Nearly a decade ago now, I went to see my doctor about how I was dealing with my long-running battle with anxiety. When I was in my thirties, I had suffered two serious depressive episodes, and ever since, had been keen to find ways to stay calm and well. As I was leaving, the doctor told me there was compelling evidence about the links between mood and food. She wrote down on her prescription pad a list of happy foods that might keep me calm, including green leafy vegetables, dark chocolate, and oily fish. I was intrigued. It was time to further my knowledge, and up the pace by getting the help of a nutritionist, Alice Mackintosh. Together, Alice and I began to develop recipes for my symptoms. We came up with dishes to comfort me when I felt low, others designed to boost my energy levels, and ideas on what to eat when I suffered from a foggy brain, another symptom of my anxiety. The result was our cookbook ‘The Happy Kitchen: Good Mood Food.’ My own copy has never been more well-thumbed. One constant through the cost-of-living crisis, and this time of high levels of mental distress — there are now 8.6 million adults taking antidepressants — has been our need to cook, even for those who would not normally stir a wooden spoon or scrape down a mixing bowl: it’s too expensive to go out, and many who suffer low mood don’t feel up to going to a restaurant. Using food to boost mood can be an important tool in our wellbeing toolkits. Life remains uncertain for millions, and we need to be as balanced and steady as possible as we grapple with our new reality: the only certainty is uncertainty. Cooking itself can be therapeutic and keep us sane. Many I have spoken to in the Good Mood Food workshops I run for companies and charities talk of the reassuring rituals of the weighing out of ingredients, chopping the vegetables, whisking, beating, folding, slicing assembling, not to mention the joy of indulging in the end results. Here is the first of four recipes which I will be sharing with Inspire the Mind readers, which will help your mental wellbeing. I’ve chosen our Iron Rich Steak Salad for my Spring choice as this was one of the very first recipes Alice developed for me with a view to kick-starting my energy levels. There’s no better time to get moving than Spring, as the days lengthen, the weather improves, and we throw off the lethargy of Winter. Fatigue can be one of the most potent side-effects of antidepressants. Alice explained before dealing with anxiety, our best bet is to boost energy levels. "Once you feel more energetic, you will in turn exercise more, and sleep better, both key for mental wellbeing" Alice explains. Iron is fundamental to our energy levels, as is essential for keeping our blood oxygenated. If you are vegetarian, add leafy vegetables like kale and watercress to the salad, as well as edamame beans — all great sources of iron. Ideally, have this recipe with a glass of orange juice or a satsuma: Vitamin C aids iron absorption. BALANCED ENERGY: IRON-RICH STEAK SALAD Alice used to find it quite hard to cook steak, but this method (inspired by Nigella Lawson) keeps it deliciously tender. The marriage between the iron-rich steaks, the colourful salad, the zingy horseradish, and the creamy feta cheese are perfect. I use artichokes and sundried tomatoes from my local supermarket’s deli counter, which saves a lot of time. Be sure not to buy artichokes soaked in vinegar, though, as the flavour can overpower the salad. If possible, use grass-fed steak, which contains more nutrients than intensively farmed beef. Serves 2 For the dressing: 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce 1 tablespoon crème fraîche 1 teaspoon horseradish sauce 1 teaspoon cider vinegar 1 teaspoon honey 1 teaspoon olive oil 2 x 250g rump steaks – ideally around 3cm thick. For the marinade: Handful parsley, chopped 2 garlic cloves, crushed 6 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil Juice and zest of ½ lemon 4 drops Tabasco sauce (optional) For the salad: 80g flat-leaf parsley, chopped 6 sundried tomatoes, roughly chopped 4 artichoke hearts, quartered 100g rocket, washed and drained 8 red radishes, thinly sliced 70g feta cheese, crumbled 4 tablespoons pomegranate seeds (optional) 2 tablespoons toasted pine nuts (optional) Steps 1. First make the dressing by combining all the ingredients and shaking them together in a jar. 2. Trim the harder fat off the steaks, brush with oil and season both sides with salt. 3. Heat a griddle or heavy-based pan, and add the meat once hot. Cook for 4 minutes on each side. If you prefer your steak well done, then leave for another 1−2 minutes on each side. 4. Meanwhile, make the marinade. Whisk together all the ingredients in a dish big enough to accommodate the cooked steaks. 5. Place the steaks in the marinade for 8 minutes, turning them halfway through. Then remove them to a board and slice them thinly on the diagonal. 6. While the meat rests, combine the salad ingredients in a large bowl. Pour over three-quarters of the dressing and toss everything together. 7. To serve, place the sliced steak on a bed of the salad and pour over the rest of the dressing. Scatter with toasted pine nuts, if so desired.

How can someone who is depressed, and at the bottom of their bed, become more active? It’s a question I often pondered myself when afflicted by two severe depressive episodes in my thirties. Of course I knew that exercise was a good idea: it is a commonplace that it affects every system in the body, from our cardiovascular to our muscular-skeletal. And it’s particularly helpful for those of a nervous disposition like me. Dr Carla Croft is a clinical psychologist, and head of Psychological Wellbeing at Barts Health NHS Trust. “The most important thing we get from moving is a boost for mental wellbeing,” she tells me. “Movement for weight loss is less successful, but the mental health benefits of movement are numerous, including indirect benefits like improving sleep. We think exercise has an impact on brain chemistry, tension in the body, motivation and energy and other processes that contribute to strain like bowel function.” Photo by Elina Fairytale from Pexels Yet ironically, I found that knowing quite how much physical movement can help our wellbeing was an added pressure. It felt more and more important to get moving, but I felt less and less able to do so. I found a different approach helped. What if I became more sympathetic to myself? And became gentler to that person who resisted exercise? And understood a bit more about how we evolved to be active in certain ways? Counter-intuitively, and odd as it sounds, it was acknowledging that I found exercise hard, and finding compassion for that person, that helped me tip-toe out from under the duvet. The fact is that we never evolved to do exercise for the sake of exercise. Far from it. We evolved to avoid needless exertion. The reason is that physical activity costs calories, that until recently were always in short supply (and still are for many people). When food is limited, every calorie spent on physical activity is a calorie not spent on other critical functions, such as maintaining our bodies, storing energy, and reproducing. It is a modern idea to undertake physical activity for the sake of fitness. However, we did evolve to be active in two ways, ways that might suit us resistant exercisers who are feeling low, or haven’t always got the time or inclination to go to the gym anyway. Firstly, we moved because we had no choice. We either moved to get food, or to gather wood, or some other task; and sometimes we moved in a frantic rush to escape predators, be they other tribes or tigers. Secondly, we moved because it was fun and what we wanted to do, mainly playing games or dancing. Let’s take both in turn. First, the short, sharp shock school of movement, as if you were being chased by a lion. For me, as I was recovering from my depression and still mainly home-based, this initially translated into sprinting up the stairs to tell my teenagers it was supper. Later on, as I returned to work, it meant cycling up the hill in a hurry. How much do we need this kind of intense cardiovascular exercise? I am wary of recommending any amount or type of exercise, as many such prescriptions are arbitrary. How much to exercise depends on dozens of factors, such as your fitness, age, injury history and health concerns. Research suggests that getting your heart rate up is one of the quickest and most effective ways to improve your mood. One reason is that this kind of cardiovascular exercise causes a chemical change in your brain like the one created by antidepressants. You will be bathed in a ‘runner’s high’, the kind of endorphin rush which follows this high-intensity exercise. Photo by Dominika Roseclay from Pexels Getting your heart rate up also raises your blood pressure, which in turn helps you become more alert. This will in turn make you more productive. If you can exercise outside, this will amplify the effect: we know that many people cheer up even more when exposed to natural light because of the mood-boosting impact of Vitamin D after this kind of intense activity. The second way I found myself exercising more was by abandoning the idea that exercise is something we should do, and instead think of it as something we might enjoy in the manner of our ancestors, as something fun. When we are young, we do not have to think about doing exercise at all. Small children naturally delight in their physicality: they adore jumping and skipping and their ability to move. Sadly, we lose this instinctive enjoyment in our bodies’ ability to move as we grow up. How then to re-awaken this sense of fun? Image from HuffPost I found the first step to enjoying exercise in this way is to dismantle many of the rules and judgements about how and when we should move. There are so many exhortations – that we should and should not exercise in certain ways, in certain clothes and in certain places, that many of us feel guilty and not good enough. Exercise can become a form of punishment. The very word exercise is often associated with the hard work, sweating, and goal setting that often accompanies trips to the gym. It also seems to be associated with the weight loss industry, and body image. The result is that some people find that exercising makes them feel judged, not good enough at getting results and fearful of failing. Maybe if you conceive of exercise as fun, you might find it easier to get fit. What is fun will look different for all of us, but for many of us, it involves other people. Dr Croft says: “Mental health research suggests that you can add to the benefits of exercising by making it social. Our brain chemistry is impacted positively by socialising and movement, so we get a double whammy if we do it in a group or with a friend. This is an easy way to keep motivated as well". You might also consider moving with others who are similarly resistant to exercise normally. If you agree to meet friends, you’ll be obliged to show up, you’ll enjoy feeling socially connected, and you’ll keep each other going. Like our ancestors, we are more likely to be active in groups. Find a group or class that is friendly and involves movement such as a Zumba class. Give it a try and commit to going a few times. In my 'exercise as fun' category comes stretching and flexing. It is just such a pleasant feeling to feel your limbs lengthen. When we don’t stretch, muscles become shorter and tighter which reduces our range of motion and flexibility. Research suggests activities such as stretching or yoga benefit both flexibility and mood. They can reduce anxiety by focusing on the present moment, and concentrating on one aspect of your body, non-judgmentally, in a simple way. I like the idea that being more physically flexible can make us feel more mentally flexible. It also helps to open out muscle groups that may have become tight or restricted if you are in threat mode, therefore reducing the symptoms of anxiety. I recently had a conversation with Consultant psychiatrist Dr Jamie Arkell, who noted that this kind of stress-reducing exercise is especially important as we get older, and indeed potentially more anxious. He explained, “we need to keep cortisol levels low because after the age of 30, the DHEA hormone which manages stress, reduces.” In addition, the stress hormone cortisol drives muscle loss. Dr Arkell recommends keeping up social relationships and using the “4’2’4” breathing approach: take a slow breath in through your nose, breathing into your lower belly for about four seconds. Hold your breath for one or two seconds. Then exhale slowly through the mouth for about four seconds. Such breathing exercises are now part of my own mental health toolkit, as is exercise. It’s been a long journey to become more active, but one I would recommend to anyone else who is finding life hard.

We live in uncertain times. The UK has just witnessed an election, wars are being fought, and many of us feel anxious about the state of the world. What better moment than to turn to comfort food? Rather than feel like you must stop comfort eating, the nutritionist Alice Mackintosh, with whom I co-wrote The Happy Kitchen: Good Mood Food, taught me to redefine what comfort food is; by adding in healthy substitutions in place of less healthy ones. Our book more broadly summarises the research in this important new field of how food can boost our mood, as well as sharing recipes to put the theory into practice. As someone with a history of depression, you have few enough pleasures and will naturally be drawn to sweet treats. But classic comfort foods tend to be high in sugar and refined carbohydrates, creating the kind of sugar highs and lows that play havoc with mood. Our Dark Chocolate Brazil Nut Brownies are a healthy twist on a familiar favourite. We spent ages perfecting our brownies, ensuring they were soft, rich, and gooey in the centre. Though they’re still a treat, you have more control over the ingredients as you’re making them yourself. Alice explained how spelt flour is wholegrain, meaning it won’t lead to a sugar spike as white flour does, and Brazil nuts contain selenium, which plays an important role in the immune system. Cacao is a rich source of magnesium and antioxidants which reduce anxiety. Find my recipe below! Dark Chocolate Brazil nut brownies Makes about 15 squares What you’ll need: 10 Brazil nuts 125g of dark chocolate (ideally 100 per cent cocoa) 100ml of almond milk 150g of coconut oil, plus extra for greasing the tin 250ml of maple syrup Seeds from vanilla pod or 1 tbsp of vanilla extract 50g of raw cacao powder, sieved 3 eggs 130g of spelt flour 1 tsp of baking powder How to prepare: 1. Preheat the oven to 190°C / gas mark 5. Grease a 30cm x 20cm brownie tin and line with baking parchment. Leave the paper sticking up at the sides to make it easier to lift the brownies out when they’re cooked. 2. Roast the Brazil nuts in the oven for 15 minutes, turning them once halfway through. They should be slightly browned. Leave them to cool, then chop coarsely. 3. Put the chocolate, almond milk, coconut oil, maple syrup, and vanilla seeds or extract in a saucepan over a very gentle heat, stirring regularly, until everything has melted and you have a rich, glossy-looking batter. 4. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in the cacao powder. 5. Allow the mixture to cool for 10 to 15 minutes, then beat in the eggs. Add the flour, baking powder and chopped Brazil nuts. 6. Pour the mixture into the pre-prepared tin and bake in the oven for about 12 minutes. Insert a cocktail stick — it should come out with a little chocolate residue. If you like your brownies less gooey, put the tin back in the oven for a further 3 to 5 minutes but take it out before the top starts to crack, otherwise the consistency will be more like cake. 7. Remove the tin from the oven and use the baking parchment to help you slide the whole brownie on to a cooling rack. Cut into squares once it’s cooled completely. Rachel Kelly is a writer and mental health campaigner and author of The Happy Kitchen: Good Mood Food published by Short Books. Twitter: @rachelkellynet

Now, at the age of 58, I’m arguably in the autumn of my life. As the days draw in and the leaves begin to fall, it feels like the right time of year to consider the new symptoms I’ve been dealing with caused by the onset of menopause, such as palpitations, hot flushes and my old foe insomnia, to name but a delightful few. For me, hormonal change has been a trigger for anxiety over the years – and diet has been one answer to my problems. Research published recently published by King’s College London and Zoe, the science and nutrition company, has found an association similar to what I have long found to be true for myself: that what we eat can help reduce menopausal symptoms. The study looked at 4,287 menopausal women, and found that those that ate a healthier diet with a higher number of plant-based foods, had fewer experiences of hot flushes and mood swings. However, the research didn’t have a control group, which means a group that did not make the dietary changes, therefore further research is needed to know whether it was diet alone, or other lifestyle changes that contributed. Nevertheless, it is true for me that eating a healthier, high-fibre diet guards against the negative consequences of hormonal changes in midlife. Men, too, can suffer from hormonal strife. Some men experience their own version of ‘male menopause’, also known as the ‘andropause’. The ‘male menopause’ can affect men in their late 40s to 50s, and whilst the most prominent symptoms can be related to libido, many men also experience changes in energy levels, sleep cycles and mood. It can sometimes be related to the steady, small decline in testosterone. However, more commonly, causes are more closely related to lifestyle and psychological factors. But, what are hormones? Hormones are the body’s chemical messengers, which are secreted from various glands throughout the body, and into the bloodstream, which transports them to organs and tissues. We have several different types of hormones, responsible for among other things, reproduction, growth, and, of course, mood. In women, oestrogen and progesterone are both connected to mood. Recent evidence suggests that serotonin might be the mechanism through which oestrogen affects mood and behaviour, as oestrogen has been shown to increase the concentration of serotonin receptors in the brain. So, we need to keep an eye on our oestrogen supplies. Similarly, a sharp drop in progesterone after birth has been linked to ‘baby blues’. The baby blues are symptoms such as low mood, tearfulness, and anxiety, which occur in the first week after birth and then subside. Those who have struggled with anxiety or depression before childbirth are especially vulnerable. How to help our hormonal balance? I’ve let food be my medicine over the past few years to deal with my mood swings and hot flushes. I’ve written my book The Happy Kitchen: Good Mood Food with the nutritional therapist Alice Mackintosh. She has helped me stay calm and steady for the past five years and ride the hormonal rollercoaster of menopause. In our book, we include recipes using these ingredients and synthesise the research explaining why they make such a difference to our hormonal balance. I hope eating these foods will help you as much as it has helped me. Here are my top four choices – and a recipe to help too. 1. Brazil Nuts for thyroid health: The thyroid is an important hormonal gland that plays a major role in the metabolism, growth and maturation of the body. It takes iodine from the foods we eat to make two main hormones, triiodothyronine (T3) and thyroxine (T4). In some parts of the world, iodine deficiency is a common cause of hypothyroidism but iodine deficiency is uncommon in the UK and at the moment I don’t suffer from it. However, to protect against iodine deficiency, eating shellfish and white fish can boost your iodine levels, as well as selenium. Selenium is an essential trace element, which is present in most foods, particularly Brazil nuts, offal and fish. In addition to supporting the thyroid, it plays an important role in the immune and nervous system. Try our "Five-Minute Raw Chocolates" from our cookbook: they contain Brazil nuts. But be careful not to eat more than a couple a day, as too much selenium can be toxic, and one Brazil nuts contains almost twice what our daily need - one or two a day would about right. 2. Edamame Beans for phytoestrogens: Image from Pexels by cottonbro studio Phytoestrogens, also sometimes called ‘dietary oestrogens’, are compounds derived from plants with oestrogen-like properties, and are found in a wide variety of foods, notably soy, edamame beans, flaxseed and wheatgerm. Some research has found phytoestrogens may benefit the health and mood of menopausal women by gently boosting their oestrogen supplies. The only way to find out if these foods will benefit you is to try eating a moderate amount, around three times a week, and keep a record of how you feel. I would start with edamame beans: they are now easy to buy, are a good source of phytoestrogens, and provide plenty of fibre too. 3. Almonds for calcium: Image from Pexels by Kafeel Ahmed Making sure I have enough calcium has been helpful in my quest to feel steady as a menopausal woman. There is plenty of evidence for its importance in preventing bone loss and reducing fracture risk. Edamame, almonds, green leafy vegetables, organic cheese and natural yoghurt are all useful sources of calcium. However, I’ve found eating almonds the easiest way to boost my supplies. You can eat them as a snack, or toast them for added crunchiness, not to mention adding to salads or chopped up and sprinkled on soups or yoghurt. 4. Kale for folate: To best support the delicate balance of oestrogen and progesterone we need a well-functioning liver. Research has suggested that vitamin B12 and folate are essential to the proper functioning of the liver, and also help maintain our hormones, and therefore our moods. Leafy greens such as kale provide folate. In our cookbook we have a recipe for "Calming Green Broth", which includes kale. Kale is also rich in fibre, which helps support a well-functioning digestive system, so it’s another top choice for a menopausal woman. Image from The Happy Kitchen by Rachel Kelly and Alice Mackintosh Calming Green Broth Recipe You can be flexible with the green vegetables you use. Cauliflower, for example, works as well as broccoli, and you can replace the cavolo nero, which is Italian for black cabbage, with kale or cabbage. If you can’t find a bouquet garni, bundle up any spare bay, rosemary or thyme with string and make your own. – Serves 2 – Ingredients 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 leek, roughly chopped1 courgette, roughly chopped100g broccoli, roughly chopped Handful of fresh parsley, roughly chopped 4 garlic cloves, finely chopped or crushed 500ml vegetable stock 1 bouquet garni 100g cavolo nero, kale or spring greens 100g spinach leaves Pinch of chilli flakes (optional) 1 teaspoon tamari (optional) Recipe 1. Heat the oil in a large saucepan and sauté the leek, courgette and broccoli with the parsley and garlic for 2-3 minutes. 2. Add the stock and bouquet garni. 3. Chop the greens or cavolo nero into strips (the broth won’t be blended, so keep them quite small) and add them to the pan too. Don't stir them in – let them sit on top. 4. Cover the pot with a lid, turn the heat down to low and leave it to simmer for 20-25 minutes. 5. About 4 minutes before the end of cooking time, add the spinach leaves. These will wilt quickly. 6. If you like a little more spice, you can add the tamari and chilli flakes. Remember to take out the bouquet garni before serving.

The Christmas holidays are approaching, with talk of turkey, brussels sprouts, and all the trimmings. But for thousands of teenagers, their minds (and stomachs) are less focussed on traditional festive fare and more on burgers, pizzas, flavoured yoghurts and sugary cereals: in short, the kind of junk food which has surged in popularity in recent years thanks to aggressive marketing of cheap ultra-processed food. Ultra-processed foods are understood to be "highly-processed convenience foods and snacks, often energy-dense, poor in nutrients, and inclusive of various synthetic additives such as emulsifiers, colors, artificial sweeteners, and/or flavor enhancers". A new report from the Centre for Young Lives has found that since 1995, young people are eating fewer fruit and vegetables, and more processed foods – therefore diets which are lacking in essential nutrition. 82% of 5 to 15-year-olds do not consume the recommended five daily portions of fruit and vegetables, and children aged 4 to 10 are consuming almost double their recommended daily sugar limits. The report also highlights the challenges facing schools as they try to provide healthy food on limited budgets. As one researcher commented: “The closest thing you get to fruit is jelly.” So far, so familiar. For the past five years, I have been running well-being workshops for teenagers and their parents in my role as an ambassador for SANE and Rethink Mental Illness. It has become clear to me, like so many others, that we need to encourage healthier eating among young people, not to mention more physical activity, as crucial routes to well-being and good mental health. This is particularly important as the Mental Health Foundation finds that 50% of mental health problems are established by the age of 14, and 75 per cent by the age of 24. What is to be done? Some change needs to be led by the government. As Henry Dimbleby, the former government food tsar and author of the National Food Strategy, has said, "We need the government to take decisive action to make healthy and sustainable food affordable, stem the constant flow of junk food and to realise that investing in children’s health is an investment in the future of the country". But parents can make a difference too. How can we tempt our children away from junk food? It’s tough to encourage our teenagers to eat healthily. Parents are tired. Teenagers like junk food which 'hijacks' their taste buds with high levels of fats, sugars and oils, and they often feed themselves, out of our sight. What’s the answer? Not to beat ourselves up about our limited ability to influence them through this period. We are no longer deciding what food they eat in the way we once did. We can reassure ourselves that this is a time of change, and their eating habits will too. I have learnt our best bet through this period is to be an example of someone who tries to eat healthily ourselves and avoids judging their food choices. Just as we are trying to avoid value judgements around food choices for ourselves, we want to avoid judgement around our teenagers’ bodies and their food choices. Bodies are all different and all worthy of being respected. From my experience, if we say no to a particular food, our teenagers are likely either to rebel and eat more of it, or to become more anxious around that type of food. Trust adolescents to choose what they want to eat; to have their own likes and dislikes; to choose when they have had enough; so that they get to know themselves and their own bodies. It follows that we want to be wary about promoting any new popular diets around the kitchen table, with lots of ‘do’s’ and ‘don’ts’. Additionally, trying to avoid completely cutting out a food group, or ‘clean eating’, which recommends choosing organic foods in their less processed states, but which can be taken to an extreme whereby advocates aim to avoid all traces of any artificial colours or added sugar. Overly demonising ultra-processed foods only makes them more enticing. Given the world in which we live, it’s inevitable that they will sometimes eat junk food (as will we). If we disparage unhealthy food, they will either rebel and eat more of it, or become anxious around it, which can lead to eating disorders, which are on the rise in teenage girls. A study published in 2023 found that since March 2020 the number of teenage girls with eating disorders was 42% higher than would be expected before the pandemic in those aged 13-16, and 32% higher in those aged 17-19. Instead of berating them, and ourselves, for lapsing when we hungrily fall on a pizza, I have found focussing on balance helps to encourage a healthy diet. For example, I like to follow the 80 per cent rule. Try and provide healthy food 80 per cent of the time. Share with teenagers the joy of a ripe tomato exploding on their palate. We can provide at home the kind of mood-boosting fishcakes, sardines, salmon, mackerel, maybe some fish oil supplements, as well as nuts, seeds, live yoghurt and avocado. Put vegetables on the table first when teenagers are hungriest. Given the popularity of plant-based diets among teenagers, aim for a vegan base of beans or vegetables; then people can add eggs, meat or fish. We can tempt them with recipes: here are two from my “Happy Kitchen: Good Mood Food” book that I’ve found tend to appeal to adolescents - they look tempting, and they soothe frazzled teenage nerves. First up is my jewelled guacamole and roasted peppers on rye bread, and second a calming green broth. Enjoy, and season’s greetings for a nourishing Christmas to all! JEWELLED GUACAMOLE AND ROASTED PEPPERS ON RYE BREAD This recipe brings out the best in the vegetables it contains. The peppers are deliciously sweet and the pomegranates add sparkle to the dish. What’s more, they are bursting with vitamin C and rich in fibre, which supports a healthy gut. You can normally find small pots of them in supermarkets, or buy the fruit and scoop out the seeds yourself. I have found it is another practice to do mindfully and with focus as a way of calming myself down. Don’t panic if you don’t have time or can’t get hold of any, though – the dish tastes good without them. – Serves 1, with leftovers – 2 red, yellow or orange peppers, deseeded and sliced 2 tablespoons olive oil Small handful of flat-leaf parsley, chopped 1 large ripe avocado 1⁄2 garlic clove, crushed Squeeze of lemon juice Handful of pomegranate seeds 2 slices of toasted rye bread, with added seeds if possible 1. Preheat the oven to 180°C. 2. Place the peppers on a baking sheet and drizzle with the olive oil and a little chopped parsley. Bake them for 20 minutes, turning them halfway through. We like them slightly charred on the outside. 3. Scoop out the avocado flesh and mash it together with the garlic paste and a dash of olive oil. We prefer it a little lumpy, but if you want a smooth consistency, mash away to your heart’s content. 4. Add a squeeze of lemon (not too much) and mix in the pomegranate seeds. 5. Once the peppers are cooked, you are ready to serve. Drizzle olive or hempseed oil over the hot toast, and then spread on the guacamole. Place the roasted peppers on top and add a sprinkle of parsley. The guacamole can be stored in the fridge but may go a little brown as the avocado oxidises, so it is better eaten the same day. And second my calming green broth, which seems to have a soothing effect on me and my five children, possibly thanks to the magnesium the recipe contrains. CALMING GREEN BROTH You can be flexible with the green vegetables you use. Cauliflower, for example, works as well as broccoli, and you can replace the cavolo nero, which is Italian for black cabbage, with kale or cabbage. If you can’t find a bouquet garni, bundle up any spare bay, rosemary or thyme with string and make your own. – Serves 2 – 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 leek, roughly chopped 1 courgette, roughly chopped 100g broccoli, roughly chopped Handful of fresh parsley, Roughly chopped 4 garlic cloves, 500ml vegetable stock 1 bouquet garni 100g cavolo nero, kale or spring greens 100g spinach leaves Pinch of chilli flakes (optional) 1 teaspoon tamari (optional) 1. Heat the oil in a large saucepan and sauté the leek, courgette and broccoli with the parsley and garlic for 2-3 minutes. 2. Add the stock and bouquet garni. 3. Chop the greens or cavolo nero into strips (the broth won’t be blended, so keep them quite small) and add them to the pan too. Don't stir them in – let them sit on top. 4. Cover the pot with a lid, turn the heat down to low and leave it to simmer for 20-25 minutes. 5. About 4 minutes before the end of cooking time, add the spinach leaves. These will wilt quickly. 6. If you like a little more spice, you can add the tamari and chilli flakes. Remember to take out the bouquet garni before serving.

One in two of us in the UK will be directly affected by dementia in our lifetime, either by caring for someone with dementia, developing it ourselves, or both. But compared to other major health conditions, like cancer, effective treatments aren’t readily available, and there is very little support following a diagnosis. I’m Natalie, a Research Assistant at King’s College London, working on the DETERMIND study. I regularly visit people living with dementia and their caregivers (mostly family members or friends) in their homes to have a chat about how they are doing. The study aims to understand inequalities in dementia care and their impact on people’s quality of life. We want to find a fairer path to dementia care and close the gap between the number of people living with dementia and the support that, unfortunately, people often don’t receive. Since working in dementia research, I’ve become much more aware of the misconceptions associated with dementia. When I tell people that my job involves interviewing people with dementia, I am asked questions loaded with stigma and misunderstanding of the condition, such as “Is that really hard and depressing?” Until they are directly affected, people often misunderstand dementia, the support available, or what to do when a loved one is diagnosed. Through this article, I want to share some of the things I’ve learnt from conversations with people with dementia and those who support them, highlighting inequalities in people’s paths following a diagnosis. To note, I don’t have the answers to everything. The DETERMIND project is still underway with findings pending, so these views are based on my experience. What is Dementia? And Common Misconceptions Explained I’m often asked what the difference is between dementia and Alzheimer’s disease, or I hear people say, “We were so relieved it’s just dementia and not Alzheimer’s disease”. To make the difference clear, dementia is an umbrella term that describes symptoms like memory loss, confusion, and difficulties with thinking and problem-solving. Alzheimer’s disease is one of many types of dementia, and symptoms can be mild or more pronounced and vary from person to person. While nothing can guarantee that we won’t develop dementia, we can reduce our risk. Socialising, living a generally healthy lifestyle, and protecting our hearing can play important roles in reducing our risk of developing dementia. If hearing loss goes undetected or untreated (e.g., with hearing aids), you may be more likely to withdraw from conversations and social situations, which could increase your risk of dementia. It might be frustrating if your loved one with dementia repeats the same questions or stories several times, so you may be tempted to point out the repetitions to them. But people with dementia can’t help it! It’s better to go along with it, as telling someone they are repeating themselves has no benefit and is more likely to make them worry. Research has also shown that even people with advanced dementia notice when general conversational rules, such as turn-taking or asking and answering questions, are ignored. Understandably, this can be distressing for them. Image Source: Tristan Le on Pexels Perhaps most importantly, people with dementia can live happy and fulfilling lives. Research has shown that someone’s quality of life doesn’t always decline after a dementia diagnosis. I’ve seen this first-hand in our interviews. Being social, keeping active, and maintaining good physical health can help people with dementia to live well. Caregivers can play a pivotal role in maintaining their wellbeing, but this sometimes comes at the expense of their own quality of life. There is currently no cure for dementia, so while researchers are working hard to find one, it’s important that we look after people living with dementia, and also the people who care for them. Illustration by Luce Stewart, DETERMIND research study Why is Support So Unequal? Unfortunately, there is no set care path following a diagnosis. Many people must navigate the system themselves. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve asked someone about the support they receive, and they respond, “What support? We got the diagnosis, a prescription, and then nothing. No one calls; no one asks how we are coping.” This is not the fault of the Memory Clinic; they are an assessment service. The harsh reality is that a care pathway hasn’t been implemented or invested in. Health and social services are often only involved at later stages or when there’s a crisis, which is then costly to the health system and distressing to the person with dementia. One thing I’ve noticed is that inequalities are complex, and access to support is a privilege. Many charities offer amazing support groups and activities that are brilliant for the people who attend. However, you need to live near a group and be able to get there independently or have someone accompany you. What if the person who supports you works full-time and the group meets at 11 am on a Wednesday? What if you, or the person who supports you, have a health condition that makes it difficult for you to attend group sessions? What if you have other care or cultural needs that the day centre or activity group can’t support? If you aren’t connected to others in a similar situation, how do you find out about support in the first place? You might be told about the services available or steps to take at diagnosis, but you might have forgotten the details or misplaced the information leaflets (this is even more likely if you have dementia). Other barriers that can make it more difficult to find the right support include a lack of access to, or confidence in using technology and living alone. Even if you are confident using technology, it can be hard to know where to start your search. The same barriers exist when trying to access social care, with online forms and eligibility criteria becoming increasingly confusing. The postcode lottery of services means there may be something really great that supports people in one part of the country, but elsewhere, these services don’t exist. Image Source: Sergei Starostin on Pexels How Can This Change? To make care more equitable, there’s still a lot of work to be done. Dementia must become a national and international priority if we want to live happy, healthy lives as we grow older, especially as more people are living longer. A clear strategy, funding for research and integrated person-centred care, and learning from other health conditions are essential. Care plans need to be tailored to the individual, considering cultural needs, life history, and respecting who the person is, including their gender identity and sexual orientation. Through DETERMIND, I feel very lucky to have met so many wonderful people and am hugely grateful to them for sharing their stories with me, and for being so welcoming when we visit. Working with people living with dementia and their families is a highly rewarding job. The times we’ve seen people’s situations improve as they access better support will stay with me forever. As will the jokes, garden tours, and interesting stories participants have told me. It is, of course, upsetting and frustrating to hear about the lack of support people receive, and I am motivated to continue working in this field to provide evidence for why we need more equitable care and how it can be achieved. As we analyse the study findings, I’m excited to see the results of the project and how it might begin to influence change. Helpful Resources Alzheimer’s Society: The largest UK-based dementia charity. Information on all kinds of dementia, advice on living with dementia, and resources to find help and support. Support Line: 0333 150 3456 The dementia guide: Living well after your diagnosis | Alzheimer's Society AgeUK: Information, services and support for older adults. Advice Line: 0800 678 1602 Resources by council branches: https://www.ageuk.org.uk/services/in-your-area/ Carers UK: National charity for any and all kinds of carers Helpline: 0800 808 7777 Dementia UK: Offers advice and support for families supporting someone with dementia through admiral nurses who are nurses with expertise in dementia. Call 0800 888 6678 or email helpline@dementiauk.org to speak with a dementia nurse specialist Book: Everything Your Doctor Doesn’t Have Time to Tell You, by Matt Piccaver. Book group: Everything Your Doctor Doesn’t Have Time to Tell You | Alzheimer's Society

Image Source: Eslam Mohammed Abdelmaksoud on Pexels In all our homes, we all have dining tables to serve our everyday needs, but if you know South Asians, we often have more than the selected number of people who can sit at the table. So, what do we do? A Dastarkhān, or dastarkhwān is the name used to refer to a dining spread on the ground, on top of gorgeous tablecloths, laid out with many different dishes. Found across Asia, this concept allows for many people to sit comfortably; ideal for when the gathering is large and space is limited. During Iftar parties or Eid, Dastarkhwan will be found across homes, filled with scrumptious desserts, mouthwatering savoury dishes, dazzling drinks, and dates, often decorated with flowers, or lights. Even if it is just throwing a cloth on the floor to eat together, it is a testament to the love of community gathering in a South Asian home. No matter how big or how small a home is, people's hearts for their loved ones are always bigger. Image Source: Arya Suraj on Pexels Growing up, I was surrounded by community gatherings; every event, birthday, anniversary and even grief was marked by relatives, friends, neighbours, and well-wishers coming together. Our humble three-bedroom apartment would be filled with fifty to sixty people. And somehow, there was always space for more. Living in India, I was always overwhelmed by the presence. It is only now, that I am working as a culture and travel journalist, exploring how community shapes culture, and researching friendship, that I understand the importance. In my career as a journalist, my work around friendship has appeared in Vogue Arabia, Vogue India, Hardcopy Canada and Elle, and as someone who has travelled to more than twenty-five countries, I have begun to crave a big group of people to be surrounded by. I first felt the absence of a community when I moved to London to pursue my master’s in 2022, which marked the beginning of my research on friendship and community. This led to my master’s thesis on how women use friendship to increase their political agency and it is the reason I wanted to understand the importance of Dastarkhwan in our lives. Today, our world is going through a loneliness epidemic. We are falling short of people to rely on, and our village is rapidly shrinking. Our work culture, which is fast-paced and demanding, pushes us towards a life which is being lived in a hurry. There is a heightened focus on the idea of ‘me.’ The individual was always supposed to exist within a community. We were not supposed to lose our community in pursuit of ourselves, but bring it along with us. Community can be all the people who form a network of support for you. It is hard to build one outside our families, but if there is one thing I have learnt from South Asian homes is that having your door open and feeding your loved ones can get you there. Image Source: Jennie Clavel on Unsplash Sitting on the floor and eating during big gatherings is common across Asian homes. In many medical practices, such as Ayurveda and Unani medicine, sitting on the floor and eating, either with the legs crossed, or with one leg pressing against the stomach, is supported for its health benefits. Being connected to the ground, one is reminded to be mindful, away from distractions. Leading nutritionist, Rujuta Diwekar, whose list of clients includes popular Bollywood celebrities such as Kareena Kapoor and Alia Bhatt, has encouraged sitting on the floor and eating. She has strived for this act to get rid of the racist connotations, as sitting on the floor has been looked at as something uncivilised, when it is merely just an eastern concept and not a western one. While we might think we don’t practice this frequently, think of the many picnics you have taken where a makeshift Dastrakhwan exists. Putting together a quick brunch or lunch, everyone sitting cross-legged, laughing, and talking to each other. Not getting up and finding a ‘proper’ place to sit but making do with the ground. As someone who has slowly broken away from screens during lunch, and prefers to find company while eating, I am cognisant of how frequently we alienate ourselves while eating. In today’s time, especially in our sanitary work and study environment, it is a struggle to reach out to someone to share a meal. When we were kids, we would often have friends in school to share our lunch tiffins with. Eating was never meant to be a solitary activity. Whether we analyse Mediterranean culture, Asia, or even in communities of Africa and Latin America, food was a tool to build friendships and strengthen communities. What is the first thing we do when we are celebrating a milestone in our lives? Take the people we love out to eat, or cook for them and have them over. Food has always been a community experience. Image Source: sour moha on Unsplash In one of the Eid Potlucks, a gathering celebrating Eid, my friend hosted in her apartment in London, she realised more than a dozen people were coming. Instead of tables and chairs, she pulled out her gorgeous carpet, and we all sat down together to feast, making it into a Dastarkhwan. It is an entirely different experience to be interacting with people while looking at them as a whole. While in a traditional dining setting, we tend to look at just the face, on the floor, we are using our whole body to converse. During that event, there was so much joyous laughter and passing of food. The idea of celebrating Eid alone was daunting, and this day turned out to be one of my favourite get-togethers. As an International Student in London, it takes a while to find your feet. You are always afraid of feeling lonely in the city. However, London’s International Student community often comes together to cook for each other and share food, always having a Dastarkhan ready, making the experience much less lonely. In South Asia, a variety of cultures exist. In Rajasthan, chowkis or low stools surround a low table, often for very large gatherings. In Northern India, durries or carpets are used to set up dining spaces. In Southern India, leaves, which are biodegradable plates, are spread on the ground to eat food, which is an environmentally sustainable way to be connected to Earth, and economic enough to include as many people as possible. Sitting on the floor humbles us, strips us of pretentiousness as we are more connected to the Earth. Studies show that this form of dining often increases the strength of our communities, as people can make more friends that they can rely on for any crisis or help. Sharing meals with people is known to have mental health benefits. Food releases dopamine, and sitting with people releases oxytocin, endorphins and dopamine, otherwise known as the feel-good hormones. Unless we are sitting with some terrible company, it is always a good bet to have people around while eating. Image Source: Saveurs Secretes on Pexels Prior to the world order shifting during colonial times, a Dastarkhan was a more common method of dining. With hot temperatures, most Asian houses use marble, granite or travertine for their floors, which are materials that have a high thermal mass. This allows the floors to be cool even in high temperatures. Historically, humans used to gather around a fire and eat. This is not to say the fine dining isn’t appropriate, or to discourage it, but in a world that is undergoing a loneliness epidemic, with weak kinship and community ties, it is important to remember that humans cared less about the structures and luxury and more about the people themselves. From the laborious creation to its consumption, food is a community act. Today, we are often glued to our screens, or eating our food in a rush, sometimes on the go, making it difficult to mindfully engage with our food, the people who create it, and even ourselves. According to The World Happiness Report, communal dining is a key method to decrease feelings of loneliness. Sharing meals can make us happy, and the more the merrier, right? As a South Asian, this is my one piece of advice; have a Dastarkhwan ready, just in case. You never know when your village might need it. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Last year, I spent six months living and working in Japan. I worked at the World Expo as a photographer, a role that allowed me to meet people from a wide range of backgrounds. It was an experience that stayed with me long after I left, not because it was extreme or overwhelming, but because it quietly changed how I understand belonging and mental health. Being in a place where I didn’t fully fit in made me more aware of how much our sense of well-being is shaped by whether we feel connected to the people around us. This awareness came to me after I interviewed some of my Japanese colleagues. Moving to Japan was entirely new to me. I am Irish and grew up in Europe, so this felt like a new, exciting experience. Everyday life was unfamiliar in a way that kept me alert and engaged. I was learning constantly, how to commute, how to interact at work, how to move through the city. In the beginning, that learning felt energising. For example, in Japan, going out for food was a norm, not a “special treat” as it often is in Europe; for affordable prices, I could eat delicacies like freshly made ramen from tiny local shops, onigiri from convenience stores, and carefully prepared bento meals that turned everyday eating into something thoughtful and enjoyable. Eating out alone was also common, seen as a convenient way to have a meal after work. This took me some getting used to, as I had always thought of eating in restaurants as an experience meant to be shared. After a few months, though, a feeling of isolation began to appear. The language barrier played a role, but it wasn’t the only factor. More difficult was understanding how society worked around me and how I was expected to fit into it. Japan is known for its strong traditions and social norms: not eating while walking, bowing as a sign of respect, keeping quiet on public transport, and prioritising group harmony over individual expression. This contrasts with some European norms, which is what I am used to, where people often eat in a hurry, take loud phone calls on public transport, and prioritise personal comfort over collective consideration. My Japanese colleagues came from different backgrounds. Many had lived or studied abroad, and some had spent years outside Japan. As I became more comfortable with them, I started wondering whether the feeling I had was specific to being foreign, or whether it was something more widely felt. Eventually, I began asking a simple question: “Do you feel like you fit into Japanese society?” Most people laughed and shook their heads. A few didn’t want to comment. Some said yes. I was surprised by how many people said no. I had assumed that fitting in was something that naturally came with growing up in a place, but the responses suggested otherwise. Hearing people who were born and raised in Japan describe similar feelings to mine made me realise that I wasn't as alone in my experience of isolation as I had thought. Image Source: Isabella Fowden I asked those who answered no if I could interview them further and take portraits of them. As a photographer, engaging in conversations with interesting people often sparks a desire to capture their essence in an image. These conversations were open and unforced. People spoke about the pressure to behave in certain ways, the difficulty of expressing individuality, and the effort it takes to meet expectations consistently. Several talked about the tension between valuing tradition and wanting change. At the same time, everyone I spoke to expressed respect for Japan’s history and values. Many said they appreciated the structure and sense of order, but hoped society would become more open in the future. These interviews weren’t complaints; they were reflections. For many, it seemed rare to have the space to talk about these feelings at all. Taking portraits alongside these conversations added another layer. Photography slowed things down. It gave people a reason to pause and reflect, and it created a setting where they felt listened to. Several people mentioned that talking about their experiences and having them taken seriously made them feel less alone. In a small way, the process itself became part of the conversation about belonging. When taking the images, I left much of the posing up to the individuals themselves. One colleague I interviewed, Junya, comes from a dance background, so we decided to take his portraits in the city, allowing him to move in organic, fluid ways. As we spoke, different ideas emerged naturally. At one point, Junya noticed a queue of people outside a shop, queuing is a normal part of Japanese culture, with people often waiting for hours to attend events or visit popular stores. He suggested running against the direction of the queue, using movement to visually express how he feels when life becomes rigid or overly structured. Image Source: Isabella Fowden Hearing my colleagues talk openly about not fitting in helped me understand my own experience differently. What I had initially seen as a personal difficulty began to feel more shared. It wasn’t about failing to adapt, but about navigating systems that don’t always leave room for difference. The interviews gave me insight into how common these feelings are, even when they aren’t often spoken about. During these interviews, a few colleagues turned the question back to me: “Do you feel like you fit into Irish society?” The question stayed with me. It made me realise that the feeling of being an outsider wasn’t unique to Japan. In many ways, I don’t feel like I fit neatly into Irish society either. I’ve often felt slightly between things, between places, roles, or expectations. Being in Japan didn’t create that feeling, but it made it more visible. By the time I left Japan, I felt a deeper compassion for myself and for others. I learned that mental health isn’t shaped only by internal factors or personal history, but by how safely we feel we can exist as ourselves within a society. Feeling slightly out of place, even in subtle ways, can have an ongoing impact. Looking back, I realise that asking my colleagues if they felt like outsiders was also a way of reaching out. It was a way of connecting through shared uncertainty, though not having everything figured out. Their honesty helped me articulate my own feelings, and in turn, the conversations seemed to give them space to reflect as well. Image Source: Isabella Fowden Photography didn’t remove my sense of discomfort, but it grounded it. It gave me a way to connect without needing perfect language. It reminded me that even when we feel on the edges, conversation and attention can reduce isolation. Sometimes, taking the time to ask and to listen is enough to make people feel less alone, including ourselves. The full interviews can be found on beachpigeons.com, an online magazine I started, which was inspired by these open conversations. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Celine’s day was the same, come rain or shine. It helped that she never really knew what the weather was, but that was beside the point. As soon as she got her heart to stop palpitating after her alarm clock woke her up, she got up, brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth, got dressed nicely, just in case she met somebody new or got hit by a car, and then sat in her living room. She managed to ignore the postman’s knocking by keeping her curtains closed, despite the worry that bubbled up in her chest like a toxic chemical reaction - and then kept on sitting there, safe, until it got dark and it was time for bed. The strange thing was that every day, come rain or shine, despite new batteries in her alarm clock or resetting her phone… the date never changed. It just happened out of nowhere. Celine was living her life the way she always had, well, at least the way she had since the accident. She’d buried the memories deep inside, like bad seeds, and tried to carry on as though nothing had changed. But slowly, she realised she needed to make a few adjustments. Small ones, at first. Like not going outside. Or avoiding people so no one would judge her, or mock her, or so she wouldn’t humiliate herself by getting hit by a car again. And before she knew it, Celine hadn’t left the house in days. Then weeks. Then a month. And then, all of a sudden, the date stopped changing. It remained Sunday, the 20th of November. First for a few days, then a few weeks, and before long, Celine found herself reliving the same day over and over for a month straight. At first, she thought it was an anxiety-fueled dream or some kind of trauma response, but eventually she stopped being scared and unnerved by being stuck and instead settled into this new routine. After a while, it almost felt as though her life had always been like this; but of course, it hadn’t. Just as there had been a life before and after the car accident, there must be a life before and after this ‘same day loop.’ Celine just couldn’t imagine what it would look like - she was now too set in the rhythm to unsettle things by daring to do anything different. Anyway, what was the point? But it was when she was brushing her teeth, following the same routine as always, that a thought suddenly crossed her mind: should she do something to celebrate this strange 30-day anniversary?’ Not anything silly or terrifying like a party. The very idea of seeing other people made her choke on the white foam gathering in her mouth as her heart tried to jump straight out of her chest via her throat, because all she could see was that concerned crowd around her as she lay on the cold tarmac... She quickly spat the foam out and took a few deep breaths as she tried to steady her heart back into its resting place. No. Nothing like that. Photo by Iga Palacz on Unsplash But maybe… maybe she could do something different today. Nothing too grand, just something small, to mark the time she had spent in this strange, repetitive loop. Celine let the ideas flow through her head, trying her best not focus on any one of them, otherwise her anxiety might go haywire - and a panic attack certainly wouldn’t be the best way to mark this ‘anniversary.’ It just had to be something small… The idea popped into her head so suddenly it was as if Celine had been struck by lightning. She’d kept her curtains closed for 29 days straight. If she opened them even an inch, then that was progress, and letting in light after so long… that sounded like the perfect way to celebrate to her. It was certainly strange, walking into her living room and ignoring her feeling of deja vu, resisting going to sit on the sofa, and instead walking towards her thick curtains that were so still it was as if they were holding their breath. Waiting. Celine waited too. And then, when it felt like at least an hour had passed, she pulled them open. The light was so bright it felt as if she was standing in a spotlight. No, not a spotlight – headlights, just that feeling was enough to make her feel sick. She was about to pull them closed again, experiment failed - when someone walked into her view. It was the postman. A tall man, in his early fifties, maybe? Celine tried desperately to list the things she saw as anxiety hit her like the car did that day – heavy and all-consuming. Thankfully, given the glass between them, the fact that she wouldn’t need to speak to him helped ease her worries - even if it felt as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel just at the idea of her having to say something to him. Celine wondered if she’d have time to duck out of view and forget all of this before he looked right at her. Time seemed to freeze. Oh God. I bet he’s thinking I’m a right weirdo. The worries rushed through her mind, like the worry on that crowd’s face… but in a moment of genius, she decided she might as well just wave at him - that would make him go away, right? she thought. She was right, thank God. Seeing her wave at him, the postman smiled, offered a small wave of his own, and went on his way, out of her view. Just like that. As easy as that. When the anxiety subsided a few days later, Celine was hit with the realisation that her terror aside, it was much easier than she had originally thought it would. The ground didn’t swallow her up. The world didn’t end. He didn’t viciously laugh at her before starting to film her for his TikTok. So, the next day, she tried something new yet again. Even though her hands were shaking so hard she struggled to turn the handle, she opened the door slightly - just enough so the light didn’t shock her so much that she fainted. Despite every atom in her body begging her to close the door, she managed to keep it open. She had an idea, an experiment, even, and something inside her stronger than even her atoms was telling her that she had to see it through. Even if she did faint. She waited so long that she could’ve sworn her vision was starting to fade, until she saw the postman appear in her field of waning vision, snapping her back to reality. ‘Hi!’ He said, kindly. ‘Hello,’ Celine said, quietly, her voice so quiet she was sure that he could barely hear it. He must have thought, because he smiled at her, and then said, ‘Got anything nice planned?’ That almost made her laugh. ‘Oh, no,’ she replied. ‘No - not really.’ ‘Same rubbish, different day, eh?’ the postman asked kindly. ‘Something like that,’ Celine answered, careful not to talk as fast as her heart was hammering in her chest. Her nerves got the better of her, however, and she shut her front door before he could reply. The next day, Celine decided to try again. She figured that not doing anything had kept her in this loop, so maybe doing something different - even something small - might help her, somehow. Their conversation was the same, but this time she watched as the postman smiled kindly at her, nodded, and went to walk away. Unfortunately, he seemed so distracted when he walked away that he then tripped on the uneven slab that lay just beyond Celine’s window - and, almost in slow-motion, fell to the ground with an unceremonious thump. He hurried to his feet again, his face beet red both in embarrassment and from the impact. ‘What am I like?’ He asked, before laughing shakily and hurrying away - all the while not looking her in the eye. Oh, Celine thought. It was as if the world around her shifted slightly, just like that uneven slab being part of an otherwise perfectly flat pavement. In all this time, in all those repeated days… seeing something new, something bigger than just opening the curtains, and those headlights. It was strange. It made her feel like a piece of a puzzle, small and insignificant, but more than that - like she had a part in the world and belonged in the universe, all at once. Because other than the postman, she was the only person there to see him fall. And the way he reacted afterwards - he didn’t seem to care about her at all, just her reaction to him. Is that it? The realisation hit her like she was the one who had just fallen… people really did care more about other people’s opinions and thoughts of them than anything else. Even if they were hurt! It all seemed so silly. So obvious. All this time, she was so scared and so anxious about what other people thought of her, like that crowd, when they didn’t care about things like her greasy hair and stained top, because they were all just thinking the same about themselves! Or at the very least, worried about more important things, like someone not getting hurt or dying. Celine hurried inside and decided she had to sleep. Now. Because this had to be it, right? The reason for every day being the same… it had to be because she needed to learn that. But the next day, nothing changed. And the next was the same. Until Celine realised what she might need to do next. It was, of course, a day like any other when Celine cautiously stepped outside for the first time in what felt like years, and for a moment, the bright light that hit her made her feel dazed and unwell. It was different from looking at it through a window - harsher. Thankfully, she was able to pull herself together just as she heard the thud of her postman’s footsteps on the slabs that lined the path in front of her house. Despite going through the same day over and over so many times already, Celine found it strange, a nice kind of strange, to be experiencing something different after so long. Even if it was absolutely terrifying at the same time. ‘Hi!’ The postman said, offering her a wave. Celine noticed he had something in his teeth, but she also noticed the lines around his smile and was shocked by how little it all bothered her. Is this what it was like for everyone? Did they notice these little things about others, and just not care? She was stuck pondering that thought and having the realisation settle calmly in her mind like a wave that she almost forgot the reason she was out here in the first place. She smiled before calling out as loudly as she could, despite her scratchy, dry throat. ‘Morning! Careful there, by the way - that slab is sticking out a bit!’ The postman heard her and noticed just in time to step over the slab and avoid falling. He turned back to her, both shock and relief on his face. ‘Thanks! You saved me a split lip there!’ ‘No worries,’ Celine replied, so full of adrenaline and anxiety that it felt as if she was trying to swallow a mouthful of rocks and they were stuck in her throat. She had done it, she thought. She’d saved someone else from an embarrassing and painful fate, even if it wasn’t quite as severe as hers. That is, until she saw the postman walk into the road to start on that side of the street, and hear a squeal of wheels on tarmac as a car roared down the street. As the memories flashed through her mind, the world in front of her seemed to slow to a stop, her legs started pumping, and she was running out into the sun before her mind realised she was even running, outside, and straight towards the car that was still barreling towards a stunned postman. ‘Watch out!’ She shouted, her voice stronger than she ever thought it could be, as she reached out and pushed the postman out of the way of the car, just in time. But not in time to avoid being hit by it herself. As the pain flooded through her like a tsunami, she watched through fading vision while letters flew around above her like doves freed from a cage. And strangely, her last thought wasn’t of embarrassment, or anxiety, or regret, but of an apology – for not saving the postman from a split lip after all. Although it could’ve been worse, Celine thought, as her vision faded into an inky blackness, and she fell asleep. And then she woke up again. Like nothing at all had happened. Her muscles ached as if she’d run a marathon, but she moved each limb in turn, and nothing felt broken. Other than what felt like a vivid dream of saving her kind postman from being hit by a car and the aches and pains, everything felt exactly as it was. Although she could see from her bed that there was no sun trying to peek through. Almost as if it were cloudy… Almost as if… Celine wouldn’t dare let that thought enter her head. It had been so long that she’d been stuck like this, she wouldn’t dare jinx it. She had no idea why she didn’t grab her phone to check - it must’ve been the adrenaline. ‘Hi!’ She said, quickly, to the postman, who flashed that familiar smile at her in response. ‘Uh, what day is it today? Sunday?’ She had to resist adding ‘again.’ The postman shook his head, still smiling. ‘Nope! It’s Monday - a brand-new week!’ ‘Nope’ suddenly became Celine’s favourite word in the entire world. She felt herself just standing there, blinking, as that word, and the rest, slowly sank in. Somehow, she had made it through that haze of day after day being the same and made it through the other side. Even if it meant having been technically hit by a car twice. She’d done it. ‘Wow, I - thanks!’ She said, suddenly aware that she was grinning so wide that her cheeks started to hurt. ‘No problem,’ the postman replied, before looking at her a little closer and saying, ‘Are you alright?’ A familiar anxiety appeared in Celine’s chest, heavy, as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of rocks - again. But after all this time, she helped him and looked ridiculous, and he didn’t care… he only cared what she thought, and she was so happy that was her only thought at all. After a moment, she was able to will the anxiety away and ignore it. Finally. ‘Yeah, I’m good, thanks,’ Celine said, smiling kindly at him. ‘It’s just one of those days.’ ‘Same rubbish, different day, eh?’ The postman said, with his familiar smile. Celine nodded - he had no idea how right he was. But she couldn’t just stand there and ponder this - she had to warn him, quickly, about the uneven slab, and then the car, and watched as it barreled down the road and came to a stop, hitting no one, as the driver hurried out the car, shouting that his wife was in labour and he needed to get her ton hospital. Celine and the postman wished them both luck before she headed back inside to call the council to see if they’d be able to get that slab fixed, and to order her neighbour a new baby gift online. She had no idea they were even expecting. The days flew by after that, but Celine still had no clue why it all happened. Maybe she’d figure it out later - it didn’t matter right now. Celine was a determined woman. Every day was a new day, finally, and she didn’t have time for thinking and worrying and caring so much, or at least paying as much attention to her anxiety as she had over those past 29 days. She had, as the postman so aptly said, rubbish to do right now, before it was a new day. Because before she knew it, it would be another new day - and Celine was determined to appreciate them again. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Author’s Note: A typical workday brings many common thoughts and emotions for an adult. Sometimes, you’ll think ungenerous, intrusive thoughts about the people you interact with. Sometimes, random waves of anxiety will attack you when you’re just performing an everyday task. And you are always, always fatigued, by your professional work and by societal changes outside of your control. My Teacher is an ordinary adult just trying to get through the day. Image source: Getty Images on Unsplash The Teacher came across the Mother outside the bathroom in the corridor. The Mother was furiously jiggling the bathroom’s door handle, which stubbornly refused to concede to her wishes. Below, at the Mother’s knee-level, a distressed girl-child hopped up and down in painful desperation. “Mommy, I have to go!” she wailed. “Open the door!” The helpless, haggard-looking mother seemed on the verge of tears, which quickly receded when the Teacher, at that moment a saving grace, a miracle worker, a Messiah bringing salvation, produced from her pocket a set of keys attached to a swirly, purple rubber wristband. “Here, I’ll unlock it for you,” the Teacher offered. “Oh, thank you!” The Mother’s relief and gratitude felt almost too much for the Teacher. After all, The Teacher was there to use the bathroom too. She hadn’t swooped in purposefully the way a protective vigilante spotting a robbery-in-progress would. She was simply at the right place at the right time. And yet the Teacher unlocked the door in a heroic fashion. The Mother and daughter rushed in at once. In the bathroom, the Teacher, perched on the toilet, uncomfortably overheard the Mother in the stall next to hers, guiding her fidgety youngster through the process of going. The Teacher had no children of her own and privately wondered where such mothers stored their endless supply of patience. She also thought the child looked old enough to be fully potty-trained already. But of course, she didn’t know for sure. She was just a Teacher, after all. Not a Mother. At one of the sinks, the Teacher rigorously scrubbed her hands clean, her mind already abandoning the Mother and the daughter. It confronted academic matters instead. Students’ homework that needed marking, students’ essays that needed evaluating. The Teacher visualised the stack of work undone as a paper mountain wobbling, threatening to topple over at the slightest wind of breath. A Tower of Pisa that wasn’t going to pass the test of time and attract generations of tourists. The dread crept into her hands, tingled under the hot cascade of water. It slithered up to her shoulders, which tightened accordingly. At this point, it was an all-too-familiar dance of nerves. In the mirror, the Teacher regarded the tender violet circles under her eyes with resigned courtesy – as if they were an irksome colleague she had to be civil to, because they weren’t going anywhere, and neither was she. Soon, the door behind her squeaked open, and the Mother and the daughter appeared at the sink next to hers. The Mother had to hoist her child up to reach the water streaming from the faucet. The daughter dutifully held out her hands to be washed. Yet another something this child just couldn’t seem to accomplish on her own. There was a tremble in the Mother’s arms as she performed as her daughter’s almighty pillar. The child was reaching that age where she was getting too heavy to be lifted anymore. The day was coming when the Mother would set her child down and never lift her up again. The child would finally have to learn how to lift herself. “Can I ask,” ventured the Mother to the Teacher. “Why was the door locked? It wasn’t locked before. We’ve used this bathroom a million times before.” Ahh. There was a question the Teacher could answer. “There were too many people coming into the building off the streets and using this bathroom,” the Teacher explained as she reached for a paper towel. “Now, only the businesses here have keys.” The businesses in question were a chiropractor’s office, a lawyer’s office, an art studio, and the tutoring centre where the Teacher worked afternoons and evenings. It was a busy building, with a constant stream of people trailing in and out like trampling ants. “Oh, that makes sense.” The Mother set her daughter down, and the Teacher courteously passed her a paper towel to wipe her daughter’s hands with. “I should have guessed. Well, it looks cleaner in here now for sure. Nobody’s bringing their dirty brats in to mess it up!” The Teacher didn’t respond. She wondered what a “dirty brat” looked like in the other woman’s mind, when her daughter had shirt sleeves colourfully stained with paint and couldn’t go to the toilet by herself. The Teacher shoed away that thought immediately. No, that’s not fair. Nothing was fair, really. The locked bathrooms were a nuisance for everyone in the building, but especially in the tutoring centre, where five students at once could beg for the bathroom key. At best, three out of those five could be trusted to remember to bring the key back afterwards. “Thanks again,” repeated the Mother. “Don’t mention it,” replied the Teacher. Back in the tutoring centre, the Teacher deposited the bathroom key back into the little glass jar on the receptionist’s desk. The Teacher herself had brought that little glass jar to work. It had once held a gourmet cheesecake from a bakery in her neighbourhood that had previously been a discount store. Where that old store and all its inventory had fled to, no one knew. That shiny new bakery with its delicate little pastries topped with cream and berries had sprung up overnight like a candy-coloured tulip, much to the delight of the Teacher’s mother, who’d come home with two cheesecakes on a whim. One for her, one for her daughter. A Friday night treat. Once its contents were devoured, the jar would have ceased to serve a purpose if the Teacher hadn’t thought it could be a useful receptable for paper clips or bits of eraser broken off by bored, weary students who bent and twisted whatever was in their fingers. So many, too many students had restless fingers like that, fingers that always had to be playing with something, or there wasn’t a chance in the world they had absorbed a word she said. “Can I use the bathroom now?” The Teacher’s student asked the very moment she sat down. The Student had heard the clink of the key in the little glass jar. Like the blare of the school bell, it gave them wordless permission to leave their seat. Outside the tutoring centre there was a new wail, of the tired-child variety. It was the Mother’s child. Again. “Moooooom, I want to go home!” A sharp rebuke followed. “Your brother’s not done his class.” “Why does he have to have class?!” shrieked the Child. “Be quiet, or you’re not going swimming on Saturday!” countered the Mother. “Yes, you can go the bathroom,” the Teacher said to the Student, suddenly feeling very tired herself. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

For me, OCD has always been about cycles, contradiction, and chaos. Introduction I’ve had OCD for as long as I can remember, but the first time anyone picked up on it properly, I was taken to the doctor for rashes on my hands around the age of eight. I remember trying to pass it off as something else. Dry skin, a reaction, anything but what it actually was. The doctor hardly even glanced at my hands before they said, quite plainly, that my cracked, oozing hands were likely from excessive handwashing. I was exposed and instantly felt powerless. If I was to sum up how OCD made me feel back then, it would be being caught in a quagmire and a hurricane at the same time. Suffocating me and dragging me down, while throwing me into a total destructive disarray. A chaotic, contradictory cycle, driven by a lack of control and an overwhelming need to create it. Somewhat ironically, my forensic-level attention to detail that’s stood me in such good stead in my career as a freelance writer and marketer can likely be attributed to my OCD brain. I’m now in my mid-twenties and was inspired to write this article to shed some light on less common forms of OCD. I also wanted to challenge the perception that talking candidly about the realities of mental health is ‘unprofessional’. You can thrive throughout your life with this disorder; the journey just isn’t a straight line. More squiggly. Image Source: Ketut Subiyanto on Pexels Early Signs When I look back, it started earlier than that. I was around three or four, and I remember having to run up the stairs in a certain way. If I didn’t do it properly, it felt like something terrible would happen. So, I’d do it again, and again, until it felt right. Around that time, a child in my nursery suddenly died. I remember my mother saying something along the lines of there being nothing anyone could do. A similar sentiment with my parents’ divorce was that it wasn’t anyone’s fault and nothing could be done. It introduced me, quite early on, to the idea that things could go wrong without warning and without remedy. Looking back, that’s where the need to try and control things started to creep in. I experienced a lot of change in my early years. I learned quickly that being “good” meant being easy, well-behaved, not causing problems. I was often praised at home and at school, so I was able to control how I was perceived, yet things outside of my control were still happening. So, I started to realise that being “good” didn’t guarantee anything. That sense of control disappeared, and I began to crave it. OCD can develop in childhood. The NHS suggests symptoms can begin from around age six, but anecdotal experiences like mine show this can be even earlier. Childhood As I got older, it became more visible. I remember reading a book with a shiny laminate cover and my hands feeling wet when I touched it. They weren’t, but it felt real. That feeling wouldn’t go away. So, I’d wash my hands, come back, touch it again, feel the same thing, and wash them again. Every few minutes, stuck in that loop for hours. This is just one example of many. That’s how my childhood OCD felt. Like I was in the passenger seat and something else was driving. How It Changed in My Teens In my teens, it exploded. I remember getting stuck on phrases like “touch wood”. Something people say without thinking suddenly felt like life or death. If I wanted something to happen, or didn’t want something to happen, I’d feel like I had to touch wood a certain number of times while repeating phrases in my head. If it didn’t feel right, I’d start again. My late teens and early twenties were probably the hardest. It wasn’t one theme at a time anymore. Health, moral, relationship, checking, contamination. All of it. I could move through multiple forms of OCD in a single day, trying to resolve one thing before being pulled into something else. It felt constant, but more chaotic than before. It started to affect everything. Socially, emotionally, academically, and in my career. It was no longer separate to me. Image Source: Dương Nhân on Pexels The Cycle Now, in my mid-twenties, it feels more predictable, even if it doesn’t feel easier. There’s usually something that sets it off. Sometimes it’s obvious and sometimes it isn’t, but it’s usually centred around a lack of control, such as becoming unwell or how I’m being perceived in the workplace. Then I latch onto something. It might be a specific symptom or something I’ve said. I start going over it, trying to work it out, trying to get certainty. I replay things, search things, look for reassurance. When I was younger, that was usually my mum. Now it’s more self-driven. I’ll search online, go down forum rabbit holes, and even use tools like ChatGPT to try and think it through. OCD by nature is cyclical. A thought comes in, it creates anxiety, I try to resolve it, and I get a bit of relief. However, this doesn’t last long, and the cycle continues. Where It Goes It usually centres itself around things I care about. For me, that’s often my family. Thoughts about something happening to my brother, or me somehow being responsible for something going wrong. My OCD typically presents as an intolerance to uncertainty. It twists and manipulates a situation into something catastrophic, causing me to rely on compulsions centred around reassurance to feel safe again. I often joke, if AI does take over, they can carry on as my ChatGPT knows far too much! A passing thought quickly turns into a question of whether I’ve done something wrong, whether there are consequences I haven’t considered, or whether I’m about to be judged in a way I can’t control. From there, I try to think my way out of it by analysing every detail, replaying conversations, or looking for reassurance, but it rarely settles things for long. Underneath it all is a strong sense of responsibility and a discomfort with the idea of getting something wrong. What It Does to Me The hardest part is how much it makes me question myself. Not just the thoughts, but what they mean. Whether I meant something, whether I’m a good person, whether I can trust my own mind. On one hand, it feels completely out of my control. On the other hand, it feels like I’m responsible for managing it. When I was younger, I was told in cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) to give OCD a name. Something silly, just to create distance from it (I think I went for Bernard in the end). I was sceptical of that at the time, but I understood the idea. Calling my disorder something ridiculous helped to not only undermine it but separate it from my identity and regain a sense of self. Where I’m At Now Due to a cycle of CBT in childhood, private counselling as a young adult, and copious research on OCD, it now feels more like something I move in and out of. I have never been medicated for OCD, though I was prescribed some SSRIs (Sertraline) for if I wanted to try taking them (this was after a particularly bad flare-up a few years ago). I have not had to reach for them yet. OCD is always there simmering away in the background. Running back to check the door one more time. Overthinking small things. However, I can usually spot the early signs of a flare-up. The main feeling is chaos. When things feel chaotic, that’s when OCD tries to pull everything back into control. One of the first things that slips is looking after myself properly. Sleep, routine, basic things that usually keep me steady. So, I try to pay attention to that. There are times when my OCD builds and peaks and feels just as convincing as it always has. It just doesn’t drag me down quite as far. After all, it goes back to what my parents said all those years ago. There’s nothing that can be done, and it’s no one’s fault. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.

Photo by jcomp on Freepik Author's Note: Childhood friendships drifting apart happens to everyone. It’s natural and inevitable. But the pain of losing someone who was your whole world can still haunt you years later. It’s the responsibility of an adult to find a healthy way to move on into newer, meaningful relationships. My character comes to accept that a formative chapter of her life is over, but that doesn’t mean she still can’t remember it with great fondness. My brother’s seventh birthday party was a responsibility that fell squarely on my shoulders that year. Mine and Faye-Marie’s. Mom had started a new job and she was desperate for help, so could Faye-Marie and I please take charge of the decorations and games, for twenty bucks each, while she provided the cake and Jell-O? She didn’t have to say please. Of course Faye-Marie and I would do it... for twenty bucks each. Twenty bucks was, at the time, a trip to the movies, or three or four new Archie comic books, or a week’s worth of Slush Puppies at the convenience store. And not to mention the money that would be left over from the decorations budget, since Mom never bothered to ask for change. Faye-Marie and I were going to be rich! Faye-Marie was my best friend in the whole wide world, back then. Back when my whole wide world was smaller. But she was special to me, nevertheless. We had been in the same class together since first grade and were each other’s go-to partner for every project. Together we had studied the behavioural habits of polar bears, devised a new recipe for grilled cheese, built a paper mâché volcano, rewrote our city’s history in the form of an epic poem, and reconstructed the CN Tower out of tin foil. Putting together my brother’s birthday party was nothing to us, the super team. The most inseparable pair that ever was: Faye-Marie and me. Back then. My brother’s favourite colour was red, so we chose the decorations accordingly. Red streamers. Red ribbons. Red candies. Red plastic cups and paper plates. Red balloons. We dumped anything the colour of apples and cherries into the cart at the party store, and then some people stared at us as we pushed past them with our cart of red everything. I remember the look the cashier gave us as she rang up the ten twenty-pack bags of balloons. It’s all in the budget, we explained, expecting her to understand, but she only rolled her eyes as she accepted the wad of bills crumbled from being stuffed in my pocket. At the time, Faye-Marie and I turned our noses up at the older girl, whose lack of imagination was to be pitied. But now, looking back, I figure she saw right through our overambition. Our big, badly-thought-out plans. Her eyeroll was that of an older sister who had seen it all crumble before. She was right. We were too ambitious. Our plans for this party far exceeded what was doable, or even logical. Faye-Marie and I envisioned my house’s living room overflowing with balloons, like the ball pit in a McDonald’s playroom. We imagined the party guests swimming through balloons. But we grossly miscalculated how much our young lungs, the only tool for this venture at our disposal, could handle. Imagine, if you will, two small girls, neither particularly experienced in the art of balloon-blowing, sitting cross-legged on the floor, huffing and puffing away with the Big Bad Wolf’s confidence yet not so much his vigor or skill. Faye-Marie sprayed spittle everywhere when her wet, clumsy mouth contacted the rubbery tail-end of the balloon. With only a smidgen more grace, I worked and wheezed on my own share. I panted and persevered. I wondered where the heck the bicycle pump was, and remembered with a deep, sinking feeling that Mom had sold it in our last garage sale. Alright, alright, I’ll admit it. Faye-Marie and I should have planned ahead more carefully, but how many great ideas in history never made it past the drawing board? Take Leonardo Da Vinci, for example. A lot of his great ideas, like that giant horse sculpture we learned about in history class, never manifested into anything other than a handful of sketches. I’m even pretty sure one of those sketches involved balloons. If a genius could be forgiven one or two failed projects, two elementary school-aged girls could be too. Between the two of us, Faye-Marie could only manage about two dozen red balloons, big and shiny and smooth to the touch. Eight packets of limp, unblown balloons remained unopened. The flimsy scraps of the few balloons that had burst on us while we were blowing were the less savory remains of our efforts, along with the angry red marks on our fingers, from struggling to twist and tie up the balloon ends. They matched the party’s theme, at least. We stuck the balloons to the walls with squares of tapes, decided that they were not symmetrically positioned, took them down, disliked the new pattern we came up with, took them down again, and then arranged them in the shape of an arch above the spot where my brother was going to open his presents. Afterwards, we ripped open the packets of streamers and wrapped them around every inch of furniture we could. We, the super team, got the job done, and were left with more than enough time to set up the plates, cups, snacks, and games. When we were finished at last, the party room resembled what I can now only describe as a hotel suite for clowns. But my brother would be happy and that was what mattered. Faye-Marie and I thought that we deserved an A for our work, but then we remembered that this wasn’t school. It was a birthday party, in my house. Disappointment slightly dampened our delight in our success. “Maybe we could take a picture and show it to Ms. Gretchen,” I suggested. “What for?” Faye-Marie answered. “She’s not gonna give us extra credit or anything. The school year’s almost over.” “Maybe she’ll stick it on the cork board, then.” The cork board was the classroom’s art gallery, where our sixth-grade teacher, the well-loved Ms. Gretchen, exhibited all the artistic achievements by students that didn’t particularly fit into the class curriculum. She was a true art lover and cherished all her students’ endeavors. I remember there was this one girl in our class who drew a bee so well that our principal, while observing our class one day, rolled up a newspaper and tried to squish it with a loud, firm whack against the cork board. The whole class screamed with laughter, it was just too funny. Mr. Denne had laughed too, and congratulated the artist on her realism. Mom took a picture of us for Ms. Gretchen’s cork board, on one of those old mustard-coloured disposable cameras, since none of us had cell phones yet (hard to imagine, I know). Faye-Marie put her arm around my shoulders, and I put mine on her waist. We stood proudly like this in the centre of our party room, beneath the one-colour rainbow of two dozen red balloons. My little brother darted in. Having just eaten two Fudgsicles, he was so sugar-high and so ecstatic about his approaching birthday celebration that it was everything we could do to stop him from wrecking havoc on our hard work. He wanted to play with the streamers, like a hyper kitten hungry for ribbons. Luckily, we had some unrolled streamers left over to placate him with until the party started. Compared to the planning and preparation that went into the party, the party itself was almost a blur. It went by so fast that it left us all dizzy. Two and a half hours felt like twenty minutes. My brother’s school friends, a lively gaggle of second-graders who blasted their way into our house like a storm, were a handful. Faye-Marie and I almost couldn’t handle them. But we did. We had to, because we wanted those twenty dollar bills. We had to see the end of this project through, as we’d seen the end of all our projects through. So Faye-Marie and I plowed our way through the party games. Two and a half hours of musical chairs and charades and telephone and Pictionary. Of Simon Says and button-button and pin the tail on the donkey. Then cake and Jell-O and presents at the end because every kid had to wait until the end of the party to open the presents. That was the rule, as I had to remind my brother, who by this time was off his rocket and ready to tear through everything. He pounced on his gifts and left a disaster zone of wrapping paper and bows around him. And then there were still ten minutes of party time left. The little kids wanted to rip the balloons off the wall and play volleyball with them, but Faye-Marie and I were reluctant to obstruct our glorious arch. I compromised, taking down only one balloon, because I remembered a trick I saw on a TV show once. The host put a piece of tape on a balloon and was able to stick a sewing needle through without popping it. I remembered how all the kids in the studio audience held their breath in anticipation, and I was hoping to recreate that reaction with my brothers’ friends. However, I forgot a crucial detail during my demonstration, which was that the sewing needle had to be pushed through slowly. In my haste to impress, I pricked the balloon too fast, and it exploded in my hands. I got the reaction I wanted, at least. While I stood there, stunned by my spectacular failure, the littler kids laughed themselves hoarse, like my class did when Mr. Denne tried to swat a sketch. Faye-Marie laughed with them, clutching her sides, unable to stop, as if she were being tickled. To this day I have not forgotten Faye-Marie’s laugh. She never giggled daintily. She never tittered. When she laughed, she howled, and it shook you, like a pair of hands on your shoulders. I heard her, looked at her, as tears and snot streamed down her face and neck onto her shirt collar. I let the balloon shards fall from my hands and I laughed too. Perhaps I wouldn’t have laughed that day if I had known that my brother’s party was one of the last projects Faye-Marie and I would partner up for. But kids can’t foresee these things. They simply expect things to go as planned. They expect a room to fill up with balloons like the ball pit of their dreams. They expected a balloon not to blow up in their face after having watched a magic trick performed once. They wanted things to go well, they plea in their heads. And when a birthday party does, in the end, despite the odds, go well, everything else is meant to go well too. Everything else, to me in that moment, meant a lifetime of birthday parties, and many more years of school projects faced with gusto by me and Faye-Marie, my best friend in the whole wide world… When I started teaching at my old elementary school, they assigned me the grade sixth class, Ms. Gretchen’s grade. She was Mrs. Farrell now, and due to retire soon, but she stuck around long enough to help me clear out the classroom. I imagined it was hard for her to let go and hand over the reigns of her grade to my less experienced hands. But she and her husband had a new cottage up north waiting for them. He would spend his remaining days fishing and reading books. She would spend hers painting watercolors. That would be me someday, I hoped. I wondered if, when I reached that age, I would still be thinking of Faye-Marie. “I remember you and Faye-Marie very well,” Mrs. Farrell said as we were stripping the walls of frayed posters, to be replaced with fresh ones of the exact same theme: inspirational quotes under cutesy animals in people clothes. “Inseparable, the two of you. You always did every project together. You were very productive.” “Thank you!” It had been nearly two decades since Faye-Marie and I had been her students. Two decades since the bee drawing, and our CN Tower sculpture, and my little brother’s seventh birthday party. He was an apprentice cook in a busy hotel now. No time for parties. “Are you still friends?” Mrs. Farrell asked. I shook my head. “We haven’t seen each other in years.” My former teacher’s face fell. She was hoping that I would say yes, we were roommates, we had gone to the same college, and we would be bridesmaids at each other’s weddings. I was sorry to disappoint her. “That’s too bad. Did you have a fight?” “We…drifted apart.” More specifically, Faye-Marie drifted away from me, towards other kids who could play soccer when she decided she wanted her entire life to revolve around that sport. I could barely kick a ball, and when I did manage it, I sent it flying over a fence. My lack of athleticism ultimately cost me my project partner and my best friend. My best friend now is Kirsten, a bookworm like me, who shares my taste in fantasy novels. We met in high school. Faye-Marie friend-dumped me at the end of seventh grade. The last year of elementary school, the eighth grade, had been rough. Knees-on-gravel rough. I cried all the time and thought loneliness would eat me alive like a Venus flytrap, on which I had to do a science class project alone, because Faye-Marie had partnered up with a teammate for a project on how soccer balls were made. She told me she and her new partner were researching how those things were filled with air, as if she and I hadn’t already studied something similar for my brother’s party already. It broke my heart. Something exploded inside of me, and I couldn’t laugh to ease the pain. My teacher pulled me aside when my face was wet with tears and reminded me that I was entering ninth grade soon, and with a new school came a new batch of people to bond with. Faye-Marie had been my best friend in the whole wide world, but my whole wide world was about to expand. So I waited the year out, praying that the universe would take pity on me and send me someone new. Someone up there must have heard me, because I met Kirsten in my grade nine art history class. We partnered up to do a project on Picasso, on which we got an A-. I was saved, but I still saw Faye-Marie almost every day, hanging out with other jocks, almost always wearing a team uniform. I waited for her to notice me, to remember my existence, our history, our shared accomplishments. But she never did. I will be morbid and say that her indifference to me was the sewing needle being pushed into me slowly, through a piece of tape. Not popping me, not again, as she’d done before, but just…hanging there. Just hanging there like a splinter sticking out of an open wound. “Look at this.” Mrs. Farrell took my hand and led me to the cork board, still hanging and displaying the creative glories of her students. I hadn’t noticed it before, but pinned to the top left corner was the photo Faye-Marie and I had presented to her and our classmates the Monday after my brother’s birthday party. It was crinkled and faded now, but there we were. Faye-Marie and me. The super team. And there were the two dozen red balloons hanging above our heads, crowning us, celebrating us. We’d spent those twenty dollars bills my Mom gave us on a trip to the movies. We saw The Incredibles. We didn’t have much money left over from the shopping trip, though. We’d spent it all on balloons. Suddenly, that red arch looked to me like a miserable frown. I missed her, I realised then. I missed her so much. Why did she have to choose soccer over me? My eyes swelled with tears. Mrs. Farrell patted my shoulder consolingly and handed me a tissue from the box still sitting on her cluttered desk. “It happens,” she told me, her smile warm, her tone wise. “People move on. There are some old students I miss, and old friends. Boyfriends too. Do you think Mr. Farrell was my first love?” She’d kept the photo there because, apparently, our beaming faces had made her students happy. But it didn’t make me happy. I took it anyway, and when I folded it up and slipped it into my jacket pocket, I felt it sitting there, weighing me down. Photos by themselves weighed nothing, but a memory like that weighed more than anybody should be expected to carry. I went with Kirsten to her niece’s birthday party. There were balloons of every colour, filled with helium, as they should be, and I selected a red. I almost expected the balloon not to take off when I tied the rolled-up photo to the string and released it into the sky. But it did, and I watched it disappear, into the clouds that gulped it up like a cube of Jell-O. I imagine someone found it, when the balloon eventually deflated and descended. They probably picked it up, scratched their head, and wondered who the heck were these two oddball girls, posed like that under a whole bunch of balloons. Maybe it was Faye-Marie herself, wherever she is now, and she finally remembers me. Maybe sometime soon, I can expect a phone call from her, asking me to meet for a coffee and a catch-up, as old friends are supposed to do. But to be perfectly honest, I prefer the thought of it being found by a stranger. If the balloon was still inflated a bit, I hope they took it inside with them, to hang up somewhere special where they lived before all the air escaped. Before it was just a piece of cheap, cherry-red, disposable rubber again. This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.