On doing it scared

Notes from the Mailbox

“Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change” — Mary Shelley

“Stepping onto a brand-new path is difficult, but not more difficult than remaining in a situation, which is not nurturing to the whole woman” — Maya Angelou

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A few years ago, when I had nothing to lose and everything to hope for, in the shadows of the pandemic and also my mid-twenties, I decided to change everything. I packed up my entire life (which included an IKEA cube, an inordinate amount of books, and a large velvet cushion that feels like home) and moved across the country.

In York, my boyfriend painted the walls before I arrived. We bought a futon bed. Set up the record player. Ate spaghetti sitting cross legged on the floor. Filled our home with second-hand furniture and hanging baskets and Hockney prints and colour co-ordinated bookshelves and paintings we did, ourselves, with huge brushes and smears of paint that we thought echoed the sunrise. A new life, dawning, or something like that.

I was working from home, as a freelancer, getting up very early in the morning to write. I texted my friends, called them. Tried to make new ones. Struggled. The thing is, if you work from home, it’s very hard to meet new people. I went to the gym very early and worked all day and wrote on the weekends and calculated how many times I could go to London in a year. I turned twenty-six. On my worst days, I’d watch Sex and the City in bed and wonder what the fuck I was doing with my life. On my best days, I’d wake at six thirty and sit at my computer, light a candle, write until I realised I was very hungry and the sun had risen and that I had to pee but also I couldn’t quite yet because this sentence isn’t quite right and that the time had flown but it was also like no time had passed at all.

I was mostly happy, and a bit lonely, and this was a compromise I knew I was making: to leave London and its wine bars and its galleries and all my friends, to live where I could afford to spend more time writing – whole days, sometimes, if I wanted to. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.

images from Pinterest

The thing about change is that it cracks you open. It reveals your depths, invites your insides to seep into the light, like a caramel-filled chocolate egg. Leaves you slightly broken, clamouring to pick up the pieces, but also slightly in awe of all that lies within you. Who knew you had so much resilience? That your insides were not only sweet but also, somehow, golden?

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Notes from the Mailbox

Every few weeks, I ask you gorgeous paid subscribers what you’d like me to write about. This is what you said this week:

New beginnings when you’re excited for change but it also feels bittersweet

I would love to hear your thoughts on imposter syndrome

[On navigating your twenties]: There’s so many emotions and so many things changing, and there doesn’t seem to be any kind of guide to getting through it all.

You’re so right, there is no guide to getting through it all. Let me try and change that. Here’s a tiny guide for some of the things I wish I knew before changing my whole life. I hope you like it.

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On making the decision

Ask yourself: what is holding me back from doing this? If the answer is fear, then do it anyway. It’s okay to be scared. In fact, it’s probably good. It shows you’re alive and aware, that heart beating butterfly-like in your chest, that you’re alert and conscious that this is big and scary. But just because something is big and scary doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.

On long-distant friendship (it’s an art)

No, really, it is. It takes a long time to learn. It requires a huge amount of trust – of yourself, of your friend. I have this theory that it takes 100 hours to become very close with someone, then after that, all you need to do is water the garden, and they’ll stay close. Send them memes, and voice notes, and photos from your day. Don’t overthink it if they don’t reply for a while. The best friendships are low-maintenance; they’re always there, humming in the background, but they don’t require you to constantly reply, or for them to. Being a friend shouldn’t feel like homework, or something on your to do list. Every few months, visit each other, or have a long phone call, or plan a holiday, or something. Re-find the spark, just as you would if you drifted from a romantic partner. Reach out. Tell them you love them, that you’re always there. And always, always, always send a birthday card.

On making friends