• There is a particular sort of exhaustion that comes from trying to be a decent person in a world that doesn’t always appear to reward it. Especially when you have to acknowledge that you haven’t always been a decent person yourself. Not a good person. That’s a different thing, and an altogether more complicated claim…

  • 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…

  • I couldn’t decide whether this was going to be an Adele or an Alanis Morissette breakup. Turns out it’s a Supergrass Alright breakup. Which is a little unexpected, but here we are. For context, a relationship of mine recently ended. I obviously made a social media post about it, and then The Algorithm latched on…

  • I dyed my hair blue. A few weeks later I found myself wondering whether that meant I should be buying blue yarn too. An essay about masking, identity, neurodivergent rule-making, and learning that not every preference needs to become a personality.

  • It wasn’t even a big comment. That’s part of the problem.Not an argument. Not a confrontation. Just a sentence, dropped into conversation, the kind of thing that should have passed through me without leaving much of a mark. Except it didn’t.It caught, somewhere inconvenient, and now it’s here. Again.This happens more often than I’d like…

  • This week marks six months of living alone… well not exactly, but also kinda.I share a house with five other people. We cross paths in the kitchen, politely ignore each other’s laundry, and share an unspoken agreement that we don’t discuss the quality of bathroom singing. It’s not solitude exactly, more like a soft coexistence….

  • Author’s Note:This post was inspired by Maya Angelou’s poem “When I Think About Myself.” Her words come from a history and an experience that aren’t mine, but what resonated with me was her use of laughter as both armor and confession. What follows is my own reflection, a much smaller, messier version of that rhythm….

  • There’s a pile of them on my shelves: passion planners, diaries, bullet journals, colour-coded agendas, Italian leather ones, Japanese ones from before they changed the paper. A graveyard of productivity promises. I used to believe that if I just found the right one, the perfect notebook, I’d finally unlock my life. I’d become the kind…

  • I’ve drunk more bad coffee than good, but I’ve never turned down a cup. The Worst Coffee When my local Krispy Kreme opened they handed me a cup of what can only be described as caffeinated despair. Burn shots of coffee poured over the water of disappointment. I didn’t complain, obviously, I just drank it…