On my 7^th birthday I received a copy of “The Secret Garden”. I have many great memories of books I devoured during my childhood, but Frances Hodgson Burnett’s story about an initially grumpy and spoilt little girl arriving in England as an orphan and being transformed by nature and the kindness of those around her, must be one of my all-time favourites. I was enchanted by the relationships “Mistress Mary quite contrary” forged over time with nature, Martha the housemaid, Ben the gardener, Robin the robin and the gardens around her. Her friendship with Dickon that stretched across social boundaries and her empathy yet fierce determination surrounding her neurotic cousin Colin kept me glued to the pages until I had turned the last page. I was so obsessed that I asked my grandmother for some gardening tools and, similar to Mistress Mary asking her indifferent uncle, for a space in the garden where I could dig, sow seeds and watch flowers grow. I even started nurturing lemon and orange pips into little trees, at one point filling the whole window sill of my room with little growing pods. Soon after, I added succulents to my collection and marvelled at the laborious process of growing and keeping an avocado tree. As I grew older, I handed many of my plants to more dedicated family members and forgot about growing things and little Mary’s Secret Garden. I also neglected my patch in the garden and haven’t been keen on getting my hands stuck in some weeds and soil for years. Whilst I appreciate gardens and love nothing more than enjoying a warm summer’s evening spent outside with a glass of red, I am also known to leave the maintenance of said flora and fauna to my partner. However, more recently, when looking around my house, I knew something was missing. It took me a while to work out that my surroundings were severely lacking a touch of greenery and leafy life, different shades of green in colourful and extravagant plant pots. I ventured out and came back with three different miniature palm trees and pots that cost more than the plants themselves. A few days later a cactus, an aloe vera and a selection of succulents joined the indoor fauna. Since then, we have baked a lot of lemon cakes and eaten many oranges to get all the citrus pips. We let them dry for a little bit and then planted them into lots of growing pods. We’ve also planted pepper seeds, cauliflower and herbs, turning our kitchen in a little jungle. Whilst I am ignoring questions of where we’ll put all those new little leafy family members, I am busy exploring manor house and botanical gardens in our area, marvelling at the trees, flower beds, ponds, streams and woodlands. My favourite one is a university botanical garden that is free to enter and a wonderful place to spend some time alone, wandering around at your leisure or to take the kids. When I took my children last time, we spent hours there and only left a few minutes before the gardens closed. Being there, I only used my phone to take pictures, and immersed myself into mother nature. After a while, I could hear my thoughts again, rather than the usual mess of half-started to-do-lists that fly through my head all the time. Being outside or surrounded by nature is healing and beneficial in so many ways. And, whilst I have to stop myself from spending a small fortune on plant pots, I am delighted with how much fresher and happier our home looks. Recently, I even got my hands dirty in the garden again (or to be more precise, my feet). We are making our lawn bigger to potentially have some areas of wild meadow, all in support of our bees. As I walked barefoot on the soil, watering the seeds with water from the paddling pool, I felt glimpses of the excitement I used to have as the girl who’d just read “The Secret Garden”. Just as well, since I am re-reading the book. Sometimes passions lie dormant for a while. But, like the Secret Garden, they just sleep, don’t die.

This week, one of my old friends died. We used to work together, and we had a special bond, being able to trust one another with our emotions and fears, and our shared experience of losing a parent too soon. Such connections last, across time and space. In any case, this is not about our background, our friendship. This is also not about my sadness and my grief, my tears. This is about something much deeper and dangerous, something that is the biggest killer amongst men under the age of 45 (according to a BBC documentary featuring Prince William and some well-known footballers): suicide. When I was much younger, my opinion of suicide was that it was a selfish and cowardly way out for someone unable to face their problems. I thought that it was a horrible way to hurt those you loved most. Leaving your problems but those of your loved-ones had just begun. In a very twisted way that life sometimes throws upon us, as of today, three men I knew, one a friend, one a family member and one a family friend, have ended their lives. Their ages range from 15 to 60. Out of respect to these men, their families and myself, I am not going to elaborate as to why, how, what and when. This is not the essence of what I am writing here. What I want to voice is my concern that male suicide is nothing new, that rates are exceptionally high and that we, as a society have still a long way to go until the genders are truly equal, to the extent that these shocking statistics are no more. The Mental Health Foundation found that 75% of all suicides in 2017 were committed by men. So where is the problem? What do we have to do? Why did my friend, once able to share his feelings with me, close up and say no more? Why did a 15 year old boy decide to end his life and, to this day no one knows why but only suspects he was bullied at school for being different? Why did a family man quietly decide he couldn’t go on anymore? I am no expert and would never be so arrogant to say that I know all about men’s mental health. What I do know is that there is still a stigma around men sharing feelings and emotions. Whilst I am also lucky enough to know a lot of men that are comfortable enough to open up and be truthful about what’s going on in their heads, generally, and I see this in the playground, a boy or male teenager who shows emotions is laughed at, a wimp, a lesser man. Men (according to, please tell me exactly, which law?!) are supposed to be strong, level-headed, factual and no-nonsense-get-to-the-point-don’t-beat-around-the-bush-straight-talking creatures. And as the BBC documentary states: “As a man in the dressing room [after a football match] you’re not allowed to cry.” Having seen the fault in this obsolete and ridiculous rule, nowadays, as mothers of sons, as sisters of brothers, as girlfriends of boyfriends, as female friends of men, as wives of husbands, we are working overtime to instil a softer side into our boys, into our men, tell them it’s OK to be whatever you want to be. Be head-strong and no-nonsense-get-to-the-point-don’t-beat-around-the-bush-straight-talking, go for your goals, but know it’s OK to ask for help, to admit exhaustion, to notice and voice feelings and emotions. It’s healthy, it’s necessary. However, somewhere along the lines, something swoops in and messes it up for some – not for all of them, but for some. My heart breaks for the families, those left behind by those men who couldn’t see another way out. But the pain I feel for those three wonderful men I was allowed to know is beyond words. I try to understand why they felt they had no one to talk to, no one to confide it, no one to share their darkest, deepest fears and worries. I can’t begin to imagine the soul-destroying loneliness engulfing them, for suicide was their only way out. There was no light anymore to keep them going. There was no meaning and reason left. And all the while I struggle to come to terms with it because, you know, really, in this day and age, where we are all supposed to be equal – this shouldn’t happen anymore. But it does. A lot.
I am not in a professional capacity to give advice, so what I am going to say comes from my very sad heart: Be kind. Teach everyone to be kind. Show kindness to those who are unkind to you and light up your surroundings with love and light. Don’t stop encouraging men to talk about feelings and stand up to those bullies who mock any man or boy of any age that emotions or feelings and weaknesses don’t belong to them. Whether you’re male or female, or somewhere in between: Stand tall and proud behind any man and boy who shows emotions. We’d all gain. The world would be a softer and more tolerant place. And fewer men would feel that suicide is the only way out.

May you find peace, you beautiful souls. You are so very much loved.

I am in the last weeks of my postgraduate degree and things are heating up. Tying up loose ends, writing one last assignment and finishing a report are sending my mind in a spin. I am an organisational monster and know how to prioritize, plan and get stuff done. One of my former bosses once told me that “failing to plan is planning to fail” and whilst I chuckled at this initially, I eventually came to realise that his words are absolutely true. The last 9 months have turned out to be the most challenging and tumultuous in a very long time, but by staying ahead of myself and meticulously planning my days, weeks and months, I somehow made it nearly to the end. Submitting all my work with at least a day to spare and trying really hard to make time for my little family – it feels good when you feel like you are getting somewhere. And, credit to my loved ones, they really have been my sanctuary, preventing me from losing it and throwing in the towel more than once.  They have also helped me to stay focussed and to keep my eyes onto the prize at the end of all this.  I have been able to see the light at the end of a very dark and long tunnel because of them.
Today, however, I have caught myself giving in to procrastination for too many hours, staring into space, flicking through books, surfing the net and checking Amazon for new books to read. I have not been able to get into the flow of things, even though the next deadline is less than a week away. Even the guilty, that niggling, accusing guilt couldn’t motivate me to turn back to my word document to finish what I started 4 weeks ago. Yes, 4 weeks, because I wanted to get ahead. And now I am struggling to finish it. Procrastination makes me giddy, but not in a good way. It makes me anxious and restless. It numbs and freezes me, unable to do what I need to do. I am sure a psychologist would have some scientific explanation for this phenomenon but I already know the easiest solution for my case: stop avoiding the necessary and just do it. Words easier written than done (on an ironic level, me writing this blog post is also a form of avoiding my postgrad work, but writing has always felt like the most important thing to do, all day, every day). So, whilst I know that the assignment will get done in good time just like the rest of them, I will, for now, have to learn to live with my uncomfortable feelings surrounding procrastination and try to accept that I will have days where I won’t achieve as much as I thought. Even if it goes against everything my work ethic stands for. I guess I have a long way to go until I can just accept that it’s ok to potter around and not achieve much. Because mental rest is an achievement in itself, isn’t it? Here’s to learning to love procrastination, time out and all their friends!

This week I went, for the first time, to a Reiki practitioner. Getting Reiki treatment has been on my long list of “must-dos” for years, but life and priorities chopped and changed, so it got pushed further down the list. Over the past few months my already hectic life has taken an exceptionally tumultuous turn and I have felt completely disconnected from myself, who I really am, what I love doing and where I want to be. Reiki healing is all about energy flow and Reiki practitioners use palm or hands-on healing. The energy, also called “qi” (chi) is, through the therapy, transferred from the therapist to the patient which, in turn, encourages a healing process. As with most alternative medicine or practice, there has been a lot of scepticism and negative press around Reiki, suggesting that in scientific experiments no such energy could be detected. Whilst I personally understand this and believe in science, I also believe that certain things cannot be explained by it. Science can’t detect hope. Yet everyone experiences it. Science can’t detect faith. Yet everyone believes in something, even if their belief is that they don’t believe in anything. Science will, eventually, always reach a point where it can’t explain, and that doesn’t make those unexplainable things less real. So, armed with this little knowledge and a lot of negative energy inside me, I embarked, with a lot of anticipation, onto my first Reiki experience. I did not know what to expect or how my body and mind would react. With this amount of negativity stored up, I figured, I may have been better off attending an exorcism?
My Reiki practitioner Jackie, an experienced midwife and holistic therapist, had been recommended by a friend and greeted me with a warm smile. The quaint little room near a cottage in the countryside was beautifully decorated, birds-on-branches-wallpaper, soft meditative music in the background and a little basket full of semi-precious stones in the corner. It reminded me of that time when I believed in the healing power of those stones. Jackie explained to me that our body contains seven main chakras in Hinduism tradition and that energy flows in and out of them. She was going to work her way from the top to the bottom of my body, from my crown chakra, just above my head (also the way to the enlightenment) down to the root chakra (which is keeping us grounded). She pre-warned me that I could be feeling warm or cool sensations, pins and needles as well as getting emotional. Once I was on the treatment table and had a blanket covering my body and arms, I closed my eyes. A gentle touch on the crown of my head started the Reiki. Nearly instantly, colours started to dance behind my closed eye lids. First a spot of yellow that grew lighter and lighter until it turned white. Then, suddenly, shades of blue moved around in patches, swishing gently from side to side, then turning into a dark pink that rotated around itself. I was so mesmerised by my own personal kaleidoscope, that it took me minutes to realise that, for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about anything. I just watched the colours dance, and I was calm, so calm. A touch around the sides of my head turned my attention to a different sensation. Gradually I could feel heat building up around my head, so strong that I realised it was impossible to come from Jackie’s hands. Unless she had put her palms into hot coals, that heat was coming from me, my energy. Yet again, it consumed my whole focus, I could not think of anything else. The heat remained long after the hands had moved to my upper body and my hips, and I felt gentle winding movements making their way upwards. Jackie’s hands rested for a long time on my knees. It occurred to me that my knees had been aching the previous day, something that, as an avid runner, unnerved me. This time, however, I knew they would be fine. Eventually, Jackie turned to my feet, which had been cold for the entirety of the therapy. They remained frozen, so Jackie moved back to my knees. Then, she touched my feet again, still icy. My thoughts had wandered, to days, weeks, months and years gone by, calmly evaluating the relationships I had formed, lost and re-built. I wondered how I had allowed so much pain and negativity into my life, thinking I was selfless. I realised I had been selfish, thinking I was cut out to handle it all. I knew I had to take better care of myself. Finally, a gentle touch brought me back; Jackie told me I should take my time and she would wait in her cottage for me. Before I even opened my eyes, I smiled: My feet were warm.
I sat up, swinging my legs around. Getting up, I felt light, nimble, free, as if someone had taken chains and weights off me. I had imagined how I would feel after Reiki but I didn’t think it would have been like this: so subtle and barely noticeable, yet so empowering at the same time. I met Jackie in her kitchen where she was scribbling something on a piece of paper. Her smile greeted me, and she asked me how I felt. She then told me: “There is so much going on in your head, you need to be careful it doesn’t take over. However, your third eye is beautiful. You have wonderful intuition, you need to learn to listen to it!” I get less points for my root chakra. “It took me a while to get you grounded”, Jackie explains. “You spend so much time in your head, you mustn’t lose touch with your grounding.” It all made sense. The cold feet. My feelings of feeling uprooted and restless. I mentioned my knees to her. “Your knees carry your emotions”, Jackie said. I told her that I had felt internal turmoil the day before. She nodded. Suddenly I understood. There was no way Jackie could have known so accurately what went on inside me. Surely, a good guess and some intuition of her own. But even so – I believe there was more to it.
As I left to walk back to my car I noticed not only a spring in my step but also that my shoulders were pushed back, and I was walking tall, my chest open and my head held high. Reiki has been more than I could have ever imagined. And I will be back for more balancing of my energy, soon.

Jackie is an experienced holistic therapist and, according to her, a “sorter-outer of most issues”. You can find her online at http://www.downtoearthjackie.com or you can follow her on jackie_downtoearth on Instagram.

A few days into the New Year, let’s be honest, how are you feeling? Are you full of drive and ready to jump into what the New Year has to offer? Are you excited to fill the next 361 days with new experiences and events? Have you packed away all things Christmas and have started a detox from too much over-indulgence at the festive period? Or are you a bit like me, victim of the Christmas blues, not being able to get used to the undecorated windows and the empty space where the Christmas tree stood? Still eating Christmas chocolates and nibbling the contents of the cheeseboard, dragging the holidays out as much as possible?  I struggle with January, every year. Christmas is my most favourite time of the year and I could get used to an eternal month of festivities.  I am very much aware of old saying “All good things must come to an end” but that doesn’t help my slight melancholy that I have to wait nearly another whole year before I can do it all over again.  The other thing that slightly annoys me is the New Year craziness of detoxes, new starts and new beginnings.  Adverts on TV for home sports equipment, gym incentives wherever you look, healthy and clean eating leaflets and a social media feed that could rival any nutritionist’s notebook.  Most of these will have made way to Easter chocolate and summer fashion adverts in the next few weeks but it got me thinking: Why is it so important for many to make a new start at a significant point in the year? Why does the diet have to start on the Monday or 1^st January? Why can you not just eat healthily throughout the year and have a few indulgent moments throughout and without guilt? Why can we not just exercise and be active throughout our life instead of overdoing it in January and lose focus and motivation come February?  Why do we need “Dry January” to wake from the alcoholic coma instead of enjoying a few drinks sensibly every now and again and feeling guilty for having one too many?

We seem to be quick to point out our flaws and know what we should do better.  And in some cases, for health reasons, both physical and mental, it will be a good decision.  What is important to acknowledge though is, that no one should need a certain day or date to kick start a new life.  It is never too early but at the same time never too late.  If you want to eat healthily, start today. Don’t wait till you have eaten all the chocolates or until next Monday.  Have a little bit of chocolate but eat the veg stew, too.  Don’t wait until the first of January to take up yoga.  Start with a few stretches now and keep up with your yoga class for the rest of the year.  Don’t deprive yourself of the odd drink.  You don’t have to drink the whole bottle and you also don’t have to keep it locked away for weeks.  Everything in moderation.

I have also stopped making New Year’s resolutions.  From experience, life doesn’t give a fuck about the calendar and whether you start afresh on 1^st January or on 3^rd April – it really doesn’t make your efforts of changing your life any less meaningful.  I try to be a better version of myself every day, even though I know that I won’t be able to do it covering every aspect of my life.  This would be completely unrealistic and unachievable.  But, as with accepting my mourning of yet another Christmas gone, I accept that and, when I really don’t want to go back to work, remind myself that I am allowed to indulge in these two weeks off and then concentrate on my personal and professional development again.  And if I fall off-course? Well, then I start again.  Even if it’s in the middle of the year.  It’s never too late.

In my last blog I pondered over the notion that, as kids, we have certain dreams or expectations of our adult version in terms of a profession or a career.  I remembered a few of the ideas I had as a child and that, looking at these daydreams with a more practical head today, I know that I am either not equipped to do any of these jobs because I am missing fundamental skills to do them (poking people with needles or handing a scalpel to a surgeon) or that they simply don’t float my boat (serving drinks till the early hours of the morning – I prefer to sleep!). 

A few of you have told me some lovely and eye-opening stories about yourselves as children and your aspirations back then. You had very clear ideas of what you wanted to be and mostly achieved it.  One mentioned she was happy in her job, even if it wasn’t her childhood dream involving travelling around the world.  And, unlike me, there are quite a few of you that found their calling from an early age and pursued that.  I salute and admire that. What a wonderful way life has, to allow us to do exactly what we want to do.  There is someone who wanted to be child psychologist from the age of 8 and is fulfilling this ambition with bravado.  And then there is someone who followed his career path since his teenage years, only to turn his life around and follow a completely new and different passion. What wonderful, affirming stories. But what about those like me who are still searching?

 Especially in today’s world, with so many choices and possibilities, confusing and contradicting views of what we should do, finding your true self, far from Instagram and Facebook accounts, seems to be further from the truth than ever before.   Of course, as we grow and change as people whilst turning into adults, our view of the world and ourselves within it changes.  And with so many people seeking fame and glory and money, I wonder how many of us actually ever wondered whether the ultimate reason behind out childhood dreams was money and fame or, whether, indeed, it was to be just happy and content?

Dare I claim, if you consider the large list of rich and famous and mostly young people that have died an early death because of depression and mental health issues, I wonder whether those adult dreams are really what it’s all about?  Sure, having a nice holiday once or twice a year and a house to live in, plenty of money to go round, who wouldn’t want that?  But I also wonder now and again, after coming home late again after a long day at work, whether this is what life is all about?  I then always remember what I read somewhere, some years ago: We spend our days commuting to a job where we spend most our time, at a job who pays for the house we barely live in, with people we should be spending more time with but can’t because we need to go to work to be able to afford the house and the car and the clothes and the holiday…It’s quite depressing. Especially if you don’t do something you like.  Really, everyone deserves to do something they love and live life to their fullest potential.  Of course, you don’t need to tell me that, such a utopian world does not exist.

I envy those that truly love what they do, day in, day out, whose job is more like a hobby than a job that brings home the bacon.  It’s not jealous envy. I am truly happy for those people. It’s the kind of dreamy, wishful thinking and hoping that, one day, all that hard work will pay off and I will do my dream job, too.  Put aside all that though, there is something I want most of all, and, since sticking it, aged 14, on my bedroom wall, I have never forgot the small cutting from a magazine:

 When I grow up I want to be myself.

 Listen to this!  How magic are those words? How much comfort and truth is in this sentence? Isn’t this the real goal we should all strive for?  When I grow up I want to be myself. 

As I grow older and more comfortable within my own skin, I find this statement more and more inspirational and comforting at the same time.  Not because it is an excuse to settle for just who you are.  No. Because it is, in my humble opinion, the key to finding out what you’ve always wanted to do.  If you are truly yourself, you’ll work out what you want to be: yourself.  Your dream job will follow.

What did you want to be when you were a child and imagined your life as an adult?  What were your visions, your aspirations, your dreams?  Did you, like me, change your mind every few months, depending which adult impressed you within their respective profession?   Or did you follow your first dream, saw it through and are now what you always knew your calling was?
My first memory of a “dream job” was wanting to become a vet.  I had read a book about a young girl who loved horses and whose father was a vet.  She wanted to become a vet, and the book had romanticised the job into a luxurious yet enjoyable career that had everything lined up: enough poorly pets but none too ill so they’d die, plenty of room for extra horses and lots of spare time for family and friends.   Then, inspired by my Russian ballet teacher, I wanted to be a prima ballerina.  I spent hours practising in my grandmother’s living room, dancing tirelessly, sometimes more, sometimes less gracefully, for years and years, suffering many blisters and sore toes.  Later I thought I’d make a good news reporter, writing my own news stories and reading them out loud during a pretend broadcast session.    A little while after I thought I’d make a good nurse after visiting a family member in hospital.  I loved the way nurses smiled at everyone and were so loved by the patients.  Then I wanted to become a hotel receptionist, because I found it fascinating how much paperwork they used to fill out and file away.  I made my own booking forms and entertained myself and friends for hours playing that we were on holiday.  Later I wanted to own my own hotel because I figured, if I couldn’t always be on holiday, at least I could be part of lots of other peoples’. 

Of course, over time, as I worked out my likes and dislikes, my strengths and weaknesses, my yesses and my absolute deal breakers I realised that I was too squeamish and couldn’t stand the sight of blood, needles, let alone a scalpel approaching human or animal flesh, that I wouldn’t be able to shove a bed pan under a patient’s bum and that I was too emotionally attached as that I could handle anyone’s suffering.  I noticed that I didn’t like public speaking so a reporter’s job was out the window. I eventually hung up my ballet shoes for an adventure abroad and, after working evening and night shifts at a bar and hotel during my time at university I quickly established that I had always more fun being on holiday or enjoying a drink on the other side of the bar than working till 3am in the morning whilst losing all kind of rhythm of whatever normal life is supposed to be like. 

So, now that I am grown up – am I what I want to be?  Have I done it?  No, of course not.  I may be on the right way and hopefully, one day, I’ll be able to say that I am what I have always wanted to be.  But seriously, how many of us really get to do exactly what they have always dreamt of?  There is a song by the Pussycat Dolls “When I grow up…I wanna be famous”, and, in today’s world, it strikes me, that this is what most people want.  Turn on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, YouTube – there are so many people out there trying to be something or someone.  And fair play to them.  I don’t think anyone should ever give up on their dreams.  I don’t and won’t.  I am writing and will always write. Sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on how much time I spend on working towards my other dreams and goals.

So are you one of those lucky ones who are what they always wanted to be? Do you already do your dream job? Are you currently working towards it? Or have you given up on it, discarded it as an unachievable fantasy? Have your views on how important it is to do something you love changed?
Let me know, and I will give you some more insight into my own thoughts in part two of this blog post…

A few weeks ago I had a conversation with my best friend about relationships, friendships and dealing with people we’d rather never see again. We were talking about support and how we were thinking ourselves lucky to have both, men and women in our lives that were supportive and cheered us on, rooting for us no matter what we were doing. When the conversation shifted to those less supportive figures, who had put a spanner in the works, those that had compromised our happiness, that had interfered, just to cause some upset, I asked my friend a tentative and careful question: “Who were the majority of those that have made you feel like shit? Men or women?” Even though I had already guessed the answer, I was still devastated by it, confirming something I had suspected a long time ago: “Women.”

Fast-forward a couple of weeks and we are in a room full of our own species. My friend is talking to us, sharing her thoughts on life as a modern woman, the challenges, the problems, the chaos and the exhausting demands of the daily grind: We are all flat out, working ourselves into the ground whilst trying to look like a model and act as demure as the Duchess of Cambridge, yet still being criticised for not being quite thin enough, fit enough, pretty enough, organised enough, super-human enough. And then she asked a question: “Who of you has been made to feel inadequate by another woman?” As I stretched my own arm into the air I turned around, watching, horrified but not surprised, the arms of everyone else in the room rise up, too. Nearly 40 women, and every single one of them had felt devalued by another woman. How is this possible? And why?

As per usual, I mull things over in my head and start coming up with theories, criticise them, throw them out the window and come up with a different thesis. And start all over again a few minutes later. The end-result of a long and drawn out thought process is as follows: Our worst enemies are, contrary to popular opinion, not men, no, but women. Think about the last time someone spread gossip about you, stabbed you in the back, was two-faced, lied to you, put you down, made you feel inadequate. Unless you’re in an unloving relationship (and if you are – get out!) I very much doubt that a man made you feel that way. I personally have experienced both, men and women making me feel worthless, but after taking stock and recounting the most memorable and lasting damages of those negative experience, the vast majority, from childhood onwards, were from fellow girls or women being plain nasty. So why is that? Why do we start attacking each other in the playground, talk with hushed voices about some other girl, laugh at her old clothes and take great joy in the fact she has put on a couple of pounds?

I think we can all agree that being a woman in the 21st century is hard work. As mentioned above, you’re supposed to be everything to everyone whilst looking like you’ve stepped out of a magazine and make it seem effortlessly. Nevertheless, criticism and scrutiny of fellow females is, it seems, at an all-time high. And I just don’t get it. I liken it to self-mutilation or self-harm. In times where we’ve never needed to support each more, we seem to attack each other, eating each other up from the inside, making our lives misery.

How many of you have worked for a female boss who, instead of furthering you and your strengths and capabilities, criticised you, put you down, treated you like her personal slave and used you as an outlet for her anger and own insecurities until you got physically and mentally ill and had to quit your job? Then there is the so-called friend who turns on you, steals your ideas and presents them as her own. There is the family member who tells you you’re selfish as soon as you stand up for yourself and don’t put up with her unrealistic requests anymore. There is the work colleague who stops talking to you because someone else told her a rumour and she choses to believe it rather than speak to you. There is the girl who tells you she wants to be your friend but is already sleeping with your man behind your back. There are the girls on the way home from school who call you names because they think you go to a better school than them. The next time they trip you up and the time after that one of them punches you in the face. There is the woman who doesn’t know you but lays into you on Facebook, because in her mind, she is right and you are not entitled to your own opinion. There is the woman who spreads lies about you because she is jealous of what she thinks you have . There are the friends that stop talking to you and call you selfish – after you gave birth to a baby. Instead of asking you how they can help and support you and take some of the overwhelming stress off you, they distance themselves and bitch about you whilst on holiday. There’s the mother that makes her ex-partner’s new girlfriend’s life hell; as if being a step mother isn’t already difficult enough, she thinks it’s OK to tell you what to do, treat you with hostility and disrespect and finally turns her children against you, all whilst you are working your hands to the bone to provide a stable and safe environment for and create a bond with children that are not your own. There are the women fat-shaming a beautiful healthy woman on Instagram, telling her to lose weight. The list goes on and on and on.

I am not sure I understand why people feel the need to be nasty, horrible, dismissive, rude and unkind. I have never felt more exhausted than when I didn’t like someone and thought about how I could make their life difficult. Being supportive, thoughtful and kind is so much more useful and empowering. I also find that negative thoughts and feelings rob your creative light so I try and stay clear of it. Don’t get me wrong though, I am not saying let people get away with murder and trample all over you. Stand up for what is right and point out nasty behaviour. Who knows, you may save someone more vulnerable from a vicious attack.

I doubt that this scenario of women attacking women is out of the norm, dare I suggest it has been a problem for many centuries and whilst I wouldn’t go as far as claiming that it is the reason for gender inequality now I believe that women attacking other women and being unsupportive certainly hasn’t helped, especially today when such actions can spread like wildfire on social media platforms. It’s all very well scolding the male population for gender inequality and yes, I know, us women had to fight for a lot of things in order to become equals and there’s still a long way to go. However, we will never truly get there when we as women tear into each other. Just think of all those women, all over the world who are, in big and small ways, fighting for and working towards making things better for women everywhere. Imagine their exasperation if they see that all their efforts are pointless, because we rather destroy than build each other up. Think of every song written and sung that celebrated women and girl power. How hypocritical to praise those songs and sing them out loud when we belittle someone’s capabilities the next minute, laugh at their “fat arse” and point out that she “ain’t all that pretty”.

My point is that, even though we are considered the “weaker sex”, we are still powerful in our words and actions, expressions and silences, especially because we are usually more emotionally switched on and aware of other people’s fears and insecurities. Like any power, that can be used for good and bad. And when we use it for bad, the results can be devastating. From this it seems like there is as much spite and evil in us as a species as there is love and compassion.

I have experienced both sides of what us women are capable of, and at a guess most of us have. The important lesson from this is that, when we show each other support and love, we don’t only empower the others but also ourselves. I have been lucky enough to experience the love and compassion of some women that has been overwhelming and changed my world and my outlook on life, in the best possible way. Our love is powerful. It can move metaphorical mountains. It can make us stronger and better as humans. And best of all, it costs us less energy and we all gain from it. So the next time you are about to spit some poison into another woman’s direction, think. Is it necessary, justified and, beyond all, helpful? Chances are, it’s not. Walk away or put your phone down and think about something nice to say to another woman. Being kind to each other is the only way we will ever truly be equal one day.
This blog is dedicated to all those women in my life that have done nothing but support me, cheer me on and have been angels in moments of need. You are the best examples of what women empowering others means. I adore you all and will be forever grateful you all came into my life X