Relationships

I was listening to Taylor Swift the other day and that line, “why you gotta be so mean?”, hit me harder than I expected. It sounds simple, almost childish really, but sometimes that’s exactly why it works. Because when you’ve been through something draining, toxic, and hurtful with someone you loved, all the complicated words disappear and what you’re left with is that exact feeling. Why? Why did you have to be so cruel? Why did everything have to be turned into an argument?

There was a time in my life when Stupid Girls by Pink felt less like a song and more like a personal attack with a beat. Not because I’m stupid. Far from it. I’m actually very intelligent in person. I read people well, I notice everything, and I can usually tell within about seven seconds whether someone is genuine, strange, or about to waste my time. And yet, somehow, give me a man with nice teeth, a sob story, and just enough attention to keep me interested, and suddenly al

I swear online dating is one of the most humbling things a woman can put herself through. You go on there in a decent mood, maybe even feeling nice about yourself for once. You upload a few good pictures, tell yourself to keep an open mind, and think maybe, just maybe, there might be one normal man left in the world. There isn’t. What there is, though, is an endless supply of pretty boys, man whores, emotionally unavailable men, desperate weirdos, and those ones who act like

“Do you feel like a man when you push her around?” That lyric used to just be a song to me. Now it feels like my story. Domestic abuse doesn’t start with someone’s hands around your throat. It starts slowly. Control disguised as concern. Arguments that somehow always become your fault. Being told you’re too emotional, too dramatic, too much. And before you realise it, you’re walking on eggshells in your own home. I lived like that. Behind closed doors there were moments where

I’ve been sitting with a thought I don’t like admitting out loud. Maybe I’m the problem. Because when you line my life up like evidence, it looks bad. Not wanted by my mum. Sent into foster care at nine. Abused by someone who shared my blood. Passed between homes until sixteen. Then relationship after relationship with men who controlled me, hurt me, or slowly erased parts of me. At some point, it stops feeling like bad luck and starts feeling like a pattern. And when you’re

There’s a strange moment that happens after you finally step out of the fog. It’s not dramatic. There’s no thunder, no grand speech, no perfect closing scene. It’s quieter than that. It’s the moment you realise you’re no longer confused — you’re clear. I see you now. For a long time, I thought clarity meant understanding you better. Understanding your moods. Your reactions. Your silences. Your stories. I thought if I just listened harder, loved deeper, stayed calmer, stayed s

Separation is often talked about like it’s a single moment: a decision, a conversation, a door closing. But for me, it hasn’t been a neat event. It’s been a process — messy, layered, and honestly, deeply revealing. When my nine-year relationship ended — a relationship marked by emotional betrayal and relational harm — I didn’t just lose a partner. I lost a version of myself I’d built around endurance . Around holding things together . Around believing that love meant staying,