I read a poem recently by Nikita Gill, which included the line,

‘It’s the light she gives to the world that matters in the end, the calm of her heart.’

I cried when I read it. It had been a long day. I’d just had my fingers tattooed, and they hurt. I’d had too much coffee which, even as I’m ploughing through them, I know is a bad idea. I haven’t been sleeping properly and still can’t put my finger on why. It all came out that day. Reading that line helped.

I remember someone once telling me that they felt calm when I was around, that my presence made them calm down. That when we spent time together it was ‘like the eye of the storm’. I understand that, I can feel it in me. I can see it on the faces of the friends I spend time with. I’m proud of that. To have that effect on the people around me. To be able to give that feeling to people.

But who’s that presence for me? I don’t know if I have that person. That’s okay.

What if it’s not okay? What if I’m not actually fine with that? To give and not even realise I’m giving until that calm is empty, with nothing left for me. I have to be that calm for myself. Nobody else can be.

All I know is that I need to stop giving away my calm like it’s going to be reciprocated, because I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has done so. The calm of my heart isn’t worth the people I’ve loved.

You ain’t that young, kid

Today, I’m 25. A quarter of a century-years old. My parents had me at 25; that’s a terrifying thought. As a child, I always had it in my head that I’d follow the same life path; that by the time I hit 25 I’d be in a long-term relationship, living in a (horrible) flat, possibly pregnant, and happy. I thought that this would be the height of romance (they’ve since gone on to split, twice. Not so romantic, afterall). How sweet, how naive!

When I originally started writing this post, I was adamant that 24 was a carcrash of a year. My job was making me unhappy; I was constantly tired; I felt like I’d lost my motivation for writing; I fought through a little patch of stormy mental health; I came close to losing my dad. While all of that is pretty shit, if I take a moment to not be so melodramtic and tell the truth, I’ve loved 24. What a year. What a life.

I visited New York twice in nine months. Excessive, maybe. But it feels like I’ve found a second home. Some of my favourite memories now include me walking the sweaty pavements of the city in early summer; eating overpriced ice-cream in Central Park, watching the street performers and jazz bands play; brunch in Brooklyn with a book and lavendar latte (so Brooklyn). The Empire State Building, Liberty Island, Broadway. Standing in Grand Central Station, feeling overwhelmed and enjoying it. Spending time alone and lonely in the busiest city in the world. Learning to be okay by myself, because god knows we’re all we’ve got.

Another highlight: my ‘friendcation’ to Centre Parcs in February, the total opposite of the ‘alone time’ I cherish. Freezing cold, with just our own private sauna and jacuzzi to keep us warm - and a large stockpile of alcohol. Five days of swimming, walking, eating, drinking, bickering, aching, laughing. Getting up before everyone else to make coffee and read in the most peaceful silence I’ve ever experienced. Laying on the sofa with one of my closest friends, wearing our sweats, eating crisps and watching trashy television. Crying and laughing together, over and over. Celebrating with corked fizzy wine and homemade dinners. The most relaxed I’ve been in a long time.

Following quickly after came my dad’s three consecutive heart attacks. He’s lucky to still be here. I’m lucky he’s still here. Hug those you love. Tell them so. Tell them again. That’s all I’ve got to say on this one because I’ve learnt that if something’s painful, don’t pick at it.

What feels like out of nowhere, I landed a new job. I’m still pinching myself. After a lot of panicking, crying and applying, I found myself saying yes to an offer hours after my first interview in nearly three years. A month in, I’m in love. And no more 5am alarms! That’s true love. I already feel so accepted, challenged, responsible, respected.

I rediscovered my love of writing, no matter how mediorce I believe myself to be. I’ve written film reviews for six years and I’m not letting go any time soon. I’m lucky to have this opportunity, to still be here writing, and to have my work acknowledged. Maybe I’m not so mediorce.

I found a close friend. He knows this, too. We’ve discussed this at length. After everything that’s happened before, we are where we are. I’m glad he slid into my Twitter DMs last summer. A year of fascinating conversations and sharing ourselves. And through it, I feel like I’ve learnt about myself, too. Thank you.

I’m happy. Today, I am 25. I’m single, living at home, definitely not pregnant, and very, very happy.

Leaving NY

I’m sitting on the floor of JFK airport’s departure ‘lounge’, the area before check-in where there are no actual seats, lots of fellow travellers, and an exotic bird in a cage (if the occasional squawking noise is anything to go by). As a big fan of being early everywhere, I’ve got several hours until my flight boards, so this is my home for the day.

So far, I’ve read several chapters of my book, and weighed my suitcase three times (because of the five other books I bought during my stay stored in it, and I’m worried that I’ve exceeded the limit). I don’t mind the waiting, I actually enjoy the slow pace, because if there’s anything this NY trip has taught me - ironically, since NY is the fastest paced place on the planet - it’s to slow down.

As mentioned, I’m early for everything, so I arrived at all of my booked NY attractions with at least an hour or so to spare. I’d get coffee, hang around, clock-watching. And I’d get antsy, losing my patience as the minutes slid by. I’d also check my phone incessantly, an awful habit I should kick. Due to the five-hour time difference between home and my temporary home, and the fact that all of my friends and family were busy at work while I vacationed, my phone was silent for long periods, leading to an unsettling feeling of loneliness. This was exacerbated briefly when I discovered my roaming internet wasn’t working, potentially leaving me isolated and Google Mapless in Greenwich Village. Alongside all of this, I’m a comparer - my mind compares ‘now’ to before, so it spent the first few days away comparing this trip to my previous in September 2017, memories of my phone constantly buzzing, another new, sweet message from the man I was seeing at the time, falling for him at lightening speed. But that was last year, and this is now.

On Wednesday, I visited the High Line, maybe one of my favourites from the week. Old, abandoned tram lines towering over the pavement (sidewalk) below, overgrown with flowers. The Line has been converted into a public garden, spreading from views of the Hudson River, to Chelsea Market and its swanky, hipster neighbourhood. I was so distracted by my surroundings, I didn’t notice how silent my phone was. I was enjoying myself, slowly wandering the wooden boardwalk, taking photos of the apartments on either side and thinking about what I was going to get for lunch (classic me). My walk was so slow, so relaxing, that when I got to the end I wanted to turn back and go again. I even thought about a second visit later in the week. Wednesday’s slow pace, and the realisation that I felt so peaceful because of it, set the tone for the rest of the week, as I happily arrived early to museums/tours/shows, got coffee, and people-watched. The loneliness had passed, and I was okay with myself, just me.

I can’t count the number of people who’ve commented “You’re so brave!” when they ask who I’ve travelled with and I tell them I’m by myself. Alone. While I’ve shrugged it off before, sitting here in the airport, waiting, I know now that it is. I understand that sentiment. Not many people I know would be able to comfortably fly alone, sightsee alone, spend a week in a foreign city (as foreign as English-speaking, ex-pat filled, culturally diverse NY can get) alone. I’m comfortable, truly, finally. Being comfortable by myself is a necessity, and I’ve reached that point. A new level of confidence, an ease with myself, a forgiveness, has settled over me during this trip, and I’m coming home to a me I like and appreciate. Not because a man I’m heart-eyeing over says he like-likes me, but because I’ve realised I can like myself, no reasons or validation needed. I’m comfortable alone, but I’m not lonely - I’ve recognised there’s a difference, and I’m okay.

And as Sinatra says, if I can make it there (New York, obvs), I can make it anywhere.