / tweet five ways my ex was a loser? Ten ways my life has improved without them? Perhaps a little montage of me thriving, set to an aggressively empowering soundtrack. Something that reassures everyone that I’ve done the work, learned the lessons and emerged as a better version of myself. There’s an entire set of Invisible Rules about how we’re supposed to be sad, and apparently another set about how we’re supposed to stop. Apparently having feelings isn’t enough. I have to demonstrate that I’m having them correctly.

Which brings me back to April 2025 Millie and her little list of places she’d cried. She wasn’t writing a recovery story. She wasn’t making a point about personal growth. As far as I can tell, she was just sad, and doing what she’s always done with things she doesn’t quite know what to do with. Writing them down. She had no idea that eighteen months later I’d be reading her words and wondering whether I ought to provide some evidence that things had improved.

A corresponding list of places I haven’t cried, perhaps. A graph. A certificate of emotional competence. But maybe the note doesn’t need an after picture. Maybe I don’t need to explain how I got from there to here, or whether I’ve healed sufficiently to qualify as a success story. Maybe April 2025 Millie was allowed to be sad without it becoming the first chapter of an inspirational transformation. And maybe October 2026 Millie can just publish the bloody thing.

Because apparently, whatever else has changed, I’ve always been writing a wanky art school blog.