This article contains spoilers, references to body shaming, and mentions of eating disorders. I took a break from Netflix recently. Not for any reason other than being deep in a rewatch of Dance Moms on another platform. When I returned to Netflix, I was glad to ease my transition from weeks of pirouettes and controversial dance teachers to high kicks and controversial cheerleading teams in the form of a new seven-part docuseries, America’s Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. And I loved it. The unscripted series follows the American football’s Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders (fondly dubbed ‘DCC’) through the yearly process of whittling down the hundreds of candidates auditioning for a spot on the team, down to 36 who survive a quite frankly brutal training camp and stride out onto the field. It’s an insightful glance into the world behind the glitz and glam of professional cheerleading. Ever since watching, I’ve been sporadically shouting ‘THUNDER’ (a nod to one of their most iconic numbers, ‘Thunderstruck’) and regretting that I stopped jumping into the splits at some point during my dancing days. If only I’d known it would be a helpful skill all these years later. As much as I loved the show, I feel a bit guilty for enjoying it as much as I did. What’s sat with me since, is how much pressure there is on the team and that so much of their training, role, and lifestyle could, and clearly can be, damaging to their wellbeing, yet they often speak of it all in such high regard. So, let’s break it down. “She is pretty. She just needs to be polished.” From episode 1, one thing becomes apparent: in DCC world, image is everything. A monumental rebrand for the Dallas Cowboys in the 1970s sent the success of the DCC into the stratosphere when the brand manager moved from high school Cheerleaders to over-18s with a new, more mature look. Seemingly it was an iconic move as the team were soon famously recognisable for their uniform and flare, earning the label ‘America’s Sweethearts’ cementing the image ideal from then on.   Across the series, the importance of the DCC ‘look’ is highlighted, even being incorporated into the earliest audition with judgement not just on talent, but also personal appearance, poise, and figure . As we watch hundreds of women submit online auditions in the show, “She is pretty. She just needs to be polished” and comments alike aren’t unheard of. While the DCC states no specific height and weight requirements (aside from ‘looking well-proportioned in dancewear’ ), it does seem to come up… actually, quite often. My unrealistic ambitions of hopping on a plane to Dallas were quickly destroyed when Ariana McClure (a similar height to me) didn’t make the team, due to her short stature, unbeknownst to her at the time. Flashbacks to veteran team member Victoria Kalina’s earlier auditions saw comments from years before about her “not being at her trimmest state” and being advised to “tone her tummy” during weekly weigh-ins. Watching these scenes play out does feel like taking a step back into the beauty standards of the 70s and looking past the body positivity we strive for these days. There are other mentions of ensuring the Cheerleaders ‘fuel’ themselves sufficiently, which I hope is a sign of having some degree of support available. Victoria stole viewers’ hearts when she candidly opened up about her mental health struggles. Speaking about her experiences with depression, Victoria notes that during depressive episodes her eating habits become negative, leading to a cycle of binging and purging (eating large amounts of food at once and then compensating by removing it from the body) . The purging, in particular, she linked to getting into that ‘baby uniform’, and acknowledged perfectionist tendencies which were a battle during her time in the DCC. It is revealed that Victoria took a year out of DCC to focus on herself and sought therapy before returning to the team – a very positive message for prioritising mental health. It’s not about the pay. But what about the burnout? Social media was buzzing when we all learnt that being a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader was not only not a full-time job, but also not a well-paid part-time one either, meaning many of the DCC spend their days nursing for unwell children, or doing dentistry before switching out scrubs for stars and sparkles. I felt exhausted for her as veteran Kelcey Wetterberg described starting her full-time nursing role at 7:30am, heading straight to practice after, and often not returning home until midnight. I can’t help but think of burnout, a state of physical and mental exhaustion , especially seeing as it seems like a part-time job with a full-time workload. The show opens eyes to how Cheerleading is as an athletic sport as any, the physical demands on the body and mind are intense so all credit to those heading to practice after a day’s work, performing on game days, and doing the appearances and volunteer work that also comes with the position. The pay, which means they often have to have ‘regular’ jobs to sustain themselves, is now being widely questioned given the financial success of the Dallas Cowboys brand and the, let’s say, slightly more generous pay awarded to the football players.  While Kelcey spoke candidly about how tiring it was, she showed how passionate she remained. You give up a lot,” she says, “but it’s five years of your life, and the moments here are so special. It’s something that I’ll never get to do anything like this ever again. And they’re moments that I’ll cherish for the rest of my life, so it’s worth it.”  The power of sisterhood and sparkle The docuseries has opened the doors for critics. Social media and media outlets across the globe have been sharing their concerns. One article writes, “We see DCC management weaponize this altruism to inflict a host of harms, from eating disorders and broken hips to embarrassingly low wages and performances in horrendous temperatures”. While criticisms are rife, so is the buzz, you only have to head to social media to see user after user trying their hand at the DCC signature kick lines. One thing is for sure, it’s both captivating and polarising.  Despite the negatives, what shines through is the passion and idea of ‘sisterhood’ that encompasses the DCC. “It is about a sisterhood that they were able to form, about relationships they have for the rest of their life. They have a chance to feel like they’re valued, and they’re special, and that they’re making a difference. When the women come here, they find their passion and they find their purpose” says Executive Vice President and Chief Brand Officer, Charlotte Jones in an early episode. So long as you are on the inside, the support appears to be crucial protection for the DCCs, particularly evident as viewers are given an insight into some of the safety concerns that arise. In harrowing moments, we are told of a stalking incident experienced by Kelcey, and see the fallout of another DCC, Sophy (Sophia Laufer), having been inappropriately touched by a cameraman during a game. Immediately, the Cheerleaders run to the support of their team members, and let’s be honest, supporting and uplifting your team is fundamentally what cheerleading is all about. Social support has been shown over and over to be beneficial, with a lack of social support a prominent risk factor for poor mental health , proving why this is one of the more positive insights we get from the DCC. “When one person hurts, we all hurt” says one of the DCC. As critical as you can be about the reality of the DCC, and it is important to note that I haven’t gone into everything here, one thing I think is important to avoid overlooking is that sharing the downsides, particularly aspects which may be damaging to mental health and wellbeing, means it’s spoken about. And when we speak about things, it’s often the marker for change. Perhaps the DCC and other Cheerleading and sporting organisations alike will be able to implement change and provide extra protection for all involved moving forward. And none of it takes away from the success, talent, and resilience of the Cheerleaders on the team which still can, and should, be celebrated. As it turns out, the launch of the series on Netflix is not actually the beginning – there have been 16 previous seasons aired on other platforms and apparently, some of what I have touched on is even more outrageous in the earlier take. Safe to say you might not hear from me for a while. I’ll be practising my high kicks and searching all the DCCs on social media to see if America’s Sweethearts are ok.

Trigger warning: This short story discusses suicide. Some readers may find this distressing. Author’s Note : This story deals with suicide and depicts someone talking another person out of suicide. Despite the hope and happy ending of the story, it's important to note that there are themes within the story that might be triggering. If you resonate with these themes, I hope you can hold on to the idea of goodness always existing, even in the darkest of times. Photo by Ilias Nikolarakis on Pexels. It was a cold day, like always. Hallie wasn't sure why she expected anything less - as if the heavens would part so that the dazzling sun could shine down on her, one last time. She was never particularly lucky, and nothing good ever seemed to happen to her. It always used to be a running joke when she was young that she was cursed - ‘Poor Little Hallie!’ She would hear, every time she tripped, or came last in something. Sometimes people would even laugh as if the misery was funny. But it was never funny to her. Then she moved away to university, hoping for a fresh start. And well, she found one - because this time, people stopped laughing at her, instead, she just started to be ignored. For a while, Hallie almost saw it as a blessing - no one caring when things went wrong in her life - but then the misery set in, a dark cloud out of nowhere accompanying her everywhere, and she couldn't bring herself to get out of bed for a month. And no one cared at all - not to check on her, or even to find out what went wrong this time. She didn't even get a card, or a call, from anyone on her birthday. It was like she had ceased to exist. Which only fed the misery even more. Soon that month turned into multiple, and the only place she saw was her own bed. The only person she had to talk to was herself - and the awful misery that stayed raining on her throughout. She felt awful. Useless. And began to think that the world would be a far better place without a waste of a person like her in it. Hallie sighed as she sat heavily on a worn wooden bench that faced the beach, beyond a short wall. She could jump it, she thought - once she'd gathered enough energy. Yes. She just needed to sit here for a minute, and then she'd do it. The plan entered her head on a dark day that felt all too familiar - all that she knew since the misery appeared in her life - and she picked the day there and then. It was random, and nothing special - just like her. But Hallie loved the sea, and the idea of being in the water was enough to get her out of bed and to write the letters that no one would read, and leave them in the room no one would likely even check - because who would really care that she was missing? After all, who really cares that she's alive? ‘Sorry love, d'you mind if I sit here?’ A soft voice asked, making Hallie jump. A woman, with grey hairs peppered amongst her blonde, smiled down at her from behind round, dark glasses. Hallie, finding her throat too dry to reply, just nodded. ‘Thanks, I need to rest my poor feet,’ The woman said, as she sat down gently. She placed a small shopping bag in front of her, before pulling out two chocolate bars. ‘Would you like one?’ She asked, holding one out to Hallie. Hallie felt her stomach grumble, compounding the emptiness that consumed her. Before even thinking, she reached out and ate it gratefully. She was much hungrier than she'd thought she was. ‘Thank you,’ she said, quietly. The woman watched her, with a small smile. ‘So, have you been out shopping today then?’ Hallie shook her head. ‘Smart girl,’ the old woman said, with a chuckle. ‘It's dead busy in the shops. Must be all the tourists.’ She then paused for a moment, before she added ‘you aren't a tourist, are you, love?’ Hallie shook her head again, and the old woman smiled. ‘You here for university then?’ Hallie nodded. The old woman made a noise in the back of her throat before nodding back. ‘You are a smart girl, then. Are you enjoying it?’ Hallie hesitated for a moment and tried to stop her eyes filling with tears at the thought of all of the coursework that waited, unfinished, on her laptop. The old woman gently placed a woollen gloved hand on Hallie's, and said, softly. ‘It's alright. I bet it's dead stressful, eh?’ Hallie nodded, and quickly wiped her eyes, just in case any tears fell. ‘I can tell,’ said the old woman, ‘because you're out on such a cold day without a coat. Look at you - so busy that you forgot your coat!’ Hallie stopped for a moment and realised just how cold she was - so much so that she only just noticed that she was even shivering. The old woman pulled a brand-new throw blanket from her shopping bag, took off the tags, and wrapped it around Hallie, who found herself pulling it closer as if by impulse. ‘There you are. You keep that,’ said the woman, kindly. ‘Thank you,’ Hallie managed to say, her throat rough from not talking. ‘Not a problem,’ said the woman. ‘What's your name, love?’ Hallie looked the woman in her eyes for the first time. They were as blue as the sea and lined with years of laughter. They were kind, and Hallie found talking easier, somehow, now that the woman's kindness was affirmed by her face. ‘Hallie,’ she said. The woman smiled as if she'd just heard the most beautiful name in her entire life. ‘Hello, Hallie. Nice to meet you. What a lovely name you have.’ Hallie found laughter escaping her mouth. ‘Thanks - only I mostly associate it with people sighing or laughing at me.’ The woman’s face shifted into a frown. ‘Now, that's no good. Why's that?’ Hallie found the words spilling out of her mouth like water. ‘I'm so clumsy, and unlucky. Terrible things keep happening to me. And I just mess everything up.’ The old woman tutted and shook her head defiantly. ‘No, love. That's not true - I've only known you for two minutes, and you haven't messed up one bit, and nothing terrible has happened to you, has it?’ Hallie shook her head. ‘I guess not.’ The woman looked away, towards the rolling waves that were only a road across from them both, beyond a wall. Only a short walk, all things considered. ‘Y’know,’ said the woman, quietly, but with a strength to her voice. ‘I've been where you are, Hallie. Not metaphorically. Literally. I've sat on a bench just like that, full of despair, just… waiting. Waiting to cross the road. To go into the sea.’ Hallie looked at her, stunned, as the woman wiped a tear from her cheek before she cleared her throat and continued. ‘I know it's not quite the same - we're different people, from different times, with different worries and stresses. But as soon as I saw you there, I saw my young self, and I knew what I had to do.’ The woman looked Hallie in the eye and reached out to squeeze her hand. Hallie swore that she could feel her hand’s warmth beyond the cover of her glove. ‘A woman sat next to me - years ago now - and just talked to me. Told me how she went through something similar and how a complete stranger, just some good Samaritan going about their way, took the time to talk to her and to talk her down. That woman made me promise not to do what I'd planned - that I'd have a good life, with so many moments of happiness - if I just got some help. And despite everything, a part of me, maybe a part that hadn't been touched by the sadness inside me, believed her. So, I went home, told my mother, and we went to a doctor. Decades later, most of which were full of happiness, here I am. All because of a stranger that cared enough to save me. And now I’m here to save you, Hallie. Alright?’ Hallie just kept looking into the woman's bright eyes, almost as if she was a boat, lost at shore, and they were a lighthouse. ‘I know that I have no idea what you're going through, not really,’ said the woman, squeezing Hallie’s hand again. ‘But I'm living proof that it doesn't have to end here or be like this forever. You can get help. Things can get better. And I promise you that if you're able to get off this bench, and start that journey, that you'll never regret it. Not once.’ Hallie found the words leaving her dry throat before she'd even registered them. ‘But… how?’ ‘Well, maybe start with going back home - get yourself warm, maybe get some food in you. And then - I think I'd start with a doctor. Even if you can only book an appointment weeks away, it's something to aim for. Something in the future that’s a reason for you to keep going - even if you tell yourself that it's just because you can get yourself some cake after. Just something, y’know? Uni and all that - that can come later, but I’m sure just an email explaining that you’re struggling will be enough for them to start helping you.’ Hallie nodded. That made sense. ‘Good,’ the woman said, with a happy smile. ‘I bet you're freezing, aren't you? Why don't you head home now and make that call - but not before you get warm, alright?’ Hallie nodded again, and even though a stiffness shot through her as she got up, she found putting one foot in front of the other, turning away from the bench and slowly walking back to her uni flat, easier by the second. Hallie looked back, just for a moment, at the woman, who gave her an encouraging smile and waved. Hallie waved back, unsure if it was a hello, or a goodbye. But either way, Hallie knew what she had to do next - and just the thought of it almost made her feel a semblance of hope, like a spark igniting in the dark.   She felt warmer still as she pulled on a hoodie and looked around for her phone. She ordered herself a pizza - her favourite food - and then dialled the number of her local doctor's surgery as she waited for the food to arrive. It was as soon as Hallie put down the phone to her GP after booking an appointment to discuss her mental health, that she realised that she never even found out that woman's name. She should have asked, she thought, until she realised that you don’t have to reveal some things if you don’t want to, as long as you’re talking. It’s the opening up that matters, not necessarily reading the whole book at once. She might not know the woman's name, but she would always be grateful to her for opening up and talking to her like she did, and she would think of her when times get hard again, to help her through. As if she was a ship lost in fog, and the memory of the kind stranger was her light. Her reminder that there was always goodness, and kindness, even in the time that seemed bleakest. Yes, she was so grateful.    Years later, when another lost and hurting soul would sit on that very bench, they would be joined by a kind woman, who would offer them a bar of chocolate. She would tell them how once, she sat where they did, and felt the same misery. She would explain how another person - kind, sincere, and gentle - listened to her, and made her realise that she didn't need to do what she had planned that day. Made her feel like she mattered. She would sit with that lost soul and talk with them, or even just acknowledge them and keep them company, until they decided against their initial plan, and went home. Soon the bench would be full of messages of thanks to this mysterious woman, for saving them so selflessly. While Hallie never revealed her real name, just like the woman before her, she soon earned one - the Good Samaritan, or Sam for short. And while it wasn't a medal, or some great award - just the fact that she could do so much good and fill her life with so much happiness after that horrible period of misery…was more than enough. It was everything.

Nature is full of heart-melting examples of mother-baby relationships, especially, in birds and mammals. However, a parent’s tenderness for their children is not always spontaneous from the very first moment. In fact, raising a child can sometimes be a very demanding and exhausting task. Parents can struggle with what they think is correct, what others say, and what they experienced in their childhood (as discussed in a previous ITM blog ), especially when they are parents for the first time. Sadly, some parents suffer parenting difficulties alone, for fear of being judged as “bad parents”. As Perinatal Psychiatrist, Ian Brockington , says, “Anger and hatred are less obviously a concern for psychological medicine than depression and anxiety”, nevertheless, when not overcome; they can have damaging consequences for both parents and children (indeed, the importance of sensitive parenting is a topic often discussed on ITM's column 'The Perinatal Journey' ) . As a clinical psychiatrist, I have found that many of the behavioural problems and affective disorders seen in children and teenagers can be traced back to when parent-child bonding began. Thus, the early emotional environment between the family contributes to shaping the way children are. To help children, it is often necessary to help parents with parenting when it takes on pathological overtones. Mother-baby relationship By way of definition, bonding is the emotional connection between caregiver and child, and attachment is the adaptive response of the child to the caregiver. After childbirth, developing a relationship with the newborn is the most important psychological task for the mother , but it is not a one-way process. Brockington explains in the book ‘Motherhood and Mental Health’ , that “the infant plays an important part because his behaviour has a powerful effect on his mother’s emotions, for good or ill. Newborn infants are attracted to humans and show a preference for those involved in their care”. Thus, babies exhibit behaviours which influence the mother and other caregivers, for example, crying, smiling, following, clinging and sucking (to read more about 'Baby language' see ITM's previous blog ). Factors from across the mothers’ lifetime, from childhood to after childbirth influence bonding. These include the mother’s childhood experiences, her expectations of motherhood, whether and how the pregnancy was planned; her familial/social support, marital relationship, and professional and work conditions. After childbirth, the family and spouse’s support are also critical. As was discussed in a recent Inspire The Mind Article , fathers can have a profound impact on the bonding between mother and infant, long before and after birth. The father usually plays a significant role in supporting the mother-baby dyad and the rest of the family.  Indeed, sensitive fathering, through play, and verbal and behavioural stimulation, can buffer the effects of maternal depression or mother-baby impaired bonding on offspring. Bonding disorders Bonding disorders consist of a syndrome with three main features – aversion to the infant, a desire to escape from the burden of childcare, and (in severe cases) a wish for the disappearance of the infant, by theft or death. Fortunately, the prognosis is good. A study carried out at a mother-child day clinic reported a rate of almost 90% of recovery from mother-child bonding disorder. Brockington explains that for a long time, traditionally, the mother's love has been considered a ubiquitous reality, an ideal for many women; however, this is so far from the reality of mental health disorders in mothers. This social idealisation has led many women (and fathers) to suffer their difficulties in silence during the perinatal period, due to fear of being stigmatised or judged. It is supposed that a newborn baby's smell, soft skin, babbling and gurgling, and beautiful smile would awaken the deep magic of legends and the joy parents expect. But this expectation is not always reality. In the UK, according to the National Childbirth Trust , around a third (32%) of UK mothers experience difficulties bonding with their babies. Another study reported that the frequency of bonding disorders was found to be 24% among healthy postpartum mothers as against 45.2% in mothers with psychiatric disorders. However, the frequency of mild disorders of bonding was relatively lower at 5.6% among healthy mothers and 6.5% among mothers with psychiatric disorders. The History of Bonding Disorders Bonding disorders have existed for a long time, but they have only been described since the early 20th Century. Oppenheim (1919) wrote on Misopädie (aversion to children), one of the earliest articles on this subject. Similarly, in 1845, Rothamel described the death of a child from starvation, indicating entrenched hatred and rejection. Curiously, even in unexpected cases, when parents are very well prepared for a wanted baby’s arrival, impaired bonding can occur. For instance, in the example Brockington provided in the foreword of his book “Bonding disorders. Emotional Rejection of the Infant” . Both parents were doctors and well aware of the challenges a newborn brings. Despite their preparation, far from feeling excitement and joy for their first baby, the father stated that the birth: “opened a chasm, a raw jagged hole of emptiness, bewilderment, alienation, hate and pain. There was no love. My wife felt only anger, resentment, wild mood swings and dark, dark thoughts. There was also fear. Fear of what she might do. She looked for help…” After meeting a perinatal psychiatrist and receiving help, she got much better. Some years later, they said, “We are now ten years down the line. The experience is still raw in our hearts and the knowledge of what has and could have been is still one that fills us with horror… It would seem the last taboo left in our world is still intact. We see it every day and yet we still refuse to accept that the concept of a universal and undying mother’s love is not in every circumstance universal at all. Please open your eyes... Diagnose it and help to treat it” One crucial step forward in the field of bonding disorders would be for them to be recognised in key mental health diagnostic manuals (ICD-11 and DSM-5), sometimes referred to as 'psychiatry's bibles' , which are used to guide the diagnosis of mental disorders. This would improve recognition of these disorders, guiding standardised care for patients and influencing research endeavours. Greater knowledge by specialists and the general population about bonding disorders could reduce stigma and allow parents suffering in silence to gain easier access to specialised help services.

A conversation with Edson Williams ‘I Am Enough. I am everything I need to succeed.’ This is the message on a circular red piece of paper stuck on my laptop. It is part of a new product called Sticky Rituals , a collection of stickers with positive affirmations designed to influence decision making, launched by Edson and his team. Edson Williams is a life coach and boxing trainer who has worked for nearly two decades with diverse clients, ranging from entrepreneurs to corporates, aged 17 to 73. I am Gargi Mandal, a research assistant at the Stress, Psychiatry, and Immunology lab (SPI Lab), and an editor for Inspire the Mind. My own interest in boxing, possibly instigated by the recent undisputed heavyweight championship  bout, and constant quest for better self-improvement methods, led me to speak with Edson. I want to share our conversation with you. Our conversation started by discussing the name 'Inspire the Mind' and my research in mental health.  “The way the mind works, it just baffles me. It's so complex, and yet, human desires are all the same. Everybody wants to feel good.” This view is at the core of Edson’s approach to coaching and enables him to connect with his clients in boxing and during one-to-one coaching sessions. He believes that people are full of potential, and it is his responsibility as a life coach to help people understand what makes them feel good and tap into their true potential. He was drawn into life coaching through his own struggles with depression and personal development journey. He found his answers in Dr Viktor Frankl’s book, Man’s Search for Meaning, where the author writes about his experience in concentration camps during World War II. Edson mentioned that in the book, those who were able to better cope with the atrocities in the camp, were the people who found their purpose in something bigger than their own survival. This idea led him to think of his own purpose in life. “My agency is to serve others, and if that philosophy spreads and if people around me also understand that that's their purpose, then this world will become a completely different place.” One of the key initial challenges he faces with his clients is defining what happiness means for an individual, which is particularly hard in the digital age of Instagram and influencers. Edson believes that many people are programmed to think about what happiness means based on the information they consume from external sources, instead of looking inwards. “When you are caught up in the rat race, and you are following the followers, you are constantly chasing one thing after another. People do not realise that the thing itself isn’t what makes them happy, but the fact that they made progress towards something is what truly makes them happy.” He gave me an example of a young man he knew who sought to have a “proper” job, instead of the one he currently had and enjoyed as an assistant coach at his boxing gym. When Edson dug deeper to find the reasons behind his career choice, he opened up about his fear of being left behind — this resonated with me. Edson mentioned that instead of setting arbitrary means of happiness in this situation, it would be helpful for people to find their purpose through gratitude. “I work on reversing this thing, so then you wake up in the morning, and you just look and think, 'Wow, I can move all of these fingers, I live on a planet where there's life all around me, I can drop a few seeds in soil and something will grow out of it'. So, sink into gratitude, and ask yourself: what makes me happy? What am I here for?” Edson uses similar techniques when coaching people at his boxing gym. Progress is the key philosophy in his gym, and the only goal is to be better this week than the last one. Additionally, one of the founding principles is to focus on creating an environment with mutual respect. When he notices kids in his classes misbehaving, he doesn’t tell them off. Instead, he asks students to respect themselves and encourages meaningful use of the time that they have dedicated to themselves. Edson stumbled upon boxing through a friend who was going to a gym and was dropping Edson at a nearby location. They had passed numerous gyms, and Edson was intrigued by why his friend had chosen one so far away. He decided to go inside and see what was special about this particular one, which was placed below the railway arches in Lambeth North. As soon as he entered Fitzroy Lodge, a boxing club established in 1908, Edson was struck by the tenacity of people, and he has kept going back ever since. Edson’s unique approach involves coaching through boxing, which can be extremely effective . He believes that boxing can be an intervention for many people, helping people redirect their lives. Boxing is one of the most physically excruciating sports and people demand more from themselves. There is an internal dialogue in boxing, and when this internal discussion is no longer available, Edson and similar coaches step in to guide people. “There is something about Boxing — this should be the title of a movie. They call boxing, the loneliest sport because it’s you against you. You're in a constant internal conversation. You're tired, your muscles are aching, you want to quit, but you can't stop. Because the consequences of quitting in boxing is an even bigger pain or to get punched in the face or the body.” Additionally, boxing can be a great platform for expressing oneself and releasing tension and feelings of anger that one may have to repress. Since it is a sport that puts you through your paces, it compels you to be fully present and focus on the situation at hand without external distractions. “It is like controlling a dragon. You need great control in boxing. You need to stay composed no matter what the situation, whether you are under pressure or if you are victorious.” When asked what keeps him motivated in his line of work, Edson mentioned that seeing people grow and be true to themselves is extremely fulfilling. Through boxing and coaching, he has been able to see physical and mental transformations that help people in many aspects of their lives. He wants to develop more tools (such as Sticky Rituals) to help people take control of their own minds. In my case, the small red circular sticky note on my laptop has been a constant source of encouragement during important interviews, assessments, and meetings. It has served as a gentle reminder to be kinder to myself and reinforced my self-belief, motivating me as I navigate new territories.

A story of Self-Empowerment and the Undeniable Love Between Mother and Child I will never forget the drive home from the hospital. I was sitting in the back seat with my three day old daughter, asleep in her car seat. I couldn't hold back the tears from streaming down my face. I was overwhelmed by the attachment I felt towards this tiny human being. I thought the love I had for her might swallow me whole, drowning me and leaving her without a mother. My heart ached for the bond my husband and I once shared. In my body, I knew our marriage had been affected over the past several years as he battled his addiction and I stood by his side. As supportive as I had been, it had taken a toll on me and our marriage. I glanced up into the rearview mirror meeting his gaze for a moment. My love for him was undeniable. I looked down at my daughter with an inexplicable knowing that active addiction and the life I envisioned for her couldn’t coexist. It felt too overwhelming to process at the time, so in a reassuring whisper I said to myself, “It will be alright. He will do the right thing. Our family will be healthy and beautiful.” I'm Katie, mom to one beautiful baby girl. Here I share the journey of coming to realize that my daughter and I could no longer live with active addiction in our lives no matter how much I loved her father, who was the struggling addict. If you would like to find out more about how addiction can impact relationships, I recommend this article . This article is my story about choosing to focus on what I could control: mine and my child's life and doing whatever it took to make sure I created a life of safety, love, peace, and well being.  The first week home I experienced a plethora of emotions that were heightened to an abnormal degree. I was operating completely outside my threshold of feeling. My therapist had forewarned me about the "baby blues” - an increase in emotions characterized by heightened sadness due to hormonal shifts after childbirth. It can last for up to two weeks. During this time, I felt intense love and fierce protectiveness towards my daughter, knowing she was vulnerable to the world and its harsh realities. Simultaneously, I grappled with a profound sense of grief for the life I once knew and the seismic shifts that were happening in my marriage. My husband's struggles cast a shadow over my pregnancy, resulting in a traumatic backdrop for all of us. Over time, I adjusted to motherhood quite well, but it was a process of carving out a new identity as a mother while also staying true to my core essence. Deep within, an unsettling awareness lingered. I recognized the need to confront the unprocessed emotions from my pregnancy. It was imperative going forward that I see sustained sobriety from my husband. One thing was certain: I refused to raise my daughter within the confines of addiction.  My husband had been battling this disease for as long as I had known him, marked by fluctuating periods of stability and instability. It took a horrific turn a few months after I found out I was pregnant as new challenges arose that were completely foreign to him, myself and his entire family. It was months of relentless efforts before he stabilized, leaving little to no time for me to process what had happened prior to giving birth to our daughter. We know that prenatal stress can indirectly affect infant health and development and the notion of this haunted me. Yet, I remained determined in my mindset and hopeful that things would turn around for my family. Weekly therapy sessions aided me in processing complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD) while navigating the transformative experience of becoming a mother, altering my identity, clarifying my values, and reinforcing my sense of self. With my daughter's arrival came a newfound maturity, unwavering boundaries, and a clear purpose. I no longer had a tolerance for unhealthy behaviors, in others or in myself. I was determined to shield her from what trauma and stress I could during her formative years. My husband's addiction persisted after our daughter's birth, becoming evident shortly after her first birthday. Realizing the need for a different approach, I joined a 12-step program, a powerful peer support group for loved ones of addicts, a life altering decision that introduced me to a supportive community. These groups help individuals and their families recover from substance use disorders, behavioral addictions, and sometimes other co-occurring mental health conditions. Here, witnessing their joy and peace, I yearned for what they had and recognized it as essential for our family. To this day, I remain dedicated to my self-healing and the 12-step program, which has enabled me to become a better woman and mother. I once believed that my husband's sobriety was a prerequisite for my own healing, but I now understand that my responsibility extends solely to myself and my 15-month-old daughter. This realization empowered me to take actionable steps toward a happier, more stable life. Although challenging, the journey has been profoundly rewarding, and I can confidently say that I am thriving in motherhood. Each day strengthens my bond with my daughter, and I continue to gain confidence as a woman and a mother. Prioritizing self-care is an invaluable gift we can give to ourselves, our loved ones, our community, and our planet.

An interview with netball player, Holly Jones. As many of us immerse ourselves in an exciting summer of sport (Euros24, Tour de France, and the upcoming Olympics), I was moved to reflect on the pressures on the athletes themselves and what happens to those who don’t make it to the top. The world of sports is ever evolving, and currently, stakes are at an all-time high for athletes, mainly stemming from the large financial rewards now involved in elite sports and the growing accessibility of training resources for young athletes worldwide. However, with high stakes comes a heightened pressure on athletes to perform well, stay fit, and stay in a healthy mindset. To gain insight into this issue, I spoke with Holly Jones, a 21-year-old netball player, about her experiences with injuries and setbacks, starting with her journey in sport and what her motivations were to pursue it at a competitive level.   "I started playing netball when I was 7 at school. I had a great coach who was really supportive of me. I loved it, as did all my friends, so naturally, we all played club level and a lot of us progressed to 'pathway netball' as we got older. I wanted to pursue it competitively purely down to enjoyment. I loved the sport and loved being part of a team". I was interested to hear Holly's perspective on the rewards and sacrifices she had to make to reach her current level. "Despite the short-lived career, I would say the biggest reward was obtaining a sports scholarship to my secondary school" she tells me. "I was playing at my highest level when I was 14, right before my first injury. I was training three times a week through club and pathway netball on top of sport at boarding school with school matches on Saturdays and netball matches on Sundays. I wouldn’t say I had to make significant sacrifices as I was only young and loved it, but it was a busy time and my parents certainly had to make significant sacrifices to get me to all the training and fixtures." I was keen to learn how she coped with pressure to succeed and the fear of failure and if this fear ever impacted on her performance and mental health. "I was lucky to have very supportive teammates and coaches, so any pressures were alleviated by their reassurance and encouragement. When first coming to university having had almost five years out of netball due to injury and COVID, I really wanted to play BUCS netball (British Universities and Colleges Sport). I think the fear of failure and fear of injury definitely impacted my performance at trials. Whenever I wasn’t playing well, it knocked my confidence and my attitude towards the sport." Sadly, Holly has suffered a number of injuries over the years, so I was interested to know about how these affected her mental wellbeing and outlook on competing at a high level. "I suffered my first injury aged 14. I tore my ACL (anterior cruciate ligament), PCL (posterior cruciate ligament), and calf muscle in my left leg. I had my first operation in 2017. A year later, I re-tore my ACL. I had a second reconstruction surgery in 2019. I then tore my ACL in my right knee. I had this surgery in 2022. I then re-tore my ACL in my right knee in 2023 along with my meniscus and had surgery later that year. Unfortunately, four surgeries later, I have been forced to retire from netball. As a 14-year-old aspiring young netballer, an ACL injury is quite life-changing. I went from playing netball all the time to not at all and had no idea what an ACL even was. To then be told I needed 9-12 months out and surgery to repair it was pretty shocking. Heartbroken was an understatement. I really struggled mentally at this time as all my friends were able to play and improve, and I was just sat watching, and this continued for the foreseeable. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten more used to the fact that my knees just can’t cope with the demands of the sport, and I’ve accepted that it just isn’t meant for me, but it’s definitely taken me a while to come to terms with that. I still love the sport and like to get involved where I can, although I do miss it". This begs the question of unfulfilled dreams and aspirations and what effect that has had on her outlook to life. "I think not being able to reach the level of netball I wanted to reach was gutting, but suffering my injuries so young helped me accept that my aspirations were unachievable early on. This meant I could pursue other things instead from a young age". To be a young athlete playing at a high level more often than not requires devotion and practical help from parents. In some cases, parental pressure can have a negative effect. I was interested in Holly’s experience — whether her relationship with her parents was positive or it added to her stress. "My dad was a keen sportsman, and I have two older brothers who played everything growing up. Naturally, I took to sport too. My dad’s passion has definitely had the biggest impact on my sports career, and he was always my biggest supporter. His competitiveness was infectious and impacted me and my performances positively". We all know playing at a high level doesn’t come without the hard work of training. This can mean missing out on other childhood pursuits, as well as impacting on their education. "At school, I had a lot of support balancing sport and education. Post my first injury, with the lack of netball, I quickly found other things to fill my time. I’ve always been good with time management and prefer to be busy. Through the support of my parents and teachers, I was able to do everything I wanted to do." Holly’s experience may be typical in many ways — she was fortunate to have supportive but not pushy parents, and the reason she did not go on to play national and international level netball was down primarily to physical issues rather than mental. Others are not so lucky. Indeed, in many cases, parental pressure can have a negative and lasting effect, heightening, stress, anxiety and burnout. Young athletes can suffer from identity issues, as their self-worth becomes tied to performance on the pitch, leading to reduced enjoyment and motivation. This can also put pressure on the child-parent relationship as many parents see winning as more important than enjoyment. When we watch a major sporting event like the Olympics we can perhaps be forgiven for assuming that all the athletes are happy, well-rounded individuals. Equally though, we can all point to cases of top athletes who have privately and publicly struggled, had troubled lifestyles, and have had to leave their sport — much to the consternation of fans. We also have no idea about all of those who didn’t "make it" and the subsequent impacts on them, their families, and their careers outside of the world of sport. Further reading Council on Sports Medicine and Fitness. Sports specialization and intensive training in young athletes   — Brenner J. S. (2016) Predictors of antisocial and prosocial behavior in an adolescent sports context — Rutten et al (2011) The impact of sports participation on mental health and social outcomes in adults: a systematic review and the 'Mental Health through Sport' conceptual model —  Eather et al (2023)

Content warning: The following blog discusses topics such as cyberbullying, harassment, and death threats, which some readers may find distressing. The end of November once again brings with it the internet’s favourite musical-statistics event, Spotify Wrapped . For the last six years, Spotify has successfully turned its data monitoring into an entertaining spectacle for music lovers and infographic enthusiasts alike, and this seventh year has been no exception. In case you have managed to miss what Spotify Wrapped is, it’s a personalised annual breakdown of everything you’ve listened to in the last 12 months in the form of a short-and-sweet slideshow. Your favourite artists, how much time you spent listening to music and podcasts, and which genres you’re the biggest fan of, are just some of the highlights of the Wrapped rundown. To top it all off, at the end of the mini presentation, you’re given a personal playlist of the top 100 songs, in order, that got all your love in the last year. If you haven’t already, you can check out your own Spotify Wrapped 2023 summary now ! For Apple users who don’t have Spotify, the tech company also launched their own take on Wrapped, Apple Replay , which you can check out now too. For a lot of Spotify users – of whom there are 574 million, including 226 million paying subscribers – this is an event to look forward to all year, and its popularity across social media is undeniable, with its trending hashtags, countless articles in the months leading up to the release, and inevitable memes. A big part of the fun that people have with Spotify Wrapped is sharing their results on social media. Within mere hours of a release – this year’s was yesterday, November 29th – post after post of people sharing their personalised playlists and top songs floods every Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and Tumblr feed. However, while maintaining the fun and unserious tone that it began with, over time, this annual viral event has also become yet another way for some people to curate an idealised image of themselves they want the world to see. Curating Our "Social Images" It's not news that people often showcase only the good parts of their lives on their social media, especially on Instagram, Facebook, and Snapchat ; romantic getaways with the love of their life, life-changing trip after trip across the big wide world, long-awaited promotion at work, their beautiful and talented children collecting yet another impressive accolade. Moments of pride, moments of love, moments of joy and peace. And that makes sense! Of course, these are the moments of your life you would want on display. Most people aren’t going to be too eager posting about their mundane day-to-day or about their thoughts during the darkest hours – though the shift that has taken place in the last decade cannot be ignored. Caring about how we’re perceived by our peers isn’t a novel concept unique to social media by any means; it’s simply made more obvious to more people than before. Research has even shown that our desire to establish a positive “social image” is a greater motivator in cooperating with others, even more so than punishment . The effects of exclusively posting the idealised life on both the poster and the viewer has been a topic of interest for years. So, instead of talking about the impacts of selective posting (i.e., only ever “the good”), I want to focus on how manipulating “social image” and worrying about things as minor as a Spotify Wrapped playlist can affect the poster. Manipulating the Data & Social Performance Around October last year, I began noticing posts on Twitter from people warning fellow Spotify users that the coming days would be their “last chance to fix up your stats!”, encouraging them to intentionally change their listening habits so that their Wrapped breakdowns would appear more impressive to both their peers and to strangers online. At first, I found this incredibly strange but then also a little… sad. We shouldn't be so dependent on Twitter clout and approval from strangers online that we feel the need to purposefully manipulate your Spotify Wrapped, something that is meant to be just a bit of fun. Most of the time, people are far too focused on their own stats to be paying attention to who ended up being in your top 5 artists. That’s quite harsh, and probably not true for everybody, but what I am sure of is that most people are not going to remember what your most played song of the year was the next morning. Especially not when millions of other users are also sharing their own lists at the same time. Music is also a form of art that is especially personal; we listen to music that deals with difficult emotions from grief and loss to love and faith, so we should be celebrating the differences and using this little event to learn more about the people around us and art we may not have explored before. It is true that so much of the content shared on social media is some form of performance. I’ve even talked about the effects of performance, specifically performative activism, and its use as a marketing strategy by brands to appeal to our moral and social identities to ultimately sell their products. Even corporations have caught on, for quite some time now, that for a lot of people, there is this deep desire to appear perfect . And, for some, that includes a trivial yearly music statistics breakdown. Social Perfectionism & Loss of Personality It’s a little bizarre that even with things as unserious as usage data for a music streaming application, there is still concern about how others perceive us. Perfectionism can be harmful enough on its own , and then we add anxiety over being perceived by others into the mix, and it becomes an even greater stressor –and often one where we also project beliefs onto others, which I’ll talk a little bit more about in a moment. The obsession with appearing morally and socially perfect can be extremely unhealthy and certainly unrealistic; Courtney Worrell talks about this brilliantly in her blog “ The Trials and Tribulations of Moral Perfectionism ” which I would definitely recommend reading. When we become more concerned with presentation and how others view us above earnestness and honesty, the person we appear as becomes disingenuous. In the case of Spotify Wrapped and, more broadly, the wide world of art in its many forms, black-and-white thinking is completely counterproductive. The whole point of art is that there is no one way to interpret and react to it. It’s supposed to be a personal experience, while simultaneously one that connects like minds. At some point along the way, the balance between the personal and the public experience was thrown off and personal has become oxymoronically rebranded to being unique, yes, but only if it’s in a way that the rest of the group approves of and relates to. The moment we claim that certain music is “cringe” or “basic” or “bad” and that only liking a select group of artists is acceptable, we shut down space for personality. Everyone has to like the same things; echo the same praises, the same critiques. I don’t know about you, but that sounds painfully boring. Promoting Toxicity & Intolerance for Variance Sadly, however, fostering a boring community isn’t the only downside to this way of approaching art. It also further encourages intolerance to deviation from the communally defined norm. Going hand-in-hand with the moral perfectionism I mentioned earlier is the unreasonable intolerance for any sort of disagreement or misalignment of taste. Over the years, I’ve noticed, as I’m sure many of you also have, how casual hostility has become more and more commonplace on platforms like Twitter. Threats of violence, unsubstantiated and easily debunkable accusations motivated by a need to feel justified in disliking somebody, constant bad faith readings, and casual cruelty for the sake of a social-media-clout-bait joke, Twitter and TikTok have it all! Look, I’m not so disconnected from reality that I can’t tell that most of the time these posts, despite how distressing their language may be, are not meant to be taken seriously and are intended to be “jokes”. But, what’s the joke? How does graphically detailing how somebody should kill themselves or accusing them of heinous crimes in the quote replies of their posts, just because they criticised an artist you love, equate to comedy? Likewise, constant use and exposure to this kind of language desensitises us to it, which itself can be dangerous . A death threat is a death threat, and yet often times, all of us from everyday people to content creators and celebrities are told to ignore them and not let it get to us. To call that an unfair expectation is quite the understatement. We're so caught up in how we're perceived that we're forgetting the whole point of Wrapped to begin with: to listen to the music that moves us and then watch our vibrant little slideshow about it at the end of the year. It’s easier said than done, absolutely, but we need to remind ourselves that, at the end of the day, we can only control our own words and actions, not how others perceive them. There are far crueller words said, actions taken, and interests entertained by people for which they should be ashamed – casual threats of violence, slinging slurs, and intentional sharing of dangerous misinformation. Your music taste and what you happened to listen to this past year don’t even come remotely close to something to feel embarrassed about. Who cares! Who cares if you exclusively listened to "All I Want for Christmas" this whole summer or spent two cross-country road trips listening to songs from a tv show so that “The Cast of Crazy Ex Girlfriend” is now in your top 5 artists of the year (shoutout to my best friend Katie for that one. Hi, Katie!). You had fun! As long as you’re having fun and nobody is getting hurt, enjoy what you enjoy. And if that happens to be “cringe” or the “wrong” art, that’s fine. Keep enjoying it anyway. Better to be your cringe-but-genuine self than a personality-void person, simply mirroring everybody else's behaviour.

The PRECOGNITION Project In this piece, we are excited to introduce a new project which we have been working on, called PRECOGNITION. We are Barbora Rehák Bučková and Giulia Cattarinussi, a statistician and a psychiatrist interested in predicting the onset and the course of psychosis. Our main goal is to build cognitive growth charts . These charts are similar to those used to track a child’s physical development. But rather than height and weight, we will track a person's cognitive development.  Sounds complicated? It is, but let’s proceed step by step!   Cognitive impairments in psychosis As you may already know, cognition is the set of thinking skills that enable us to understand, learn and solve problems. These are also commonly referred to as “ thinking skills ”. Cognitive impairments, including difficulties in memory, attention and problem-solving, are commonly seen in people with mental disorders. In psychosis , a severe mental illness characterised by loss of contact with reality, these deficits are frequently present early in the course of the disorder, sometimes even before symptoms start.   Cognitive impairments in psychosis have a dramatic impact on quality of life. For example, they might affect school performance or the ability to get and hold a stable job. As a consequence, cognitive impairments are very distressing, and they affect self-confidence and the everyday life of people with psychosis. This is a crucial issue since functioning in areas such as employment is considered by young people with psychosis to be a major treatment goal, even more important than the alleviation of psychotic symptoms, such as hearing or seeing things that others cannot hear or see (hallucinations) and believing things that are not actually real (delusions). In addition, we need to keep in mind that cognitive impairments in psychosis come with a huge burden for caregivers, as well as societal and economic costs .  We are now starting to understand that keeping track of changes in one’s thinking skills can help us catch and treat psychosis as soon as the first symptoms appear . However, even though we understand that someone developing psychosis will show changes in their thinking skills , these changes are also common in many other mental health disorders. This overlap makes it harder to accurately predict and treat psychosis.   Most research so far has focused on finding differences between groups of people with psychosis and those without. While we can see that thinking skills are different in people with psychosis compared to those without, these differences are often not clear enough to make a diagnosis of psychosis. It is like knowing that men are usually taller than women, but not being able to guess someone's biological sex just because they are 178 cm (5'10") tall.   To move the field forward, we need to improve our understanding of how our individual thinking skills develop and change over time. This will allow us to identify factors that vary across individuals and that aggregate and interact in complex ways, ultimately enabling us to understand and predict the course of psychosis. However the more intricate the changes, the more data we need to understand them. Thus, we have to tackle this problem by gathering more data and developing approaches that would help us understand the specifics of the condition for each person individually.   Normative models: Tracking growth to keep us healthy Although new to neuroscience and psychiatry, the concept of 'normative models' has been used in other branches of medicine for quite some time. Many of you may be familiar with baby growth charts.   Once baby Lisa is born, a paediatric doctor assesses her weight and height. And because thousands of babies are born every day, scientists were able to estimate that while an average newborn weighs around 3.2 kg, only 3% of newborns weigh less than 2.3 kg.   As Lisa gets older, her weight and height increase. This is where the growth charts come into play. During periodic check-ups, a doctor can track how Lisa is doing compared to other children. She was born at an average weight; however, in two months she weighed half a kilogram less than what was expected based on her weight as a newborn. Noticing a difference from her “expected growth trajectory” the doctor can perform a deeper examination to eliminate the risk of disease. In short, having a reference of how our body or mind is expected to develop provides a powerful tool to monitor our health and indicate our “wellness”. The idea of normative models of cognition follows the above principles. Unfortunately, unlike weight and height, it is more complicated to make a “growth chart” of cognition as it is much harder to measure. Hundreds of tests have been developed to quantify some aspects of cognition such as intelligence, memory, or attention but there is no single test best suited for this task. Moreover, different tests are measured in different circumstances in different countries, so we have to be very careful about how to combine information across them. Thus, our challenge is to unify and combine different tests to have a measure of cognition we can model. In other words, we would have a cognition analogue like Body Mass Index (BMI), a single number combining two other measures of weight and height.    The PRECOGNITION Project The goals of the PRECOGNITION project are very ambitious! We first need to gather a lot of cognitive tests measured across different hospitals and countries to have a sample big enough to study and distil the best measures of cognition to be modelled. So far, we have collected data from four European countries (the Czech Republic, Denmark, Norway and the United Kingdom), and we are working to gather new data from other continents. Once we understand how cognition develops in healthy people, we can then study how psychosis disrupts those healthy processes. Ultimately, this knowledge could enable us to design mechanisms to catch those early signs and prevent the disease from progressing.    In addition, since we believe that the involvement of people with lived experience is crucial to conducting good research, we will have one-to-one interviews with people with lived experience of psychosis who have or have had problems with thinking skills, as well as focus groups with their caregivers. This will allow us to gain a wide range of perspectives and it will help us to determine the cognitive impairments and functional outcomes that are the most meaningful to people with psychosis.   You can find out more about our progress on our website ,   https://precognition-project.org/ . We will also be recruiting for one-to-one interviews with people with lived experience of psychosis and cognitive impairments and a focus group with their caregivers, so please feel free to email us at precognition@kcl.ac.uk if you would like more information.

Author’s Note:  We are told repeatedly by mental health care professionals and Facebook inspirational posts across the board that our past doesn’t define us. Realistically, that is not always the case. My “Caro” is a short story about how traumatic events in the past, such as growing up in an emotionally abusive household, can affect our mindsets and decision-making as adults. Even with a good sympathetic friend firmly in her corner (my narrator), Caro is unable to let go and move on. But that doesn’t mean her friend gives up on her. Quite the contrary. I’ve known Caro for years. Her story’s not something she likes to share with strangers. It has to be lured out of her bit by bit, offered by her hand in crumbs, over the course of a long acquaintance. To be her friend is to take on the strenuous project of collecting the pieces of her life that had once made something whole but are now shattered into numerous, uneven bits. And forget about gluing them all back together again. The king’s horses and all his men had an easier job with Humpty Dumpty. One day she’ll bring out a small shard of it and shyly present it to you, to hold and turn and examine between your fingers, a sure sign that she trusts you. Another day you’ll find a hunk of it sitting curiously on her desk, where she’d left it by mistake, and she’ll blush and stammer and quickly shove it out of sight.  She’ll cut off your questions with an offer of coffee and cake. And then, a few weeks after that, she’ll go and change her mind again and decide to tell you what it was at the most inconvenient time possible. In the middle of the night, perhaps. Over the phone, or in the middle of a conversation you were having about something entirely unrelated. Or when you have a bus to catch and only a few minutes to talk. I’ll admit that, sometimes, it can be rather frustrating.             Now, don’t get the wrong idea from me. I adore Caro. I really do. She’s a kind and gentle soul. Almost an angel, really. But you need a lot of patience to be her friend. Patience, and a lot of time to give. Fortunately for me, I have both. I’ve only just, at long last, learned the whole story, and it is both a monumental accomplishment and a disheartening exposure of the wretchedness of the world we live in. Poor Caro. She’s terribly ashamed of it all. She tends to brood over the thought that things could have been different if only she  had been. She gets this awful, heartbreaking look on her face when she broods. Her face gets flushed, and she looks like she’s going to swell up and pop like a child’s red balloon. That’s when an old friend like me has to step in, to place my hand over hers and reassure her that she made the right choice all those years ago. Leaving home when she was seventeen was, without a single doubt, the best and really the only thing she could do, because what would have happened to her if she’d stayed? I’m not breaking her trust by putting her story down on paper. In fact, she’s placed her trust in me to write it out, to convey it truthfully and with as much detail as possible. Being both a journalist and a long-time friend, there’s no one more qualified than me for this job. She wants to share everything with the world eventually. In full, not just in bits and crumbs. She hasn’t quite decided when,  but she insists she’ll know when the time comes. She agrees it’s best to have it all-ready to go when it does. “You know I’m not a monster,” she said once as she tenderly scratched the ear of our landlady’s German Shephard, Arthur, who is always following her around, sensing instinctively her soft heart for animals. I, for one, am slightly less fond of Arthur’s barking and drooling. “If people read this, will they think I’m a monster?” she asked. “No, of course not,” I replied. “How could they? You were young. You went through so much. Who among us is a perfect human being at seventeen?” She turned her head away from me, fixing her eyes, her so-very-tired eyes, on the wall, bare except for one crinkled photograph of an orange cat stuck on with clear strips of tape. She let me hold that photograph once, a privilege rarely enjoyed by any of her other friends. She used to carry it around in her jacket pocket. Now it resides alone on her wall, surrounded by yellowing white paint, like a lone boat adrift at sea. A rancid butter sea. Arthur yawned and lay down to sleep at her feet. It didn’t bother her in the slightest that he drooled on her slippers. She can’t afford to keep her own pet, so she lets Arthur get away with anything, like a spoiled child being indulged by his childless spinster aunt. “What’s wrong with me, Fred?” She’s asked me that question many times before, and she’s asked it many times since. Every time I tell her “Nothing” she forgets about it and then asks me again later. It’s as if there’s a clock in her head that ticks backwards, its finger a wagging, disapproving rod that pulls what should be her contentment along with it as it makes its way around and around in the wrong direction. Like I said before, you need to be patient to be friends with Caro. If you’re not an animal, she’ll never be easy with you. And so, her story begins… Caro was always a good girl, a good student, and a good Samaritan. In her own way, she also tried to be a good daughter. She minded her manners. Her school grades were outstanding. She never had to be reminded to do her household chores. In her spare time, for fun, she volunteered at an animal shelter. Surely, she was a daughter that any parent could be proud of. Caro’s teachers certainly took pride in her, since her remarkable test scores and essays were, theoretically, a reflection of their own obviously remarkable teaching abilities (never mind the other students’ performances). But Caro’s parents, a high-end lawyer and interior designer—guess which is which – didn’t feel the same way. Not at all. Oh, they pretended to be proud of her when people were looking, as such parents tend to do. They wasted no opportunity to brag about her and her excellent grades and selfless volunteer work to their friends, but the tragic truth of the matter was that they really weren’t proud of her at all. They had other expectations that Caro failed to meet, and there were two failures in particular that they simply could not forgive her for. The first failure was that Caro wasn’t popular. Caro wasn’t charming . In her parents’ world this meant that she didn’t have the knack for gathering people around her and entertaining them, the way any good daughter of a good family was supposed to do. Caro had only a few friends at school and preferred the company of creatures to that of humans. Caro’s mother and father, so revered amongst their own vast network of high society chums, and always at the top of the most important guest lists, couldn’t understand how they’d ended up with a lustreless daughter who couldn’t draw attention to herself and wasn’t interested in trying. She’d rather steer clear of the house for hours, venturing through the city park exercising the dogs from the shelter, or roll around on the floor at home, teasing her beloved ginger cat Rita with a piece of yarn, than go out to parties or dances or the movies with her private school schoolmates or the sons and daughters of her parents’ friends. Human company just couldn’t compare to a pretty, playful feline that crawled all over her or a friendly dog that licked her face and hands and whined in anguish when she had to leave them back at the shelter and go home. She didn’t seek people out and in return people didn’t seek her out, unless they were attracted to her family name. They liked her well enough when they talked to her, but Caro herself was not a prize the way “Miss Caroline Burgundy” of the great and distinguished Burgundys was. Her parents’ disappointment in her followed her around like a sinister shadow, but she couldn’t change her nature. Her parents often wondered if there was something wrong with her. Caro’s second failure was a single incident that took place when she was seventeen. I can hear you, the reader, ask, “This is when she ran away from home, right?” I say no. She did not run away. Didn’t you notice that I used the word “escaped” earlier in this story and not the phrase “run away?” There is a difference, you know. Or perhaps you don’t, so I’ll explain what it is. A mother or father who get bored of family life and walk out the door one day with a suitcase, leaving behind their hoard of confused and teary-eyed children, is running away. A delinquent who takes off down the street after throwing a brick through the window of the teacher who gave them detention, or the attractive classmate who rejected them, is running away. A con artist with millions of stolen dollars in their bank account who hops on a plane with a false name on their passport, is running away. A blameless, harmless, maltreated young woman, fleeing from persecution for the crime of being herself, is escaping. Now, when Caro was seventeen, a turbulent year in any young person’s life, she had to face two deaths, and what happened after each one was what made her parents’ disappointment rise to the ranks of pure outrage. The shadow became an angry black tidal wave, of nightmarish size, and it came straight for her. When Caro’s cat Rita passed away, Caro cried until her eyes ached. For two days, she lay still on her bed, hugging Rita’s favorite blanket to her chest, and she couldn’t be coaxed to eat or even take the dogs out for a walk. She couldn’t sleep, and her eyes took on purple hues. The manager from the animal shelter called the house to ask where she was, and how she was, and when he was told what happened, he offered nothing less than his deepest condolences. He understood. Caro’s parents didn’t. “Rita was a nice cat, but she’s not the only cat in the world,” they told her. The patience in their voices was stretched thin. Caro’s seemingly endless tears exhausted them. “We’ll get you a new one.” Caro could have had her pick of any of the noisy, attention-starved, sweet-faced felines available for adoption at the shelter, but she didn’t want any of them. She wanted her Rita. Her parents sighed, shook their heads, and sighed again. Gritting their teeth (and likely ruining some very pricey dental work), they waited for their daughter to get over it and grow up. Rita had only been a cat, after all. Why should someone make so much out of something that could be so easily replaced? When Caro’s grandmother died a few months later, they held an elaborate funeral, with enough expensive flowers to stock a greenhouse. Caro wore a black dress, a black hat, and black leather boots. She probably should have worn a black veil too. Everyone at the funeral could see her face. Everyone could see that she wasn’t crying. “I tried to make myself cry,” Caro told me over the phone at two in the morning one night. I had, admittedly, groaned aloud as I reached over to pick it up off my bed stand, but I was grateful that she had at least chosen to call me rather than come down the hall to pound on my door. We both would have had to face the wrath of our other neighbours the next day. Our landlady, usually so accommodating, would have given us both a stern talking to.   “I wanted to cry,” she went on, her voice quivering through the receiver. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t make myself sad. My Grandma… she wasn’t the kind of person you feel sad for, ever. You don’t ever pity her. Not even when she’s dead. Do you understand?” It’s too easy to judge Caro and declare her a heartless cretin. Humans are supposed to outrank animals on the grand scale of compassion, and you are supposed to cry harder for them when they die. But if you look closely at the facts, you can see why Caro acted the way she did. On average, she’d seen her grandmother only once every few months, for a visit that lasted a little over an hour and consisted of tea, stale biscuits, and even staler conversation. The old woman had been the reclusive type and had lost interest in the goings-on of civilization decades ago. She didn’t read newspapers or watch TV. She didn’t own a computer either. She spent her days rereading the novels she used to lecture on back when she was a professor of English literature at a liberal arts college. She kept unearthing minute details in the texts she wished she’d talked about in her lectures. Sometimes, she added more notes to what she already had written down in the margins. That was her nature, her purpose. That was how she passed her Golden Years. She entertained her granddaughter on these occasional visits either out of a vague sense of family duty or some mild curiosity to see how her strange, animal-obsessed grandchild was turning out. When she died, she left some of her best books written by female authors to Caro, her much thumbed through Virginia Woolfs and Jane Austens and Louisa May Alcotts and so forth, along with some money, for Caro to spend as she pleased. I saw Caro’s grandmother’s copy of Pride and Prejudice  on Caro’s desk once. It had a hard, worn, scratched cover and bits of grimy old jot note paper sticking out of it. I was about to pick it up to look at it more closely when Caro slapped my hand away. “We’re not in a library!” she snapped furiously. I apologized, and politely asked how old the book was. She ignored my question and asked me if I wanted coffee and cake. Caro had liked her Grandma well enough, but the bond between them had not been strong. The two women had lived in two completely separate worlds. Caro with her animals, her grandmother with her books. They’d never been able to make those two worlds meet, even though Caro was an exemplary student and had a deep respect for books. But the passion wasn’t there, and her grandmother hadn’t been too fond of animals either. She had especially not liked cats, and whenever they wandered onto her doorstep she shooed them away with a broom. How could casual friendliness between an introverted girl and her grandmother, a woman as solitary as a cloistered nun, compare with the bond that Caro had shared with Rita? Rita had slept in Caro’s bed every night and eased Caro into sleep with her soothing, lullaby-like purring. Rita had stayed up with Caro late into the night whenever she had a gruelling test to study for or a big assignment due the following day that needed editing, so much editing. Sometimes, the only reason Caro stayed up so late was fear of the uncertain future, a horrible anxiety that made her nauseous and jittery. Rita would curl up on her mistress’s lap and purr her healing purr anyway. Rita had lovingly licked Caro’s hair and the tears that rolled down her face whenever things went badly for her, when schoolwork and life in general felt like too much to cope with. She had made her feel less alone. Caro’s parents said nothing to her during the funeral and the reception in the house that followed, but as soon as everyone was gone, Caro’s mother grabbed her daughter’s arm as she tried to retreat up the stairs to her room and dragged her forcefully into the front hall. Then she slapped her daughter across the face. Hard. “You’re an embarrassment,” her mother hissed at her through a red-painted mouth. Her father only shook his head in disgust at his stunned red-cheeked child and then went alone into his office, slamming the door behind him and locking it. Caro’s mother slapped her again, on the other cheek. Now both cheeks stung. “You’re never volunteering at the shelter again.” Caro’s mother was shaking with rage and humiliation. She’d been forced to listen to several of her relatives and friends comment on how Caro’s conduct at the burial. She’d had to come up with a lot of quick lies to ward off suspicion. “Oh, the shock of it probably hasn’t hit her yet. She lost her cat, and now her Grandma. She’ll cry her eyes out in her bed later. All this grief has made her sick, and her health has never been strong...” Now, Caro’s mother had no special feelings for her mother-in-law either. In fact, Caro has assured me repeatedly that the two women couldn’t stand each other. Caro’s grandmother thought her daughter-in-law was a pretentious and frivolous little debutante while Caro’s mother thought her mother-in-law was a cold and snobbish old bitch. Nevertheless, in Caro’s family there always had to be a performance. Caro’s mother had taken drama lessons in her youth and could cry on command easily, even for a woman she hated. A silk handkerchief to dab at her eyes with was a brilliant and convincing added touch.  “For the love of God, Caroline, this has to stop!” Caro’s mother shouted. “You have to join the human race! You can’t just love animals and nothing else! Pets aren’t people!” Caro fixed her mother with an icy stare. Her cheeks were blazing red from the slaps. She held back her tears, swallowed them down. Choked them down. She tasted blood. If she wasn’t so hurt and angry she probably would have been sick on the floor. “I hate people.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother snapped at her. “You can’t hate all people.” “Fine, then. I hate you and Dad. Does that make more sense?” Caro snapped right back. A hideous silence, and then, “How did I end up with such a daughter?” Caro shrugged. “How did I end up with such a mother? You slapped me.  Twice.” That night, Caro’s parents made plans for her. Plans to improve her, to fix her, and make her the daughter they wanted, instead of the sloppy, emotionally stunted disaster she was. They discussed all the possibilities: psychiatrists, special clinics, correction camps, boarding school, including one in Ireland where Caro’s mother’s cousin lived and worked. It was decided without question that Caro needed to change. She needed to become a people person, a normal person. Her behaviour at the funeral, and her behaviour in general, were simply unacceptable. She would change. They would will  it. But none of these plans came to pass. People who choose their words and how they say them so carefully in public are never nearly as careful in private. Caro heard everything they shouted through the walls of the family home. By the time they’d finally stopped, she’d made her decision, though it wasn’t easy for her. She laid there in bed wrestling with her options, and when she finally pinned one down she was so exhausted she could no longer think. She waited until they were asleep before she packed her knapsack and slipped out of the house as quick and steathily as she could, before she could change her mind. She didn’t leave a note. She decided that her parents weren’t worth a note and really, they weren’t. I had the privilege of growing up with decent parents. Dear old Mom and Dad. Factory workers, they both were. Honest, simple, and hardworking. God bless them. They never took the easy way out of anything. They certainly never would have considered shipping me off to a different country just because I’d done something their friends thought was odd. They would have thought that idea was absurd. Dad would have asked if Caro’s parents were stark-raving mad. He’d seen that phrase in a magazine once and used it often with surprising accuracy. Mom would have shaken her head and said that rich people should just marry their big houses or their fancy cars if they didn’t want to roll up their sleeves and raise their own damn kids right. Poor Caro. At least she got out. At least she had the money her Grandma had left her, which was enough for her to get by with until she found some work as a dog walker. Have I mentioned that her parents didn’t even look for her? They didn’t even call the police. They told all their fine wine-tipping buddies that they’d sent her off to stay with some relatives and went on with their lives. When Caro phoned them, after her eighteenth birthday, they told her, in short, not to come home unless she was ready to become a proper upper-crust young lady. That meant real friends only. Nice, acceptable friends, from the right families, and no pets. They told her they’d gotten rid of the dogs shortly after she left. Caro stayed away. Several changes of jobs and homes later, she ended up in my building. She had gone from dog walker to receptionist, clawing her way up past office cleaner, pet store cashier, and mailroom clerk. She had moved from apartment to apartment, fought with neighbours and landlords, entertained and then kicked out a few unsatisfactory lovers and warded off the cockroaches, bed bugs, and rats. She had lived in neighbourhoods where garbage collectors only did their jobs when they felt like it and ancient pipes exploded in the winter. She had lived on a street where a teenage boy was stabbed for a forty-dollar drug debt. She once had a landlord who threatened to double her rent if she didn’t sleep with him (she didn’t, thank God). Another one made her babysit his children while he went out drinking. She must have felt like she’d finally arrived at the Promised Land when she moved into our clean, well-kept building, owned by a nice, sane woman, in one of the safer neighbourhoods in the city. She was thirty-five years old, fifteen years younger than me, but seemed much, much older. We met on the stairs. “Can I help you with that?” she asked me when she saw me lugging my suitcase up to my floor. The elevator was being repaired at the time. Without waiting for me to answer she grabbed onto the other end of it and helped me carry it to my front door. I’d just come back from a work trip abroad, you see, and I had no idea that she was my new neighbour. She’d slipped into the apartment abandoned by a married couple down the hall while I was away. I thought, at first, she was just some visitor passing through. You can’t imagine how relieved I was when I discovered that she was here to stay, because I had  despised  that married couple, whose loud arguments about money, sex, and in-laws, in that exact order, were broadcast like an unsavory radio drama at all hours. I could tell right away that she was someone who had experienced many hardships in her life. In all my years as a journalist, I had learned to recognize that world-weariness that made a person’s eyes so despondent and empty, even when their smile was so sunny and sweet. Caro’s strained smile that day was clearly a heroic effort for her, and I felt that involuntary, squeezing pang in my chest that came every time an interviewee told me their tale of woe, which was often so bad that I could scarcely believe it was real. But it always was.  “Thank you for your help. I’m Fred.” I extended my hand. She accepted it, and she shook it clumsily with a hand clearly unused to regular physical human contact. “My name’s Caroline, but everyone calls me Caro.” Then she added, “I used to have a dog named Fred.” So began our long acquaintance. I had the first piece of the puzzle that was Caro.

When I started high school in 1997, the world was a very different place. The internet had only just begun entering people’s homes, mobile phones were extremely rare and social media wouldn’t take off for another few years. Princess Diana had just tragically died and the Spice Girls were everywhere. My first day of high school in September of that year was turbulent to say the least, and it would remain that way for the next five years. From a standing start, I was a target of bullying. Being split up from my two childhood best friends from primary school meant I was on my own (we were promised that we would be in the same class but it didn’t happen). The focus of the bullying began with my long mullet-like hair - I looked like a Beatle, which is ironic because I grew up near Liverpool. Then, it was because I was a “swot” or a “boffin,” as I always got A grades and top in tests for most subjects. Then, in the summer holidays before year eight, my voice broke. The first time I said “yes miss” in registration upon my return to school, my form burst into a chorus of laughter. Until then, the bullying mostly involved taunts and name-calling. Occasionally, I got pushed and shoved in the corridor and tripped up, but it wasn’t particularly violent at that time. I was called derogatory terms like “poofter,” “batty boy,” and “queer.” I also heard the word “gay,” but I had no idea what it meant. As far as I was concerned, it meant “rubbish” or “uncool.” Once, I remember a classmate saying their pen was “gay” after it had stopped working. At twelve years of age, I didn’t know who I wanted to be, but I knew I definitely did not want to be gay. At the start of year nine, the bullying intensified significantly. It seemed everyone’s hormones kicked in and the episodes became more aggressive. On the first day back, I stormed out of a Geography class when a bully had been relentlessly throwing things at me. Unfortunately, some of my teachers were unable to manage the problematic students (there were a fair few). So, I felt I had no choice but to either run out of lessons or be a truant to avoid being attacked. My sanctuary became the boys' toilets, it was the only place I knew I wouldn’t be found. I locked myself in the cubicle and comfort ate the contents of my lunchbox. Over time, I prepared for these sessions by stuffing my school bag with as many snacks as I could get away with, without my mother noticing. At some point, I crossed a line into bingeing and purging, but I don’t remember the first time. What I do recall was the relief I felt when I flushed the tension and anxiety that had built up throughout the school day down the toilet - literally. Back then, in 2000, when I was just thirteen years old, I was unaware my bulimia even had a name. I thought it was something that I had invented and I certainly wasn’t aware it was a serious and potentially life-threatening eating disorder. One day, I was caught in the act amidst a binge by a teacher in the toilet. “Get back to class!” the teacher yelled. My safe space had been violated and it felt like my secret coping mechanism had been exposed. Instead of doing as I was told, I walked out of school entirely. At home, my mother was stunned when she found me sitting on the sofa after she returned from work at 2.30pm. “Why the f*** are you not at school?” were her exact words. When I told her about the extent of the bullying and why I was staging a one-man protest, she didn’t blame me. “I’ll write a letter to the head of year and tell her why I’m keeping you off school.” I had great pleasure marching down the school at 9am in my own clothes and handing the letter to reception. In the days that followed my head of year called my mother and insisted that I return to school immediately. They agreed that I would go in for a meeting with her to discuss what was going on. Of course, the school knew I was bullied, but had done little about it. My head of year asked me to provide a list of names of the bullies and said she would give them a warning. To her surprise, I gave her a list of forty names. She kept her promise of speaking to every single one of them, which gave me some relief - unfortunately, the respite would not last. Looking back, I realise now that my head of year had her hands tied when it came to addressing homophobic bullying specifically. This was because I attended school during the time of “Section 28” when local authorities - and especially schools - were prohibited from “promoting homosexuality.” This piece of legislation entered the statute books in 1988, at the height of the HIV/AIDS pandemic, when fear of the virus was paramount. Interestingly, I only realised that “gay” meant fancying boys at sixteen, and I subsequently came out. When I told the few friends I had in college their response was “we know” - it seemed like I was the last to know. “Section 28” was repealed in 2003 - a year after I left school. In 2004, I moved to Brighton and started volunteering at “Allsorts Youth Project” for LGBTQ+ young people. The following year, I was asked to speak at a school in North London about homophobic bullying. In those days, I was extremely shy and barely spoke - let alone to an audience of young people in an assembly. For two weeks, I wrote and rewrote my speech, explaining why your pen isn’t “gay” when it stops working. Without giving any eye contact at all whatsoever, I felt the pupils' eyes on me. I don’t think they had ever heard anyone talk about being gay before. Over the years, I would go on to give other presentations, in my capacity as Ambassador for “Experience in Mind” - a joint project between Mind and YMCA (a youth charity). I even founded my own charity called “Men Get Eating Disorders Too” with ITV Fixers in 2008/9. In the nine years I campaigned for men with eating disorders, I ran a series of workshop tours to train professionals across the UK and set up a small network of support groups. Since I left the charity in 2018, I have finally been able to focus on my own recovery from bulimia, alcohol addiction and Complex-PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). When I think back to where my journey of mental illness began, all roads started with the homophobic bullying I endured at school. “Gay” was a word I did not want to be. Now I have learned to have an emotional connection with it and accept that it is a part of who I am.

I’m lucky to have a partner who is an incredible gift giver. Throughout the year, she’ll take note of the things I want but don’t feel like I should buy myself, or the problems that I wish I could solve with the flick of the wrist. That led to a present she gave me in December 2019: A one line a day journal. This was an open invitation to reflect on every day over the course of 5 years, whether it was the highs and lows, most recent travels, or deepest wishes. I loved the concept of this journal as a starting place for my reflections, something that I loved deeply as a storyteller working in big tech who had often had to intentionally carve out space to make meaning out of my experiences. The blank page can seem intimidating but as the name suggests, this journal offered a place for me to share a sentence or two about what’s on your mind. It’s meant to be open-ended so you can summarise your day, write out some food for thought, or share where you’re currently writing from. There’s no right way to approach it as long as you’re writing authentically. January 2020 to January 2025 seemed to offer incredible promise. I was working my first full-time job out of college as a writer and video producer, finding time to attend events in Seattle about the intersection of tech and storytelling, and finding my voice as a queer Pakistani woman. Carving out space for reflection I don’t have to tell you much about what happened three months later. What started as reflections of making new friends as an adult and going to barre classes turned into recaps of walks in my neighbourhood and dinners involving some combination of chicken or salmon and broccoli, asparagus, or carrots for dinner. But in between, I would write about my dreams, like wanting to give a TEDx talk about using jealousy as a tool for self-reflection or write a story about how I chose a wedding dress that made me feel like a queer Pakistani bride. My journal was a snapshot in time or who I was and what mattered most to me in that moment, one that was wholly mine. In the quiet of those journal entries, I realised that I had to be honest with myself first. I opened up about how much I yearned to be in a walkable community, one where my friends were next door and all my favourite restaurants were within walking distance. I wrote about the grief of losing friends and family and wondered when things would feel normal again, if ever. Sometimes, I would avoid writing in my journal because it felt like nothing had changed. Had I even changed at all? When it comes to self-reflection, it’s hard to see how much you’ve evolved in the moment. Instead, it takes weeks, if not months or years to provide a clearer perspective. As I read through my journal 4.5 years later, I can see how much I’ve grown into the best version of myself. Most of my entries from the first year focused on my frustration with not getting promoted at my full-time job. As a 22-year-old and fresh college graduate surrounded by high achievers, I felt like there was the only way to succeed, and I was trying to make my way as a writer and video producer in tech. Years later, promotions at my day job fell away as the most important thing in front of other things: Writing stories that would have made my younger self feel seen, building strong friendships, and solo traveling everywhere from San Diego to New York to London. My journal created space to not only be creative and foster personal development, but also chronicle moments of joy, which often involved being in community with people who loved me as I am and celebrated my wins. Openness in my journal and beyond Once I opened up in writing, I learned to be open with other people. I took the time to read across days, weeks, and years to unearth what really mattered to me deep down. Plus, I’m not alone in feeling this way. A study from 2013 found that people with major depressive disorder who wrote down their thoughts and feelings for at least 20 minutes a day for 3 consecutive days had lower depression scores than people who wrote about typical events in their day. And at the end of the day, it’s a way to spend more intentional time with yourself. A prevalent theme emerged: The things that mattered most to me were freedom and peace. I wanted to feel free to live a life where I was true to myself, away from the outside pressure of how others defined success. As a queer Pakistani woman, I knew I would never fit the mould, something that’s become increasingly clear as I plan my wedding. But I have learned to ask myself, “is this bringing me joy and peace?” and follow that as my strongest guiding light. And along the way, I had to make peace with the fact that not everyone would unconditionally support me and the identities I held, something I had to learn not to carry as my own burden. If my journal taught me one thing, it’s that everything will be alright in the end. And if it’s not alright, it’s not the end. This singular notion has kept me moving on a day to day basis and serves as a reminder that life will go on, even when a day brings something ostensibly unsurmountable. And although I’ve written hundreds of stories since I got that journal 4.5 years ago and love sharing my dreams with others, there’s something beautiful about writing something just for myself first. So much has changed since I got my one line a day journal, but my love for reflective writing has remained. I appreciate having a space where I can write about whatever is on my mind without worrying about how I’ll leverage it for a future article or project. And if you don’t consider yourself someone who journals, this may be the invitation you need to start small.

Between 1 to 2% of the world’s population has vitiligo. I’m one of those people. I developed vitiligo, an autoimmune condition where the melanocytes which are responsible for skin colour are destroyed causing white patches, when I was 3 years old. It started as a tiny patch on the back of my hand which rapidly spread to my arms, legs, parts of my body, and my face. By the time I was five years old, I was completely covered, and officially diagnosed with vitiligo. My parents were devastated, especially as it wasn’t curable. Soon after diagnosis, my parents started exploring treatment options with my dermatologist. They were willing to try anything but by being so young, my options were limited. A potent steroid cream was the first thing I tried which didn’t work. What followed was years of failed attempts at different treatments ranging from tablets to creams that simply didn’t work. Trips to Great Ormond Street hospital felt frequent and I never really understood why I was there. For all I knew, this was somewhere that all kids went to. My parents refused to disguise my skin because they wanted to instil me with confidence. This meant my patchy skin was very visible, making me a target for occasional name-calling at school. There were times when kids didn’t want to touch me in case they "caught my skin" or they would compare my skin to that of a cow or zebra. I was even asked if I’d been burnt in a fire. I wasn’t hugely affected by their comments. I had a lovely set of friends and it didn’t make me want to hide my skin away. My parents were always telling me I was beautiful and I was okay with that. Challenging Teenage Years The little confidence I’d gained during my childhood years was lost when I turned thirteen, because it dawned on me that my skin wasn’t desirable. I spent most of my secondary school years feeling self-conscious, paranoid, and unattractive. It was hard to shake off those feelings. Vitiligo affected everything — how I dressed, who I was comfortable around, and sporting activities at school. Tops with long sleeves, jeans, and trousers became my uniform during every season. I loved sport but having to wear a PE skirt made me feel anxious and swimming lessons were even worse. It was during those classes that I felt the most fragile and exposed. Often, I would forge notes from my Mum excusing me from the lesson because I was "too sick to take part". This wasn’t the case; I just couldn’t face the discomfort of being around friends in a swimsuit. It saddens me that I had to go through all of that. Explaining what had happened to my skin was always a struggle as I didn’t understand the medical side of vitiligo. If anyone asked me what it was, I’d stumble over my words and blurt out that "my skin suddenly started turning white when I was 3". I could feel myself turning embarrassingly red as I eagerly tried to change the subject in case one question led to another. Very little changed as I transitioned from school to college. I did, however, get better at hiding it. I discovered fake tan and became obsessed with buying bottles from different brands because finally there was something that could disguise my patches. I also started wearing makeup which helped hide the patches on my face. It was the only way I was able to feel somewhat normal in front of my pretty friends. Just before my 30th birthday, I decided to try treatment one last time because my skin was making me so unhappy. UVB Narrowband was a type of treatment often recommended to people with severe vitiligo. It was intense, time-consuming, and there was a small risk of skin cancer. But I was desperate and my GP didn’t hesitate in referring me. Within a matter of months, I’d started the treatment. Twice a week, I’d travel to hospital for a 7 a.m. appointment that took 20 minutes. It was that quick. I’d stand inside a large booth filtered with UV light. In the first few months, there was little change, but after twelve months my skin had re-pigmented significantly. It was a miracle. Going Public In 2013, I was invited to appear on London Live to talk about what life was like with vitiligo. The thought of going on national TV to talk about my skin was frightening. What if people judged me and what would my friends and family think, given that they had no idea what was going on for me behind closed doors. I was petrified about what this could mean for me if I appeared on the show. With encouragement from my Mum, I agreed to go on the show. Sitting under the bright studio lights and hearing the countdown from five to one before we were about to go live was nerve-wracking. I’ll never forget that moment. Suddenly, we were live and my life with vitiligo was being played out to the nation. After the interview, I felt increasingly paranoid. I questioned what people would say when they found out. The last thing I wanted was for people to pity me. However, the response was incredibly positive. People started reaching out on social media, not just in the UK but from other parts of the world, telling me they had vitiligo and that they related to my story. It was also the first time I was able to admit to myself "I have vitiligo and I’m going to be okay with it". The interest in vitiligo grew when Winnie Harlow appeared on America’s Next Top Model. The media were fascinated by her skin. It meant that the media had a growing interest in people like myself with the condition. Since sharing my story, I have appeared in popular lifestyle magazines and newspapers such as Cosmopolitan, Stylist, and the Metro and have taken part in several photography projects. Last year, I appeared on the BBC News, sharing my views on a potential new treatment available in the UK, and also appeared on Channel 4’s Naked Education educating teens about vitiligo. I work very closely with The Vitiligo Society and Changing Faces as a way of helping to raise awareness about visible differences. My life is completely different now. I still have vitiligo in very visible places, but I have learned to love and appreciate that it’s part of who I am. Why would I want to change who I am? And after so many years of hiding, I can live an authentic life that has created so many new opportunities for me. Being able to connect with an incredible community with vitiligo has been the biggest blessing and, in all that I’ve done publicly and the work I’ve done on myself, I’m mostly grateful for becoming part of a community that empowers each other and reminds us of the beauty in our skin. Instagram: @gifted_skin. Linktree: @Gifted_Skin If you have vitiligo and are looking for support visit The Vitiligo Society