I have an overwhelming urge to howl at the moon and punch my boyfriend in the leg. It’s my first period in my new city! 💅

Quick, ladies, now that the men have left, what day shall we meet for the revolt?

Haha… joking…

As I was saying, it’s my first period while working a full-time office job (in a very long time). Naturally, my period arrived the day I had to drive thirty minutes into the Lanarkshire countryside to give a presentation to one of the UK’s biggest supermarkets when all I wanted to do was crawl into the foetal position, waking only to eat chip butties and rub Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut into my gums.

It’s funny because I posted a note a few months ago all about the joys of being freelance and having autonomy while on your period. Alas, we can’t have everything all of the time.

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For now, I’m having to heed my own advice and find balance where I can. Which I did, by working from home the day after with a hot water bottle stuffed down the front of my trousers and eating half a packet of chocolate digestives.

Life really is just constantly adjusting while trying to remain cheerful!

I’m swiftly moving through the stages of settling somewhere new – building my Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, if you will.

The first step, getting a home sorted, is very much established. My flat no longer has a foreign smell. The noisy road (thanks to trial-and-error earplug purchases) isn’t as noticeable anymore. We’ve bought most things we need. But most importantly, it feels like home.

The second step has been settling into my new job. I know my way there by memory on foot and by car. I remember (most) people’s names in the office. I sit down knowing what I’m doing, no longer feeling like an imposter; offering help to those around me, including my teammate who is recovering from a rather unfortunate accident involving a rubber ring and a Greek waterpark.

The third step, which I now feel ready for, is making friends and building a community. We know absolutely no one here, which is both thrilling and a bit glum. Bren, my boyfriend, is a musician and has been doing the open-mic and gigging circuits. He came home this week, enthused about making a friend, only to find out his new friend is moving to Edinburgh. So close.

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We remind ourselves each day that all we can do is keep putting ourselves out there – as people, with our careers, our dreams. ‘Nothing good happens from staying at home,’ Bren reminds me. To which I huff and nod tentatively – me, the more introverted of the two of us.

He plays me one of his favourite motivational video clips of a man walking down a NYC sidewalk, talking about ‘embracing the day, booking in meetings and making the effort.’ And he’s right. If we want anything in life, we have to set the alarm, get out of bed and make the effort.

In other news, we christened our new sushi maker and let me tell you it’s the most fun you can have without taking your clothes off. After building your rice and fillings in the plastic drainpipe provided, you slam the sides together and push it out using the pump provided, instinctively shouting ‘SUUUSHIII POOOO’ at the top of your lungs. I’ll be the envy of my office with my homemade bento boxes.

I have also been reading voraciously! Likely because there are no new Bravo shows for me to watch on Hayu, so I’m picking up books rather than watching Ozempic-filled women lob glasses of water over each other.

I’m currently halfway through Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke (as part of a book club I’ve just joined!), and I do not want it to end. I turn each page seething with jealousy that I have not written it myself. The prose is deliciously razor-sharp and hilarious. It’s the most unique book I’ve read in a long time.

For anyone looking for reading recommendations, you can support local bookshops by shopping my 2026 Reading List here.

I’ve taken the Monday Bank Holiday off work to give myself some time to write and continue edits on my book – keeping the writing dream alive! We’re scheduled for a heatwave, so I might have to take my laptop out to the park in true taps aff Glaswegian fashion. Brits, how are you spending the heatwave?!

And a few questions I’d love your thoughts on… Have you ever relocated? What did you find was the hardest part – and how did you find your community in a new place?

Till next week!

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Especially given the fact that I stormed out of one in mad angst three years ago, loudly declaring to the world that ‘my soul needs more than this!!’

The next natural step I assumed would be to acquire a farm (somewhere rural), perhaps a wooden shack on a coastally blasted island. Population twenty: me, a dog, and eighteen sheep.

But this has not been the case.

At first, I was worried I’d come across as a fraud for doing the Eat Pray Love, only to return to something that looked like my old life: a city, a full-time job, and a place in modern society again.

But I’m discovering that we can return to things that once didn’t work for us.

After years of soul searching, I’ve found myself back in a city (not London this time, but Glasgow, Scotland), still, where sirens tear down the road outside my flat and pub goers scream out Lewis Capaldi ballads going home on their e-bikes past my window at 2am.

Yet, my nervous system is coping miraculously well.

The majority of housesits I had were in remote places – Villages in Pembrokeshire, the Cotswolds, along Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way. I’ve experienced a lot of quiet. Isolation. Just me, my boyfriend and whatever pets we were caring for at the time. Because of this, I became a right hermit. No friendship group within meeting distance. No office to commute to. No reason to don anything other than a pair of stretchy leggings and a hoodie covered in dog hair.

But all of this was precisely what I needed to heal my sweet little overworked soul.

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In my twenties, I had a turbulent relationship with my nervous system. I never truly listened to her, despite how hard she yelled, kicked and screamed, making me faint on commuter trains or lie awake in bed in a sweat over emails and mistakes I’d made at work.

After my years of hermitting, we chat now. We check in. I offer her yoga in the mornings before I walk to work. I know her smoke signals. We’ve come a long way.

The ironic thing, however, was that in going from one extreme to the other, I found myself eventually getting burnt out by my hermit life. I needed systems around me again. I needed a friendship group in proximity – conversation with someone other than a border collie. And more importantly, I needed my own nest after being the temporary resident of 35 strangers’ homes.

And so I returned. To a new, albeit similarly structured city.

We all know we’re abysmal with making do and mending like our grandparents’ generation. We don’t darn our old socks; we tend to flee from relationships because it’s less effort to find the next hookup than sit down and hash things through.

But sometimes, going back and mending a system that was broken is more useful and rewarding in the long term than just running from pillar to post.

I know this from living in London, where everyone had Peter Pan syndrome and was constantly trying to find the next best job, flat, and relationship.

Of course, you can’t return to all of its parts. To be perfectly frank, I’m struggling with the return to social media – something necessary for my current marketing job. At the end of each working day, I have to delete Instagram and TikTok to negate their siren calls. But on a handful of nights, I’ve given in and found myself in a doomscrolling puddle on the sofa for so long that the next morning I wake up feeling hungover. Ugh. Le sigh.

So how in the hell do we find balance?

For deeper dives, bonus guides, book recommendations and access to my entire back-catalogue of housesitting diary entries, become a paid subscriber for just £3.50 a month.

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My lower back is screaming and my upstairs neighbour is playing the bagpipes. This can only mean one thing: I’ve moved into my new flat in Glasgow, Scotland!

Moving (I imagine) must be similar to childbirth in that when you’re mid-act, you swear blindly never to do it again until, with a bit of time and distance, you think it’s the most marvellous idea in the world.

I’ve moved 13 times in my life. My parents had itchy feet when it came to houses, and I seem to have inherited the gene. After university, I ended up moving almost every year, and in the past (almost three) years of housesitting, I’ve moved 34 bloody times.

We got our keys last Saturday morning and arrived at a flat with no electricity or hot water. I started moving day with a phone on 20% battery because I have a genuine disability that renders me useless at keeping my technological equipment juiced. My boyfriend has to do this for me. But the morning of the move, for obvious reasons, he forgot.

Fast forward to him darting off to storage while I stayed on the phone with Kelly from Eon Energy, a South African with a penchant for the word coolio and putting me on hold for unthinkable stretches of time. I had to eventually regain her attention by screaming, ‘Kelly, my battery is on 2% and I can’t charge it because you’ve still not switched our electricity on!’ over the fifth play of Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’.

We had to do three IKEA trips because I kept getting distracted by decorative items, and my boyfriend was more focused on getting the hell out of there, meaning each visit we kept forgetting the essentials. It also meant we sustained our entirely undernourished bodies for three whole days on hot dogs and Swedish meatballs.

But one week on, and the stress of our first 72 hours is almost a distant memory. Everything is unpacked. Artwork is on the walls. I’ve even installed my new knicker and sock dividers into my drawers.

Apart from a dining table that we’re having to wait until payday to get, it’s starting to feel like home.

Our first in 31 months!

Home is now Glasgow’s West End, a vibrant neighbourhood of cafes, pubs, and parks. There’s an Italian deli within sniffing distance, a cracking library just up the road, and the botanic gardens a five minute stroll away. What more could a gal want?

Our flat is on the second floor of an old redbrick tenement building, with tall ceilings, sash windows, and original cornicing. It is a grown-up apartment, because it has a utility room, a wine fridge and heated towel rails in the bathroom.

Of course, no rental property is perfect… The windows are single-glazed, the bathroom needs regrouting, and the wooden floorboards creak and look like the deck of a well-travelled colonial ship – but I pay little heed. I have a home!

Until my nomadic adventures began, I hadn’t truly appreciated just how intrinsic it is to the human condition to have somewhere we can call our own.

It’ll take time to put our stamp on the flat, but we’ve decided to chip away at that slowly – getting by with our two bowls, two pillows and two mugs, for the time being, until we can invest in things sensibly and thoughtfully.

I had expected unpacking my earthly belongings from my previous chapter of life to feel emotional; to stir up old feelings or fears. But it turns out I’d already mass-purged most of my worldly possessions when I packed my life into storage all those years ago. I was disappointed that old me had donated most of my old books, clothes, and crockery to a charity shop, in the spirit of wiping the slate clean.

Note to self: next time, don’t throw everything away.

Right fellas, I have no recommendations for obvious reasons this week - in fact, yeah, I do, go put your phone on charge, right now, just in case. Okay. Well done.

Enjoy your week, and I’ll be back in your inbox next Sunday!

Lotsa love x

Paid subscribers get first look at my new flat below the paywall! 👀 sign up for bonus content and monthly deep-dive essays for 90p a week…

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‘Bloody ‘ell babe, it’s going to be 17°C today!’ I shout from the kitchen.

My Aussie boyfriend laughs at my ‘joke’ from underneath his blanket; his hands gripped around a mug of tea, and a scarf wrapped around his neck.

He is yet to acclimatise back to the Scottish weather after being home in Sydney for the past six months. I, on the other hand, like any other normal Brit, am flapping around frantically about how we can make the most of the springtime sunshine we’ve been blessed with.

It’s funny how sunshine can make the act of watching television seem utterly repugnant, even though you’ve spent the best part of an entire winter watching Hayu’s entire archive underneath a duvet like a little live, laugh, love goblin.

But now, it’s outside time! Begone, Captain Lee and Erica Jane, I have some frolicking to do in the real world…

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We’re on a new housesit in a small village nestled in the Falkirk countryside. A short walk from the house leads us onto a towpath and past a solitary swan who snaps at the ankles of dogs walking alongside the river.

Once skeleton trees are now brandishing blossom-filled branches, their buds unfurling like kernels of popping corn. Nature is bursting into its next chapter, and I, alongside it.

Finally.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve found it hard to be optimistic this year. Rejection and unexpected delays have knocked my confidence and reserve. It’s made me hold my cards close to my chest. It’s stopped me from allowing myself to get excited about anything at all – for fear that it won’t work out. Despite knowing better. Despite encouraging others to do so through my posts and notes here on Substack.

Truthfully, I’ve felt a little bit like an imposter…

This dip in confidence has affected flat-hunting. I arrived in Glasgow two weeks ago and viewed the perfect flat in the perfect area, but struggled to believe it could actually be mine. I sent my application and put it in the lap of the gods. Over a week later, while on the phone with my parents, my dad badgered me to call the estate agent and chase my application one last time. After hanging up the phone and sighing out an audible, ‘fine’, I did it. Lo and behold. The landlord immediately accepted. The deposit is paid. We pick up keys this weekend.

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The moral of this story is you’ve always got to row yourself out to whatever it is you want. Even when your positivity fades. Heck. Especially when your positivity fades.

Thanks for that reminder, Dad.

I’ve been in the ‘messy middle’ for the best part of the last year. But next week, I'll move into my dream flat in Glasgow’s West End, with my dream fella, where I'll start a brand new job and chapter.

I hate to be a subscriber to the motto ‘things will be better when…’ because in doing so, you’ll never truly relish life. But I’m giving myself allowance because not having a home for almost three years has simultaneously been the most thrilling adventure and most challenging thing I’ve ever done. I know that when my suitcase is unpacked, and I’m sleeping in (my own!!) bed again – well, I do think things will be a lot bloody better.

The Panic Years by Nell Frizzell ~ A deliciously funny and frank observation of being in your twenties/thirties with motherhood, careers and relationships looming over your head, yet not knowing in the slightest how to navigate any of it. All women should read this. Actually, all MEN should read this. Frizzel is a wonderful writer – I can’t wait to dig into her other books.

20 Hacks For Life, another brilliant organisational post by Anna Newton.

For someone who actively avoids the 10 o’clock news but wants to know what’s happening in the world without wanting to step off a nice high bridge, I’ve been thoroughly enjoying my Steeped newsletters, which sum up current affairs twice a week, concisely, factually and not fish baiting.

I’ll be back next week and giving paid subscribers an exclusive tour of my new pad EEK. Until then, have a beautiful Sunday!

This email may contain affiliate links to Bookshop.org, whereby a small commission is earned for any purchase made.

To save money, I’ve signed up for two more housesits while flat hunting in Glasgow. I hadn’t expected to report on them, because I’d specifically chosen to look after cats – low maintenance and limited responsibilities, giving me flexibility to leave and explore the city whenever needed.

But of course, the gods love nothing more than mortal trials and tribulations.

Carl the cat is a little rotund around the belly, has white socks for paws, and when not staring at a wall or blankly into space, he is talking, talking, talking. About what, who knows – likely voodoo enchantments.

I’m positive I heard him screech, ‘Haaaaaannnaaaaaah’ last night as I was trying to fall asleep.

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He refuses to be anything other than directly on your lap, no matter what task you’re doing – charming on the first evening, but now, intolerable. I’m unable to do anything in the house without being screeched at for not paying him enough attention. And so, I am locked away like Rapunzel in my tower, on the phone to letting agents booking in viewings and apologising for the distant howls in the background.

Outside of hiding from Carl, I’ve been busy, viewing flats in the West End of the city, trying not to panic over the fact that I have two weeks left until I start my job, and nothing has yet come to fruition. Thankfully, I’ve had years of experience in mastering living with the unknown. It will all work out, it always does! RIGHT?!

Tomorrow morning, I'll pick up my boyfriend from the airport after his mammoth journey from Australia to Scotland. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. Neither have my legs seen a Venus razor since then. I took the car through the car wash yesterday and considered walking myself through a ‘Premium’ program, too.

I expect I’ll give him a great big snog followed by a slap around the chops, saying ‘NEVER LEAVE ME FOR THIS LONG AGAIN’.

It’s a beautiful time of year for him to arrive. Magnolia is blossoming, cafe patrons are voluntarily choosing to sit outside, tulips and the last daffodils sway unhurriedly along grass verges and front lawns.

Ugh. Spring, I’ll never tire of you.

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Thank you for all your well wishes on my last post and for sharing what you want to see more of from this publication (it’s not too late to submit your answers below!)

Right then, I’ll leave you with this week’s recommendations before I head out for some peace and quiet. I just need to get past that cat…

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Reading

Circe by Madeline Miller - I adored The Song of Achilles, and tbh love anything mythological. Circe is even better. I devoured this in two days. A lesser-developed character of Greek mythology, Circe, the daughter of Helios (god of the sun), is cast out to an island to live out her existence in solitude, until Odysseus (yes, the hunky main character from The Odyssey) arrives… Get your mittens on it, it’s fantastic.

Air by John Boyne - One of four novellas by the Irish author (of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas fame) about a father and son travelling by plane to meet his estranged wife and the son’s estranged mother. I really enjoyed it and plan on reading the first three in the series (Water, Earth, Fire).

you cannot be a garden and hate the dirt under your finger nails - a beautiful essay on heartbreak by Isabella at Cry Baby Club, one of my favourite writers here on Substack.

Watching

Love Story on Disney+. Oh, how I PINE to travel back in time to experience New York in the nineties. What a time for fashion. Which is precisely why I gave in to watching this show (despite its mixed reviews), and you know what, I didn’t HATE it. I watched it primarily for Carolyn Bessette’s fashion, but was unexpectedly moved to tears by Grace Gummer’s final episode performance as Caroline Kennedy. Oof!

Listening

Sticking to the nineties theme, I’ve been doing cover-to-cover playbacks of Pulp’s Different Class album and (just a year past the millennium) Is This It by The Strokes.

Doing

Exploring the south of Glasgow and the Giffnock area, home to a park with a giant waterfall, swan-filled pond and Pavilion serving coffees and bacon butties. What more could you want from an area?!

This quick stretching yoga sequence by Queen Adriene post-gym or a long walk.

Have a beautiful week, folks! ❤️

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30 months. 5 countries. 34 housesits. 56 pets.

As I write this, my suitcase is half-packed and Hamish, the German Shepherd in my care, is pouting in another room, sensing looming change.

In a few days, my boyfriend is boarding a flight from Australia to join me in Glasgow, Scotland, where I’ve accepted a job offer. We’ve been together for three years, but this is the first time we’re planting roots in one place.

For anyone new here, buckle up – let me take you back a few years….

I started my career at the bottom rung of the ladder in one of Britain’s biggest fashion houses. Perpetually skint, I didn’t have two pennies to rub together for years. I worked long hours. Endured mammoth commutes. I had the resting heart rate of a hummingbird at all times.

I spent the rest of my twenties digging my way out of debt, until finally, I was earning enough money to live on my own in a beautiful flat overlooking Clapham Common – and not having to always choose the cheapest bottle of wine on the menu.

I should have been happy. I’d followed the path and steps to success.

But life had chosen me. I had not chosen it.

That is, until 2023.

Flowers by Miley Cyrus was the song of the summer; London was in the grip of a forty-degree heatwave, and I met a man on the sticky dance floor of a Soho salsa club who changed my destiny.

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A big health scare, meeting Bren, and starting a new job at a company that sucked the living soul out of me were the three consecutive wake-up calls that slapped me around the chops, leading me to quit my life and book a one-way ticket to Australia to experience some adventure for the first time in my adult life.

Housesits took us from Melbourne to Sydney and Jindabyne, nestled in Australia’s snowy mountains (yes, they have snowy mountains), where I spent the best part of six months breaking old patterns and re-learning how to not fly through my days with the tenacity of a thoroughbred.

Next was the UK, where we traversed the length of three countries, from the Cotswolds in England to Pembrokeshire in Wales and Edinburgh in Scotland. I began giving my writing career a serious chance, landing bylines in magazines, starting this Substack, and writing 85,000 words of my first book.

And perhaps my favourite one of all – Ireland, where we lived in an artists’ village along the Wild Atlantic Way, in a derelict mansion in Leitrim, near the border, and in the Cork countryside. Here, nature restored my love of life, healed my burnout and taught me the importance of rest. All while drinking my bodyweight in Guinness.

Each housesit has been a building block to healing nearly a decade of burnout. Removing myself from the distractions of modern day life gave me a chance to really listen to my inner compass and ask, ‘What do you want from your life?’

I’ve rekindled my childlike curiosity, learned not to take myself too seriously (and as someone who liked dining at fancy restaurants, collecting designer handbags and knocking back champagne at fancy Mayfair events), I have become so flexible. If you’d have told me I’d exist happily with only a small suitcase of clothes and a yoga mat, I’d have spat my Clicquot in your face with laughter.

This has also been the first time in my life I’ve ever travelled (other than the odd city break or two-week holiday in Spain). I never understood why people took gap years or travelled for long periods at a time. Now I do. It opens up your world – internally and externally. It’s addictive. Why wouldn’t you want to leave Skegness for an ashram in Bali and never come back?

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In tandem with the life-reaffirming epiphanies, housesitting has sometimes felt like my own version of the tale of Sisyphus, going on far longer than I had planned. What was first the key to my freedom, at times became a giant boulder that I had to push up a hill, all while bathing dogs that rolled in fox shit or running away from cats that wanted to claw the tendons out of my calves.

My boyfriend has been overcoming visa restrictions, finances have peaked and troughed, and the overall instability of only knowing what’s coming a month or so in advance has been difficult for a Hobbit like me who loves nesting.

Living out of strangers’ homes has at times felt like having my identity stripped away, but all of this I can look forward to again. Decorating an apartment, hosting dinners for friends, and building a whole new community in a new city!

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The next chapter is another big change. I’m starting a full-time job in Glasgow. We’ll be renting again. Back to a ‘normal’ life. All of these things I’m ready for and excited about. But the biggest question on my mind is: how can I do that while carrying forward all the gifts I’ve gained from almost three years of nomadic living?

And that’s exactly how this newsletter will be evolving.

Because your girl was never going to travel forever… Now is my chance to merge those two worlds: a life of stability and roots alongside a creative and romantic life grounded in balance and joy.

Call me crazy, but I reckon we can have both. All things at once! Let them rush forth! Life, I am ready for you, as I have been every time I’ve stood at the helm of my ship, hanging on for dear life as rogue waves have threatened to topple me over.

I’ve experienced the adventure of a lifetime. An adventure that’s given me myself back. It’s also given me a memoir, which I’m about to pitch to agents. WTF!

In the beginning, I had no idea what the outcome of my journey would be. But I opened my arms and dove off the cliff – and guess what? The sea was there to catch me.

My advice to anyone craving an adventure or break like this? Trust in the journey. Set your alarm. Take the plunge. The universe will show you everything it’s got.

How this newsletter will evolve

No more housesit diaries (obviously) – instead, free subscribers will receive The Dispatch (a column detailing the trials of building a new life in Scotland) three times a month. Paid subscribers get access to monthly deep-dive essays and practical tips and takeaways. You can upgrade for just 90p a week – less than a bag of Mini Cheddars.

It’s important to me that you’re getting the most out of what you love about this newsletter, so please leave a comment or fill out this 2-minute anonymous survey to help shape what comes next! ❤️

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I can’t wait to take you on this next adventure with me. I’m off to view some flats… wish me luck.

Until next week!

Meet Hamish. A fourteen-year-old German Shepherd who lives in the western suburbs of Aberdeen. He has a penchant for chicken necks and barking at squirrels in the garden. He doesn’t look a day over five, I’ve learned, because his owner feeds him on an exclusively organic and raw meat diet. I’d take a stab that his genetic age is younger than mine, despite being around 88 years old in human years. He’s like the dog version of Bryan Johnson, the man who wants to live forever.

The spot on the top of his head in-between his ears – which, when alert, point upwards and operate autonomously like a bat’s – is divine to plant kisses on. Now, a few days into the sit, he’s accepted me into the pack and has started sleeping on the floor at the end of my bed, guarding the door; chasing sticks in his dreams.

I booked this housesit in the eleventh hour, flying by the seat of my pants as per usual, but something (call it a sign or just a gut feeling) told me to apply. I arrived a day early, to get to know Hamish and the homeowner (we’ll call her Jane), and it turns out she had a sign too – communicated via her spirit guides that a solo young woman would come in time before her flight out to the Caribbean.

Sure enough, I did.

We spoke nonstop for 48 hours. Over fish and chips. A cigarette at the back door. And a woodland walk where she pointed out Hamish’s favourite spots and her favourite magic tree.

I was a bit upset to see her leave. When she returns in a week, we’ve agreed to continue the conversation over the bottle of wine that’s chilling in the fridge.

It’s my first time in the ‘Granite City’. I really should book in a day of exploring, but it’s not a priority. I’m quite content with the routines I’ve established: walking Hamish, getting back to the gym, and working on my book all day.

I’ve only recently learned that the east coast of Scotland is one of the biggest suppliers of daffodils. Fields and kerbsides are chockablock with them. I could trick myself into believing I’m in Holland. So at nighttime when the sky has dipped into darkness, I make the most of Hamish’s ‘scary dog’ privilege and wander around the silent streets, collecting bunches for the house.

Now, time for the big news… It is exclusively for paid subscribers first – the rest of the gang, you’ll find out next week!

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One of my favourite writers on Substack, Anne Boyd, wrote a brilliant piece about solitude and the woman writer that got me thinking...

At the start of this year, I returned to the UK to housesit (temporarily solo) while my boyfriend navigates the joys of visa admin back in Australia. I chose to be alone. To continue progress with my book and set up a life here in Scotland. Over the past months, the amount of work I’ve created has been astonishing.

Luckily, solitude comes easily to me. I relish my own time, my own company. My endless surplus of hobbies keeps me busy, but most of all, being alone is the time when I recharge and reset.

I’ve had friends comment on it in the past, saying how they wish they were better at being alone like I was. Looking back, it must have come from somewhere. I know inherently we are either extroverted or introverted. I’d pencil myself somewhere in the middle – someone who is social and loves hosting but equally loves climbing into bed at 9pm with a book and sometimes is secretly happy when dinner plans are cancelled.

If I had to identify the moment that sparked my love of solitude, it was probably just before my teenage years began, when insomnia kicked the front door down.

I’d always had a disruptive relationship with sleep before then. Most nights I’d stand over my parents’ bed in my nightie, scaring the shit out of my poor mum, wimpering, “Sorry, mummy, I can’t sleep.”

Once I hit double digits, I was too old to be getting away with ruining their sleep as well. So I turned to my own devices. Luckily (or maybe strategically), my parents always armed me with supplies to keep me busy: books, musical instruments, paints and sketchbooks.

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I was creative from a young age. And after everyone was in bed and it was only me and the street lights on, that’s what I turned to.

Of course, in the beginning, insomnia was torture, but eventually, I just embraced the fact that my body and mind had other plans than sleep. Usually, after several hours of making, doing and reading, I’d think to myself, “I’m not the only person awake right now. There are other people awake in the world just like me.” And often, that would be the reflection that would let me fall asleep.

I do wonder if being a creative means you’re inherently better at being alone because it’s so necessary to the process. So many writers take themselves off to cabins in the woods for weekends, some years at a time.

No matter our situations, whether you have days of free time on your hands and you don’t know how to spend them (unlikely), or you have never-ending ideas and plans of how you’d like to spend your time but not a minute to yourself (more likely), we owe it to ourselves to prioritise time alone. Without it, it’s difficult to hear your inner voice. And it’s harder to be creative.

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I also think the biggest skill anyone can collect in life is self-reliance. If we’re fulfilled as individuals, there are no limits to how much we can show up for the people around us. In the words of Ru Paul, “If you can’t love yourself, how in hell are you going to love somebody else?”

So take yourself to that restaurant, to the movies, or on that holiday; in fact, I can attest that after taking myself around New Zealand for over a month on my own, I had the time of my bloody life – not to mention the problem-solving and confidence-building that happens when you’re trying to navigate a brand new country on the other side of the world with no one there to help you.

John Cleese famously said, “The greatest killer of creativity is interruption,” and I believe it. Writing a book requires hours spent in the liminal, waiting for the right word or scene to land. Imagine trying to do that with a crowd of people next to you, trying to give you their two cents or distracting you with questions like, “What shall we have for dinner?” I don’t know, Gary, piss off!!

Without growing comfortable in my own company, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I wouldn’t have survived three years of full-time travel. I certainly wouldn’t have survived quitting my job to pivot my career path completely. And I wouldn’t be writing a book – something that demands utmost loyalty and accountability to oneself.

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Being alone is a practice. And like all practices, the more you do it, the better you get. But the rewards for me have been bountiful.

I’m curious, how is your relationship with being alone? Do you fear it? Do you love it? And for the creatives out there, how integral is it to your process?

Till next time – lots of love,

P.S. If this resonated, please share it or leave a heart – it helps more people find their way here! ❤️

I arrived knackered, dragging my suitcase down the long pebble driveway, while he was midway through mowing the lawn. After handing me the keys and showing me how to work the dodgy flush on the toilet, he wandered off into some tall grass, leaving his spectacles on the kitchen table.

I’m somewhere in rural Aberdeenshire, having left my previous housesit in a luxurious five-bed detached house for a cabin in the middle of someone’s freshly ploughed field.

I didn’t know what to do on my first day here. No dogs to look after. Nothing to tend to. Just the sound of pheasants honking like old-fashioned cars in the nearby fields.

So much change.

I ALSO REALLY MISS THE BLOODY DOGS.

We had seven weeks together. Los tres amigos. On the last day, I locked myself in the laundry room and cried into the bedding and towels I was folding. Their real mum arrived home to squeals and kisses.

Back to normal for them. Back to the abnormal for me.

I gifted myself a day of moping, including, but not limited to: staring dramatically at the log burner, walking aimlessly around the homeware aisles of a Tesco superstore, and eating my bodyweight in fish and chips.

Since then, I’ve been in action and PMA (positive mental attitude) mode!

Whenever I’m in a kerfuffle, one of the first things I do is take myself for a hot girl walk – minus the tiny athleisurewear layers, because I’m on the east coast of Scotland. More like a hot Michelin man walk, really.

I drove to the nearest beach, grabbed a coffee at a Victorian tearoom on the edge of the dunes and walked out in the direction of a lighthouse. How symbolic. Because after spending the last two months in relative solitude, I’ve come to remember that I can always be my own port in the storm.

As can a creamy latte and a scenic walk by the sea.

I’m basically David Goggins.

I took myself (and a massive bag of Mini Eggs) to the cinema to watch Project Hail Mary – one of my favourite book reads from last year – and thoroughly enjoyed it. I also spent a morning editing and writing from a farm shop, by a big open fire with dippy eggs and soldiers and a giant mug of coffee. Relishing my independence and zero-doggy-duties.

Things are shifting. We’ve strided through the spring equinox (the true new year), and while the year of the fire horse began in February – a year of action and bolting forward – that hasn’t seemed possible until I witnessed bulbs shoot from the ground, and the northern sun finally emanating warmth into my bones.

Like me, Mother Nature has been stuck in the liminal for a while, but not without cause or reason. Because while things looked slow on the surface, leaves have been rotting into the ground, feeding new energy and life.

Some winters, trees look so bare and devoid of life that it’s unimaginable to believe that in just a few months they will be bright and bushy enough to cloud the sky.

While I can’t see this in the moment, I have to trust that things are coming.

They always do.

Before buds can bloom, they must sprout, and before they sprout, they must sit dormant for a while.

And look! Here I am, on the last day of my Airbnb stay, sitting in shorts, with a cuppa, on a tree stump, listening to blackbirds, wagtails and sparrows singing their hearts out. A feeling of hope building in my chest!

I’ll be checking into a new housesit tomorrow and can’t wait to tell you all about it...

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Sometimes you’re ready to leave because of badly behaved pets, noisy neighbours, or a house that wasn’t quite as pictured.

But sometimes you’ve settled in so well, you’re clawing at the doorframe to stay.

No matter how many times I’ve wrapped up a sit (this one marks, omg, 32), you never quite get used to these discombobulating feelings.

I’ve spent seven blissful weeks in St Andrews, caretaking and dog walking. Writing from a sun room that looks across miles of golden fields and the flat blue Firth of Tay. I’ve donned my raincoat and blended in with the local students in town, tramping across the cobbled high streets, writing and editing my book in coffee shops. I’ve made this place a home, but now, as usual, it’s time to pack up my 2007 Polo and move on.

This is the longest housesit I’ve ever done, and simultaneously the longest sit I’ve done on my own. Usually, my boyfriend is beside me, but due to visa restrictions, he’s still in Australia. It’s strange to go from being joined at the hip for two years straight to being geographically as far away as humanly possible. He may as well be on the moon.

I’ve learned a lot from being solitary this long – the longest time since meeting my boyfriend as a single 27-year-old building her career in London. I’ve relished the opportunity to rely on myself. Dealing with mouse invasions, the loss of central heating in the middle of a storm, and feeling safe in a giant house alone.

I’ve lost myself in previous relationships. When you’re building a life with a partner, the lines between individual and joint worlds blur (which is beautiful), but in my early twenties, I tended to dilute who I was to mould around and suit whoever I was dating.

Now, in my thirties, I’m fiercely protective of my independence. Not just for myself, but because I’m acutely aware of how hard women fought to have it. The least I can do is use it well.

During this housesit, I’ve been reminded who I am outside of a partnership and how bloody capable I am.

I’ve lived this “brand” of a reinvented digital nomad for three years. The polar opposite of my old life as a full-time career hustling city girl. But like I was at the end of my time in London, I’m ready to close my chapter of travelling full-time.

In life, I think we live through many versions of ourselves. I have. The rambunctious child, the emo teenager, the fashion student, the London career girl, the nomad, the writer. Now, I wish to discover who I am outside of housesitting.

Who will I be next? I’m not sure. But, I’m ready to find out.

A big lesson I’ve learned on my journey is that life is momentum. Life is change. We cannot hold onto life and will it to stay the same. We cannot will ourselves to stay the same, nor the people we love around us.

To be human is to evolve. To chart new courses. Wrangle our way through the thickets of scary and unexplored jungles.

To try to avoid this is like trying to contain air in your hands. Pointless.

I have also learned a lot about control. And that I must relinquish it as best as I can. Strengthening my resolve to react calmly in the face of change and defeat has been paramount to not having a full on menty-b. Because life is a lot of that – a never-ending lesson in perseverance. Our job is to maintain humour, kindness, and grace in the face of it all.

Well. I wasn’t expecting to get so philosophical on you all, but this is very much where my head is at when a housesit comes to a close. I get very reflective and can’t really explain my thoughts to the two Toy Cavapoos that are sitting on the sofa with me as I type this.

My suitcase is packed. Perishables are in shopping bags in the boot. I’ve got a short stay at an Airbnb before my next housesit, just an hour up the road. More will be revealed next week. In the meantime…

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Always five consecutive beeps.

By the time I’ve run from any given end of the house to where the sound seems to be coming from, the beeping has stopped.

It took two weeks to pinpoint the sound to one end of a long hallway, where there’s a smoke detector. I deduced that the battery on said detector is running low.

What I failed to spot was an oil gauge with a giant antenna hidden behind a fiddle-leaf fig plant, that had been screaming out to me for weeks:

Oil low! Me need oil! Feed me! Feed me!

I imagine, at least.

Fool’s Spring has rung true this year, because a storm has blown over from the Atlantic, and my weather app has said the gale-force winds have also brought air temperatures down to -5°C. Not the most ideal timing, because due to global oil disruption, a delivery can’t come for at least another week.

I’ll have left the housesit by then.

In the meantime, I’m sleeping like The Princess and the Pea under mountains of duvets and blankets and have even succumbed to letting the dogs sleep on the bed so we can conserve body heat.

Some of you may have seen a recent Substack note of my new writing spot (first picture below). I’ve taken to hammering my icy digits into my laptop in the sunroom, because it’s the only room in the house that has an electric heater.

The benefit is that I get to soak in beautiful views across the patchwork fields and, on a clear day, can see over the Firth of Tay towards Dundee and its Angus neighbours.

On a sunny day, the light hits distant Kinshaldy beach. It glistens a golden yellow, appearing like a thick spreading of butter on a slice of toast.

I’ve grown to adore the Fife area, dotted with picturesque coastal towns and undulating countryside. I’m sad to be leaving. But, I suppose I can be happy that I’ve had the experience of living here. It’s been seven weeks – shorter than a minimum rental tenancy, but much longer than a holiday.

Housesitting full-time is both of those things: a purgatory of worlds where you are neither here nor there. Always planting roots, always having to rip them up again.

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Erm? I have two miniature cavapoos, Alexander Armstrong on weekday mornings, and Alan Titchmarsh on Saturday afternoons on Classic FM. I even found a huge spider in my bed the other night. Saucy minx. I don’t know what mother is talking about. I’m surrounded by company. I’m fine!

I’ve actually been socialising a lot – online. I have weekly catch-ups with two fellow memoir writers, where we give feedback on each other’s manuscripts. It has been such a pleasurable and helpful experience.

It’s the first time I’ve had creative sparring partners. Writing, being such a solitary vocation, can trick you into hiding your work from the world. But I’m learning that sharing your art only makes it stronger!

Once I’m settled in Glasgow, I’ll be looking for a writer’s group to join, because like raising children, birthing creative projects into the world takes a village – be that a partner or family member who cooks you shepherd’s pie so you don’t forget to eat, or a writing pal to tell you off for how many times you’ve used the words just, so, or very.

Did you know we were treated to a blood moon lunar eclipse this week? I found a special meditation for it on YouTube where a sexy American lady had me leave Scotland through a portal to the House of Virgo – a temple constructed of emerald and moonstone. She told me to hop up on the healing bed (made from more emerald) so the moon could sort me out. I’m paraphrasing.

Apart from the few minutes when I got distracted and started writing a shopping list in my head, it must have worked. When she brought me back twenty minutes later, my neck was no longer sore, my feet felt warm and tingly, and I proceeded to fall into the deepest sleep I’ve had in months.

Spring be sprunging! I’ve witnessed 32 springs in my life, yet each time, I remain utterly bowled over by how miraculous nature is. For the first time this year, I went for a walk and had to tie my coat around my waist midway through. I was wearing only a t-shirt and Lululemon leggings! Soon I’ll be guzzling chicken wine from a pub garden and smearing factor 50 on my face.

I always tend to mimic the dormancy of winter. I turn into such a little hermit, burying myself in a Hobbit hole for months on end with Yorkshire puddings and apple crumbles. But I’m ready to emulate the season sprouting around me. I’m ready to end this housesitting chapter. I’m ready to get my book out into the world. I’m ready to settle down, make a home, make new friends and a new community. Like Kristen Wiig in Bridesmaids, I’m reaaaady to paaarrtaaaaay.

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Jolting awake, I peeled the covers from my skin in a blinding sweat. When I turned on the lights and found two fluffy cavapoos next to the bed, I breathed a sigh of relief.

This morning, I sat down with my coffee and, as any normal person would, asked ChatGPT to interpret my nightmare.

“Alright, dream decoder hat on. Let’s unpack this cinematic anxiety burrito 🧠” it said.

Anxiety burrito? What the fu—

“A hyper-efficient corporate skyscraper? An apex predator chasing you through it? TL;DR 👉 You’re trying to find emotional safety inside a system that was never designed for you.”

Even in my dreams, it seems I can’t outrun the time-crunching anxiety of trying to find a job.

The homeowner has asked if I can stay on for another twenty days. I, the person who arrogantly declared I’d have my life sorted out by now (and have not), gladly accepted the offer and am taking it as a sign from the universe that in the next three weeks, everything will actually iron itself out. How exciting for moi!

Looking out from the living room window, I spot cargo ships unusually close to the shoreline. They’ll be taking refuge from the winds blowing down from the North. I know this to be true because Captain Jason from Below Deck Australia had to do the same thing on a recent episode in the Seychelles.

The news is a dumpster fire right now, and I saw a video of AI robots breakdancing for Chinese New Year, which made me want to step off a cliff. Luckily, I have two dogs to distract me. They piss themselves with excitement about going to the beach and lose their acorn-sized minds over the dental chews they get every single day.

Thanks, doggos. These kinds of behaviours remind me to STAY GROUNDED in the joy of life’s little moments.

Speaking of, I’ve been exploring towns and villages nearby and am falling further in love with the Fife coastline: a picture-perfect trail of rural Scottish seaside delights. I’ll be drawing up a full travel guide for paid subscribers at the end of my sit next month.

For now, here are the links, books and rabbit holes worth your perusal this week…

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Enjoy the replay, and if there’s anything we didn’t cover that you’d like to hear more about or ask advice on, drop a comment below!

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“You can do it… It’s okay… Take your time,” are the words I shouted through yellow weather-warning gusts and sleet as Leo the dog—back hunched over—tried to squeeze a shit that did not desire to come to fruition.

In an effort to release said nugget (is this TMI? Sorry, you’re in it now), he dragged his arse against the grass, smearing it across his entire backside.

A little under two months ago, I was walking down a coastal promenade in the Southern Highlands of Australia, hand-in-hand with the man I love.

How far the mighty have fallen.

I’m two weeks into my (last? Who bloody knows at this point) housesit. The dogs (despite their foibles) have gotten used to me, and I have a real soft spot for them. I’ve recovered from my “new space” jet lag and have found a rhythm with the house and my new schedule of job hunting, (shampooing dirty dogs), and book edits.

The field mouse I caught and released into a field found its way back and into the same (humane) trap. Who the hell did I catch? The Christopher Columbus of the rodent world? How far do I need to take it this time? Edinburgh?

Shitballs, I think I only drove it a mile. This time, I drove five. If it finds its way back, I think I’ll just let the clever bugger stay and rename this series The Mousesit Dispatch.

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In every sense of the word, she lived a life of devotion.

Fast-forward 850 years. We are in the age of optimisation and have access to endless choice. Life is broad and limitless, but it is shallow.

The cost of a devoted life asks you to narrow your world but expand its roots. In a world where every waking minute of our attention threatens to be robbed from us, the boldest, most beautiful act of rebellion is to devote ourselves wholly to our lives.

My relationship with faith is probably best described as spiritual. I believe in a greater purpose, in all living things being interconnected by invisible strings, and that we are here experiencing life for a reason. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more interested in drawing water from the fountains of my internal faith. And two years ago, when I hit the eject button on my life to heal career burnout, I made it my mission to redesign a life (like Hildegard’s) rooted in devotion.

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Devotion through service

After two years of housesitting, I was surprised to find that the most fulfilling part of the experience has been caring for animals. Even after that one bulldog had explosive diarrhoea, or that border collie frequently rolled in fox shit. (It’s always poo-related.) On the whole, waking up early to feed or walk these pets has given me such pleasure. Even on dark, wet mornings or during gale-force storms, I return content at the sight of wagging tails and happy animals. And as someone who is 32 and still on the fence about having children, one of the reasons I’d like to do it is to experience the deep rewards of caring for someone you can love that much.

My twenties were spent largely serviceless and selfish. I don’t regret this. In fact, of all the decades of our lives, I think your twenties should be just this. Dancing to the beat of your own drum. Testing, learning, and building a blueprint for your life. But at this stage of my life, I want and plan to give back more: by sharing lessons through this Substack, being of greater service to those I love, volunteering my time, and showing more random acts of kindness to strangers.

And when we’re not serving a higher purpose, perhaps that’s our cue to look inward.

Devotion through a vocation

I worked in marketing for over a decade, but writing always came naturally to me. I should have realised after the release of my first infamous short story, The Pig in the Wig, in which a pig needed a new wig, so he got one. The End. Who could have foreseen such early literary genius?

Pigs and wigs aside, there’s a reason people like John Williams are still composing at 94 (Happy Birthday, John). He has lived a devoted life. I’m sure there are ordinary people with extraordinary commitment in your lives who have lived long and fully by dedicating themselves to something.

Since taking my writing seriously two years ago, I haven’t wanted to go a day without putting pen to paper. It brings me such pleasure to document the everyday things I witness and to birth imaginings of worlds and characters into existence. But most importantly, the repetition and routine of sitting down and creating offers deep internal meaning, independent of external validation.

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Replacing “purpose” with devotion

The P word is thrown around a lot. But it’s intimidating and kinda abstract. Because, seriously, what do you mean I have to figure out my life’s purpose? I don’t even know what I’m having for dinner tonight! Devotion, however, can evolve and ebb and flow through the many chapters of our lives. Devotion is a daily, lived experience.

As Hildegard said:

“We cannot live in a world that is not our own, in a world that is interpreted for us by others. An interpreted world is not a home. Part of the terror is to take back our own listening, to use our own voice, to see our own light.”

The world feels like a dark place right now. Looking around, there is so much that polarises us. It can feel uncomfortable to want more from our lives when so much is being robbed elsewhere. But tending to our own gardens is not selfish. It is how we remain rooted. And by building devoted lives, we can show up for others tenfold.

I’d love to know: what daily practices help you feel more devoted to your own life?

For those who want to dig a little deeper, I invite you to join me in grabbing a notebook and chewing on the following questions this week:

How can I offer more thanks for my life? E.g. saying grace at the dinner table or sending a handwritten letter to someone who has recently helped you.

How can I help others in my daily life? E.g. calling in on an elderly neighbour, visiting the house of a new parent and doing the washing up or cooking them dinner.

How can I find out what my passion is in life? E.g. recall the things you loved to do most as a child and ask yourself if anything brings up feelings of excitement. If someone gave you one extra hour a day, how would you fill it? Doing what?

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This is all very normal in the first few days of a housesit, to be swept up in the odd sense that you’ve been kidnapped or are still in the thickets of a dream. It’s a feeling of complete discombobulation, even though this is my thirty-first one — you’d think I’d be used to it by now.

The owner left in a hurry for the airport, parting with hugs of gratitude and one final gift: there’s a mouse loose in the house, and could I try to catch it? There’s also a full moon in the sky, and I haven’t slept properly for two nights. I’m a little fragile, but fine.

Some context for why I’m housesitting four months after swearing I’d never do it again…

I have challenged myself to get my life (job, flat, etc.) figured out by the end of the month. Yes, I know it’s the shortest month of the year. But I work well to a deadline, and need to get my vibrational energy in bloody gear. I’m also giving the universe a deadline to start bringing me some good news/luck. You listening? You’ve got till March.

So, no more dilly-dallying! Boots are on the ground here in St Andrews where some independence and the luxury of solo time should allow me to get things in order.

Thank you, and so long parents. Now, my support system looks like two handbag-sized poodles. Come and meet them, and I’ll give you a tour of the grounds…

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The house I am in is not my own. It’s the attic room of my parents’ dream Scottish cottage. They had planned for a quiet retirement, which I promptly gatecrashed by pivoting my life at thirty-two.

In the eaves of this cottage, I scroll through Pinterest, and houses owned by lust-worthy women. Saving pictures of parquet floors, sash windows, and crown-moulded ceilings to my Future Home board.

The above are not my romantic set of ideals. Nonetheless, I’ve pushed myself to romanticise my situation — cracked plastering and all. I believe you should romanticise the lulls of life.

Because life is too bloody miraculous not to.

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To get me through hibernation (aka winter), I bought some new notebooks and developed a personal study curriculum for myself. One of the topics I’m studying is physics, which has led me down the rabbit hole of entropy: a term for measuring disorder in a system.

Applying this analogy to my current situation, I’ve deduced that it is my job to take the disordered chaos around us and transmute it into something structural; something with meaning.

Thanks to the Second Law of Thermodynamics, we know the universe is gradually moving toward greater disorder, not less; it’s only getting more chaotic the older it gets. Sound familiar? We were all babies once. Life was so simple and uncomplicated! Remember? Then, as we aged, more chaos entered our lives: school, heartbreak, and filing your tax returns.

We cannot escape chaos. Chaos is what it means to be alive.

Romanticising the chaos (and the journey to and from) is, in my opinion, a beautiful way to fight back and reclaim order and control.

In February, I’ll be housesitting and regaining my independence on the east coast of Scotland in St Andrews. I plan to use the month to double down on romancing myself and putting everything I have into building the dream life I want.

More on that in a later post, but for now, I wanted to share a few things to help dial up daily romanticism a notch…

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Make your daily drive an experience

There’s a point when you’re driving, where you enter a flow state. Human and machine become weightless and one, piercing through space and time. On top of that, a thumping bassline against the lyrics “bad tattoos on leather tan skin, Jesus Christ on a plastic sign”, and BRB I’m cosmically transcending.

Nothing beats a solo drive with your favourite tunes. For non-drivers/car owners, a bus or train ride and a great set of headphones also do the trick. I’ve pulled together some of my favourite songs to commute and sing along to - share yours in the comments, and I’ll add them in.

Midday miracles

There’s nothing like toying with the order of things. Shaking up your routine can both alter your perception of time (by extending the way time passes) and make daily life a bit sexier. Think: taking a luxurious bubble bath in the middle of the day; swapping the gym for a hip-hop YouTube dance class; eating lunch on your best china. Make a fort in your living room. Wear fancy dress to WFH. Lick your knee. I dunno. Get freaky.

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Get celestial

Stick with me on this one… Pay attention to the seasons — mimicking their behaviour might be what you need to feel more grounded and charmed by life.

In the summer, we often have a surplus of energy; in winter, not so much. On full moons, some of us can stay up later and need less sleep. On new moons, it’s better to rest and forward plan. The average human body is made of 60% water. Watch as the tide ebbs and flows; the moon likely affects your body, too. How romantic it is to feel a part of the mechanics of our galaxy? It’s even more so to engage with it consciously.

What’s something that makes daily life feel romantic? Let me know in the comments.

Further recommended reading…

The morning after arriving in Skye, I woke up with hives on my hands. “Do you think I’m allergic to being back in Scotland?” I asked my Mum. I haven’t worked out the source, but I’d hazard a guess that it’s my body freaking the fuck out from being plunged out of thirty-degree Australian weather like a boiled egg into ice water.

Anyhoo! Hello folks! It’s been a couple of months since I put out a dispatch, mainly because I was clutching at the multiple loose ends of my existence for dear life. But after a holiday in Australia to visit my other half (and one big adult conversation later), I’m feeling a lot more resolute about my current situation—aptly in time for the new year.

How do you feel about a new year? I don’t lump too much importance on it. It feels like a date with a ragingly hot guy with a man bun—too much hype; not enough substance.

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The above-mentioned TikTok found me in a moment of need.

After making an intentional choice to step away from my old life structure to heal my nervous system and build a life around my passion for writing, I’m now in the in-between, and my desired new chapter (of stepping back into work and financial stability) hasn’t yet come to fruition.

Man makes plans, God laughs, and all that.

Purgatory moments in life are insufferable to someone who is a slut for being in control (aka moi). I’ve spent over two years travelling, housesitting, and freelancing. I am used to change and intervals, but alas, I’m still not good at spending them.

You see, I like knowing what I’m having for my dinners a week in advance. I plan tomorrow’s outfit in bed as my head sinks into the pillow. I do not dance in the intervals of my life. I have a tendency to unravel in them.

Thing is, I don’t want to be that chick anymore. I want to take steps to become more like the happy chai man I saw on my little glowing rectangle of doom.

And so begs the question: How can I live well while my life is undecided?

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Coming up against outsider judgment

Perhaps the biggest hurdle I’m overcoming is relinquishing the fear of outsider opinion. I’m only human. I want to be accepted as part of the pack. It’s in my DNA. Thousands of years ago, if I didn’t, I would have been cast out for not conforming; thrown to the wolves or burned at the stake. But modern life isn’t riddled with such extremes.

I’m learning that I don’t need to host a press meeting every time my life takes a new course. Most people who love you don’t need the full blueprint—they just need to know you’re okay because they care.

Sometimes our choices can bring up fear or regret in others. If you’re choosing to live out a bolder life, those who are on a more linear trajectory might get uncomfortable. I’m learning that’s okay. Their confusion is not my burden to solve, and it’s certainly not reason enough for me to change my plans or give up the dream when the going gets tough.

Romanticising the waters of uncertainty

The gap I’m in isn’t a blaring foghorn that I’ve made a giant mistake. It’s evidence that I’ve chosen a considered path, rather than an easy one. I have a lot to be proud of about that. I often remind myself of what I’ll be thinking about on my deathbed. Because it won’t be the nice bonus I got one year at work. It will be all the adventures I’ve had in my life and everything that risk led me to.

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Romanticising our uncertainty is more a survival skill than denial. When life gets ugly, it doesn’t mean we need to double down on our suffering. For instance, I moved back in with my parents to save money while job-hunting and made the most of it by enjoying quality time with them, and using the vast amounts of spare time I had to write at coffee shops or get out in long walks in nature—things I couldn’t do if I were working full-time and living on my own.

I’m not throwing my head in the sand by doing this; I’m taking care of myself in the chaos while life figures itself out.

Practical tips for getting through your interval

1. When you’re in the midst of the in-between, it’s natural for your brain to go to fight-or-flight mode. You have one foot in your old life and one foot in the one that hasn’t arrived yet. Everything feels extreme. Except, it’s not.

   There are small in-the-middle steps you can take alongside your “big life to-dos” to establish a port in the storm. This is completely individual. For me, it’s time outside in nature, exercising, eating healthy food, reducing alcohol and caffeine intake, and practising gratitude and meditation.

   Without these anchors, I will drift and be mauled by a metaphorical bull shark. Find your anchors. They are worth their weight in gold.

2. Re-frame the tagline of your movie that runs in your head. For me, this started with: “I’ve burnt through my savings, I can’t find a job, and don’t know how I’ll afford to live in my own place anytime soon.”

   To: “I’m working hard to secure a job that is perfect for me, and will use a temporary living solution like housesitting to stabilise my independence and help me save money for when my dream flat and job arrive!” I’ve written this in my notes app, and I return to it anytime I wobble.

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3. Connect with others on a similar path to you. I had a call with an old work colleague who is in the middle of life like me, and we both empathised with each other’s qualms. It was cheaper and more grounding than paying for a therapist.

   If you don’t have any of these people in your life, find them online. I’ve connected with others through social media and here on Substack who are going through similar storms. Find your people. And hey, drop a comment or ping me a DM - I’m always here to chat.

4. Remember, this is not forever. I’ve set a time limit to this in-between chapter of my life. I haven’t done that before—I really should have. I’m giving myself three months to job hunt, flat hunt, and build savings through freelancing while I housesit. I can stick to this plan and remind myself daily that I have a strategy.

As much as we’d all love to float through life with unrivalled main-character energy, we need equal dollops of pragmatism and romanticism to get us through it. Reaching the end of writing this piece, I feel better about my own situation; if you’re in transit too, I hope this has helped you.

No one gives us a manual on how to live perfectly, but I do think we owe it to ourselves to have the best crack at figuring it out in a way that brings us individual joy.

If you’re in an in-between place too, how are you learning to live well in life’s transitory moments?