When I was a teenager my mum and dad made it clear that they had no interest in being grandparents. Whether to mitigate any teenage pregnancy in me or my siblings or just to relieve any pressure that we might have felt to provide this service I’m not sure, but I took it as the latter and have always felt grateful that there wasn’t an overbearing parent in my life harping on about my biological clock and whether I had a partner or not.

It wasn’t until my last serious relationship in my early 20s that I said out loud that I didn’t want children, and after we split up it took me a while to unpack whether I felt this because he didn’t want kids or because I didn’t either. In this process of laying out the facts I grew more and more comfortable that at 26, I didn’t want kids. 

I envisioned my future life in a polar way to how I was brought up. As children our lives and our parents’ were full of sacrifices, scarcity and substitutions. In my future I wanted to live in a house with character, somewhere different than the sleepy village I grew up in. I wanted to holiday whenever I like, have quality, exotic food. I wanted time to indulge in self-development, hobbies and my creativity. Having kids wouldn’t have made any of this easy within my means of time or money.

Not growing up rich has a huge impact in how you perceive the world. It shapes what you hold dear, it measures how much you want to achieve, you become practical, resourceful and thrifty. I am self-reliant to a fault. I don’t want to have to depend on others if I can avoid it, now I am in my 30s I am opening up to having a partner for companionship, sex and closeness. I want to share my life with someone who feels the same, but what I have in mind is not your typical family unit. 

Having a family is all about sacrifice, it is in many cases a noble endeavour and I understand that many people do feel like it is their calling in life. I get that DNA’s only function is to replicate itself, but I feel as a conscious living being I am aware that my species will continue replicating whether I partake in that or not. Adding in factors like climate change, overpopulation, scarcity of resources and my mental health were just conversation points when my decision inevitably got questioned while being asked about children in my life. 

Those factors aren’t the reason I don’t want children, the reason is that when I look at a baby I have never had an urge to have one as well. When I’ve held newborns in my family or of my friends there is no deep yearning to reproduce, not even a trickle. I have never looked at my partners and thought of them playing with our doppelgängers in the garden of our imaginary home in any seriousness. I like playing with kids, kids that are 3-7 are my favourites. I like their imagination and silliness, their attempts at being grown-ups, I am not a psychopath. If a kid passes you a toy phone, you answer it. 

But that is a small part of rearing a child, and when I am playing with someone’s kid their parents are, more often than not, taking a well deserved break somewhere, sighing loudly and grasping for adult life. I stopped wearing a bra because it felt so good to take it off; if it is that much of a relief to remove it why do I wear it in the first place I pondered. Sometimes I wear one on a whim. Children cannot be worn once every few months just to make one feel more confident.

There are factors which I think make this conversation a tougher fight for me than for other groups of people – I am a women, I have no known fertility issues and I am predominantly heterosexual with typically female attributes. I find it hard to believe the topic of wishing to be childfree would be as controversial if I was a homosexual man, a masculine presenting lesbian or if I were unable to bear children.

The feeling, that because of who I am outwardly I must reproduce, never leaves me in these conversations. It makes me dig in to my beliefs firmly and I get an overbearing, claustrophobic sensation that I’m being told there is a higher purpose to my life that I am wilfully avoiding and it will cost me. Like I am some princess rebelling against her duties. Princess Jasmine comes to mind “Another suitor for the princess…”.

I know that the single biggest solution to an overpopulated planet is the education of girls. I grew up in a country where sexual education was solely focused on staying unfertilised. It is no small task to overcome the feelings of panic and shame that come from unprotected sex. There is a distinct disconnect between an ovulatory cycle and sex and in many parts of the world an overwhelming belief that sex without reproduction is pointless and women without fertilisation are useless.

In reality it is a 400 trillion to one chance that the zygote that you came from was even made. Life is a precious thing, it’s a miracle our planet is in a Goldilocks sweet spot, in this placid galaxy and each living thing is a symbiotic cog on Earth. 

It cannot be ignored that humans have upset the delicate balance of our habitat and with that I have a will to not add to that burden. If there is no such thing as free will then my unconscious-being knows better than my logical mind that I am not here to reproduce, or it would release copious amounts of oxytocin into my blood stream every time I see a little chubby baby leg. 

I think that in this century, in civilised society, when children aren’t needed for manual labour and infant or maternal mortality rates aren’t as high we need to give more room for people to consider why they want to reproduce, it takes courage to see the reality of raising children. 

Educating young women and removing societal pressure, religious guilt and overarching shame will, I think, inevitably lead to fewer children being born. I’d hope that this impacts low and working class women who, like my mother, had 3 kids because it was the thing to do, has struggled to make ends meet her whole life and has little to zero time to explore who she is as a person. I refrain from discussing fathers because on the whole, they aren’t required to give up their lives to rear children. 

I believe in an equal society, governed for the people not for profits and I am certain that having fewer requests for resources will play a huge role in moving towards that. I want to make it clear that I do not hate children or have a nihilistic world-view (most days!) but that I am sure that you don’t have to look hard to find families who struggle beyond the usual gripes of modern life, parents who regret their decision of having kids and either abandon them or worse, stay within the family unit and negatively impact those children.

I believe in the ripple effect of emotion and behaviour. It isn’t a far off story of unsupported mothers or fathers and mental health issues being passed on through imitation or genetics. It is here and now and now is when the village to raise a child is not available for many parents. 

When recently asked if I think my future will be lonely I stumbled a little. Lonely has such a negative tone. Alone yes, but lonely? No. I think loneliness is just a state of mind. 

Spooky Sunday

Today has been an altogether strange one. Full moon energy always has me shook. Late to sleep, awoken with a still raging Storm Ciara.

My mum brings boxes of my memories from the loft to sort. I look at the familiar bundle of things I keep for memories sake only without touching anything.

I had a mega productive day, writing, drawing, creating. Ticked a few things off the to-do list and feeling the weight of winter leave me.

I had promised to go along with my friend to a spiritualist church. She and another friend have recently lost people and she is looking for some closure with her mum.

As I sat in my skeptical manner I was aware that I doubted everything about this. But the medium was compelling, quick, full of insight that all seemed vague to me.

She turns to the ‘new’ girls in the room and says I don’t know which one of you this is for. She opens with a young person, and my heart sinks. I know it is for me.

With a few little I don’t knows she completely nailed it, things she couldn’t possible have known. And his name. Was I just communicating with him? What was this? What just happened?

On the drive home I am smiling, hopeful, I feel reassured by the experience. Sitting down to ponder I message friends to tell them of what happened.

I glance at the untouched boxes. My only photo of him is in there. The closest I have been to it in years. I absentmindedly look through the tickets and wristbands of many a night out and there it is.

Aged, battered and torn but that is him. One of the last pictures of him, if not the last. I didn’t think I needed closure. That year was tough, his life he took, ours were left to figure it out.

In that box are two diaries from high school. Horrendous things for me to behold. Full of longing and adolescent idiocy. I scan them, cringing and grinning.

I go to that date, nothing. I flick around the date, nothing. Not a word of his death, not a word of his funeral. And unusually months are blank pages. This year of so much left me unable to write.

I was 15 going on 16.

That year I took some of my first drugs, had a turbulent bad boy boyfriend, I lost my gran, wild nights, fights with friends, some of the craziest sex of my life. I lived like a fucking rockstar and I went to school.

I did fine in my exams. I ditched the shitty boyfriend and replaced him with another, yet to be shitty. I became house captain, learned to drive and moved out by 18.

I didn’t think I needed closure.

Create for the hell of it.

I sometimes start new projects or begin learning a new skill and in this time of social channels I move to create an Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook Page, whatever…

To show off what I’ve done, to target like-minded creators, to get praise in the form of notifications… it is fleeting.

It then becomes consuming and in turn becomes a chore. I have found myself changing my writing style, drawing things I’ve saw others draw, feeling the pressure to complete sets of things. The fun gets totally lost, the creativity becomes driven by others and not internal and I loose my flow state. 

I just want to say if you are like me then it is ok to create just for you, or friends or family. It’s ok to just make things and keep them in your home, or make them for gifts, or give them to strangers.

I have accounts for drawing, life, design and my interests. Even having separate accounts for drawing and design seems crazy but they don’t appeal to the same people, right? There is a ‘lewk’, a visual ethos and as a graphic designer I pride myself on my variability. My ability to don many hats, mould into different styles. I am multi-faceted and I am beginning to learn to let go of my need for outside validation. 

I’ve created many new things and learnt a couple of new skills in the last few months. I am not perfect at these, I have refrained from taking pictures of gifts made for friends and I am focusing on the joy I get in crafting something for the sake of crafting it. 

It is ok to make things that aren’t perfect, to spend time working on a piece or project that never sees the light of day. The work doesn’t need to be immaculate, or a masterpiece. It becomes a meditation again.


The plan was carefully assembled to be effortless and the best thing about effortless plans was the work that went into them. All the possibilities considered, the anticipation rising, a heightened feeling of openness around the chest. 

When she arrived, she was instructed to just turn up. There was an address plugged into her phone before she boarded her flight and her mind never moved away from a hand around her neck. She caught herself tilting her head back, presenting whilst she sat at the gate, as she stretched in her seat and when she settled onto the train heading into central Amsterdam. 

This trip required a suitcase, she felt extremely sophisticated with a small suitcase, her immaculately cut trench-coat and platform boots. Even if the cobbles hated them. 

She saw the door from across the canal. As she pulled her bag of goodies across the street her neck lifted again. She noted how aware of the movement of her chest. She inhaled before ringing the bell. 

“Come up.” Returned the box by the door. The door clicked, her pants were wet as she stepped up and through to a darkened stairwell. Above her a door opened and she climbed the steep staircase that the Dutch smartly installed, her pubis throbbed as she brushed her clit on the ascent.

Pushing open the door she was familiar with the sight before her. Not that she had been here before, but of him. His energy, the anticipation, it was carefully effortless. 

Taking her bag from her, sliding her coat from her shoulders he sunk his head into her neck, smelling her deeply. He knew she was wet. Tonight was to be sensual. Tomorrow was different, exactly how she wanted it. 

He unpacked her suitcase in the bedroom whilst she went to wash up and he was certain she would be wearing something more uncomfortable when she emerged. Wrapped in a kimono she rolled a thin cigarette and opened the french windows to the night air. He was ready to devour her.

Bending slightly to extinguish her smoke, she heard gentle surefooted steps, he stopped her from turning round by sliding an expert hand along her bum cheeks. His arm spanned her chest and pressed enough so her breathing deepened. He whispered in her ear to please do as she was told. He expected obedience, she did not want to disappoint. 

Nodding, she breathed “Yes, Sir.” And instinctively her right foot stepped out to feel her labia part, her back arched, her head tipped back. He stiffened at her natural response. 

Tonight he could take his time with her. He would need her to be at her full strength tomorrow. Ready to take his orders; which will push both their boundaries and their connection. He slid his index finger inside her lips, pushed his middle finger into her wet, hot cunt, gently squeezing her neck as she gasped aloud to the night air, on the balcony in Amsterdam.

What is happening?

This week that passed was full of anxiety. My joy gone. It is a heartbreaking feeling. My mindfulness slipping through my hands.

I am full of guilt mostly, then shame. Shame for the past, shame for me trying to fix it. Shame for my over sharing, shame for my silence.

Guilt is bubbling through me, pushing my insides to my throat. My airways sufficiently blocked I cannot cry, I cannot scream. It jumps too frequently in me, I want to get help and then I talk myself out of it. I don’t need it, I’ve come this far on my own.

But I don’t want to die, I don’t want this to be the end. I want to, I don’t know. Start over?

What isn’t enough is the confessions, and the paranoia. The constant fear I will be ridiculed, that everything is a conspiracy to condemn me. Each invite a chance to publicly hang me for my sins.

That is my ultimate fear. And how to change it? Easy. Easy to do, leave my family, live somewhere else. Start a fresh, mindful. Fighting the temptations to be me. Find a partner to confide in, that is the real challenge, impossible! How to trust? How to let my guard down? How to be vulnerable? I think I can. Just not quite yet. Not quite.


The body, the mind, the temptation, the greed, the want, the loss.

To talk joy in each moment. To be grateful about each event and situation. Each night that I’ve lost to thought. Each day that passed in a daze.

They can’t be caught and relived. They are lessons to greet the next ones with fresh and alert eyes.

Wild passion will get you there but you’ll have your eyes closed. The memory committed for just a brief gasp. To recollect? Impossible.

To slowly burn your connection into wood. To mark it as a route of your attention means you’ll notice each step, each moment a careful placement towards your desired destination.

To live too clean, too pious, too sweet, too proper is to remove pleasure. And pleasure without craving can and must be enjoyed. Pleasure and purity are not mutually exclusive.

Funny how greedy I got.

A Nobel silence or not it was a moment in my time I can never forget. My tongue wasn’t around to participate but my body felt every single moment.

This too shall change.

Blissfulness Returns

It is so funny how in a few short weeks it all turns around. I’ve noticed how I have a habit of only journalling when I am down. My diary pages are filled when my heart is at its most broken. I aim to fix this by writing more when I am up.

The up came from a bit of time away from my recent heartbreak. Enough to have some clarity to contact them and feel gratefulness for the connection and not anger that my expectation hadn’t been met.

I took some time to travel in my country and see new countries. A weekend and then a week, it wasn’t long but it was perfect to shake off the feelings of unworthiness. Just smiling at strangers and having one returned gives me so much of a lift. I feel so privileged to be able to have this experience.

Dancing on the beach, in the woods, with strangers and a kindred soul. The kindness of new friends, and the chance to be kind to them. Short and sweet with a bracing lover. I can’t ask for more.

Now that I have reconnected and I feel my brain try and wiggle more from this person who caused me to break my heart, I must stand strong and fight against the inevitability of relapsing. To fall in love all over again. I refrain from saying that I want to kiss their lips while I run my hand through their hair. These words are not met with the reaction I want and don’t serve me if spoken.

Contentment is here.

Self Care

Self care is fucking hard. There, I said it.

You’ve got to put in the work. There is nobody that is to blame if this doesn’t work. It is your full responsibility. So you’ve got to eat well, exercise, manage your expectations, meditate, banish negativity and struggle to motivate yourself to do each of these things.

The easy road is to eat the junk food and sit and wallow in your depression and feel the anxiety well. It isn’t nice. But it is fucking easy. It is the current default mode.

I try to break it, every day I push myself to make sure I’ve checked at least one thing off that list. Currently I am managing most of them each day but after some recent relationship troubles where I wasn’t managing my expectations because by-fuck! I’d fallen in love, I am negative. There is a huge weight on my shoulders and a voice in my head telling me that I am broken. Worthlessness has engulfed me.

I’m drawing, I’m writing, my work is good, my diet is great, I’m meditating, I’m exercising and doing these things is my sole driver. They get me out of bed. But it isn’t enough to rid me of that pain and I am sure that time will make it better. I just can’t see the point of waiting it out at the moment.

My luck

I said goodbye. Well, I waved through tears. Day 3. I’m not comfortable yet, the decision was there but I was fighting it. I wanted to believe in joy, in commitment and in perseverance. My weakness – I am just an emotional human.

I have been hurt, I can’t hide it with support. I want to love, not to fix. I’ve been led on, there has been a karmic effect. I deserve it. I have to learn this lesson.

Years of unavailability has led me to 3 men. One too young, not ready for my weight. One too vulnerable, not willing to take the risk with me. The last one, was the hardest test, I questioned my everything. I explored my sexuality, my insecurities, my confidence. I became aware of my hang ups, past trauma and my behaviours in the moment.

This is like no breakup as it was no relationship. A series of flirtatious moments, strong sexual desire, words of encouragement and a misinterpreted belief in him.

To realise it was all a fantasy broke me. When I longed to make it perfect, he found comfort in pointing out my imperfections. How can someone keep up an act for so long? When I was not near I was everything, when lying next to him I was nothing. He couldn’t trust me with the why.

Back to Broken

Sorry for the inconvenience.

I’m dead certain that there is not a lot right in the world. In all fairness there is not enough good to go around. Can you tell today is a low one?

Can you tell that I am struggling today?

The feeling that is on my chest has been there many times before. The physical nature always catches me by surprise. How can emotions make you feel heavier? I’m clumsy today, spilling my drink and tripping on my trousers.

The why is not important at all. My deep breathing helping lift me only slightly. My focused features unable to smile. Today it feels like it has never been raised at the corners.

Anger has caught me and for the first time in a long time it has beaten me. So distant are the memories of the red mist and huge release. I trained myself out of that default. Now it is a dark volume and thick. It clogs my veins. My teeth are clenched together but they aren’t holding back words.

I did the right thing when stood up for my needs but I broke my own heart in the process. This kind of repair cannot be done with my hands.