Self-love is where it starts


Valentine’s Day isn’t easy for some of us. Everywhere we look, there are hearts, flowers and chocolates. Or couples smooching and holding hands.

Some of us can ignore it. Some can dismiss it and deride it for its rampant commercialism. Others can use it as an opportunity to hang out with wonderful friends.

But some of us find it hard.

It reminds us of what we don’t have and of what we want, what we’ve waited a long time for.

I’ve done all of the above in the past. I’ve ignored Valentine’s Day and I’ve dismissed it. I’ve gone out and had fun with my girlfriends. And I’ve felt a pang of envy, bitterness, sadness or confusion. What’s wrong with me? Why haven’t I met HIM yet?

If you’re feeling down today, I’d like to send you some love. Some virtual flowers, chocolates or bubble bath, whatever you prefer. And a virtual hug.

If you want to be in a relationship, I’d like to reassure you that it will happen, in time. I believe that. If you’re following this blog, you’re likely on your journey already, doing your personal development work, identifying your blocks and changing your patterns. Keep going. Keep digging deep. Keep being courageous.

In the meantime, while you’re still single, do what you can to love yourself. And I mean to really love yourself, to take good care of yourself, to treat yourself with love and kindness, to use gentle language about yourself rather than punishing words. It can make all the difference. It can help us build the foundations that we need for healthy relationships.

Seven years ago, I realised I wasn’t loving myself. I realised I was still harming myself, despite having been in recovery from an eating disorder for a number of years. I woke up on the first day of Lent (which is today) with a fierce determination to stop harming myself, to stop having negative thoughts about myself, my body, my appearance and my achievements. I woke up determined to stop judging and criticising myself.

I began writing my first ever blog post on a site I called Just As I Am – An Experiment in Self-Acceptance. I was 39 at the time. I declared on that blog my intention to abstain from negative thoughts and self-harming behaviours for 40 days, and to blog about my progress every day throughout Lent.

It was an incredible experience, in so many ways. I believe that 40-day period of abstinence (or near abstinence – I did my best, one day at a time) from negative thoughts helped me to form new, self-loving habits. It didn’t change everything. My self-harm goes back years. It has deep roots. But it helped. It really helped. It increased my awareness of how I was treating myself and speaking about myself.

And awareness, I believe, is the first step to change.

That blog also marked a turning point in my life and my career. I got incredible feedback. As I opened up and shared my vulnerabilities, others responded to me in amazing ways, sharing openly with me in comments or by email, being vulnerable too.

Then, 40 days later, I turned my Just As I Am blog into this blog as I turned 40 and I continued to write whatever was on my heart – my struggles with being single and not having children, my relationship difficulties, my desire to leave London and to change my career. And, eventually, I blogged about my successes too – my relationship, my engagement, my new home in Dorset and my flourishing work as a relationships coach.

This blog also inspired my book. It helped me build my confidence as a writer, connect with my audience and develop the material I wanted to share in my book. That book, which I’ve just re-released, has opened so many doors. I’ve been in Psychologies magazine, on Woman’s Hour, in the national newspapers and, this Monday evening, I spoke to some 70 people in London at a sold-out event with Psychologies magazine and NOW Live Events. I shared about loving ourselves, loving our lives and loving others to a wonderful audience and I received some amazing feedback. Thank you. (I will be repeating that talk on Feb 28: Love Yourself. Love Life. Find Love.)

I also shared my approach to love and the 10 steps in my book on Psychologies magazine’s Facebook page today, on Valentine’s Day. You can watch the recording of my live video here.

All this, all this change, all this wonderful progress, began with self-love. It all began with that decision to stop harming myself, to stop punishing myself, to stop treating myself with contempt. It began with that decision to try to accept myself wholeheartedly, just as I am.

So as Lent begins, is there anything you would like to give up? And I don’t mean chocolate or alcohol (but if you want to give those things up, there’s nothing wrong with that). I mean some negative behaviour or habit, some form of self-harm.

What would you like to let go of? How would you like to change your relationship with yourself? How can you love yourself rather than hurt or punish yourself?

I believe a deep level of self-love will help you form a healthy relationship with another, if that is your desire.

Remember, transformation is available to all of us and self-love is a wonderful place to start.


Upcoming events

I would love you to join me at any of the following workshops, events or retreats: Email me at with any questions.

Love yourself. Love Life. Find Love. Wednesday, Feb 28, 7-9 pm. London. Tickets. This is a repeat of my sold-out Psychologies event on Feb 12.

How to Fall in Love – Laying the Foundations. Saturday, March 24. 9:30-4:30. London. Tickets. Repeated on Saturday April 21. 9:30-4:30 pm London. Tickets.

How to Fall in Love – Challenging Fears & Changing Patterns. Tuesday, March 27. 7-9 pm. London. Tickets.

Spring How to Fall in Love retreat. May 18-21. Dorset. Information here.

Posted in Addiction, Body Image, Childless, Dating, Eating disorders, Health, Love, Positive thinking, Recovery, Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Uncategorized, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Death and life


January can be a bleak month but this January has been especially bleak. I have lost two friends to cancer. Two contemporaries. Two beautiful women, one in her 40s, one in her early 50s, both gone before their time.

These are the first close contemporaries I have lost, except for a friend who died when I was in my teens, back when I was disconnected from my feelings and too young to appreciate how truly wonderful it is to be alive. Celebrities around my age have died but it’s so much more profound, so much more shocking and saddening, to lose a friend.

One was a friend from my childhood days back in Liverpool and her passing has sparked memories of those two summers a gang of us spent cycling around the Lake District and the countless Saturday nights we spent as teenagers drinking Southern Comfort and lemonade or lager and black in local pubs in the 80s. She was surrounded by a beautiful family and so many friends. She touched many hearts. Her funeral was only yesterday – feelings are raw – so I won’t write any more.

The other friend, Tricia, was a colleague who I saw a few days every week at our shared work space in Bournemouth. She was a writer who inspired me to write, a creator who encouraged me to create. She was also a fellow restless soul, a searcher and a seeker. We had many deep conversations over many cups of herbal tea.

I am re-reading Tricia’s novel, Benedict’s Brother and being moved to tears. I feel so connected to her through her words and through her story. I’ve just finished the part where the protagonist tours the bridge on the River Kwai in Thailand and I’m remembering when I made that trip myself, at 19. Two university friends and I had done the usual Chiang Mai trek followed by some island hopping and we were back in Bangkok. They wanted to go shopping. I wanted to go to the bridge. So I went alone on the bus and had a bizarre experience there, which I blogged about back in 2015 in a post called Keeping the spirit of adventure alive.

I ended up alone on a public bus with a driver who appeared to be giving me a private tour of the bridge, the cemeteries and other sights. I say appeared because I couldn’t understand a word he said and vice versa. I remember stopping at some rocks, which could have been the Hellfire Pass Tricia writes about in the book (I can’t recall). I remember catching a glimpse of the driver’s bare back as he lifted his shirt to mop his brow. And then spotting the gun tucked into his trouser belt. I remember my terror. Have I been kidnapped by the bus driver? Was he going to harm me? And I remember the restaurant he took me to for lunch, where paranoia got the better of me. I thought he’d drugged my lemonade so I went to the bathroom to see if I could escape through the window. No luck. Eventually, after a few more scares when I thought he was driving me somewhere else, he took me to the bus station, accompanied me onto the bus (which also freaked me out), sat me down and then said his polite goodbyes in Thai. I wasn’t in any danger after all. He was a kind and generous man who just happened to have a pistol down his trousers.

Reading Tricia’s descriptions of that beautiful, moving place – the River Kwai, the bridge, the surrounding scenery and its tragic history – took me right back. Like her protagonist, I was a young, sensitive woman who felt things deeply and who preferred to ride in the open air on the back of a truck than sit inside the cab.

The first time I read Benedict’s Brother I barely knew Tricia. I met her at a book reading and shared my own ambitions to write and my frustration that I hadn’t yet managed to get anything into print. The dedication she wrote in my copy of her book that I bought that night reads: “To Katherine. Next time we meet you’ll have FINISHED that book!!” followed by a smiley face. I hadn’t, but eventually I did, with her help. The book’s storyline is also profound but I won’t spoil it for you. I’d love you to read it. I promise it will move you.


Summer reading

A while after our first meeting, Tricia and I became friends and colleagues. She read a draft of some of my book and helped me to choose the cover design. A few days before she died, she sent me this message on Whatsapp from her hospital bed after I shared with her that I was scared to write, scared to finish the revised edition of my book: “Your words – especially your words – have wonderful positive power for many women. And some wonderful men too. Go girl.” Always encouraging. Always uplifting. Right to the end.

Tricia had extraordinary success with her book. It is now in film production and we hope it will make it to the big screen. A new and exciting chapter of her life was just beginning. She had just swapped her old car for a shiny white convertible golf so that she could enjoy Bournemouth’s sunshine and big skies in style.

Our work place isn’t the same without her. She has left a hole. But she’s also left a huge legacy, which extends far beyond her book and future film. She touched us all with her warmth, her sensitivity, her openness and her endearing smile. She showed us the value of relationships and the importance of making time to connect with each other and with the natural world around us.


Rose petals on the beach

That’s why a bunch of us went in the sea this week following her memorial service, during which her ashes and rose petals were scattered into the sea from Boscombe Pier. We connected with each other and with her. We laughed. And we experienced the bracing cold. She wouldn’t have joined us but she would have cheered us on with that huge heart and big smile.

I find it hard not to think of her when I’m doing simple things. I listen to a wonderful song and think she won’t get to hear that again. I plunge my hands into soapy water to wash the dishes and, just as I’m about to moan about my dull chore, I realise she won’t get to wash dishes again. I touch my partner, feel his warmth, and feel devastated at the thought that she’ll never touch another again.

But maybe I can believe that she’s listening to sweeter songs now and experiencing love, somewhere else where there are no dirty dishes to wash.

Death will come to us all, sooner or later. But we can honour those who have passed away before their time and we can appreciate the gift of life by truly living. As I wrote at the end of the revised edition of my book:

We have no idea when our time will be up. So let’s live courageously and love courageously, for our own sakes and in memory of those who no longer have the chance.

So what would living courageously look like to you? And what would loving courageously look like to you? What changes do you need to make in your life?

I confess that I find it hard to live courageously. Or maybe that’s unfair. Because the truth is I wake up most days feeling scared, scared of the steps I need to take in my work, scared of the conversations I need to have, scared of being me in this big, crazy world. But then I do it. I do it anyway. I stress and worry and question. I procrastinate. I waste time and energy making decisions, unmaking them and then making them again.

But I do it. I make good things happen.


Getting hitched!

I was struck today by how much my life has changed. My fiancé and I went to a wedding fair in Bournemouth (our worst nightmare but we decided to give it a go and we actually had a giggle and got some good information too). As I walked around the Bournemouth International Centre (BIC), I was reminded of my days as a political journalist, attending party conferences there, running around the halls trying to speak to MPs and get vox pops from delegates, stressing over the stories that I needed to file, binge eating to ease my terror of making a mistake. And at the end, heading back exhausted to my London flat and my single life.

Today I was there as a fiancée. But I was also there as an author, as a dating and relationships coach and as a mid-life mentor (carrying a few How to Fall in Love books in my handbag just in case). I was there as someone who lives here in a home with my partner, by the beach and the sea. I was there as a woman who has found her purpose and passion and who is beginning to blossom and flourish as she takes to the stage to share her message with others. I was there as a speaker who on Monday will host a sold-out London workshop in partnership with Psychologies magazine (Fall in love with yourself, with life and another) and who’s had the courage to put on another London workshop on the same theme a few weeks later for anyone who missed out (Love yourself, love life, find love on Feb. 28), plus a few more events and seaside retreats in coming months (click here for details).

So I am living. I am truly living. Most days I’m terrified. I wake up feeling anxious. But I feel alive. I already have a legacy in my book and I know that I am touching people’s lives. It took courage to get here, bucket loads of courage, and it will take even more courage to continue along this path. But it’s worth it.

How about you? Where do you want to be? What do you want to do? Do you want to find a healthy relationship and have the courage to commit? Do you want to write your book or stand at the front of the room and deliver your message to an audience at a Psychologies event? Do you want to share your gifts with the world? And what’s stopping you?

You have those gifts for a reason. You’re meant to share them with others, not keep them all to yourself.

Believe me, I know it’s not easy. Tricia knew it wasn’t easy too. The following extract is from her final blog post, To the River (the title of the film that’s being made of her book). It was read at her memorial this week.

As with anything, sometimes you have to take a risk and jump into the river, be knocked under, be challenged and be scared, be battered and bruised but be carried by a bigger force to a place where the waters are calmer, where the river is wide and where the risk is worth it because we find the sun shining and the flora flourishing and we find the place where our hearts can be truly happy.

And that is by far a more beautiful and better place to be than to remain standing on the bank of the river, failing to dare.

So, the world may indeed feel in collapse and chaos but by jumping in I truly believe we will eventually see the wonderful world we seek.

Nobody said it would be easy.

Indeed, nobody said it would be easy. So don’t stand on the riverbank. Jump in.


Upcoming events

I would love you to join me at any of the following workshops, events or retreats: Email me at with any questions.

How to Fall in Love. Wednesday, Feb 14th. Valentine’s Day. Facebook Live on Psychologies magazine Facebook page. 1 pm.

Love yourself. Love Life. Find Love. Wednesday, Feb 28, 7-9 pm. London. Tickets. This is a repeat of my sold-out Psychologies event on Feb 12.

How to Fall in Love – Laying the Foundations. Saturday, March 24. 9:30-4:30. London. Tickets. Repeated on Saturday April 21. 9:30-4:30 pm London. Tickets.

How to Fall in Love – Challenging Fears & Changing Patterns. Tuesday, March 27. 7-9 pm. London. Tickets.

Spring How to Fall in Love retreat. May 18-21. Dorset. Information here.




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Celebrate. You are enough. You’ve done enough.


Does it never feel good enough? Do you never feel like you can stop, pat yourself on the back, relax and take it easy? Is there always more to do?

Once you’ve achieved something, perhaps something you’ve been aspiring to for a really long time, do you pick holes in it, fail to congratulate yourself and quickly move on to the next thing on your list?

Welcome to my world.

I’m sad this is still the case for me, despite years of “work on myself”.

Of course, it’s much better than it was, but it’s still true. I still struggle to accept, acknowledge and reward my achievements. I can always find something to complain about, something that wasn’t good enough, something I could have done better.

I know it’s not a great way to be, but it’s an old habit, and old habits die hard.

I find it particularly difficult to wrap things up at this time of year, to down tools, to switch off the computer, to say I’ve done enough. There’s always more work to do. And once the work’s done, there’s the house to tidy and clean and the cards to write and the clothes to declutter and … I could go on and on. The list is endless.

It’s even more difficult to say enough is enough this year, because I have a busy and potentially very exciting 2018 ahead. I’m starting a new How to Fall in Love course and have my second seaside retreat, both in early January; I want to update and re-release my book in time for Valentine’s Day to include my engagement; I’m leading a workshop in London in partnership with Psychologies Magazine on Feb 12; and I’m doing a Facebook Live on Psychologies page on Feb 14. I also want to create a standalone How to Fall in Love course, so people can download it and follow it at their leisure.

So I’ve got a lot to prepare for.

But in the busyness, I forget that the magic, the real creativity, happens in the space in between. Yes, things don’t get done unless we give them the attention and energy they deserve. But we’ll end up feeling empty inside, despite all our many achievements, if we don’t allow ourselves the time and space to revel in our accomplishments, to rest and recharge, to walk on the beach or in the hills, to enjoy the company of our loved ones.

So in this moment, I’d like to ask you to pause for a moment, to catch your breath, to put down the ‘To Do’ list and to take some time to appreciate all that you’ve done this year and, more importantly, all that you are.

Who have you become this year? How have you evolved and grown? Have you challenged your fears and overcome obstacles? Have you gone through pain and heartache and come out the other side, still standing and feeling a little bit stronger? Have you been kind, generous and loving this year, to yourself and others? Have you seen wonderful things – beautiful flowers or incredible views? Have you smiled and laughed? Have you held hands with a friend, partner or relative? Have you offered support to those you knew were struggling? How have you been?

And as you celebrate the things you’ve done, can you see the deeper significance in them? This is a useful exercise for me. It really helps me appreciate how far I’ve come, rather than just reel off a list of accomplishments.

So when I celebrate the fact I ran my first How to Fall in Love course in January 2017, I can look deeper and congratulate myself for going for my dreams, for trusting myself big time, for putting my work out there in a completely different way, for believing that I had something to offer and for following through on that.

And when I celebrate the fact that I published my book this year, I can see what an extraordinary achievement that was. Not because I wrote 80,000 words in 5 weeks, learned about self-publishing and got my book out there within my deadline. But because I finally faced my fears of criticism, judgement and rejection and I finally got over my perfectionism and my sense that nothing I do is ever good enough. I dug deep. I dug really deep. I surmounted what had seemed an insurmountable obstacle before. I got out of my own way.

Recently, in conversation with a budding writer, I compared the way I wrote and published my book to an experience I had driving as a teenager. I hadn’t long passed my test and I wasn’t entirely confident behind the wheel. I was driving down my street and there were cars parked either side, with just a narrow gap in between. I approached the gap but it looked too tight, too narrow to get through. But I couldn’t turn around either. So I closed my eyes, put my foot on the accelerator and sped through that gap.

I wouldn’t advise driving with your eyes closed and I’m not sure I want to repeat that experience, but it reminds me of how I wrote my book. I closed my eyes and put my foot down on the accelerator – hard. It was the only way to get through my fear and outwit my perfectionism and constant second-guessing.

My engagement, of course, has a deeper meaning too. I’m not sure I have space here to explain its true significance. That’s why I wrote the book! But in brief, it marked the culmination of years and years of personal development, therapy and recovery from self-sabotage and dysfunctional relationship patterns. It reflected the fact that finally I’d learned to fully love and accept myself so that I could fully love and accept someone else. It was a symbol of my courage to face my fears of intimacy and commitment and of potential heartache and hurt, which is always on the cards when you love with all your heart.

It was the wounded little girl inside finally growing up and saying OK, I’m ready, I’m ready to love.

I want to cry when I write that. It took a long time. It really did take a long time. But it was so worth the journey.

There was a moment, too, this year when I found my voice in a way that I haven’t found it before. I spoke up for myself in a professional relationship. I challenged that deep core belief that says that if I’m myself, if I’m true to myself and speak my truth, something really bad will happen. Instead, I spoke my truth and something really good happened. That was a significant event. I deserve a pat on the back for that.

Other highlights include seeing my writing, my book and my thoughts featured in some prominent places – Red, The Daily Mail, Psychologies magazine and the Psychologies Life Labs blog (Breakdown to Breakthrough and Coping with Christmas without children) and finally, just before the end of the year, on Woman’s Hour, talking about ambivalence towards motherhood. Of course, I came away from that interview wishing I’d said this or that or wishing it had been longer. But can I pause for a moment and congratulate myself? I’d wanted to be on Woman’s Hour for years.

Those media appearances are a testimony to my persistence and perseverance. I have continued to email or phone, even when previous emails or phone calls have been ignored. I’ve believed in what I had to say and in the importance of sharing it with the world. I’ve challenged those inner voices that have told me that nobody wants to hear me or read me, that my stuff isn’t good enough.

I’ve fought for myself. I’ve really fought for myself, which is hugely encouraging because I can so easily give up on myself.

Finally, a few days ago, I used my voice again, to sing in a Christmas choir. That might seem an average, run-of-the-mill achievement to some, but in auditioning for that choir (scary moment – potential for huge embarrassment) and in singing out loud as part of it, I was going against the message I’d heard most of my life that I couldn’t sing. Who says I can’t sing? I love singing. I recognise I’m not the best singer in the choir but I sang with gusto, and with a big smile on my face.

So when you look back on your year and on all that you’ve done and all that you’ve been, can you see the deeper meaning? Can you see the significance? Can you see how everything that’s gone before – the good and the bad – has prepared you for today? Can you see how much you’ve grown? Can you celebrate your progress?

And how are you going to celebrate? And how am I? This came up in the final coaching call of the year with my Love Ladies community the other night. I am privileged to have been working with some of these women since January 2017, when they signed up for my first How to Fall in Love course. I feel honoured that they’ve stuck around.

On the call, I shared one of my weaknesses – doing something tangible to celebrate my achievements. And I came up with the idea of a hot stone massage so I’m promising myself, and you, that I will make time for that. I will spend the money, I’ll put the date in the diary and I’ll enjoy it. I’ll enjoy the stillness, the warmth, the touch and the peace.

But perhaps an even better way of celebrating would be to down tools, to say enough is enough, to give myself a break, to take some time off. I hope I can do that. I truly do.

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas and a happy, healthy, peaceful and prosperous 2018.

Katherine x


Dates for your diary:

I’m hosting a free webinar on Thursday Jan 4 at 1 pm: Create the Life & Love You Want in 2018. This is the second part of a two-part series. If you’d like the recording from Letting Go, Moving Forwards, email or sign up for Jan 4.

If you’d like to find a loving relationship in 2018, I have a few rooms left on my How to Fall in Love retreat on Jan 12-14. My How to Fall in Love 6-week course kicks off again on Jan 8. And on Feb 12, I’ll be leading a workshop in London in partnership with Psychologies and NOW Live events: Fall in love with yourself, with life and with another.


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Ambivalence about motherhood


Whenever I do a short radio or TV interview, I come away wishing I’d said things differently and made my points more clearly and succinctly. In most cases, I come away wanting to write, wanting to make sense of my thoughts by putting them down on paper or computer.

So here I am.

Yesterday morning, I had the privilege of being on BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour to discuss ambivalence about motherhood alongside the award-winning comedy writer Sian Harries. You can hear presenter Jane Garvey interviewing Sian and I on the Woman’s Hour podcast here. We begin 35 minutes in.

I’ve wanted to speak on Woman’s Hour for a long time, ever since I began to find my voice through this blog and write about things I truly cared about: eating disorders, addictions and self-harm, recovery, dysfunctional relationships, loneliness, singleness, the missing baby, grief, commitment-phobia and, in recent years, falling in love.

It’s hard, in a live radio interview of seven minutes or so, to tell the full story. And I’m not going to be able to tell the full story in this post either. I have my book, of course, which tells much of my story and talks about my ambivalence towards a relationship, as well as towards children, but you may not have read that, so I’ll attempt a precis now.

For the first, say, 34 years of my life, I wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in having children. I didn’t feel a yearning. I didn’t make any space in my life to think about them or plan for them.

I was too busy travelling and focusing on my career. I appreciate focusing on my career is one of those standard phrases people use about women who’ve been busy working rather than having children but my story is much more complex, as I imagine all our stories are.

I didn’t think about children because a) they simply weren’t on my radar and b) I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being tied down by kids when all I wanted to do was travel, have fun and work. I had no notion that children could be fun, bring joy and fulfillment and open us up to incredible experiences.

The messages I’d picked up as a child, being brought up by a single mum on low funds, was that children were a ball and chain around your neck, that they curtailed your career ambitions, drained your bank account and kept you home when you wanted to be out enjoying yourself. In short, they ruined your life. That sounds harsh and I’m not blaming anyone. That’s what I picked up. My brother has three wonderful kids, so he clearly didn’t absorb the same message as me. But then I’m female and my mum was a single mum who did most of the childcare. Dad carried on with his life.

So kids were not on my agenda. Neither was a relationship for that matter. I understood, based on my parents’ unhappy marriage and divorce, that relationships were a bad idea, that they ended in loss, misery and hardship. I picked up that men weren’t worth bothering with, that I’d be better off on my own. I took that message and ran with it.

I focused on my career because I was an intelligent, capable, adventurous woman who picked up foreign languages easily, loved to travel and managed to get incredible jobs doing exciting things (foreign correspondent in Mexico and Brazil, for example). It was the natural thing to do? Why wouldn’t I?

But I also focused on my career because I craved adrenaline, excitement, achievement and the approval of others. The adrenaline enabled me to numb or hide from my uncomfortable feelings while the approval of others went a small way towards filling the gaping hole I felt inside (the hole in the soul, as we say in recovery circles).

My low self-esteem and sense of imposter syndrome drove me to climb as high as I could so I could win as much adoration as I could, to try and feel better about myself, to try and feel worthwhile. Of course, no amount of approval or achievement was ever enough. The hole inside was love shaped. Just as I stuffed the hole with food to try and feel better, I also stuffed it with career success and an impressive CV. None of that actually changed how I felt inside, but I kept trying, doing the same thing and expecting different results.

As my mid-30s approached and I spent some time in a good relationship, I began to think about kids. By this time, I was in recovery from an eating disorder, although I was just at the start of what would turn out to be a journey of transformation. I began to think what it would be like to live in an idyllic cottage by the sea with a loving husband and a few little ones. Suddenly, family life seemed attractive. It also seemed like a good way to fix the emptiness I felt inside. My craving for family grew, which put a strain on my relationship. I needed to know. I needed to know now if he was ‘The One’ and if this was going to work out so I could get on and have that family I’d begun to dream about.

That relationship ended, for a number of reasons, opening the floodgates on years of grief and loss. My dad had died the year before and I hadn’t paused long to grieve, jumping into a romance instead, so it all came tumbling out. I had what some would call an existential crisis: what’s it all about, why am I here? I had what could be called a breakdown – I was signed off my big journalism job in parliament. Instead of going to press conferences in Downing Street, I sat on my bed and cried.

So for a few years, I had no choice but to focus on getting well and working on my recovery. As 40 approached, I began to think more about the absence of a partner and children, hence the start of this blog, posts like the baby gap, and articles about dating with baby goggles in the press.

As I hit 41, I didn’t feel ambivalent anymore about kids. I felt kind of desperate. Now my time was running out and I didn’t have anyone to date, never mind have a baby with. How on earth did I end up here with this amazing job, great CV and beautiful flat, but with no partner or kids?

I turned my baby angst into a project and began to research a book about it: The Baby Gap. I got an agent, but I didn’t get a publishing deal and I lost all my momentum. I still aim to finish that book, or a version of it. I tested my fertility, interviewed IVF doctors and women who’d had kids on their own by various means. I talked with counsellors about the prospect of becoming a single mum via IVF and ruled that out because of my mum’s experience. I dated but nothing worked out.

As my recovery deepened and I worked through a lot of my baggage with an excellent therapist, I began to understand that the emptiness I felt inside was about much more than the missing baby, and that a child might not change the way I was feeling. In fact, it could make it worse. I needed to re-parent myself first.

I began to fill myself up from the inside out and create my own happiness. I learned to soothe myself. I reconnected with the things I used to love doing as a kid – cycling, camping and being outdoors. I began to explore a different, more fulfilling career. The hole in the soul got smaller. The craving died down. I became more self-aware.

At 42, I decided to stop over-thinking my life, shelve my baby angst for a while and date a man I found attractive but who didn’t want kids. We had a wonderful time but I ended it after a few months because I thought I still wanted a shot at motherhood.

In therapy, I was starting to explore my ambivalence, towards everything in life and especially towards a relationship. I understood how scared I was of commitment and of love because my first experience of love with a man – with my dad – ended in heartache and loss. I also began to delve into my ambivalence around motherhood. Did I really want a child? Was I ready to have a child? Did my own inner child need more attention first? Did I just want a child to fit in and to feel like I belonged?

At 43, having failed to find anyone I liked more than my ex-partner and having realised I had my own deep ambivalence about kids, I went back to him and we committed to each other. Nine months later, I moved to Dorset. Less than a year after that, we bought a house.

All the while, my therapist helped me keep my ambivalence in check. He helped me to see that I found fault in my partner and wanted to run away and find someone else because I was scared – terrified of commitment, of intimacy, of love and of potential hurt. He also helped me to understand that the baby obstacle that stood between us had been a convenient excuse to avoid getting involved and that deep down, I was unsure about children myself.

I’m now engaged to be married to my partner. I’m 46 and we don’t have kids. Most of the time, I absolutely love my life. I love my freedom and I love my work. I get to write from the heart and I get to coach others to create wonderful lives and find love. I’m doing things I’ve always wanted to do but have been scared to do in the past. I’m using my voice. I’m working at something I love. I’m speaking on Woman’s Hour and at events with Psychologies magazine. I’m running retreats by the sea in Dorset and will soon run them abroad. I’ve published a book and want to write more. Wow. It truly is amazing. And I mean that. I really do mean that.

Sometimes, when I walk down the steps to the beach and look out to sea, I feel so much joy I could cry. I created this life. I did this.

At other times, though, it doesn’t feel enough. I see pregnant women all around me and I begin to question my life. How come I didn’t get to do that? I’ll never know how it feels to grow a baby inside my tummy or be a mum. I’ll never have a family of my own, beyond our family of two (or maybe three if we get a dog). I’m missing out big time.

I had one of my biggest meltdowns just the other night, ironically the evening before I was going on Woman’s Hour to discuss ambivalence about motherhood.

To set the scene, I was already feeling hyper-sensitive. We’d been discussing Christmas, a time of year when I really feel the absence of a family of my own, the absence of our own kids in our own house. A time when I find it virtually impossible not to feel like my life is less than others’, smaller, less complete, less joyous, even though I know people with kids and families struggle with their own stuff and that nothing is as it seems on the surface or on Facebook. So I was already feeling vulnerable.

We then went to a drinks party. There were only seven other people in the room besides us, one was a gorgeous toddler and two were pregnant women. Suddenly, I felt like a green-eyed monster, like there was something very wrong with me, with us, for not joining in, for not doing the baby thing that so many couples do, for not having that experience.

Later that night, grief hit me like a fast-moving truck. It would be simple to say the grief was about not having a child but I know myself better than that. The grief was too big, the sobs too loud, the pain too raw to be about that alone.

It was grief for all the losses, for the fact that I had no choice but to spend years of my adulthood re-parenting myself and healing my past in order to get to a place to even have a loving relationship. Grief that I only got there at 43, not at 33 or 36. Grief that if we’d had more years, we might have had children. Grief over my upbringing and my partner’s early experiences, which for some reason, put him off parenting.

Sadness. Horrible, heavy sadness. That my life hasn’t been ‘normal’. That I haven’t had the chance to do the ‘normal’ things that others do. That there’s something I’ll never know or experience. The tears and whirring thoughts kept me up most of the night.

And now that tsunami of emotion has passed, how do I feel?

Better. More like me again. Keen to finish this blog, get on with my work and then get to the beach. Excited to work on all the things you’ll see mentioned at the bottom of this post.

And ambivalent. Yes, still ambivalent about motherhood. Which would be funny if it wasn’t a little bit sad. If you gave me the opportunity to have a baby today, what would I say? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m on the fence.

In preparation for my Woman’s Hour interview, I did my research. I read articles. Here’s one of the many I found – Love and regret: mothers who wished they hadn’t had children. I checked in with honest friends with kids. For some, ambivalence doesn’t go away after you have children. I saw my mum in those articles and those messages from friends – loving us like mad, of course, but questioning, regretting perhaps, wondering what if.

I read about drudgery, boredom, loss of identity, isolation, self-doubt, loss of freedom and never-ending sacrifice. I also read about the fireworks that go off in your heart, about a profound and satisfying experience, about a love that beats all other loves and makes you a better person.

So where do we go from here?

I clearly have more processing to do. Ambivalence is a difficult place to be. You can only sit on a fence for so long before it really starts to hurt.

The important thing, no matter where we are – with kids, without kids, still with the option or with the door now closed – is to try and make a choice, for the sake of our own sanity and happiness, and perhaps for the sake of our relationships, if we’re in one.

If it feels the choice we want to make is no longer within our grasp for whatever reason (to be a mum or not to be a mum), we have to try and embrace where we are and accept where we’ve ended up. We have to grieve the losses as best we can – give them space and time – and then try and live with ‘what is’ rather than always chasing ‘what if’. This choice isn’t a one-off thing. We make it, then unmake it. Our feelings ebb and flow like the tide, but perhaps with every movement, we get closer to resolution.

If we’re still deciding whether to try for motherhood or not, I believe we have to get out of our heads and into our hearts. I’m a huge over-thinker. I try to work stuff out. I’m a journalist. I do my research. I ask questions. What do you think? What did you do?

But the answer, I believe, lies with our intuition, with our hearts. And we connect to that sacred, wise place by quietening down and sitting still.

I was re-reading my book on the train back from London yesterday with a view to updating and re-releasing it in February. I’ve always thought my first chapter goes on a bit, but I was struck by how much sense it makes and how important that first step is. The answer lies in stepping inside and connecting to ourselves, in understanding what lies within – fear, pain, grief, sadness, negative beliefs or fixed ways of thinking that are stopping us from moving forward with our lives.

We have to feel it to heal it. We have to be aware of it to change.

No wonder I couldn’t summarise how I feel about this topic in a few minutes on Woman’s Hour. It’s massive. I’m close to 3,000 words and I could carry on. It’ll be a miracle if you’re still here, still reading. But if you want to read more, try my book. I write about ambivalence – how I overcame it in my relationship and how it relates to motherhood – throughout the book, but especially from pages 205 to the end. I also have a blog on ambivalence from 2013 here if you’re not tired of reading yet.

If you’ve stayed with me to the end, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please do comment or get in touch x


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Posted in Addiction, Childless, codependency, Love, Recovery, Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 13 Comments

Dream Big


This blog post is for you if you dream of a different life or a different career. If you dream of having more freedom and more time. If you’re sat in an office and you really want to be outside. If you’re commuting on a bus but really want to be walking along a beach. If you’re struggling along on a low income but want to live an abundant life.

I had a dream once, to be a journalist, to be paid to travel, report and write. My ultimate dream was to work for the global news agency Reuters or the BBC. I shared this dream with my tutor in my final year at Oxford University, shortly before I got a 2:1 degree in Modern Languages.

You know what she said?

Don’t bother, don’t try, or words to that effect. You won’t get into Reuters or the BBC, she advised. They won’t give you a second look. She said I should have been involved in journalism at Oxford, writing for student newspapers or working for student radio stations, instead of playing lacrosse, football, rowing and drinking beer. Without that experience, I could kiss goodbye to my dream, she told me.

She was probably right with her initial assessment. Reuters and the BBC were heavily over-subscribed. They were likely looking for students with journalism experience as well as for graduates who could speak more exotic languages than French and Spanish (Chinese and Arabic, for example). I don’t begrudge her for saying it how it was.

But where was her creativity? Where was her encouragement? And why didn’t she spot my creativity, determination, ambition and ability to make things happen, and encourage those qualities in me?

I remember feeling downhearted after that meeting. I felt even worse after a meeting with the careers’ advisory service. My adviser suggested that a career in insurance, perhaps based back in Liverpool, from where I’d come, would suit me.

Were these advisers terribly short-sighted or was I giving off unambitious vibes? It wouldn’t surprise me if I’d emanated a feeling of not being good enough or of not belonging or of wanting to run away and hide.

I didn’t feel good enough. I didn’t feel like I belonged among those dreaming spires, and I often wanted to run and hide. But beneath my insecurities, there was an incredibly capable and creative woman. I know that now.

I found my own way into Reuters, via the back door, so to speak. I picked up a rucksack, travelled alone to Australia, New Zealand, Fiji and the U.S., working at odd jobs as I went along, and then into Mexico, where I began working for English language newspapers in Mexico City, before landing a trainee and then correspondent role with Bloomberg and ultimately, a correspondent position with Reuters in Brazil. From there, I moved to London with Reuters and worked for six years in parliament.

I got in, my own way. Since then I’ve written for the national press and appeared on BBC TV and radio. In fact, this Monday December 11th, I’ll be speaking on BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour (on ambivalence about motherhood – I’ll come back to that in a moment). These are all institutions that seemed out of reach to me, and that were out of reach, if I’d listened to my Oxford tutor and that careers adviser.

As I write, I’m also reminded of the time I tried, with the help of a literary agent, to get a book published. On my behalf, she approached the biggest and brightest of the publishing world. I thought a book deal was in the bag. I could see my book (about the baby gap) in the window of Waterstones. But they all said no. Thanks but no thanks. Lovely writing, great topic, but not for us. All the doors closed.

I lost my confidence. The publishers were right and I was wrong, I decided. I was not a writer after all. I hoped my agent would help keep my spirits up. I hoped she’d reassure and encourage me. And I expected her to show some creativity, to guide me into publishing via different, less established routes. But my agent went quiet. In fact, she went AWOL for a while (I believe she was dealing with some personal issues). I hung on to her despite her absence, believing I didn’t have the right to fire my agent, believing I was so lucky to have one that I’d better endure being stood up at a cafe or not replied to by email. Just like I needed my tutor’s backing to apply for Reuters all those years earlier, I needed my agent and the big publishers to tell me I was OK and my book was worth publishing. Without their approval, I lost my way.

And then, earlier this year, I found my confidence, momentum and self-belief. I wrote a different book – How to Fall in Love – and published it myself. I finally believed in myself enough to put my work out there. I stopped waiting for others to give me permission. I went for it, like I’ve rarely gone for anything before.

That act of pure faith in myself, in my talents, in my craft was the start of some amazing things. I got engaged a week after publication for a start! My book got a plug in the Daily Mail and was featured in Psychologies magazine. I spoke on the radio. And now I’m on Woman’s Hour on Monday. Plus, I’ll be doing a talk in partnership with Psychologies on Feb 12th, as well a Facebook live on Psychologies’ page on Valentine’s Day (when I’m re-releasing my book).

So it’s been well worth believing in myself and publishing my book.

As my book dream became a reality, other dreams began to surface. I had an idea of running a retreat, of bringing women to the beautiful part of Dorset where I live, of leading them in guided meditation along the beach, of going in the sea with any crazy ladies who’d join me and of facilitating exercises that would help them open up, let go, understand themselves and others better, identify and remove blocks to love and feel more loveable. My first retreat was a success. My New Year retreat is Jan 12-14. In the spring, there’ll be longer retreats with activities like paddle boarding. And there’ll be retreats abroad with yoga and relaxation.

I remember when I first thought about running retreats. I was on a holistic holiday on the island of Skyros in Greece. I’d signed up to some group healing. I looked at the man who was leading the group. I want to be in your place, I thought. I want to be leading groups. And now I am.

So where do you want to be? Who do you want to be? What do you want to be doing? What dreams are you holding? Are you going for them or are you telling yourself you’re not good enough? Are you waiting for someone to approve of you, to tell you you’re worthy or to champion your work?

It’s time to start championing yourself.

If you’d like help doing this, I have two free live video workshops coming up. On Dec 19th, I’ll be leading a workshop called Letting Go, Moving Forwards – recognising the importance of clearing out the old to make space for the new. And then on Jan 4th, I’ll be leading a workshop called Create The Life & Love You Want In 2018, where we’ll be identifying our heart’s desires and creating a plan to go for them. I’d love you to join me.

Before then, tune in to Woman’s Hour tomorrow or on catch-up. The topic is ambivalence about motherhood, which is something that’s followed me around for a long time. In fact, ambivalence is one of my core traits, which you’ll know from my previous blogs (here’s one on ambivalence from 2013) and from my book. I come up against it in so many areas – my approach to having children (I’m 46 and don’t have any and probably won’t, although I still find it hard to say I definitely won’t, even at this age), my relationship (I had to choose to commit to my partner or I would have stayed on the fence for ever), my work, my approach to success, and many other areas. I’m looking forward to discussing it.

Here’s to dreaming big in 2018 x


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Anger turned inwards


Anger is on my mind, as you’ll know if you read my previous post, ROAR!

Why is it that when everything in me is screaming, ‘That’s not OK!‘, or ‘You’ve got to be kidding’, or ‘WTF!’ (excuse my French), I smile and say ‘That’s OK’, or ‘Don’t worry about it’, or ‘I understand’?

Why is it that when I know instinctively that someone else has crossed a line or is taking the mick, my first reaction is to assume that I’m in the wrong, that it’s my fault?

I’m not the only woman (or man) to do this, as evidenced in this courageous piece of writing for The Guardian by my former Westminster colleague Jane Merrick, who Sir Michael Fallon MP, ex-Secretary of State for Defence, tried to kiss. Had I led him on in some way? She asked.

I must have done something wrong. It must be me.

In my case, this impulse to blame myself and to exonerate everyone else goes way back.

When I was a little girl, I spoke my truth to an adult. I said what was on my heart, freely, without censorship. I pointed out something that I didn’t think was right, that I didn’t think should be happening, that was making me sad. I must have been seven or so.

In response, I was shouted at, dismissed, told I’d got it wrong and that I shouldn’t be so stupid to suggest such a thing. I won’t go into details as it involves someone else’s story too but it was a frightening moment for me.

As a young, sensitive child who was still at the stage where I depended on adults for everything, for my very survival, that altercation, that flash of conflict had a damaging effect. There were other situations too, but this memory is especially vivid.

In that moment, I decided I would never speak up again. I’d never speak my truth. I’d never call anything out that I thought was wrong. It wasn’t safe to do so. I’d be met with anger. I might not survive.

What’s perhaps more damaging is that I also decided that my instinct couldn’t be trusted. That my feelings were wrong. That my gut told lies. That whenever I felt that tap on the shoulder suggesting something wasn’t as it should be, it was most likely I was mistaken and everyone else was right. I should ignore it. Whatever feelings were coming to the surface, I should push them back down.

The same goes for anger. Back in that moment when I was told off, I had every right to be angry. But it wasn’t safe to express it. At least, it didn’t feel safe. I felt the other person’s anger and assumed, as the child in front of the all-powerful adult, that their anger was justified while mine had no place.

And as I became scared of everyone else’s anger, I also became scared of mine.

So I swallowed my anger and I’ve been swallowing it ever since.

In my case, the phrase swallow my anger is pretty literal. I developed an eating disorder from a very young age. I began by starving, which, if you think about it, is an attempt to become small, to become less visible, to shrink, as well as an attempt to find some form of control. But then, at a crucial moment in my teens, I began to binge. I ate on my feelings. In fact, I ate my feelings. I stuffed them down with bread and sugar. I smothered my anger with food and an extra layer of fat, which gave me another reason to dislike, dismiss and mistrust myself.

I don’t do that anymore. I am pretty much free of any food obsession or any desire to stuff my feelings down. Yes, there are times when I’m tired or anxious when a little bit of extra food seems attractive and sometimes I succumb, but that’s fine. It’s nothing like it used to be. I don’t worry about it.

Unsurprisingly, as I’ve put the food down, the feelings have come up. That’s what happens. That’s why alcoholics, when they put down the drink, find they have a food problem, or vice versa, or why former druggies get addicted to running marathons. For some of us, feelings are intolerable so we’ll do anything to avoid them, moving from one substance or compulsive behaviour to the next. We keep switching crutches until we run out of choices and have to face our feelings and process our pain.

Initially, in the early days of my personal development journey, I felt grief, so much grief and loss that it floored me. So much pain and so many tears I thought I’d sprung a leak. I thought they’d never stop.

Much of that is out now. Much of that pain has been released, although there are always new layers of the onion to peel off. As an aside, if you have feelings to feel or grief to process, find some support. The feelings are there and they’re going to come out, one way or another, so get yourself into a safe space so that you can feel them. They won’t kill you. I know, it sometimes feels like they will. Believe me, I’ve cried from such a depth that it was frightening. I’ve howled. But the feelings didn’t kill me, although I was always scared they would. I came out the other side. You can do the same. But it’s good if we don’t do it alone.

As I say, much of mine is out (I hope), but what’s left, what’s still there and just making it’s way out is the anger.


I remember my very first therapist in the UK (I briefly saw one in Brazil before moving back here in 2002) mentioned anger to me and I couldn’t understand what she was talking about, at least not how it related to me. I don’t get angry. I don’t have any anger.


I was in denial. I had stuffed it down, buried it inside, ignored it in whatever way I could.

I had turned it inwards – binge eating, binge drinking, a punishing exercise regime and an even more punishing work schedule. I had run from it, avoided it, distracted myself from it, and from all the other feelings I didn’t want to feel.

But I am finding my voice. And I’m finding my angry voice. I am connecting to my anger. I’m not about to explode or rage at people. My long journey of recovery has taught me to pause and reflect and to work through feelings before I take action or say something to the person who I feel deserves to hear from me.

But from now on, I’ll speak my truth, with integrity and dignity. From now on, I won’t assume you’re right and I’m wrong. I won’t ignore that feeling in my gut or that tap on the shoulder. I won’t stay quiet to avoid your anger or an adverse reaction.

I’ll speak up. I owe it to myself. I owe it to my present self, my past self and my future self. I owe it to other women and men. It won’t be perfect, but I’ll do my best.

As Melody Beattie writes in today’s entry in The Language of Letting Go:

“What do we want to do or say? What are our instincts telling us? Trust them – even if they don’t make sense or meet other people’s rules and expectations … We can convince ourselves that people-pleasing, going against our nature and not being honest, is the kind, honest thing to do! Not true. Simplify. Back to basics. Let go of the confusion. By honouring and respecting ourselves, we will be true to those around us, even if we displease them momentarily. To thine own self be true. Simple words describing a powerful task that can put us back on track.”

So how about you?

Are you in touch with your anger? Or where has your anger gone? Have you stuffed it inside with food or with too many glasses of wine? Have you run from it? Have you distracted from it by staying so busy that you don’t give yourself a second to feel or to think. Are you pleasing others, playing by the rules, not rocking the boat? Where is your anger?

Or do you have other feelings buried inside that you’re running from or hiding from? Grief, loss, pain, anxiety, loneliness, sadness? Are you able to find a safe way to express them?

If you want to join me on this journey to full self-expression, stay in touch. I am putting together some Women Who Roar workshops. I might even write another book (my first one is here). So subscribe to this blog or sign up on my mailing list: or

Your anger is there for a reason. Don’t push it inside. Don’t turn it on yourself. You deserve so much better.


If you’d like more support to be real and live authentically, I have a free Facebook group, Being Real, Becoming Whole.

If you’re dating or looking for a relationship, I have an online membership community for a small monthly fee in which I coach and support women to find love. It’s called the Love Ladies Community.

I’m also running two retreats by the sea in Bournemouth – I have two spaces left for Nov 17th and plenty of room still on my Jan 12th retreat.

Finally, my How to Fall in Love course begins again for six weeks in January. As I mention above, watch out for Women Who Roar workshops in London very soon.



Posted in codependency, Eating disorders, Empowerment, Recovery, Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Women | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment



Something is stirring. I can’t quite explain it but it’s bubbling up inside. It’s anger. It’s a desire to break out and break free. It’s a fierceness. It’s my wild side. It’s the woman inside me who wants to ROAR (rather than squeak).

It’s hard to explain in words. I need something to punch, to wrestle. Or I need to yell and scream.

That reminds me. A few weeks ago, I did yell and scream. In the car on the way back from a morning sea swim. I won’t go into all the details but suffice it to say I felt ignored, dismissed, fobbed off. And I was angry. So I screamed. I screamed so loud in the car that my voice hurt and my ears began to ring. I wonder if anyone heard me outside.

My reaction was so violent that I must have been screaming about much more than that one incident. Remember my post from years ago, Hysterical? Could Be Historical. I must have tapped into much earlier, younger, deeper episodes of feeling ignored or dismissed and staying quiet about it, lodged deep in my subconscious.

I haven’t screamed since but it’s still there and I know it’ll come out again soon.

I have a wild side. I’ve always had a wild side. But I’ve been such a good girl. I’ve people-pleased. I’ve done as I was told. I’ve said what I thought you wanted me to say. I’ve stayed quiet. I most definitely haven’t roared.

Why? Because I felt scared? Scared of your anger. Scared of my own. Scared of the repercussions. Scared I’d get hurt. Scared I wouldn’t survive. That feeling goes way back. It’s visceral. It’s traumatic. It’s real. But I’m stronger now. I’ve survived. I will survive (cue Gloria Gaynor at very loud volume).

What does this wild woman inside look like? What does this mean for me and my work? What does this mean for the direction I want to go in?

I’m not sure but all I know is it’s not pink and pretty.

It’s gritty and real.

I just spent a day redesigning my website for my relationship coaching and life design to make it look pretty and alluring. But now I think I need to chuck it out and start again. I need to paint it black or dark grey and throw some stones in there, some grit. A few lions and tigers. Some fire. Who knows.

Going forward, maybe I’ll need to change the title of my How to Fall in Love retreats (2 spaces left for November, and January is now on sale!). Maybe I’ll be running Get Real Retreats. Or Roar Retreats. But even if I don’t change the name, we’re going to roar.

Because I’m not pink or ladylike, and I’m not a mouse. I’m wild. I’m loud.

I’ve broken free from loads of things over the years (from binge eating, from a job in which I felt caged, from dysfunctional relationships, from big, concrete jungles to the open expanses of the coast). I’ve shown so much courage.

But now I need more. To really speak my truth. To connect on a deep level with the women and men I’m supposed to be talking to and working with. To those who are caged or trapped in a prison of their own making. Who drink or drug or binge eat or starve or sleep around or compulsively run or work 18 hour days or who self-harm in other ways, all beneath a pretense of niceness, respectability, perfection and success. To the women and men who want to be real. Who want to unleash the lioness or lion within.

Too much? Too angry? Too aggressive? Not me?

Who knows. I can only write what’s on my heart. I can only say what’s real in this moment. That’s the beauty of this blog.

I feel it.

I write it.

I publish it.

I’m changing and evolving so fast. Last year, before I published my book, I recorded this interview with Nicola Humber as part of her Heal Your Inner Good Girl series (Nicola’s book is here). What I say in that podcast is still really relevant and very true. I tell my story – the eating disorder, the breakdown, the ‘Wow’ job that I quit and how I turned my life upside down. I share how hard it is sometimes to be authentic, to stay true to ourselves. And I use this great line: I didn’t have the courage to do that, until I did.

But I think I’d speak differently if that interview were today. I’d be angrier. I’d be wilder. It would be grittier. Less altogether. I might roar (a bit).

How about you? Where are you at with your wild woman or wild man within?

Do you squeak or do you roar or are you somewhere in between?

Are you pink and pretty or are you gritty and real?

Maybe we’re all a bit of both. Maybe I am. My dark and my light. After all, lions and tigers are beautiful but fierce at the same time. And I do love purple and lime green.

But she’s there. The wild woman is there.

And she wants to be heard.



Check out my pretty website (for the time being) here: for details of coaching, courses, retreats and more, or drop me a line:

Posted in Eating disorders, Empowerment, Love, Recovery, Relationships, Women, Work | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment