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Me, on one of the last days of the year Because it’s the end of the year, and I like to look back before I look forward, here are my 2014 "makings and breakings". Because it's never just about the highs, is it? * On my birthday I flew to Milan, newly unemployed, dead scared, and wrote this to myself on the way: On Turning Twenty-Eight “On the last day of your 27th year, you took the morning after pill and it made you cry. You want children – to become a mother – more than anything, and there was the tiniest part of you that wondered, “But what if…?” Don’t be so fucking dumb. You need about £25,000 more in the bank before you have a kid and taking risks isn’t cute. But it *will* happen, and the wait will be worth it.” *   The word “Fat” has as much power over you as you allow it to, I realised: I’ve Had Enough Of Being Fat “I am perfect – perfect as I’ll ever be. I’m also fat. Those two things are separate, because the circumference of my thighs is not directly related to ...

And then, two months later, my trip to Russia ended. I think I know this to be true, now, on the other side of my adventure: that the things we never think to worry about are the things that oft-time change us beyond belief, and the things we prepare to shape us seldom do. Or, at least, not in the way we thought they might. Basically: fuck if I know what life has in store. I JUST SPENT TWO MONTHS IN SIBERIA! That was never in my plans. So much never is. I was so nervous about coming here . Terrified wouldn’t be too strong a word . And yet, it has been fine. Life… just in Siberia. Waking up, fixing breakfast, writing, teaching, emailing home. I didn’t hate it. (I didn’t love it, either.) It just was. So I’m coming home more aware than ever before that the things that scare you? Go do ‘em. Because you’re only uncomfortable until you’re not. I’m in Moscow now, halfway to Heathrow, taking pictures of the Kremlin and searching for Christmas gifts. Thinking about these past eight weeks. Suc...

image via  @superlativelyLJ What I hope for is a book deal. The working title is “My Vagina’s Monologue” and it’s the story of how, when the man I thought I’d marry dumped me and married my high school best friend instead, I did not think I would survive it. But I did. And that’s the point of it all, really. That however our lives unfold, that they do unfold. That they continue. And how we deal with that is on us. My story of heartbreak isn’t special – and that’s the point, too. That nothing that ever happens to us is. Heartache – romantic, familial, platonic – is about the most common condition there is. So it’s exactly because my story is a common one that I feel compelled, from my belly, to find a way to tell it. Because human-ness is universal. I looked through the archives of this blog last week. I had this idea that I’d compile a list of my favourite posts, into an eBook, to give away for free. So I started at the beginning and read every one of my 450+ entries, over more tha...

So I know this guy, and I love him. He’s a teacher. A cheerleader. An example. You’ve never seen a smile that can light up a room like his. In his hometown, walking into the local bar for an espresso and brioche , he is greeted by handfuls of people who hug him, kiss his cheek, share a joke. He asks about them, their family, their work. Jokes back. Asks, “how are you?” and listens to the answer. Gives a shit, in all the novelty that entails. At his parents’ house, he talks with his father about the latest ethical hunt, and makes funny voices when he speaks with his nephew. At his sisters house he mans the barbecue and fills up glasses. In his own house he makes sure you’ve got towels and enough bedding, telling you just to knock if you need anything. He’s right there. Love. That’s his word. Everyone has one. I don’t think I’m strong enough for that to be my word. I’ll settle for authentic. Authentically in awe of him. He’s Italian. (The good kind.) Survivor of heartbreak. Had nothing t...

This year I have lost (and kept off) forty pounds . Ran my first 10k races (plural!). Left a PR job I hated (okay, fine. I basically got fired, but fuck it they did me a favour ). I spent six weeks in Rome, and finally visited Sicily and Sardinia, as well as Milan and Austria. I wrote a book proposal and began, finally, talking with professionals who are genuinely interested in my project (!!!!!!). I wrote 30,000 words. Moved to Russia for the winter. Got photographed naked. Started freelancing. Booked a flight to Bali for New Year’s Day. I tripled my blog traffic, made the kind of friends I could not, now, physically live without, and I got my heart a bit dented and survived. 2014 has been, in no uncertain words, the making of me. I have changed my outward life, and I did it absolutely on purpose. But. But I didn’t realise the magnitude of what I’d done, what I’d achieved, who I’d become, on the inside, until I wrote it in an email. When I saw all of that information together, in one...

Joan (me) with her Darby ( him ). Read the other letters here . Calum, “So like, everything is the same, it’s just… in Russia ?” you said to me about my latest adventure. “Pretty much,” I replied. You said, “That’s well boring.” I’m sorry my big brave life-changing trip isn’t more emotionally traumatic, friend. I’ll try harder to provide you with Skype calls that have a little more erratic feeling next time. Except – not really. Because that’s the thing, you see. Why I adore you. You don’t need me to be in turmoil to love me: you don’t desire drama to feel needed. You have no want to see me in pain or angst so that you can feel better about your own days. And mate, it’s staggering, actually, how many people *do* need those things in a friendship. It marks you as different. But then, I knew you were. I don’t know how many times I have to re-learn that. I haven’t written to you for almost a year , and so it’s important to me, after our cross-country catch-up last week, to tell you: I for...