Creative Ways of Explaining What I Do

I’ve cycled through every possible description and have trained my fellow fresh grads and unemployed friends in the process. I’ve lived through the early stages of funemployement (when the newfound freedom is exciting and you’re trying to make the most of it as you’ll probably be corporately employed in no time), the “waiting to graduate” months between submitting your thesis and picking up your diploma, the questioning of how long you can call yourself a “fresh grad”. I’ve made my lack of a job everybody’s problem (which has started to pay off as friends and friends-of-friends have started to reach out to me whenever their companies were hiring, kindly offering to review my CV and cover letter and put in a good word with the hiring team). Last month, I travelled home with my best friend to spend Thanksgiving with her family. I was meeting her parents for the first time (and had briefly, drunkenly, encountered both of her brothers at the occasional house party, but I doubt that counts), and I was, for the most part, excited. I tend to do pretty well with adults. I can talk to a brick wall, and I was already a fan of their work (Gio is one of my favourite people in the whole world, and after meeting her siblings, I’m convinced her parents could choose the path of early retirement and make a fortune selling an online parenting course). I had a weekend of meeting new people lined up, which in normal circumstances would be one of my favourite activities, but after the past year, it had quickly become my idea of a personal hell. I no longer felt charming or interesting, and dreaded having to explain what I was doing with my life, convinced that my personal judgment of my current situation was mirrored by whoever was sitting across from me. As I was introduced to her family, family friends and classmates from school, I was grateful for at least having something to show for the past year, and I proceeded to plug this newsletter at the breakfast, lunch and dinner tables with varying levels of success. I had to backtrack and explain that, no, I haven’t published a book (yet?) and “Culture Writer” mostly means talking about books, films, music and airing out my personal qualms on the internet. I was reminded of the time my aeroplane seatmate misunderstood my one hundred subscribers on Substack for one hundred thousand (I didn’t have the heart to correct this sweet old man, and he said he’d recommend my stuff to his granddaughter, so if you’re reading this, thanks!)

Running a Non-Profit and sucking up to Patrons of the Arts

I have recently realised that my close friends don’t find me nearly as funny as new acquaintances do. The reason for that is plain and simple: I have a tendency to recycle good material. The first time you drop an expertly timed “toughest battles, strongest soldiers,” you will most likely get an excellent response, but the positive feedback dwindles as it becomes a recurring joke. Like any good comic (though I’m yet to meet one in real life, but I’ve been told this is how it goes), I believe in testing jokes, adapting your content for the audience, and perfecting your comedic timing. I will always deliver the punchline, and have made my peace with it sometimes falling flat. I’ve taken to saying I run a non-profit when describing my field of work. My parents can now proudly state that they are patrons of the arts (unfortunately, my landlord does not accept advanced copies of the hottest upcoming novels as payment for rent). Whenever my brother comes into town, I tell him he’s doing the lord’s work and redistributing wealth as he puts down his card to cover dinner. We’re quite a pair catching up on work. He spends most of his days talking to clients at big banks and looking at a dark screen with indecipherable lines of code. I make sure I’m up to date with pop culture references and rehash the gossip going around my increasingly incestuous social circles1. He’ll send a picture of his new grown-up purchases on the family group chat (think nice rugs, a new couch, a surround sound system), and I make the most of my leisurely work schedule, snapping a picture of the latest books delivered at my doorstep or whatever friend has joined me for a weeknight drink at Café Kick. When promoting my newsletter, I employ a range of different approaches, and if my Master’s in Marketing taught me anything, it’s the importance of knowing your audience. When I meet a girl who is cool and intimidating in equal parts, and I’m itching to befriend her, I let her know that all the hot girls are reading Novis Newsletter. When I meet lanky guys with a chain, moustache and bad tattoos (what was once my kryptonite but I’ve changed my ways), or get chatting to someone with a quarter-zip in line at the pub (the guys at the The Drayton Arms are responsible for 80% of my financial literacy), I ask them if they have girlfriends or sisters and tell them to spread the word.

The Quest for a Sexy Job

At this point, anyone I’ve encountered this past year is well aware of my quest for any job. As a professional chatterbox and someone who loves asking for advice, I have taken to exploring the realm of Sexy Jobs, and in the process, have reached out to the people with the coolest job descriptions in my contacts list. I’ve slowly shed my layers of cynicism and have come to accept that it is not childish or naïve to want to do something that makes you happy. Somewhere along the way of growing up, I had convinced myself that following your dreams was the stuff of fairy tales, something to outgrow as you mature. Of course, there are still practicalities to be considered; the burdens of adulthood, bills to pay, health insurance and an alluring cycle-to-work scheme, but the more I spoke to people who truly loved what they did, the more I was inspired to find a way to make it work. Falling [back] into writing this year felt like Kismet. I was lost and bored, and doing one of the few things I felt good at made me feel like myself again. I was dipping my toes into an industry that is famously portrayed as bitchy and cutthroat, and was expecting grown-up mean girls working in glossy magazines or influencing. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised by how welcome I was. I’m naturally unable to curb my enthusiasm. I said yes to everything, reached out, slid into DMs, asked people out for coffee and treated strangers like intimate friends. I ignored the age-old advice of never mixing business and pleasure; I was genuinely connecting with people and couldn’t help wanting to befriend the girls I kept running into at work functions. Instead of being told that there weren’t enough seats at the table, I was invited to pull up a chair. I met people who inspired me, who showed me what I wanted, who dished out advice and introductions and didn’t roll their eyes when I asked stupid questions. I’m forever grateful to the girls in fur coats and slip dresses offering me skinny cigarettes and their phone numbers and their friendship.

My New Year’s Resolution is to Have Fun

Which sounds ridiculous even to me, but I’m rolling with it. I’m all for doing the things that scare you (I was very frightened for the majority of this year), and a lot of growth can come from that, but I think there’s also so much to be learned by chasing the good feelings. I’m still in the process of figuring things out, and I have a feeling I’ll be doing that for a long time, so I figure I might as well enjoy the process.

Who am I if not the youngest person here?

Somewhere along the way, being the youngest person in the room became my favourite party trick, an intrinsic part of my personal brand. When I didn’t catch a reference, I could always shrug; different generations was sufficient explanation. I’d secretly relish in delight whenever a new member of the group discovered my age and would exclaim, Oh you’re a baby! Let’s not unpack what I’m doing wrong with my skincare routine for that to become such a regular occurrence, I’m choosing to believe I was just too mature and put together for an eighteen-year-old, and not that all the time I spent baking under the Brazilian sun had finally taken a toll. Being the youngest took the pressure off. I wasn’t particularly keen on being taken too seriously. I always found being serious to be seriously overrated. Everyone gives you grace when being your age is a distant memory, hazy from too many shots and not enough hours of sleep. I was at my most confident and put together at nineteen3, but when twenty-two hit, and I was forced to leave the safe confines of a university hall and the student label I’d been carrying for my entire life up to that point, all hell broke loose. I never thought I’d be the kind of person who would be afraid of ageing. I read feminist literature and had spent a decade in therapy. I could verbalise my fears and neuroses. I worked through hating myself and my body in ways that only4 fifteen-year-old girls can, and somehow thought that I had gotten through all the character development of my youth by the time I finished my undergrad. Not knowing what to do with my life came with a whole new set of fears. Once the most social person in the room, buzzing from the high of meeting new people, I was now haunted by the What do you do? that came immediately after introductions. A summer where my motivation to cook and eat had left simultaneously, and I was sustained exclusively by hummus and bread, meant that all my jeans now hung low on my waist. As a heavily therapized child, I had worked on detaching my worth from numbers, on the scale and on clothing tags. When I managed to leave the house, I’d alternate between haggard and emaciated and a sexy mess. How I looked was no longer the issue, though I was still obsessing over the newfound lines on my temples and would be lying if I said I didn’t get some joy out of having to dig out my high-school jeans from the back of my closet. My new insecurities were heavily related to my personality, and unfortunately for me, you can’t fast and squat your way into being interesting.

Being afraid of something ridiculous doesn’t make it less scary

I feel ridiculous saying I’m pushing 23. I’ve never held on so tightly to my age as I have now, clinging on for as long as I possibly can. For the past year, the passing of time has felt increasingly panic-inducing. I started questioning when I’d start feeling too old for things. I was told to act my age for the first time,5 and it was earth-shattering. I had leaned into the pretty young thing bit without even noticing. I started spending more time in front of the mirror, scrunching my face and asking myself if the lines on my forehead were always there when I raised my eyebrows. I oscillated between telling myself I’d never look this good (or at least this young) again and questioning whether I could still pull off the miniskirts of my student years. I reached the uncanny valley of being attracted to men in their thirties6 whilst also being put off whenever someone old enough to be my father (if they had knocked up their high school girlfriend) offered to buy me a drink. I’d say age is just a number, but that number became the only label I could still claim, and I was holding on tightly to any sense of self.

I hate being jealous of the twenty-one-year-olds at the party

It’s really not a good look. Being the youngest in the room had become my bit. I’d lean into being young and inexperienced. I was welcomed and babied and hand-held through parties and dinners and meetings with industry people, receiving the kind of kindness from strangers exclusively reserved for non-threatening, up-and-coming, mysteriously funded creatives. I’d introduce myself with the earnest eagerness of someone who’s not sure how they got the invite but is just happy to be there. I reconsidered the girl who told me I could do this7 before I even thought of it as a real possibility, who encouraged me to pursue what at the time I saw as just a hobby, who slipped so easily into a big sister role, and then slipped away like she was never there. I met some of her friends, they told me I reminded them of her. I took it as a compliment. She said the same thing to me after we downed a couple bottles of wine. She apologised for rambling about her ex, but I was engrossed, following along, forever delighted to gossip with full government names about people I’d never met8. Once again, I was just happy to be there. As I started spiralling over the unescapable plight of ageing, catching myself wishing I was once again the youngest person in the room, I started wondering how I’d feel confronted with a mini-me. I told myself I was being ridiculous as I twiddled my thumbs, expecting a reaction to my first byline. Messages from family, friends, old classmates and virtual strangers littered my inbox. People whom I admired and respected, and if I’m being completely honest, was a little intimidated by, made me feel validated. And yet, there I was, wondering if I’d hear anything from the person who’d given me the initial push. Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal, but then again, every writer I’ve ever spoken to remembers their first byline. It’s a career full of firsts that fill you with a giddiness and excitement that is difficult to translate to your friends with respected and well-paid corporate jobs9. The first time you see your name in print, the first time you get paid for your writing, the first PR invite or freebie sent to your house, the first comped meal, the first time you’re introduced as a writer and the first time you don’t get the urge to vomit as soon as you use the label yourself. I realised the need for community after my first taste of writer friends. Conversations without the preamble, reassurance that I was doing something right, people to turn to for advice.

More than a bad case of the pre-birthday blues

I started spiralling about my age a couple of weeks ago, or maybe it was already underway for months, unbeknownst to me, the makings of a crisis waiting for an inciting incident to send me on a full blown meltdown, and as unfortunate collateral, having me tell all of my friends, most of which are older than me, that I was terrified at the thought of turning 23. As someone who is notoriously superstitious (which is what I was planning on writing about this week until my therapist cancelled, the radiator dried out my skin, and I was left ruminating, wrinkly and scaly to deal with the fallout), I grew up with the Brazilian concept of Inferno Astral, which literally translates to “Astral Hell.” It refers to the period before your birthday when the stars seem to misalign especially for you. For anyone who’s made crying on their birthday an annual tradition, you’re welcome to have other planets to blame in case Mercury isn’t in retrograde. Earlier this month, I found myself at a party where I simultaneously knew everyone (or at least recognised their names from bylines, mastheads and book covers) and no one at all. I slid into DMs as a Hail Mary attempt to have someone on my corner and was thankfully taken in by the loveliest girls at the function10. Through every introduction, I leaned into the role of the new kid on the block. I mingled and covertly tried to recruit people to talk to me about their sexy jobs. I was downing French 75s and nibbling on croquettes and developing a quick friendship with the waiter as I seemed to be one of the three people there actually eating. We were on a first-name basis by the end of the night. I was generally having a grand time until I met two girls who were also fresh grads (I say “also” here, but I’m not quite sure what the acceptable timeline is to continue to call yourself a fresh grad). Oh cool, so when did you finish uni? I asked performing the mental maths, just this summer, we’re twenty-one! In the span of thirty seconds, these two girls just went from being the cool lingerie designer and the girl with a pixie cut I could never pull off, to being responsible for ruining my life, or at the very least, my night. Rest assured, I hated myself for it.

I’m still scared of ageing, but at least so is everyone else.

After chastising myself on the way home for being jealous of the twenty-one-year-olds, I hoped I would leave these icky feelings behind. I bring a chaotic energy to the function that stops being charming the second you’re no longer the youngest person in the room; you go from fun to embarrassing the second an eighteen-year-old walks through the door. There are other less vain and vile reasons why I love being the youngest. I’ve felt lost for long enough that it just feels like that is my resting state, so I’m inherently comforted by being surrounded by people who are wiser and more experienced. I’m still going to make my own [unique] mistakes, but at least I can take theirs into consideration before diving headfirst into regrettable haircuts, jobs and relationships. As I started talking to my equally young friends, rest assured, I’m not one of those socially inept or incredibly high-and-mighty people who don’t like people their age or think they were born in the wrong generation, I realised the fear of ageing has reached us all. It’s not just about being perky and charming. There’s a building pressure to make decisions, to have it together, the bittersweet feeling of becoming a role model. There’s the realisation that your parents are ageing, that your friends will move for work, and that life will get in the way and that the fairy tale land of low responsibility has an expiration date. I have found that historically, voicing my fears has often made me realise how silly they were. In this case, I never had to voice them to realise that losing my shit over no longer being the youngest in the room was decidedly uncool. Alas, I took what I learned from my short-lived meditation stint and accepted the thought, observing it as it floated away like a leaf on a stream. I also wrote an essay about it. It helps to be surrounded by badass women in their 30s, 40s, 50s and beyond, but also to have some hand-holding camaraderie from other twenty-somethings who are very much in the process of figuring things out.

I am notoriously all over the place, and have written about it at length if you want to commiserate:

or at least that’s what my brother keeps telling me. I can see his point; I’ve started drafting this piece whilst I kill time waiting for my flight at the airport in Chisinau. After handing in my master’s dissertation last September, I expected an empty calendar until I found a corporate job (if you’re new here1, I dream of the golden shackles of capitalism, exhibits A and B). Fuelled by an inability to stay still and my parents’ encouragement to make the most of this time because once I get a job I’ll be “working ‘till I die,” I have spent the past year embarking on a variety of side quests, ranging from staples of the canonical post-grad crisis to receiving find my friends screenshots of friends asking me what I’m doing in a random eastern European country or an island in the Caribbean. Whilst the identity crisis that comes with no longer being a student after claiming that status for as long as I can remember and not having a job title to fill that gap has been fully underway, I’m trying to reclaim being a work in progress. If you’ve gotten me drunk within the past six months, you’ve (unfortunately) had to listen to me rant about how much I hate that the first thing people tend to ask you when you first meet is What do you do? I have [occasionally un]ironically adopted toughest battles, strongest soldiers as my personal motto, but do you have any idea how hard it is for me, someone who loves meeting new people and has no appropriate answer to that godforsaken question?! As someone who is chronically afraid of seeming boring, having a variety of side quests ticks several boxes, including keeping me busy (there are only so many job applications you can send out in a day) and giving me something to talk to people about instead of my (non-existent2) corporate job.

My friend’s ex was evil, but he was onto something — two things can be true at the same time

Last week, I embraced the spirit of the spooky season and reached out to my friends for their worst dating horror stories. Through extensive research (I’m nothing if not thorough), I discovered that my friend’s ex once told her that she had no hobbies3, and whilst it was categorically untrue in her case4, it’s a fact for a lot of the adults around me. I know it’s rich coming from the unemployed girl, but I feel the need to remind people that life doesn’t end once you join the workforce. I might have been influenced by the whole I don’t have a dream job, I do not dream of labour propaganda on my fyp (unsuccessfully, I might add, as I still very much do dream of labour), but relinquishing your life outside of work, and living for those 28 days of annual leave seems like a pretty shit deal to me. Sure, there are the lucky few who love to live for their careers5, but most mere mortals without glamorous or all-fulfilling careers still need a life outside of work.

Why grownups (derogatory) are boring — and how to escape a prison of your own making

I have a friend who seems to have everything together. We’re the same age and met at a time when we were in the exact same stage in life, but over the course of the past year, we slowly drifted to the opposite sides of the having your shit together spectrum. She has a respectable, well-paying job and is recognised at work. Her days are all about routine; work, gym, dinner, sleep. My schedule is all over the place. For the first time in my life, I’m embracing spontaneity and saying yes to last-minute plans on a regular basis. Surprisingly, we both seem to be frustrated in certain areas of our lives6. I look at her and see someone who has it all together, a real adult, and when she looks at me, she sees someone who’s having fun. I’ve had men in gilets roll their eyes at me when I asked them What do you do for fun? over a pint. I felt self-conscious for about half a second for my childish question, and then I felt a little sorry for them. Trying to help my employed friend figure her life out, I posed the same question. Sure, she didn’t really like her job, but it didn’t take up all of her time, and now she also had the funds to pursue the things she enjoyed.

Turns out you can just… do things

Growing up, I was always an extremely rational person, a child with an affinity for plans and schedules and spreadsheets made for an interesting picture. As I got older, I seemed to pull the Benjamin Button switch, becoming more impulsive, throwing caution to the wind. Having been on the opposing extremes, I now try to find a reasonable balance. I had all these things that I would like to do, but they seemed too distant from the version of myself I envisioned. I was so attached to the version of myself I had grown used to that anything that strayed from that triggered an intense cognitive dissonance. I had always considered myself a good student, and the good girl character seemed to tack on without me ever noticing (though with my very chill parents, it would be difficult to rebel anyway). I grew up dancing, but never thought I was sporty. I surprised myself (and people I knew in High School) with my ability to hold my liquor and stay out until the sun went up, and have since made peace with my party girl identity. I’m running a marathon in less than a week, but I still have a hard time calling myself a runner. I write every week, I get messages from strangers and friends alike telling me they like my work and got my first byline this year, and I still feel like the term writer doesn’t quite fit. Still, I take a lot of pride in being slightly random. It means my friends know that I’m down for everything, from hikes to raves to workout classes and Lord of the Rings marathons.

What Do You Do? In case you were wondering

I have a range of different answers for my least favourite question, and it mostly depends on who I’m talking to (I am a notorious social chameleon). I might bring up marathon training or the fact that I’m [trying] to improve my tennis skills. I’ll happily talk about whatever I’ve been reading for hours on end. Random spontaneous trips have taken over the past year. As I try to fill my extensive free time, I’ve taken to learning new languages, learning to drive, writing. I’ve also tried things and realised that they are very much not for me. I’m too jittery for yoga, and lack the skill and patience to paint a decent watercolour. I tried to go back to things I used to like, and discovered that after fifteen years, I’m ready to retire my pointe shoes and leotards. I’ve ended up loving things I didn’t try for years because I thought they weren’t for me (and now my favourite girl dinner will forever be a pint of Guinness). My latest side quest has been wine tourism in Moldova. I will take any excuse to catch up with my mom, and since I had nothing better going on last week, I joined her on a work trip. I came back with a stomach full of borsch, a new coat, a desire to learn Russian and an agenda to return for a wine-fuelled girls’ weekend.

I’m still figuring things out, but in the words of Samantha Jones, I’ll try anything once. If anyone has any side quest recomendations, I’m all ears, and if you want to join a begginer’s Russian class, I’m looking for volunteers!

Ditching the Costumes but Wearing Different Hats

Before getting dressed in the morning, I always double-check the weather app, and in the same way that I avoid suede when it’s raining, whenever I’m in a social situation, I’ll adjust my personality accordingly. With professors at university, I’d dial down the sarcasm and inappropriate jokes and lean into obscure literary references. When meeting my friends’ parents for the first time, I’d be my most sensible self. I can talk about trash reality TV and gush over romcoms and geek out over Lord of the Rings, depending on who’s curled up next to me on the couch. I’ll say yes to going to the bar and the club and on a morning 10K (usually within the same weekend). I don’t consider myself to be a people pleaser, but I’ll tease out different parts of myself depending on who I’m with, and I’d argue most people are guilty of this. You play a different version of yourself with your childhood friends, parents or colleagues, and all of those versions (or maybe most of those versions) are variations of you, not a different person altogether, just a different facet. I’ve always considered myself a pretty outgoing person. Growing up, the most consistent feedback I got from teachers was to chat a little less. I love meeting new people and being surrounded by friends, but as I started dissociating in social settings at an alarming frequency, I started to reconsider.

Questioning Everything: Am I Actually an Extrovert?

Whilst I think it’s pretty normal to adapt your personality depending on where you are or who you’re with, I once told a friend that in most social settings, I felt like I was performing. Instead of a nod in agreement (because what do you mean, most people aren’t putting on a perfectly crafted one-woman show when meeting someone new?) I was met with confusion. But you’re such an extrovert, what do you mean you find it exhausting? Luckily, I had let the comment slip with one of my closest friends, one of the few people who doesn’t get a front row seat to my show but instead, premium access to the chaotic behind the scenes. Had I just outed myself as a secret introvert? It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy socialising, I’ve always felt invigorated after meeting new people. At a particularly low point this summer, I realised something was wrong once I became antisocial and avoidant. This need to perform came from a place of wanting to make sure everyone around me felt seen and was having a good time. I’ve never been great at multitasking, so I end up with tunnel vision, laser-focused on whoever is in front of me, constantly assessing the conversation and adjusting myself accordingly.

Nobody Wants Your Full Authentic Self — Take Your Hummus and Go

Or nearly nobody anyway. When a casual acquaintance asks How are you? You should never, ever, tell them anything other than I’m good, you? You should only be a hot mess with a select group of people who have gone through extensive vetting. Over a big catch-up brunch this past weekend, one of my friends, Iris*, told the table she was having a hard time lately. We hadn’t seen her in a while, and last time we’d spoken, she had been frustrated at work, but none of us knew how bad it was until her crying was comically interrupted by the waiter clearing our table at the most inopportune time. As our glasses were refilled and I rushed to mop up the last bits of hummus with my strategically saved pita bread, whilst trying to signal to the waiter to come back later, my friend told us how this summer had been awful, and she didn’t want to burden us with her issues. Iris, this is what friends are for! I tried to reassure her, I’m struggling, but I’m making it everybody’s problem, you’re getting whole newsletters about my mental state and not knowing what to do with my life! (exhibits A, B and C) Whilst I would love nothing more than having all my friends feeling completely fulfilled in every area of their lives, I was reassured by knowing that all of us were feeling a little lost (misery loves company?).

The Curtains Come Down — The Show Must Go On

After a four-hour meal where we covered breakups, quarter-life crises, promotions, new additions to our closets, sound baths and decided to look for a feng shui master in London that offers group discounts (recommendations welcome!), we gathered our things and bundled up before going our separate ways. Almost on cue, we all started Ugh, I needed this, I missed you, I feel so much lighter! As I walked away, I reminded myself how lucky I am to have those girls, to have the space where I don’t have to perform, to be on, to make an effort to be entertaining or charming or smart, I can just be. Of course, I’ll keep on performing (last week I had an hour long commute from a day rave to a birthday dinner, and when I pulled out my kindle before heading out, I was heckled with performative male calls by my friends and one random guy waiting for the bus), not everyone wants or should get access to every facet of your personality, but it’s always good to know you have a place to rest, people with whom you can dim the lights, ditch the costumes and catch your breath.

*Name has been changed

For those who aren’t familiar with Claire, she’s my former flatmate and still is one of my closest friends. Claire and I were virtual strangers when we signed a lease together in May of 2021. We’d exchanged a couple of texts, enough to assume that neither was a psychopath, and met for the first time after signing said year-long lease, when we brought our documents over to the letting agency. We’d go on to live together for three years. She’s French, which I think is something you need to know, as it is intrinsic to the way she has delivered these key pieces of advice. We both agree that had we not found ourselves in the confines of a shoebox apartment in Fitzrovia, we’d never end up being friends. She’s quiet and reserved, where I’m loud and outgoing. She’s suspicious where I’m blindly trusting. She’s even-tempered, where I’ve been known to sob and laugh simultaneously. My idea of a perfect weekend looks like her very own personal hell. We are the perfect example of how opposites attract. Still, our time living together was one of growth. With Claire, I had to learn to relax. We bonded over our shared love of Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings. I saw her come out of her shell, and she saw me calm the f*ck down.

You need to respect yourself

Whenever Claire drops this line, I know I have seriously messed up. Whilst I have grown accustomed to airing my dirty laundry and spilling my shortcomings online, I will spare her from the same fate. All you need to know is that, like most eighteen-year-old girls, when I first met her, Claire had made her fair share of mistakes and found herself in less-than-ideal situations. As the heavily therapized flatmate, I was used to being the voice of reason, which is why whenever Claire told me that I needed some self-respect, my first thought was pot, meet kettle, quickly followed by I need to get my act together.

Why are you friends with her?

On a similar note, I’ve been called naïve more than once. As the person I came home to every night for three years, Claire has often been on the receiving side of my venting. I could tell her anything with the safety that came with knowing that I always had someone on my corner. In the same way that I would avoid telling my mom about the people who had wronged me as a kid, I also made a deliberate point of keeping Claire out of the loop. I knew that even if I ever eventually forgave them, my mom and Claire would both remember how miserable I had been for the weeks or months prior. Claire is one of the most loyal people I know, the very definition of a ride or die. She’s reliable and dedicated and expects the same in return. However, where I’m a fan of having friends for a variety of situations, she takes an all-or-nothing approach. We’re opposing extremes, I’d say neither ideal, where she’ll cut someone off after being disappointed once, and I’ll stubbornly keep sending texts and checking up from time to time, even after any sane person would have let things go. I’ve learned that whenever I complain about anyone who has hurt me in the past, I’ll be met with the same Why are you even friends with her?

Forgive, but never forget

Claire’s capacity to hold on to a grudge really should be studied (though I’d guess it’s entrenched in her French DNA). I was once late to a karaoke night with her when a first date ran late. She was already hanging out with some other friends, and I was planning on meeting up with her after dinner. I was giddy with excitement and lost track of time. When I walked into the bar, two hours late, my apology was ready. I’m so sooo sorry the check took like twenty minutes to come, I said as a greeting. Okay, what about the other hundred minutes then? I went on a couple more dates with that guy, but it eventually fizzled out, and I was momentarily crushed. I haven’t spoken to him in months, and Claire and I haven’t lived together for over a year, but she still holds those hundred minutes over my head. Whenever we make plans, I’m always secretly hoping she’ll be late so we can finally settle this debt.

This is why you’re single

Part of Claire’s comedy gold is the fact that she’s never trying to be funny. She once walked into my room in the middle of the night for a serious chat, only to let me know that we had to devise a plan to have Mason Mount1 fall in love with her. Claire is the reason Wattpad stories should come with warning labels. In a similar vein, she once came home brimming with excitement, letting me know that Lando Norris2 had broken up with his most recent girlfriend. Because, of course, this girl was the only thing standing between an undergraduate literature student and a professional Formula 1 driver. I rolled my eyes and told her that, regardless, he was too short for me. Wrong answer. This is why you’re single! she scolded me, I give you a professional driver (she says as if he’s waiting outside our door) and you still find something wrong with him. So yeah, lesson learned, you can’t be too picky.

Jesus isn’t hiring

Earlier this month, we spent a weekend in Italy, and her one-liners, delivered with about the same amount of emotion as Kristen Stewart's portrayal of Bella Swan, had me cackling and re-evaluating my life choices in the same beat. Like any good Catholic girl, I made sure to pop into every church we passed, making sure to mention the dismal job market whenever I got down on my knees, and considering the optimal Hail Mary rate for a Graduate Job. After hearing me complain for about the millionth time, she finally had enough. You need to start posting on LinkedIn, Jesus is not hiring, and praying won’t get you a job.

Eleven months ago, I submitted my Master’s dissertation, and after feeling accomplished for about five minutes, I was ready to move on to the next thing, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t know what that was. I had spent the better part of twenty-one years as a student, a role in which I had learned to excel. I was an adult with training wheels, but those were finally coming off. I had to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I no longer knew what to say whenever I was introduced to new people and was met with my least favourite question: What do you do? For a while, I leaned into humour, framing this period of my life as funemployment (and am therefore so sorry to everyone who’s had to deal with my antics for the past eleven months). I quickly learned that staving off a quarter-life crisis is a lot easier when you’re in perpetual motion. For months, I’d come back to my flat in London to unpack, do laundry and repack. I was never home for more than a couple of weeks at a time, the sweet spot of not having to confront a lack of routine, whilst keeping ties to my life here. For the past eleven months, I’ve applied for hundreds of jobs, but I’ve also found myself in countless spirals, reconsidering every career option and coping mechanism in the books. These are the highlights.

Joining a convent or becoming a lawyer

As I wrapped up my dissertation, I allowed myself to relax as I was finally done with school for the foreseeable future. I was optimistic; the future was a source of excitement, not anxiety. I had drunk the Kool-Aid and dreamt of my corporate baddie era. In October, I packed my bags and fled towards the warmth and familiarity of Brazil. Polishing up my CV before my family woke up and sending off applications from airport lounges, I allowed myself to slow down and enjoy my newfound freedom, thinking that surely by this time next year I’d be happily shackled by capitalism. For anyone who didn’t graduate with a job lined up, the all too familiar now what? can be disorienting to say the least. As someone who’s notoriously type A and needs a plan, my unravelling started early on. At an alumni event, I caught up with a girl I always looked up to in High School. We’d taken a lot of the same classes and attended the same uni. She was a year older (and several years wiser), and so I always took any offhand advice as gospel. After making the most of the open bar, I cracked, telling her I had no idea what to do next. Hearing that she had also felt momentarily lost as a post-grad was like finding out the Queen does her own groceries. She had just finished up a law conversion and would be travelling for the next year before coming back to London to start her training contract. Because I’m sometimes clueless and easily impressionable, I left that night considering a career in law for the first time. It brought along structure and a defined timeline, and for the next six months, I’d flip through the bookmarked courses late into the night, flirting with the idea whenever I started feeling a little lost.

After a particularly low week, I’m not completely sure how, but I ended up researching convents in Italy. The same things that appealed to me in law also made running away to the middle of nowhere to live with nuns seem like the answer. It wasn’t necessarily about the religious aspect, but instead the appeal of a simple life, someone telling me what to do (a recurring theme you’ll come to notice), being taken care of, having a routine. I thought it all made perfect sense, until I told my friends and was met with varying levels of concern. In the hushed confessional tone reserved for drunken moments in the back of an Uber, I told a friend that I was feeling hopeless, and with the way things were going, I was going to either find Jesus or the bottom of a bottle. I was raised Catholic, but have a nuanced and oscillating relationship with faith and religion. Feel free to roll your eyes as I say that the unemployment/post-grad period made me realise why so many people turn to religion in troubling times. On vacation with my family in Italy, I found myself popping into every church I passed, getting down on my knees and bargaining — how many Hail Marys were acceptable in exchange for a grad job? I was ready to appeal to every deity, reaching new levels of superstition. I found myself deep into manifestation TikTok, I did research on Etsy witches and put my trust in Japanese Daruma dolls, believing that everything would work out as I looked at the single painted eye every night before bed. I tried to think back to what I had done wrong, wondering if I had to right the mistakes of a past life before I’d be allowed out of this limbo.

Have you considered… running away, running a marathon, journaling, feeling guilty, making jokes, therapy, volunteering, antidepressants, drinking more water, getting another degree… yes.

Running away wasn’t a deliberate attempt, but more so the consequence of subconsciously realising that I would press play on my post-grad(quarter-life?) crisis whenever I slowed down. What do you do? quickly became my least favourite question, with how are you doing? trailing closely behind. I would take creative liberties answering both. With my graduation ceremony scheduled for late January, I told everyone from September to December that I was waiting to graduate, which wasn’t untrue. I’ve found myself asking friends and ChatGPT alike what the acceptable timeframe is for telling people you’ve recently graduated. Signing up for a marathon last year wasn’t a completely impulsive decision. It was something I’d always wanted to do, and with spots opening a year in advance, it felt like a problem for my future self. As I’ve reached the point in training where I’m doing half-marathons (or more) every weekend, I keep telling myself that this is (hopefully) the last time in my life where I’ll have this much free time and flexibility. As much as I enjoy complaining about it, it was (and sometimes still is) the only thing getting me out of the house. I also started writing a lot more this year, both for myself and for the first time since university, for other people. As my friends (who bless them have heard me rant and watched me break down several times this past year) have pointed out, this year has been nothing like what I expected, but that’s not entirely a bad thing. I’ve met new people and reconnected with friends I’d lost touch with, largely thanks to oversharing online. As I’ve tried to fill my time in a meaningful way, I keep telling myself that I don’t want to waste this time. I never planned to take the year off. I’ve never been good about taking breaks, but this time it was out of my hands. I had to sit with boredom and strip away the distractions; I could no longer stay in autopilot and had to start making decisions.

Nothing fits anymore

… and I don’t know who I am. I’ve been a student for most of my life, and now I don’t know how to define myself. I’ve measured time by milestones, pressing restart every September with the beginning of a new school year. I spent years working on the theory, and now that I’ve been thrown out into the real world, I’ve quickly realised that means nothing without having practice. I’m stuck in a weird limbo, and I sometimes feel like I’m regressing. I’ve become insecure again, but now, unlike my neurotic fifteen-year-old self, who was worried about not being skinny or pretty enough, I have since become endowed with the nuance that comes with age. I now worry about not being interesting or smart or competent enough. I catch myself overthinking more than ever before, wondering if I was too much, if I said something wrong, if I could and should have done things differently. I’ve outgrown relationships and had to relearn how to make friendships work as our priorities shift. Taking a step back and looking at your life from an outside perspective, or sometimes bringing an outsider in, can also make you start to reconsider.

Adulthood feels like a bit of a scam

This has been another running theme from the past year, and I’d like to at least partially blame my state of limbo. In the past year, I’ve had friends move in with their significant others, get engaged, lose a parent, buy a house, get their dream jobs, break off five-year relationships and completely pivot career paths. I’ve had several conversations that could be summed up by we’re too young for this. It’s not an omnipresent feeling for most of us, but it creeps up from time to time. We’ve all experienced the shock of listening in on a friend’s work call, watching with awe as they transform from the person you’ve seen puking behind a trash can at two am into the kind of person who writes dear network posts on LinkedIn. It happens when you look at the people who have been growing up alongside you, and you realise that if they’re adults, then you should be too. At my age, my mom was married and working in the biggest newspaper in the country, whilst I still call her for input before getting a haircut or meeting someone for coffee. In the past year, she’s taken to reminding me that she had a life before me, and not in a I used to be cool and hip way, but more so in a I’ve been messy too way. Growing up, The Little Prince was one of my favourite books, and it’s still one I revisit from time to time, as a hopeful reminder that you can grow up without becoming a grown-up. I’ve always rolled my eyes whenever people started talking about their inner child in conversation, but maybe they’re onto something when they say that’s the voice you should be listening to (though if there are lots of voices in your head, maybe get that checked out). It’s less about giving in to every whim without any regard for future consequences, and more about taking away the pressure to succeed, to impress and please everyone else.

I’d normally want to wrap this up nicely, but I still haven’t figured out this whole grown-up thing. If you enjoyed this piece or have any contacts in the Vatican, let me know! I’ve also written a bit more on the post-grad experience in In Defence of Messiness and Sell Yourself! — when the cover letters and dating app prompts converge.

I know at least some of these points might seem obvious. For anyone who’s never had their executive functioning affected by a major crash out (tell me your secrets), these might seem like the bare minimum and involve negligible effort. I do sometimes hate it when drinking water and seeing the sun fixes things, because wow, I’m basically a plant! I told a friend that whenever I’m having a hard time getting through the day (or week), I employ the Tamagotchi approach™, which is where you treat yourself like a simple creature, and make sure that you are getting food, water and sunlight (which can sometimes be a challenge during English winters, but God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers). Reset to the basic settings if you will. I was then informed that I was pretty much employing a DBT(Dialectical Behaviour Therapy) Skill (PLEASE), which is a great tip for anyone who didn’t come with emotional regulation as a pre-established factory setting.

1. Leave the house (at least once a day)

People who know me as a hyper-extroverted person might be surprised by my homebody tendencies, but I think they go hand in hand. I feel my most energized when I’m surrounded by people, but this also means I need some serious downtime. However, if I’m not feeling 100%, I don’t want to bring other people down with me (see point 8), and therefore, I can end up holed up at home for days at a time. Growing up, I’d have weeks in the summer just bleed into each other; if I had nowhere to be, I’d stop moving altogether. I will sometimes convince myself there is something seriously wrong with me, and then I’ll put on jeans for the first time in a week and make myself look presentable and leave the house, and suddenly I’m healed (or at least feeling a little better).

2. Limit your time on LinkedIn (and on social media in general)

Fresh grads might relate when I say that LinkedIn has taken over my screen time. I will pop in for a quick scroll, and next thing I know I’ve gone down several rabbit holes, tried to figure out what all these people posting about “business” with AI generated text littered with emojis actually do for a living, and mostly feeling like the last time I was happy with my productivity levels was in High School. We’ve all heard that comparison is the thief of joy, and have at this point come to terms with what we see on social media is at best an extremely curated version of people’s lives (though a lot of the time it is just fully manufactured). I haven’t heard people talking about the LinkedIn-triggered downwards spiral, though.

3. Whilst you’re at it, get off that damn phone

I know I’m really coming in with super hot and innovative takes, but sometimes it really is that damn phone. The way a whole day can fly by when you’re getting nothing done but doomscrolling is something else. I feel like a junkie, clicking “remind me in 15 minutes” whenever my screen time alerts come up, knowing fully well that I will continue to press snooze and waste yet another hour of my life. Let me remind you (and myself) that you probably don’t need to be reachable at all hours of the day. Turn your phone off or leave it in a different room. Read a book, watch a show, just stare at the ceiling for a bit, your retinas will thank you.

4. Avoid coffee on an empty stomach

Drink some water, I beg of you! I love the smell of coffee first thing in the morning. Filling a mug large enough I could swim laps in it and bringing it back to bed, to enjoy whilst I finish waking up. However, as a generally anxious person, I try to get some water and maybe some food in me before I hit my body with caffeine. I’ve had varying levels of success with this one, but I will say that I have felt a drastic difference on days when I don’t have coffee first thing in the morning. As a coffee lover I know this might be a hard one, I gave up coffee for over a year in High School after the anxiety, caffeine shakes and all-nighters started making me look like a sick Victorian child, and whilst I’m not recommending as drastic of an approach, a glass of water in the morning might make a massive difference.

5. Eat

This one kind of goes hand in hand with the previous point. I find that coffee completely kills my appetite, so if I’m having it as soon as I wake up, I’ll probably have my next meal around 4 pm. The lack of eating is usually a symptom of a bigger issue. A general lack of motivation might mean I’ll avoid grocery shopping and cooking, and if I’m not doing much all day, I don’t really get hungry. Then I’ll finally eat some carbs, maybe a vegetable, and be shocked at how my body responds to fuel. Groundbreaking, I know, but don’t forget to eat (and this is coming from the biggest foodie on the planet, so if I’m skipping meals, you know it’s bad). There’s no shame in keeping things simple, I know fed is best is a line usually reserved for breastfeeding mothers switching over to formula (I have a lot of new moms in my life), but it’s also valid for students, recent grads, people spiralling over a breakup or working eighty hours a week.

6. Wake up early(ish) and avoid rotting in bed

It’s easy to let the whole day pass you by in the summer, when the sun is setting late, you feel like you have all the time in the world. Anyone working from home might feel tempted to bring their laptop to bed, and my fellow post-grad-but-not-yet-working friends have all at some point gotten caught in the trap of rotting all day long. Whilst the occasional “day off” is fine, you’d be surprised (or maybe not) at how much better you might feel getting up before nine, and leaving your bed, your room, and maybe even your house if you’re feeling adventurous.

7. Exercise

Endorphins (aka nature’s drugs), unfortunately, are a real thing. I’m currently training for a marathon (I have to mention it every chance I get, I’m sorry I don’t make the insufferable soon-to-be marathon runner rules), so the fear of breaking mid-race overhauls whatever urge I have to remain immobile. With that being said, a long walk (leave the house!!) can also tick that box. I also feel the need to say that whilst you almost always feel better after exercising, you are not alone if you’re miserable during (I’d say I’m having a good time in like 30% of my runs, everything else feels like a chore). Things that have worked for me in the past include themed spin classes, especially with a friend, and making brunch plans at the end of every weekend run.

8. Resist the urge to avoid everyone and everything (this is the big one)

I wouldn’t usually describe myself as a people pleaser, but this behaviour was recently flagged by my therapist. I never want to be a Debbie Downer, and I always want to show up for people as my best self. Whenever I start spiralling, or I’m going through something, my immediate response is to shut everyone out. I’ll avoid plans with friends, field calls from my parents. I convince myself that I’m letting everyone down, and for some reason, I can’t face them. On a similar note, if there is a particular task or imminent conversation that is making me anxious, the way I want to deal with it is to avoid it altogether. I’m trying to be better about this, reminding myself that whenever my friends are having a hard time, I want to be there for them, and that sometimes, spending time with the people you love is the best way to pull you out of a rut. I think a lot of people hold themselves to much higher standards than they do everyone else in their lives, so let this be your reminder to give yourself a little grace.

I know this is different from what I usually write, and for the perpetually high functioning individuals it might seem ludicrous that eat and leave the house might be points on someone’s to-do list (I also include texting people back and calling my grandma on mine), but this has been a fun exercise whilst my therapist is away on holiday. I’m curious to know what everyone else is doing to stay sane these days, would love to hear your own takes on realistic self-care.

It’s me, I’m the twenty-something who wears business casual to brunch. In my defence, good tailoring is timeless, and brunch is the most versatile meal of the day. But other than that, I’m pretty much all over the place. Being chronically online means being bombarded by aesthetically pleasing time-stamped morning routines, spotless apartments and enviable careers. If you can’t work out, read, journal, have a matcha and layer twelve skincare products on your face by 8 am, don’t even bother trying. This piece was originally born out of frustration with my generation’s lack of messiness (it might also be in part the product of almost all my friends having corporate nine-to-fives whilst I wake up at noon, live off toast and agonise over cover letters and my next silly little Substack piece). As a kid, I was always proud when adults told me I was mature for my age (oh the trauma), but as an adult, I panic looking around me. Why is everyone in such a rush to grow up? What happened to making mistakes? To wearing questionable outfits and dating questionable people and saying to hell with it all every once in a while? As a member of the Soul Cycle cult, I was still deeply offended when a friend recently told me they couldn’t come out on the weekend because they had an early morning Pilates class booked on Sunday. I go to run clubs and wear SPF, but I’m worried about the predatory effects of wellness culture on our young! Nobody drinks or smokes or goes out anymore (I’m being dramatic, I know, but go ask your friend who’s protecting their peace when was the last time they made a drunk friend in the bathroom). A lot is said about the negative effects of these things, and I’m not recommending binge drinking and chain smoking, but all the positive social effects are being forgotten. How many friendships were forged by the oversharing after too many glasses of wine? How many conversations sparked by bumming a cig? I’m notoriously enraged by our hyper-individualistic culture, and whilst we should all be looking after ourselves, today’s wellness culture might take it a step too far (but like pop-off capitalism, anything to make you a better consumer, I guess).

My childhood best friend called me neurotic

My childhood best friend (hi Clara) came to visit me last week. We’ve known each other for ten years and have been around for almost every questionable phase. A friendship built on a lot of honesty (delivered with kindness) and love (but never pity, as we witnessed each other’s lowest points) meant that this week was one big therapy session. As we reminisced on our childhoods and how different we are from those twelve-year-olds, we laughed at how much things had changed. It’s a little disorienting, she told me, commenting on my lack of plan and general chaos, especially in comparison to who I was in school. You were pretty neurotic, which, yes, I agree, but I was also curious. What do you mean by that? I prodded. You were very together, but you were also a really nervous child. I often feel like I’m competing with my sixteen-year-old self (a fact I’m very much embarrassed by, rest assured). She was super productive and involved in a million extracurriculars. A great student, friend, daughter, I knew who I was and what I wanted and felt like I was on track to get it. What I sometimes seem to forget are the frequent all-nighters and general ever-present anxiety that permeated that period of my life. If pleasing everyone came at the cost of my own sanity, so be it. I might have seemed like I had it all figured out, but that was mainly fueled by an overwhelming fear of disappointing others.

I brought up the HBO Girls Renaissance in Therapy

Like the rest of the GenZ-ers who were left floundering after finishing Sex and the City, I have recently started watching HBO’s Girls. I had some cultural awareness (I’m not an animal), mostly in the form of a trending audio of Lena Dunham saying she might be the voice of a generation, or the let’s make fun of the girl who took a risk and put herself out there creatively meme (Marnie Michaels they could never make me hate you). Watching Marnie’s neurotic antics, I cringed with painful recognition. In a recent interview with Slate, Williams reflected on the Gen Z reception of her character, and how it has differed from how people viewed her when the show originally aired, stating that a lot of people don’t want to be seen becoming something, they just want to be it already. I had to resist the urge to text my therapist the link, cancelling our next session because that’s enough self-reflection for the week. In a way, it was comforting to realise that [part of] the reason why so many people hated Marnie was because of that unflattering (but uncannily accurate) reflection. Whilst the lucky folks with a developed pre-frontal cortex might roll their eyes at my naiveté, I tried to strip back some of the negative connotations with the period of my life I’m labelling work in progress.

Who am I when things aren’t going according to plan?

The theme for this year was getting comfortable with being uncomfortable. For the first time in my life, things were not only not going according to plan, but I wasn’t even sure what the plan was anymore. I had to sit with boredom and re-evaluate my choices. I was out of school, unemployed, and single, and therefore had to find validation elsewhere (and this is why I am now training for a marathon). As someone who’s always placed a lot of value on concrete measures of success, in anything from the obvious, such as good grades and a high salary, to the ridiculous, such as a quick pace doing Zone 2 cardio and a low number on the scale, I struggle to figure out how to measure myself in this uncertain phase of life (please, tell me it’s a phase mom). I’m trying to recognise the wonderful things that come out of being bored, being messy. I’ve been told that having your life figured out is overrated (by people who, objectively, have their life figured out, so I’m not sure how much to trust them), but I’m trying to slow down and enjoy (and document) the process of becoming.

Because my mom and my best friends are subscribed, I need to preface by saying this is not a cry for help. Yes, I’ve been going through it lately (and by it I mean the existential dread fuelled by being a fresh grad/twenty-something who doesn't know what she’s doing with her life ) but I’m taking it all in stride and trying to milk it for the entertainment of my eight loyal readers. I’ve always been a big crier, I feel big feelings. I think if I were to tally up my tears and run the numbers (I’m a little too into Excel) I’d say most of my tears aren’t sad tears. I cry a lot out of frustration, but also tears of joy, drunken confusion, being generally overwhelmed with my emotions, and as of last month, as a result of my body’s rejection of pollen.

I’ve cried in public for plenty of harmless reasons. I cry reading books all the time, and since I spend a lot of time reading in public [transport], lots of randos have seen me attempt to keep my sniffling down. I also get teary-eyed watching Christmas adverts and strangers on the internet find out they’re going to be parents, so I avoid those in public but pull them out when I’m overdue a tear fest. A few summers ago when I was visiting Palermo with my family, I shed an actual tear after taking the first bite of my Pasta alla Norma. On a more embarrassing note, last month I had a public breakdown on the Overground, laugh-crying about my frustration with job applications sat between two (employed) friends whilst the five other people around eyed me with pity. I also recall the summer before my senior year of High School, sobbing, lying on my mother’s lap on some bench at the Barnard campus after blanking in the middle of my interview. Last summer after realising maybe I do suffer slightly from vertigo halfway through a hike with my best friends, I had a semi-public panic attack and allowed myself a mini-pity-party before having to rush the second half if we wanted to make our train home. I’ve gotten calls with bad news in public and had to sit on the curb or on the stairs of my university building to digest. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk-cried in a bathroom but have made many bathroom besties by consoling girls who have (the momentary bonds formed in girls’ bathrooms are one of my favourite things about being a woman). My friends tease me mercilessly about my (sometimes teary) drunken confessions of love and appreciation (I tell them I love and appreciate them when I’m sober with double the frequency so I’m not sure why they’re still surprised when I start listing their attributes after two shots of tequila).

Crying in public… best places, best practices, and does anyone even care?

I think F. Scott Fitzgerald was onto something when he wrote “I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.” Have I already mentioned I was crying on the overground last week? I feel like crying (or existing in general) in a packed tube doesn’t feel like that big of a deal, it’s rush hour, everyone is low-key dissociating until they get home and no one pays you any mind. Semi-empty trains though? That’s an entirely different story. Your eyes tend to wander and it’s easier to eavesdrop. I’m 50/50 on crying in the bathroom. They can be inconspicuous, but you run the risk of walking out of the stall only to face a queue of people who have bore witness to your meltdown in the middle of the workday. The smell alone can also account for some eye-watering in certain public restrooms. Maybe my main character syndrome is showing (a common side effect of chronic memoir consumption) but for someone who feels lost and powerless a lot of the time, crying in public can feel refreshingly like being back in control. If it sounds like I’m trying to sell you on crying in public, it’s because I probably am. I really think it might be good for you. Regain control by relinquishing it. We spend so much time concerned about how we’re perceived, the last thing we want is to shatter the illusion of having it together. I for one have slowly started to embrace the publicization of not having things figured out (first, you start telling your friends you’re actually kinda struggling, and next thing you know you’re getting looks of concern when you tell them you’re working on a piece about crying in public for strangers on the internet… but it’s light and upbeat! you promise them. This has all happened in the span of the week my therapist has been on holiday. She’ll be in for a treat).

I’m always comforted by the reminder of how little strangers care or pay attention to you. Even if they notice your public tears on their way home and happen to mention it to the friend they’re meeting that night at the pub, you’ll be old news soon enough. I find strangers are rarely a source of embarrassment for me (case in point, I have no issue oversharing with strangers on the internet) and close friends have seen me in every possible state, so we’re beyond that as well. What makes me cringe is the thought of seeing an acquaintance in public when I’m having a public meltdown. The anonymity of it all is 90% of the appeal. Crying on the overground might have been a little embarrassing (can you tell this has been keeping me up at night?) but the real killer would have been to look up and make watery eye contact with someone I knew in high school, an old professor or a former insignificant other. At the end of the day, let him who has never cried in public cast the first stone (lucky you!)