It’s hard to leave you.

So, since you last heard from me, I’ve moved. I’ve moved 5 and a bit (inevitably a lot, once you factor in the traffic situation that is the M25, which tends to resemble more a car park than a motorway – can you tell I’m enjoying not living within its confines any more?!) hours North, well actually NORTH, to Durham, where I am currently studying for a three-year undergraduate degree in Classics, nicely flavoured with hints of theology and archaeology. I’m not one for bland soup – and the same applies to my degree; I’ve taken every chance I can to broaden its standardised remit and push the boundaries of Classics into other spheres. It’s one of the reasons I chose this degree in the first place, but this is perhaps not the place for a rambling tangent on interdisciplinarianism, though anyone who knows me would probably not be so surprised had the same not followed hence. I spare you, for today.

Neither do I really want to talk about the whole process of getting here, results day and all that jazz. It has been an absolutely weird year for me, I lost a lot of confidence in myself, and my whole experience of exams and results was caught up in emotion directed towards other ends, so completely different than I had both expected, and experienced before (here, here and here). I will revisit the ‘getting here’ bit at some point, because I think I did learn some really important lessons from the process, and have completely undergone a change of mindset about the role of education in the formation of individuals, which I do think is important to share. But I’m not completely there yet. So, I spare you, for today.

Finally, neither (isn’t this a wonderful unintentionally devised example of praeteritio?!) am I going to share with you – just yet – my first experiences of Durham and university life. That said, reflections on my first month at Durham are very much in the works and ready to present themselves as soon as that month mark has been breached, in just over a week’s time… watch this space!

Therefore, the million dollar question just has to be: what on earth are you actually talking about? M would confirm, should you not be able to gather from the above, that I have a rather good line in talking and not really saying anything, using the English language in a way that makes sense, but has little direction. So for his sake, and for yours, I shall endeavour to get to the point!

I want to talk about something that has actually been on my mind for quite a while in various different guises: leaving. It is inherently tied to the beginning of a new chapter, and perhaps that’s why, in the liminal phase I’ve been in over the last few months as I have moved on from known things, and into a whole new way of life, and as I’ve lost people close to me, it’s been on my mind so much. And it’s not just been me. For, if it’s not a pain for ourselves, it’s the pain of watching someone else go. I’ve watched others move jobs, move houses, move on. For me, it can all be different: leaving a place, leaving a person, leaving a job, leaving a lifestyle, leaving an identity. Each is tied up in it’s own emotion. Each we may have control over, and we may not. Each comes and goes so frequently that, in a way, perhaps leaving should be seen as a fundamental aspect of life. We all do it. And each is also the same, in the sense that, in whichever scenario, there is always an underlying knot of pain, inextricably woven in with perhaps joy, anticipation, or peace. Sometimes it’s temporary. Sometimes it’s forever. There’s a wrenching pain as well as dawning hope. You’ve felt it too.

I have been trying to grasp a series of intangible emotions by defining them within areas of questions:

  1. How do we navigate knowing that we will face loss? Does knowing we will say goodbye make the process of loss easier, or harder?
  2. How do we cope when that control of knowing is taken out of our hands? Does sudden loss prevent a preceding period of pain? Or does the lack of control render us more broken?
  3. How can we process loss when it arrives, or during a period of farewell? To what extent do we choose to share our grieving process, in whatever degree it manifests itself, or do we protect our privacy?
  4. We inevitably move on from loss – but how, with who, and when?

I don’t have answers to any of these; all I’ve found myself debating over the last 6 to 8 months. In differing scenarios, I’ve approached the same questions with different responses. Truly, there are no answers. But perhaps that’s part of leaving, or loss: knowing that however we respond to these questions is right in its own way. Some days we feel black and blue, distant from acceptance. Some days we are just full of the joy that has been, so ready to accept one farewell and another hello. Some days we are a mix of the two and we ride our own wave storm of joy, fear, excitement, pain, confusion, anxiety. Nothing should be negated.

For me, one of my biggest processors is writing. You know this – you’re reading! Me sitting down and writing is usually an acknowledgement that there’s something going on I need to work through. I’m bad at bottling things up; frustrations, emotions and thoughts get mixed up in each other to the extent that I struggle to then unpick them. So I write. I also read what others write. So today I don’t have answers to the questions. But I have a few words. Each is accompanied by a short explanation, or associated thought. More than anything I hope it just opens up your thoughts on leaving and loss. Maybe these questions are ones that are on your mind too. Maybe the only the only step to an answer we can get is just acknowledging the questions, as and when they come. We have to ask the questions; who knows what, by asking, might be given in return.

It’s so hard to watch you go. It’s killing me to say goodbye. Though you may not return, there’s a candle that burns, right here inside all of our hearts. Fly away; I’ll see you again one day.

~ Ellie and Sophie Bokor Ingram Georgia’s Song

This is an extract from a song which was written by one of the girls in my school house, following the sudden death of their family friend, Georgia, from a brain aneurysm in December 2013. For me, it is a raw recognition of the pain of sudden loss. There’s a powerful sense that we hold on to memory after loss, but also that this will also fade one day: a candle burns out. When we face sudden loss, especially in terms of death, it is perhaps the knowledge of celestial encounter that brings a peace beyond understanding, whilst simultaneously not detracting from the pain and grief.

May the road you travel now be safe;

May the sun light every path.

May the moon so shine beneath your feet,

When dusty tracks grow dark.

May I forever feel your strength;

May I ease your deepest fears.

May my voice sing anew Love’s sure song,

When faith is drowned in tears.

May my life so grow and flourish;

May yours be bright and true.

May we part but never perish,

When waning days are through.

A prayer on the Wey (2018)

This is a short reflection I composed when sitting by the river one afternoon, principally a farewell to a someone moving on. But on thinking about it, there are wider themes of loss present: temporary blindness to faith, loss of light, ending of the day, and even loss of life. There is an ultimate vulnerability, and with the subjunctive rhythm, it emulates a prayer in its hope and nature of request. There is no promise, no certainty, no tangible comfort. But there is a comfort that opening our thoughts, sharing our hopes with something beyond the tangible, is in itself a means of travelling through loss.


I’ve waved goodbye so many times.

I ought to be swift to go.

Yet still I sit and mourn this day

That will not come again.


How hard it seems to leave this place

With its tender heart and soul.

For you, to me, are more my home

Than any house has been.


And though I know that through the night,

Languid days will hold me still,

I cannot help but feel so far

From each and every day.


Now moments fly, the months still pass,

Years befall like summer hours.

How little time we have on earth:

Let’s reap it, you and I.

Adieu (2018)

I do find it interesting reading my work back, many months from when it was first written. For me this poem has an inherent complexity, and raises the question of whether the voice is bidding goodbye to a place, or a people. In fact, the two almost seem to be one. Perhaps this is a nod to the nature of farewell to a place or institution. It is not always farewell to the building, the garden, the view, the place. It’s the people that are there, the feeling that it gives. The sense that when I am here, when I am with you, I am home. It’s easy to say “I’ll miss this place.” I don’t think it’s always what we mean. Whether temporary, or eternal, we often mean, “I’ll miss you, the people that show me home.” We reap the gifts a people give us, bring us, and draw out of us. This is what we leave.

The title Adieu builds on a further complex. It literally means ‘until God’ and is therefore usually a final farewell in French. Perhaps this is the sense that builds through the first three stanzas. But it’s certainly not the mood of the final lines triggering me to ask: do we actually leave a place? I doubt we do. We are woven in its story as it is woven in ours. We are one body of people – the final jussive perhaps indicates that even apart, or alone, we are very much still together.



Farewell. So long.

Whatever you say is hard;

Parting is no sweet sorrow.

It all means the same.

The end. The end.

Said a thousand times.

Goodbye. Goodbye.

Thank you. Thank you.

Keep in touch.

Oh, I know, I wish too

I didn’t have to go.

But that I do.

That I do.

I do.

I –



Goodbye to here,

Goodbye to now,

Goodbye to you.

A thousand times:


A thousand goodbyes (2018)

This is a much lighter reflection, written as I sat rather amusedly entertained by watching conversations unfold in July between someone leaving, and the people they would go on to leave. It is a sly social pleasure of more than a few people I know, including myself, to ‘people watch.’ And this was just one of those occasions, the voice of the poem almost commenting on the events from afar, until it strikes them that after all that extended period of farewells there is a true and final departure. You probably recognise the situation; this challenges Shakespeare’s famous thesis on lovers’ parting in a context that brings back a seriousness and a finality beneath perhaps disguised overtones of a temporary departure.

Every night we die a death.

But tonight, I can’t help dying a little more than most.

Now, the end.

Each second that passes, each moment that ends,

Is over. I cannot get back the time.

Each second stabs a new pain.

Each second, a last.

Before, I was terrified to be here.

Now, it terrifies me to leave.

Choice seems forever out of my hands.

The passing time is my knell.

Tick. Tock.

Ding. Dong.

I hear it. It calls me

To sleep. To close my eyes,

To turn away from this day,

From the dust of this earth,

From this transient place.

Away. Away.

I have no choice.

I must go.

This is death to you.

Every night we die a death.

The Last Night (2018)

As sort of touched on, my relationship with leaving school was different, by far, to what most people experience. I basically didn’t go back to school after Easter on a full time basis. I chose what I wanted to do and what I didn’t want to do. In a lot of ways, it made the end of term, and saying goodbye far easier. It had become a gradual process, and by the time I had to say goodbye goodbye, the sense of school I was saying goodbye to was not what I would have previously envisaged as ‘school.’ But in some senses it prolonged the process because it felt like every time I was in school, there was usually a reason, and usually that reason was because it was last time I could do something. It did begin to feel like every minute of every day I was in school, there was something else I was leaving. It was also a unique position where the choice to move school was not my own; I had simply reached the end. Up to that point, every school I left, I left of my own accord. I had no control over the circumstance or the timing. Leaving in these ways is a very different kind of pain.

I did have some brighter days as I was leaving. I had the urge to want to capture everything I knew I had taken for granted for each of the days of the almost 5 years of my life that I had spent in that place. One of those moments I captured in the following poem, which perhaps challenges how we view the memories we hold in the places and the people we leave. When it’s time to go, how do we look back on the time we’ve had? This poem makes a little more sense if you know the East window in the Chapel of St John the Evangelist at my old school:

John Eagle

The Window in the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, Artist: Jude Tarrant (March 2009)

This was an eagle who had watched over me, every day I walked into that Chapel. And I often, in my last days of the last weeks, when I was in school, found comfort in just sitting in the Chapel and just looking at this mind blowing window, with all its intricacies and colours. How was I negotiating knowing I had to leave, in the face of his majesty? It was that painful mix I spoke of earlier. There was pain at loss, regret at mistakes, and gratefulness for the gifts received. But there was also an overwhelming pride and privilege to stand there, and leave, head held just slightly higher than the 5 years previously, when I first walked through those doors. I walked out a completely different woman to the girl who walked in. More than anything, standing before the eagle reminded me of the strength of faith in the unknown. Over the course of the time I left school there were tears. But not at the end. By the end, I had a sort of peaceful strength and acceptance. I knew there was more to come. I was painfully grateful but vulnerably optimistic.

I stand before the eagle today;

I hold his surly gaze in mine.

Both of us seem to drift astray,

Feeling earth and heaven align.

Who gave him the strength to soar,

Bearing earth’s grief in blue,

Yet stretching, by name called for,

To bring heaven to earth anew?

Why cannot I soar like he, and

Surpass this place of tears?

Why do I collapse to bended knee,

Sunken by worldly fears?

I never noticed your strength before.

I never thanked you for your grace.

I only ever asked for more.

I only strove to win the race.

Now life here is through,

And I must say goodbye.

It is now I realise what I never knew:

Those who run cannot fly.

I ask for your forgiveness,

For the days I could not see,

For the days I was lost in self,

And understood not how to be.

I ask for reconciliation,

For the times I did you wrong.

This is my last oblation,

The imperfect cadence to my song.

For there is no way unblemished

To tell you of the pain.

Or to tell you how I perished,

When I treasured earthly gain.

And how regretfully I weep, and sigh

To know that, on this day I go,

Is the first day I saw you fly, and

Truly knew the gifts you bestow.

But I plead: give me strength to rise again,

O majestic eagle bright.

Help me to break this binding chain,

And not struggle through the night.

May I fear not the world unknown,

And might your strength beside me be,

As, with wind and torment blown,

I travel across a stormy sea.

He soars; he melts into flame.

I turn away; he burns.

But softly, slowly, I hear that my name

He calls, to earth I must return.

Although today my time is over,

I know our story is not done.

I came here, to seek for closure.

I go, in vain. I am not gone.

An Eagle’s Farewell (2018)


Tonight; tonight

The untraversed world is a boundless ocean,

On which my little boat rocks gently, softly;

Waves lap round in swathes; they offer comforting embraces.

The world is rocking me to sleep tonight.

The waters, calm, hold me, carrying me

Onwards to a brighter place; they

Speak in whispers of a promised land.

But I will wake, and not be here.

I will weep, and not be held.

I will turn but not see the way.

I will seek but not find again this temporal peace.

Tomorrow’s path is not as sure:

The storm will strike;

The wind will wound.

The still waters in the harbour of youth will

Vanish, and like tears, dissolve into the mourning dusk.

Life will toss me, tear me.

It will break me, bruise me.

“What was danger?” I used to ask, when

The world was painted with a silvery kind of

Love, which made even pain sparkle, shimmer, shine.

Is it only now that I hold it? Danger is all around.

Danger is the terror that slaughters innocence in fright.

I was sure that I would reach the gold-kissed sky.

Now I fear, recoil, retreat.

I’m afraid to feel alone.

I’m scared to travel on.

What happens when I fall?

Can my boat traverse this ocean safe?

Is there breeze enough to sail strong,

And yet winds too weak to smash the

Hull that speeds? It cleaves the foam-tipped depths.

Tomorrow you force me to journey on, your

Call burns me, consumes me; unrelenting, unceasing, unstayed.

But you have no words to smooth my way.

How well I know I have no choice. I have no choice.

Here I am, dying to rest; this is my boat.

And the unknown world is as a boundless ocean,

On which my fragile boat sways, in tumult, in pain;

I bleed strength from the drowning wave; there is no final consolation.

The world will shock me into sleep,

Tonight; tonight.

On the shore (2018)

This is another fairly complex set of emotions and a poem that charts a progressive individual thought process. From the beginning, the voice of the poem acknowledges a sense of fear towards the unknown world. But it is only as the poem progresses that this becomes an almost debilitating reality for them. The beginning of the poem is mirrored in its ending, except there are stark differences: the world will shock, and not rock. A promise of comfort is lost in no hope of consolation. The waves are drowning, and not still. This is someone caught up in that very depth of grief and pain. It is the part of loss which hits you like a stab wound, winds you, and is difficult to surmount. The ocean has connotations of stillness, but its depths and scope are simultaneously dark. There is no promise for this time of returning to a state of calm. Sometimes we have to acknowledge that this is how we feel.

There are stages of grief and loss. But it is not simple enough to say that we move from stage to stage; sometimes all the stages are mingled and mixed, and we feel differently at different times. Sometimes we can step back and look on almost amusedly, other times we are fragile, angry, pained, confused. But all of it is somehow OK. And perhaps we just start by saying yes to whatever it is we feel. Perhaps we go on by gently asking those questions, and considering our momentary responses to them. Perhaps we sleep by letting go of the individual internal whirlwind: by asking for help, by talking it through, by writing it down.

We leave, we are left. Then we breathe for as long as we need. We question. We grieve. We hope. We begin.




Peace be within thy walls

Written as an agglomeration of thoughts and reflections over several years, with influences from a visit to Guernica in July 2017, the organists and choristers of Guildford Cathedral, school chapel talks given and received, stolen days of late summer sun in Weymouth in September 2018, climbing the Worcestershire beacon, and canonical conversations:

A piece for International Peace Day on the concept of peace, and what it means to choose to be at peace.

Peace is a choice. It cannot be imposed, and it isn’t found by chance.

It is still. There is an hour to go before Eucharist begins. Glacial white walls are blank thoughts, gently splashed with honey-golden sparks, where the early morning light peeks in through the dusty rain-stained windows, adorning the soft arches with a gilded halo. A soft breath, and a floating whisper are the only hints of life in the nave. I stop and sit in a comfortable spot, just behind the pillar, 3 seats from the aisle. I experience that craved paradisal, divine moment; there is a warmth that enfolds, though the blankets of icy winter months are now gone.

Gently, slowly, the choir begins to rehearse: “O, pray for the peace of Jerusalem, ye shall prosper that love thee. Peace be within thy walls, and plenteousness within thy palaces.” Howells. Music can seem so sure, so reassuringly peaceful. But I cannot help but question: where is this foretaste of promised celestial peace? I begin to cradle peace in my hands. This is a strange thread which binds us together, yet fragile, frayed.

Peace, where are you?

The Nobel Peace Prize is one of the most renowned global awards, given to an individual or organisation promoting peace. In October last year, the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons was laureate of the Nobel Peace Prize, “for its work to draw attention to the catastrophic humanitarian consequences of any use of nuclear weapons and for its ground-breaking efforts to achieve a treaty-based prohibition of such weapons.” It may seem ironic that the now President of the United States, Donald Trump, was nominated for the same prize, a President who has threatened, not obscurely, the ‘total destruction’ of North Korea in retaliation to the nuclear threat posed should de-nuclearisation not take place. Are ‘peace talks’ between the countries lasting? I suspect I may not be the only one to have have doubts.

For, despite the work of the Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons, we are far from such prohibition. Indeed, at several points over the last few years, we may even seem to have been at the threshold of nuclear crisis. For those who lived through the Cold War period, the feeling is all too familiar. Historical sites remind us of broadcasts our parents heard, warning about possible nuclear attack, what to do and where to go. Is this history? I certainly cannot answer definitively, in the way I would like to.

Nuclear war does not weigh alone on the world at the moment. We are under threat from supremacist politics. We are lost in conflict over a no-deal Brexit. Party turns on party, man on man. We are victims of barbaric terrorism; the inquest into the Westminster attack goes on. The Salisbury and Amesbury poisonings remind us that peace is threatened as we live out our lives on a quotidian basis.

In many ways, we may seem to be far from peace. And peace may seem far from us.

So, we suffer trials with peace not only as a society, but as individuals. Every day I try to seek a moment for that inner peace I so desire. Perhaps it’s turning off the alarm and lying in the stillness and blackness of the morning, the blankets wrapped around me like a cocoon, holding me as I live, breath by breath. Perhaps it’s a stolen moment in the cloister, watching the sun cast the radiant solstice on the sky, buildings becoming silhouettes against a sky which fades from a burning red, to a halcyon blue. Perhaps it’s the sand, still warm from the September sand, running in rivulets through toes hastening towards water, so still in the shelter of the bay.  Perhaps it’s receiving someone else’s care, reassurance and time. Perhaps it’s the feeling of reaching safety, or the anchor of safety in a sea of fear. Perhaps it’s the feeling of a pen in hand, and night ahead. Perhaps it’s choosing love despite the pain. Perhaps it’s the feeling that no words will ever suffice to describe a feeling. Perhaps it coming from climbing to a peak in gale force winds, being battered and blown, shouting and not hearing, to resting with a cup of tea in front of the television, whilst outside it grows dark, the wind continually roaring outside. Perhaps it’s holding a hand, sharing a smile, or laughing with each other. Perhaps it’s sharing a story with someone else. A second: a breath, a blink. A momentary escape from such a world as ours, which daily descends into a deeper political spiral. It’s so important to my day.

But it is easy to say ‘find time for peace.’ It is much harder to do, especially today, where the joy of modern technology brings a daily battle between a sense of peaceful detachment, and the attraction to news that can be with us in an instant: Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp, Instagram, Snapchat. We are never more than a tap away from what we want to know. So, are we never more than a button press away from turning that phone off, and taking a moment for peace. But that peace is all too often thrown away. The addiction to knowing everything in a moment is unrelenting. We want to share, we want to find fulfilment in being known. On average we check our phones 150 times a day, and are online for 31 hours per week. When a notification pops up, we respond instantaneously. Having been in a girls’ house makes it all too clear: when the boy she likes is not texting her back, she is constantly checking to see if she has missed something. Is he online? Is he ignoring her? Why hasn’t he responded? It’s been 2 minutes since she sent the text. Social media has the force to bring so much good: introductions, foundations, common ground. I know it well. But from time to time, it takes its toll. It is a vicious cycle.

I stumble through the noise, trying to find some peace. A stranger in the crowd, I lose myself.

Both on a personal, and worldwide scale, today’s populations are never at peace.

Yet Christ promises: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you” (John 14:27). What is it he left? What gift did he bestow? What peace do we know? What peace do we find? In my world, your world, our world, where is peace?

Perhaps peace is an equilibrium, difficult, between the various languages, cultures and outlooks, the different situations and the millions and hopes and desires in the minds of civilisation. It’s a wide-ranging, desirable and unclassifiable concept. Indefinable. In its exchange it demands of us understanding, tolerance, humility, reconciliation and strength. But if this is so, peace is an energy deeply rooted in ourselves; a tool we choose to use, and to give to others. Peace is about how we choose to balance in a world that pulls us apart.

How can we live peacefully? Perhaps all we can do is start by being at peace within ourselves.

Giving a Chapel talk, I once described personal identity as a Rubix cube: different categories of our identity are like colours on a Rubix cube. All the six colours can be all randomly mixed up, just like parts of identity are in our personalities. A mix of our different identities shapes our thoughts, speech and actions. In reality, there are far more than 6 parts to selfhood. But whilst each part cannot ever be mutually exclusive, when we think about our identity, we can attempt to categorise it into sections and focus on one particular type at a time. Either way, discordantly mixed up or harmoniously separated, it still makes a cube, oneself, it is just that one identity is clearer to conceptualise than the other.

Perhaps when we seek to be at peace with ourselves, it is like the constituent parts of our lives are in the process of being shifted, from the thick harmonious texture of jumbled multicoloured faces, to the pure, vulnerable, yet powerful, melody of distinct sides. Sometimes the solution is easy. Sometimes it takes far longer. Perfect peace is a moment of transitory solution. How long does it last? How long does a Rubix cube stay solved? Not long at all. A brief, intangible, ephemeral but innately transcendent time. Something, someone comes along, and suddenly we return to a state of melted and busy reality.  Yet somehow, when we choose, we can return to that moment, or a similar, if we are willing to choose to work for clarity, for harmony; if we are willing to choose to work for peace.

Again, it is easy to say, and harder to do. Indeed, though I see its necessity, it’s a concept that I, in my own way, struggle with. When I came out of hospital I didn’t know where to turn. I felt like my world had been flipped upside down, like all the colours on the cube were irreparably jumbled, squares had fallen off, and the colours were blurring one into another. I felt as far from individual peace as I have ever done. I frequently asked the question: who am I? I didn’t feel like I was myself anymore. I felt defined by my condition, and I lost that sense of peaceful equilibrium. I couldn’t find the peace to reflect, to think, to work through my own identity. I had lost peace with myself. I couldn’t understand how Christ could leave us peace, and yet that I could not grasp it in those dark weeks.

We all fight battles, where peace seems very distant indeed.

Now, as I sit here, toying with peace, I think that Christ gives us the power, the energy of peace. He does not tell us how to use it, or reassure us that it is always evident in the world. He could not give us tangible peace. Instead, he gave us the tool for reconciliation, and for forgiveness. We are the artists: we have to make it ourselves.

So, I had to seek out peace for myself. I had to take those moments to be still, though all I felt like doing was shouting and screaming. I had to hold on to peace in torment. I wanted to make war with myself. Sometimes I still do. I had to, I have to, consciously choose peace, forgive myself, and reconcile myself to my future. Sometimes I fail. I am headstrong, foolish, selfish. I believe those days too are allowed, because they provide a striking foil to the days I chose peace. It is not complete failure, but a lack of equilibrium. The days I do find peace are the days I find plenteousness; the days I am able to flourish again. We may not be at perfect peace every moment of every day, but we should aspire to strive, daily, for moments of extraordinary celestial peace, in the ordinary and mundane world around us. We should be the artists, write the score, illustrate the page.

Following the Skripal poisonings, a flock of 3000 origami doves flew through the Cathedral, some inscribed with messages, and prayers for peace. Breath-taking, and uplifting, ‘Les Colombes’ spoke of the choice of peace and solidarity, in torrid moments of despair. It was particularly striking to see the doves’ reflection in the baptismal font – a reminder that even when we look down, peace from above is never far away, reflected all around us. Look, and you will find it. Choose peace, and flourish. We cannot solve world peace alone; we can only live at peace with ourselves, and so encourage others to choose peace. We can be those flock of doves, flying through life, with grace, with hope, with peace.

We harbour our own Christ-given inner peace, though the world around us may seem peace-less. It is Christ’s peace that we must strive to live out in our lives. We must find peace, use peace, and seek peace. We must pursue peace, in the darkest of night. We must be a peaceful people. We must rest in the assurance that Jesus gave us this peace to use in the world, and pass on to others, living at peace with everyone. Yes, he didn’t tell us how. How is different for everyone. But however we find it, with that divine peace, we will never let our hearts be troubled, or be afraid.

Go forth into the world in peace; be of good courage; hold fast to that which is good; render to no one evil for evil; strengthen the fainthearted; support the weak; help the afflicted; honour everyone.

Peace be within thy walls, and plenteousness within thy palaces.

May the peace of the Lord be with you.


Seek the stars

“You disappeared!” I was told, a couple of weeks ago. Looking back now, I suppose I did, and if you’ve missed my ramblings and wayward words then I apologise. It has been a busy and exciting summer, full of things that one day, when I give myself a second, I will reflect on properly. Things like A levels (thank everyone and anyone that they’re over), resting, reflecting, travelling, studying, losing, gaining, saying hellos, saying goodbyes, giving of time, energy and love, receiving of the same. But summer’s over. And something’s changed. At least for me. I’m in a new phase of life – exciting, daunting, dawning, terrifying. We’ll come to that too.

But today, I don’t want to look back. And I’m not sure what the future has in store – I can look forward, but not clearly. So today, I want to look at just that, today.

We’re always told that tomorrow is a new day. And it is, a new day dawns, full of the beauty found in the hope of a new sun rising. A new tomorrow, a new world, a new chance. It’s really important to have that ability to look forward, and know that tomorrow is a new world of opportunity. Tomorrow can be the key. Or a new page. Or even a new book. Tomorrow is the light.

But where does that leave today? Surely, by logic, today is made the darkness? And how can we live for today, when it is only tomorrow that has light?

That’s where I was stuck on Monday.

Monday was the day where autumn really came knocking. The rain picked up, the skies were grey, J was back at school, there was a thin covering of brown leaves on the grass, the house was empty, there were (well, there still are) lists and lists of jobs and chores to be done. And piles of books to be read. I felt like I was washer woman, chef, student and taxi driver all in one. I’d just come back from a week of sun, sea and sand. And I was here in the rain, rattling around, running about, trying to get finish all of X, Y and Z, but not really feeling motivated at all, appreciating the quiet, but somehow feeling lonely too. I love autumn, it’s one of my favourite times of year. But I wasn’t feeling it on Monday. And in the blues, I wasn’t alone.

It was fine, I thought. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will bring the light. I just need to sleep through the night, and everything will be fine.

Was it? Not really, no. My morning started off with bloods. Lots of bloods. It’s one of the hardest things for me to do in weekly schedule. It’s stressful – I’m not allowed to eat before they do it, and that’s not great for a Diabetic. I’m usually trying to work out just how long I’ve got before I have a hypo. I’m thinking about whether I’m at a safe level to drive. I’m thinking about when and where I can eat before I make the journey back. I’m thinking about how, when I do, I will subtly give an injection in public. That’s on top of the uncomfortableness and fear that any normal person might experience having bloods taken. Normally, it’s OK. At least, it gets done. Sometimes I take someone with me, sometimes I go alone. They insert the needle, fill the vials and it’s job done. Off to the lab, and the results wind their way in in a few days.

On Tuesday, it wasn’t OK. I am notoriously difficult to bleed where I should – and they couldn’t find a vein. They inserted 6 different cannulae, and it took 6 goes to even get a tiny bit of blood. It wasn’t enough. Even after the second failed insertion, I started to feel my heart pounding in my chest, I felt disorientated, and upset, and afraid. I get triggered like this about once a week now, though sometimes it’s more. When it happens, it’s like I am right back in hospital on Easter Sunday. I can hear the conversations between the Doctors : “We can’t find a vein.” “We need an ultrasound.” “We haven’t got time.” “We’ll take her in ICU – let’s prepare for a central line.” I see it all again. My body shutting down. Dying. I hear it. I can’t explain how terrifying it feels. It’s when hurts the most. When it feels real again. The psychologist calls it PTSD. I avoid more labels.

But that moment, that today, became a new darkness in the shadow of another tomorrow. For an hour or more I sat in the surgery and couldn’t see beyond that night, almost 6 months ago. I didn’t feel safe. I don’t think anyone there quite understood why I was so upset. It wasn’t the bloods. It wasn’t the pain. It was the memories. I was completely alone, and the trauma of what I went through was setting in again. It took an hour for them to be able to take the bloods, and I was so tense that I have a pretty nice set of bruises up and down my hand, wrist and arm.

By 8:30 in the morning, Dad had left work, walked to the station and drove me home. I was sat in the car just shaking. I was done for the day. Flashbacks completely tire me. I wasn’t out of my pyjamas – which 18 year old goes to a 6:30am blood test ready for the day?! – and I didn’t feel like getting out of them. I went back to bed, and decided to do the day’s jobs from there. This was the second day in a row I had felt like this.

Did I believe tomorrow would be better? I don’t think I did. I promised myself it would be, but Tuesday was no better than Monday. Who’s to say Wednesday wouldn’t just be another broken promise of light?

So, what happens when today is full of hurt? What happens when tomorrow is worse? I find it really easy to slip into a downwards spiral, especially when I’ve had a flashback of trauma. Today becomes the darkness, and the promise that tomorrow is light seems as childish as the belief that kissing a wound will make it better. Because the pain is still there. It still feels like somewhere, underneath it all, it will always be there. It can’t just vanish in the night, however pretty and hopeful the dawn may seem, a mix of bright colours streaked across the clouded sky, the sun peaking its head above the parapet of trees. Pain remains, bitter, black, blue, bleak.

Yet somehow, I go on. With the support of friends, family, my psychologist, my nurses, my Doctors, my faith, I go on. I go on. Every day, good or bad, I will go on.

I go on because I can’t live like in darkness, although it’s all too easy to do. And luckily, I’m fight at a point where I find light a choice – I choose to take today, run with its highs and lows, accept the inevitability of days of pain, and still manage to find the positives. But what happens when the pain isn’t your choice? Can you still find the strength to live in today? When you’re hurt, tomorrow’s light is false – you need light today. And today it takes a lot more strength to choose to see light: the light we have to find, or if we’re lucky, someone else will choose to give us.

I can’t promise answers. Yesterday, I saw no hope for answers at all. Sat in the surgery, there was no way out. But I think I was looking too far ahead; I couldn’t see today. Did I notice the child playing with the trains I used to race when I was her age? Yes, but I, angrily, didn’t see her joy. Did I find hope from the care that everyone paid to me, the offers of tissues, water, and space? No, I just wanted everyone to go away. Today had become dark, and that had become that. But I failed to see those moments of light, and after those moments, I struggled to live for that day. Yet somehow I take strength from the fact that I now see those moments as ones of hidden light. That shows me that somewhere, I saw them then. There is always hope, somewhere, however much you try and ignore it.

In days of extreme darkness, I choose to find small glimpses of light, either that I give  or see for myself, or others give me. It’s an easier choice. I don’t have the strength or energy to always find a moment of light equivalent to the pain. I do still have the strength to choose to find and hold the little moments. Who knows, they might accumulate, they might appreciate, to more than the hours of pure darkness.

Over the past year I’ve come to realise that there are so many little moments to live for in the today. I’ve called them extraordinarily divine moments in the ordinary. But they can also just be tiny seconds, little things that make you think: “you know what, I can still make today worth living, however many needles they stick in me.”

I try to make the little moments like stars in the sky.

After the succession of Monday and Tuesday, over the last few days I made a list of the small things that made me marvel at life, and living life. And when I did it, I proved there was so much. And every time I saw something that made me smile, or think, or reflect, or cheer, or laugh – I saw the value of today.

A feather gently floating down on the gentle breeze, and coming to rest just for a second on the windowsill before bringing a soft hope to some other place.

The silvery track of the smallest snail which had ever so slowly, but surely worked its way from one end of the patio to the other. Perseverance in action.

The scent of vanilla on the wind from a plant somewhere so far off I couldn’t hold onto it for more than a second. A passing sweetness.

The crunch of the leaves starting to fall under my feet; the promise of more to come.

The sense of freedom as I hurtled down the hill on my bike; the satisfying relief in my muscles as I reached the top of the same hill on the return.

The enjoyment I found in writing, and reading, words. Puzzling over how placing different letters in different orders can have the power to move. Writing the same words in different languages, to play with form, sound, and power.

The strange comfort in working through grammar and coming up with fluent and poetic translation.

Watching molten lava ooze and bubble and float and sink.

The amusement of writing notes in a language no one else understands, and watching them trying to figure it out, the while knowing they are hoping to decipher some old maxim, when actually it’s your to do list, starting with: ‘change the bed’ (την κοιτην μεταφερε)

Submerging myself in blankets and duvets, and heating up a hot water bottle for the first time in the year, while watching the spitting rain spatter itself on the window.

Tea. Lots of tea. More tea.

Thinking about music, and words, and how they fit together, shape each other, inspire each other and reflect each other.

A day where there is absolutely nothing written down to do in the diary, and you have the freedom to work through everything at your own pace.

The joy on my brother’s face when I turn up to collect him at school each day with millionaire’s shortbread, and our chats about everything and anything on the way home; getting stuck in traffic and both spontaneously singing along to the iPod at the same time.

The coincidence that a phone provider transfer is taking place, and so alternative (and probably more advanced!) technology is used instead, leading to a surprise face to face conversation, appeasing loneliness, reigniting confidence, firing friendship. Reflection, reaction, return, resolve.

The excitement of getting things finalised for my move ‘oop NORTH.’

Washing up. The bubbles, particularly. The same with the bath.

The catharsis of water in the shower hammering on my head, and washing away the dirt.

Sharing art and finding encouragement, criticism, support, ideas and direction.

Welcome in an old parish church, coming to an old home and feeling like a small part of you that has been lost has found itself again.

Waking up as the sun hit the rim of the mirror, casting a rainbow on the opposite wall.

The incredibly terrifying but somehow reassuring realisation that the shadows of two people have been crossing for years and years, without them ever knowing, until suddenly they burst together, and realise how much their lives fit together.

The somewhat sadistic pleasure in knowing that ‘Facebook’ thinks it’s being clever, and knows something you don’t – when in reality, it’s slightly off the mark.

Celebrating years of friendship, watching friendships bloom, grow and flourish.

Someone giving time for someone else, and seeing their eyes sparkle with an unspoken appreciation, shared mutually.

An old lady’s face light up as she treacherously crossed the road, realised she’d made it safely (it wasn’t guaranteed), and settled down at the bus stop, contently waiting.

Waking in the silence of the night and hearing the buzz of snoring from a room down the corridor; the assurance that others were safe in their dreams. A stolen moment of peace, tranquillity and safety before drifting back into my own suspended time.

Finding the strength to do something I never believed I could do; slowly breaking my chains from hospitals, GPs, and nurses and living for myself.

Smiles, where there once were only tears; the assurance that one day it will get better. The assurance I am not alone. Assurance.

Tomorrow may be the light. But it may be no more light than today. It’s hard. But if you can, even if briefly not in the moment itself, hold on to that knowledge that today, and every day, is worth living. If you can continually make tomorrow brighter, then go ahead. But I think humanity’s very nature is to have todays and tomorrows and days-after-tomorrow which are just as rough as each other. If we forever displace light into the future, we risk losing the stars in the day. Sometimes they might not be enough to always purge the darkness completely. But the stars make the night worth waking for. The starlit moments of today make your life worth living today, and not just tomorrow.

I hope, whatever afflicts you, and however great, you can take today for the joy that it will hold, somewhere, however concealed, turning from darkness that holds you, and seeking the stars which shine as a light in the world. If tomorrow is brighter, may you look on today as still so bright. May the darkness not apprehend. Find your stars. Seek the stars.

” Stars, though dying, grow brighter still. Their light belies their death. ”

~Written July 2018


This week saw World Suicide Prevention Day, on 10th September. It was one of the things that made me want to share what I write again. I am so grateful that I have never been in such great darkness as to ever contemplate taking my own life. But unfortunately, and sadly, for someone who is only 18 years old, I have several friends who have. And I know that it’s incredibly hard to reach out for help, and incredibly hard to talk.

So I will reach out to you, if you are at the bottom of the black pit of darkness, and the clouds are so thick that the starlight is hidden. I will tell you that there are people who understand. You are not alone. You can be safe again. You are most definitely loved for all you are, have been and will be. There is a future ahead.

If you want to talk, there is always someone who will listen. It may be someone you know, it may be someone you don’t. Choose whoever helps you, whoever makes you feel most safe, and most comfortable. If you don’t know where to turn, turn here:

Call them – any time of day. They will be there to listen. When you are ready to talk, they are ready to listen. You are not alone, and far stronger than you think – the clouds will pass, and the stars will be seen again.


Mail from Maryland: its more than Maltesers…

It’s coming to the end of Diabetes UK Awareness Week. And that’s something I never thought I’d have to talk about on here. But here I am. And this is now a part of who I am. And as much as I find it difficult talking about this at the moment, I refuse to lose my voice, or submit defeat, or try to hide. This post follows my internal thoughts as I reflect on questions or statements that I have received, many daily. All these are true. It’s hard to share, but it also feels good to share, not for pity or sympathy, but merely for awareness.

And if it helps you understand me a bit better, or perhaps give you an appreciation of anyone who is chronically ill, then I’m willing to take the chance, because I don’t want anyone else newly diagnosed to have to think these dilemmas over and feel like they are alone. And I would hope that society can change to be more sensitive, and more understanding. But equally, I realise they can’t do that without us being honest. And, fittingly, this year, Diabetes UK have called on people to share their stories, talk about Diabetes, its perception and its complications. So here we go.

Warning – this is quite long… but this is because this is also a record for me, to work through some of the emotions and difficulties. So feel free to skip and skim, I don’t mind at all 🙂  If you would like shorter, more literary or more abstract reflections on chronic illness, you’re probably better off here and here.

1. “I didn’t know you had Diabetes.”

Well, to be honest, neither did I until very recently. I am now at the 75 day, 2 and bit months mark. It’s still new. From my HbA1c results, blood tests which show Diabetes control over a 3 month period, it seems I could have been developing it for well over 3 months. A good HBA1C will range from 48-58 mmol. Mine is currently 99, though when I was first admitted, it was 123. So yeah, I have Diabetes. But we didn’t know. Before you say it – I didn’t experience any of the normal symptoms: increased fluid intake, increased urination, dramatic weight loss. I was just tired. But at that point, I was in the middle of studying for 4 A levels in amidst all the other chaos of life. I was allowed to be tired. We didn’t know.

It all changed on Easter Sunday. I was away, trying to escape A levels for just a quiet weekend in the country, walking with the family, eating roast dinners, ticking off another Cathedral on my list, and celebrating the resurrection in a tiny parish Church, fulled to the brim with the faithful, the strains of ‘Jesus Christ is risen again, aaaaaaaaalleluia’ accompanying the background moo of the cows in the next door field. That was how it was supposed to be. It didn’t quite go to plan.

I’m not professing to be the fittest girl on the block. Not by any stretch of the imagination! But standing up to sing hymn is well within my regular abilities. In fact, I do it pretty much 8 times a week. On Easter Sunday, in that idyllic little Church, where the Lady of the Manor stands with a basket of foil wrapped Easter eggs to follow Communion, I could not stand to sing a hymn. I couldn’t even stand, let alone stand and sing. My breathing got faster and faster, and then I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do anything but collapse in a heap. I don’t remember much of what followed, until I woke up in intensive care in hospital on the Tuesday morning, in bed 1, labelled ‘Critical condition,’ with only a hazy recollection of being poked, revived and jabbed in a resuscitation room. Two Doctors, Dr James Orr (Dr Jim), and another affectionately labelled ‘Dr Chirpy Cheeks’ by my parents (heaven knows what his actual name was), sat me down, looked me straight in the eyes and said: ‘your life isn’t going to be the same again.’ Ward Round always carried a sense of fear from that day onwards. That’s when I found out.

More thoughts on this experience and diagnosis are found here.

2. “But you don’t look like you have Diabetes”

Really? Well I guess that’s a compliment? Or not. What should a diabetic look like? Are we supposed not to look normal? Or do you mean that I don’t look like how the media portrays diabetes? The media makes diabetics feel like a failure. They make it seem like all diabetes is caused from over-indulgence in sugar and a lack of exercise. Obesity is pinpointed. It’s just not true. And it’s not fair. 90% of Diabetics are type 2, sure. But type 2 equally has a range of causes, not just obesity. It’s not fair to judge someone like that just because of their diagnosis.

I’m one of the 300 000 people in the UK who make up the other 10%. The Type 1s. Type 1 has no one known cause. It’s triggered by an autoimmune disease that no one can quite pinpoint. It is more likely in people who suffer from a virus simultaneously to a period of stress. There is 0.8% chance there is a genetic predisposition. But it is not hereditary.

So yes, I don’t look diabetic, because I refuse to let ‘diabetic’ define me. But also, no, I would contradict you and say that I think I do look diabetic. Because diabetics look just like you.

3. “But it’s just an eating thing, no big deal”

Actually it kind of is a big deal. Especially at the moment when it’s all so new. I woke up on that Tuesday in the hospital and it felt as if life had come crashing down. Yes – I am so grateful now that I have a condition which is manageable. But it has no cure, and comes with many complications.

So it is a big deal. A lifelong deal. And a deal that there is no answer to. My blood glucose changes day by day, and not just on what I eat. I have had two pieces of buttered toast with marmite and a cup of tea, basically every single morning for breakfast since I have come out of hospital. I don’t think I have ever had two readings 2 hours post breakfast that have been the same. It varies on the weather. It varies on my activity level. It varies on my mental activity. It varies on my stress level. It varies on how I’m feeling. It varies on how much sleep I have. It varies on the time of the month, on the time of the day, on the time of year. It’s impossible to predict. You just can’t. I have to check it at least 8 times a day, and mostly more.

And it’s not just about eating. For sure, I count carbohydrates, calculate an insulin dose accordingly and give it. I test my blood sugars and ketones daily. There are safe ranges and unsafe ranges, and it feels a bit like walking on a tightrope to try and keep within range. Most days I start off low, and by the end of the night I’m soaring high. I have to treat lows and highs. That’s the bit that most people are aware of. And most people are aware that I can’t just eat whatever I want whenever I want it. I have to eat meals, and really nothing in between. I can’t let anything pass my lips without considering counting the cost. And last night, all that I could have for dessert were 5 Maltesers. They looked pretty meagre in that tiny bowl. And it was really hard to watch my brother measure it out on the scales. This isn’t just changing my life, it changes everyone’s. It hit me a bit, but maybe that was also because of the wine..! But this is also so so much more than Maltesers.

It’s about the time it takes. 10:30 every Saturday morning, you’ll find me in the surgery, having a weekly check up.  It takes about half an hour to walk there and half an hour back, and I usually spent at least half an hour there. My blood pressure is low. I’ve lost more weight. The checks go on. Over half term, I spent two days in hospital. I have meetings with DSNs (Diabetic Specialist Nurses), Diabetic Consultants, Dietitians, Ophthalmic Consultants, Podiatrists, and for the last few weeks I’ve spent time in Phlebotomy getting drained of more bloods, and I have had to have IV fluids of Potassium and Magnesium Sulphate.

It’s about the complications, though much of it is precautionary. I am at risk of developing a loss of sensation in my hands and feet. I am at risk of a form of blindness. My eyesight has deteriorated so I wear my glasses permanently.  I lose approximately 1kg of weight every week. I am a lot weaker, and get tired more easily (though the plus side is lots of naps!). I have low blood pressure, and my electrolytes are having a heyday, revelling in the chaos they are causing. I may be developing Coeliac disease, and I am anticipated to develop thyroid problems in the future.  I am losing my hair at a stupidly excessive rate. I bruise super easily, partly due to my pre-existing blood condition; you would have been forgiven for supposing I had had a tattoo when I came out of hospital, had you seen my left arm, dark purple with green tinges around the edges, from the elbow downwards, an effect of all the cannulae and injections.

My long acting insulin (I have two types) is currently not working as it should, and I am developing insulin resistance, but I can’t change until after my exams are over (2 more weeks…) which means I am gradually experiencing great pain when injecting, and a sharp stinging response to my insulin which lasts about 10 minutes after each injection. I have to up my insulin by two units every two nights to counter resistance; I started on 8 units, and I am now on 33 units. But every time I increase, there is a risk that I will hypo during the night. So most nights, I have to wake up at 3am to test my blood sugars. Once a week I should do it more often at night. It’s exhausting.

And for everyone who asks me ‘does it hurt?’ when I inject myself, I’m lying when I say ‘you get used to it.’ At the moment it still feels very unnatural to jab myself with a 6mm needle 6 times a day. And yes it hurts, whoever only felt ‘a sharp scratch?’ There are more bruises to prove it…

There’s a lot more to this than eating. And that’s just the practical side.

4. “You’re ill? But you look so well, better even!”

I guess so. Who tries to look actively ill? Some days are better than others, I grant you, but I don’t try and look ill. Truth is, I’ll be ‘ill’ for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be. But I don’t get a choice. So I choose to look well, even when I feel down.

There’s an outside, and there’s inside. There are a few people who see glimpses of the inside. The me when I’m so angry and frenetic that I don’t know where to turn and I sit and cry in the middle of a concert. The me that breaks down on the sofa, surrounded by my revision notes, frustrated that I’ve lost so much time. The me that is struggling to come to terms with the fact that this doesn’t go away after a bit of treatment, that this will affect every ounce of my life henceforward. The me that wakes up at 5:30 am on a Saturday with a hypo when I was angling for a lie in, is forced to down food when feeling incredibly nauseous, and then collapses on the chair in the living room, just staring out the window because she can’t get back to sleep for fear that next time she won’t wake up.

The me that doesn’t always know me anymore. Because the me I saw myself as in my final few weeks of school, enjoying A levels and summer concerts, and ending my school career on a high, is far from me. The me of today has to be in separate invigilation, take enforced rest breaks and spent the last few weeks of lessons desperately getting through as many lessons as possible before going home to sleep all afternoon because I was exhausted. The me who eventually admitted defeat on a 100% attendance record, and only did 3 days a week. The me whose university offer, once more than achievable, is now thrown into question, and for whom deferring by a year is increasingly recommended. I don’t want to, but I’ve lost control. Who sees that me, so frustrated, so angry, so confused, questioning why me, questioning why now, questioning what I did wrong? Nothing, I know, could have stopped this. But that doesn’t stop the confusion.

Maybe only myself knows me. Because I have a strong outer person that knows how to say ‘it’s fine’ or ‘I’m doing OK’ or ‘yes, I’m better now.’ A strong person who doesn’t want to burden other people with all the inside stuff. And I’m only beginning to get there, though I know one day I will. But as far as it goes, I will never be ‘better.’ Or at least, ‘better’ takes on a new definition. I may look well. Most days, now, I even feel vaguely well. But please don’t tell me that “I know you’ve been diagnosed with Diabetes, but you look well, better even!” Because you don’t always know what’s going on inside.

5.”Can’t you just forget about it”

Oh boy do I wish I could. And sometimes, just for an hour, or an afternoon, with particular people, or doing particular things, I do. I feel absolutely myself again. And that’s how I know I will get to a point eventually, where this isn’t such a big deal, and can just be another part of me. But it will take a while to get there.

Right now, it feels like there is a big before/after divide. And I hate describing it like that, because it really doesn’t help. But that’s sort of the only way I can think of to describe it, or via the jigsaw puzzle explanation. Places I go to regularly are now fringed with new dangers, and it’s difficult to go back to somewhere where you’ve always felt comfortable, and now don’t. My independence is challenged. I can’t just do things that, before, would not have been an issue. I have to re-learn how to drive. It stops me from going out to certain places alone, taking up opportunities my way, travelling in certain ways, and staying in certain places.

And, at the moment, the times when I think I can forget are the times when I am most vulnerable. If I don’t check my blood sugar, I don’t know how close I am to being hypo, or hyper. If I don’t give my insulin, I will go hyper and be so fatigued that I will just sleep all afternoon. If I give too much insulin, by even a unit or two, I risk my life. My insulin cannot get to over 25 degrees, or below 0, or else the hormone doesn’t work. So it’s quite important I don’t forget the practical stuff.

And it’s hard to speak about, but what I went through in hospital classifies as both medical and mental trauma. So there’s a lot of mental stuff that I also can’t forget.

It’s hard to forget lying on a bed, in intensive care, being told that you are in a critical condition. It’s hard to forget a Doctor covering your face with a sheet, closing you in and coming at you with savage looking equipment to cut open your neck and insert a line to give you fluid, because ‘if we use the wrist cannula, it will be too late.’ It’s hard to forget being moved from the ‘critical’ bed into the regular intensive care unit, but being told that ‘you’re by no means out of the woods yet.’ It’s hard to forget the first time someone tells you that you’ve got a condition that’s got no cure, and you will have to learn to deal with it because otherwise you will die. It’s hard to forget coping with that, and then someone telling you that there are no real answers. It’s hard to forget seeing your parents cry and that they butter and feed you your toast and send texts on your behalf because you don’t even have the strength to hold a piece of bread. It’s hard to forget lying there, quite conscious, whilst the man in the bed next to you passes away. It’s incredibly hard to forget that it could have been you.

So no, at the moment, I can’t ‘just forget.’ And actually, whilst I’d like to manage how I remember, I don’t think I want to ever forget completely, because knowing how frail life is has made me cherish it all the more these last weeks.

6. “I wish I could lose weight as fast as you have.”

Well I wouldn’t wish it on you for all the world. This is not how you want to lose weight. And I know maybe my weight loss is all you see. But it’s not glamorous. It’s having one pair of jeans that fit, and everything else vigorously pulled in with belts. It’s suddenly having your school suits not fit, and being safety pinned into your skirts and drowned in your jacket.  It’s losing muscle strength and it taking a lot more energy to open a door, or lift a heavy book. It’s not being allowed to do strenuous exercise or go on long walks. It’s being advised to use a wheelchair for the week after I came out of hospital – I didn’t, but I should have done. I am building up my strength, but this is never something you want to go through.

And who says I should ever have wanted to lose this much weight? This weight loss is not desired at all. It’s a result of medical trauma. So why are we, as a society, constantly pressuring people to lose weight, and congratulating them when they do, when it’s not always something to be proud of? (More on this here) Just think about it – could that person be struggling, or is there something else going on? Is this their choice? Is what you are about to say going to make them feel self-conscious, or uncomfortable in their body, either how it is now or was before? Just think it through.

7. “At least it’s happened to you. I mean it’s bad timing, but A levels were always going to be a breeze for you, so just chill”

Thanks. I guess that’s another compliment, that you think I’m smart? Once I might have agreed with you, that with all the two years worth of work beforehand, and at least a month of concentrated revision, A levels shouldn’t have presented an insurmountable challenge, though I don’t think you can ever class them as a ‘breeze’ for anyone, no matter how well they perform on a regular basis. But now, well now it’s different.

Now I have missed out on approximately the nine preceding weeks before my A levels. Much of what I am relying on to get me through each paper is the initial work I did in Lower Sixth, and a morning or afternoon of massively crammed revision prior to the exam. And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I put in the work then, and that I have it to fall back on, but this is not the only thing that I should be relying on.  It’s not fun. And this would not be how I would choose to do it. It makes the whole experience so much more stressful. It’s frustrating to look at a question and think, ‘if I’d been in class in those last few weeks, I would have gone over this’ or ‘I’ve actually never done a history source question of this type before, because when they did practices, I was in hospital.’ It’s frustrating. It’s certainly not a ‘breeze.’

And I can no longer just go and sit an exam. I have to eat directly beforehand. I have to be in a separate room, with a separate invigilator who sits and watches me for any sign of descent into hypo. Within 10 minutes of my first exam I had to be stopped because my hand was shaking. Even if I exhibit no worrying signs, I have to stop at least every hour to check my blood sugar, if not every half hour. Stress and mental power uses up a lot of sugar. I have to take with me a whole box of different types of acting glucose, meters, insulin, needles, lancets, lancing devices, ibuprofen and drink lots of water. 3 hour exams tend to take at least 4 hours. My invigilators and I have a red phone which has the nurses and 999 on speed dial. I get home and collapse, without the energy to carry on for the next exam. The process is isolating, and it’s frustrating. But I need it. And I’m halfway there now.

But what’s also stressful is not knowing how it could turn out. We have absolutely no idea what my grades will be. My predicted grades were based on me working as I would have done, flat out, in the last weeks. That didn’t happen. Grades are up in the air. I can apply for special consideration, but it will only up me a maximum of 2%, and I can only apply for it to apply if I have a hypo or exhibit signs of deterioration during a specific paper. As a lifelong illness, Diabetes doesn’t qualify under recent illness or bereavement, since you should have been managing it forever. It doesn’t seem take into account what happens if it’s all new. We have no idea what is going to happen in August. And although I keep telling myself it will all be fine, it’s not exactly breezy.

8. “When does it stop?”

Easy answer: it doesn’t. Charities like JDRF are researching to try cures for Juvenile Diabetes Mellitus. But there is no cure yet. We wait.

We can manage it for the moment, with subcutaneous injections, IV fluids and blood glucose monitoring via finger pricks and monitoring strips. I carry these, and my hypo treatment with me everywhere. I have a medical ID wristband to identify me should I pass out alone, or be treated as drunk when I am having a hypo alone and in public. My insulin has its own passport, which I have with me all the time, and especially when I travel. It doesn’t go away.

My specialist team are hoping that I will qualify for some new whizzy devices that continually monitor glucose by having a sensor permanently on your arm, which you can swipe with a reader and it will not only give you a reading but show you a graph, and see whether you are trending up or down. I may yet transfer onto a pump system which can calculate your dose and administer insulin automatically. But that’s all the future. And it still won’t stop it; it’s only about management and control. I’m Diabetic 24/7. There’s no escaping it.

People usually remember that I’m diabetic only when I’m eating. And then they think that’s all it is – a food thing. But I still have diabetes when I leave the dinner table. I’m diabetic when I wake up and when I’m sleeping. I’m diabetic when I’m stressed and disappointed, excited or in love. Angry and ashamed or lonely and hurt. It doesn’t go away when I put the cap back on the syringe. It does not retreat once I fall to sleep.   ~An anonymous T1D

9. “Stop eating that, diabetics can’t have that”

Ah – this is a fun one. I can, technically, eat anything I want. So please don’t try and make decisions for me; I will tell you if I can’t eat anything. Some ‘diabetic’ food can also contain chemicals which act a bit like laxatives…so is best avoided, though Boots’ ‘no added sugar’ chocolate and shortbread have been life savers in the last few weeks, with half the carb value of normal brands. But I just have to be careful.

And sometimes it is harder for me if you try and avoid carbs, because at the moment I do need at least a small amount of carbohydrate with everything I eat to help me calculate a dose, as well as to keep at a stable weight. I have a book with lots of fun pictures of different size portions of food, which is helping me judge quantities without having to weigh all my food and on a day to day basis I work with a specialist dietitian and my school catering team to eat food that is both healthy and enjoyable! The only advice I’ve had and heeded (!), is that I should avoid chocolate, ice cream, and cake. But once in a week, and maybe twice, it’s ok – and whilst I can’t just snack freely or eat with no restrictions, if I want some chocolate, and believe me, there are times when all I want is a square of chocolate or 5 Maltesers, I will factor it in!

It often makes me feel more self-conscious of what I am eating, and makes meal times generally more stressful than they already are, if you stop me from eating what I feel comfortable eating. So trust me, although it is new, I do vaguely know what I’m doing, and fear not – I will speak up if something’s not right, or ask for a bit of bread with my salad 🙂

10. “You’re a bit of a mess, then, huh duck?”

Yep, someone said this to me. It was probably a side comment, and I’m not going to get mad with people because they don’t understand. But telling me I’m a mess goes to my head. It makes feel messed up. Different. Alone. A problem. It brings everything back. It makes me remember the things which are hard to process. It makes feel like I’m going to a mess for the rest of my life. For if I’m a mess now, so shall I be in 5 years. In 10 years. In 20. And who wants a mess in their life?

Maybe I am a bit of mess. I am still trying to learn, trying to process it all mentally, and trying to talk about it in a way that is helpful both to me and those around me. I don’t want to be a mess. I don’t want to cause mess. I don’t choose to create mess. But this me. And maybe it is messy right now. Maybe it still will be in a few weeks, and in a few months. Maybe even in a year. But it won’t always be messy, and I won’t always be coping like I have to now, with everything colliding at once. I’m stronger than mess.

11. “It’s a bit of a pain to be around you at the moment.”

Tell me about it. I feel guilty every day for feeling like a burden to those around me. It’s really hard to feel like you are responsible for someone else’s heightened fear. Or to feel like you are bombarding them with a load of information that they might not understand. It is hard to know that there is the chance that you might not wake up every night you go to bed, and there are people out there who are also trying to cope with knowing that. To feel awkward before going into the canteen every day, because I have to slip out to test and medicate, and count my carbohydrate intake before I eat. Their food gets cold, and so does mine.

Most of those around me day to day tell me that they don’t feel like it is a burden. And as the days go on, we settle into a new routine where there is a trust that I will say when and if things go wrong, but that I have enough independence to deal with day to day management. But it doesn’t stop me from being struck by guilt if I am out alone with my friends. The thoughts run through my mind: would they know what to do if I started acting like I was having a hypo? Would they recognise it? And the worst of all: with all this going on, I hope they can see that I am deep down still myself, even that I am trying to grow to be a better and bigger person because of this, trying to understand and develop the compassion to help and reach out to others in a similar position. I hope they don’t think, with all this going on, it would just be easier to continue gradually walking away. Because that would break my heart.

It’s hard. But it won’t be like this forever, and I would trust you with my life.

13. “But your Mum has Diabetes, so it’s not really an issue for you.”

This is something I get a lot. And it’s actually quite a rational argument. My Mum was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes when she was 15. It could be that I have a genetic pre-disposition to the condition. But as I said, there’s hardly any evidence to suggest it is directly hereditary. Anyway, it’s happened, we can’t change it.

In some ways it’s great. She knows what it can feel like to be in hospital and diagnosed. She knows what it can feel like to have hypo, and what the balance is between a hypo treatment that works fast, and a hypo treatment that doesn’t taste absolutely foul. At the moment I’m on a mix of Cadbury ‘fudge’ bars, and full sugar coke. It’s pretty disgusting, but has to be done about once or twice a week. She can also look at a plate if I’m struggling, like when we’ve gone out sometimes, and mouth across the table ‘approximately 50g,’ to help me calculate my dose.

But it can also be really hard. We are completely different people, and we lead different lives. We’ve been diagnosed in completely different ways: hers was what you might call a pretty regular diagnosis. She experienced all the regular symptoms and they caught it earlier on. I went from seemingly healthy and active, to bed-bound in ITU in the space of 24 hours. She can bend the rules, and feel when things go wrong. I still rely fully on my meter to know where I am. She has different insulins to me.  She has been dealing with it for 35+ years. I have had it for just over 70 days, and she can’t impose her Diabetes control, both practical and mental, on me. We work in different ways. She is a lot more matter of fact. I get a lot more emotional.

And knowing what is like probably makes it a lot harder on everyone in the house, because there’s now twice the worry, twice the fear. She knows what it’s like, so she can be more anxious about the things I do and can get up to. She has her own experiences which affect how my diagnosis is processed. As one of the first endocrinologists I saw explained, it’s like how often when you learn to drive, you use a driving instructor, and not your parents. The same is true with your DSN and your parents.

So as such, we made the decision early on that my Dad would be my chauffeur and waiting room accompanist at all my Doctor’s appointments. I’m actually old enough to do it all by myself. But I need someone to at least drive with me at the moment, and it’s him. In fact, it’s easier because Mum’s at work during the week anyway. But we tend to keep our Diabetes separate. Because it has the potential to actually be worse, rather than mutually beneficial.

14. *Orders ice cream* “Haha – Diabetes here we come!”

This is quickly becoming one of my pet peeves. So just a quick note. Please don’t joke about getting Diabetes. As I have explained, Type 1 has no known single ‘point-your-finger-at-it’ cause. There are a huge range of causes of Type 2. I don’t take offence too easily, but this is hard to hear on a daily basis. If you don’t know, just don’t even go there.

You won’t get Diabetes from eating ice cream, or chocolate, or sweets. And it’s not funny to joke about, so enjoy everything in moderation. I do too, and I’m diabetic.

15. “Seems like there’s nothing good about it.”

So here’s where I make the counter argument. Maybe a lot of this has been a rant. But I hope it’s also been educational, and made you a bit more aware of how much more to this there is than Maltesers.

I don’t want to end on a negative. So here I share the positive. I am gradually beginning to realise that Diabetes may be a sort of blessing in disguise. Let me explain. I don’t want anyone ever to have to have Diabetes. But if you have it, you can’t escape it, and it really is a life or death thing, so whilst it’s super hard, and there are rough days, and it takes so much time, you do begin to come terms with it, and even begin to find little glimpses of silver lining. I’m just at the beginning of that journey.

Diabetes sucks. But there’s a whole community out there. One of the first things my housemistress did when I was diagnosed was send an email round to all staff on site. Having been a boarder, is was important that everyone knew, so if I was found at any time of night or day, someone could help out. So many members of staff have come up to me and offered their support, understanding and stories about people they know with Diabetes who have gone on to do amazing things. “It might not feel like it now,” they say, “but you will go on to achieve just as much, or more, than you would have.” And week in, week out, I am overwhelmed by so many members of other communities I am part of  who come to, or reach out to me, and just say “hello” or “are you ok?” Sometimes I lie and say “I’m fine” when I don’t feel at all. Sometimes I absolutely mean it. But either way, I know they care, and that means so much.

And one of the best things I did for myself, was reach out to the community. There is an absolutely fantastic charity which is America-based, called “Beyond Type 1”. It is a community of people of all ages and genders across the world, who have type 1 diabetes. You send them your name, age, diagnosis date, and address, and preferences, and they match you with a similar Diabuddy, or someone else who has Diabetes, and for free, send you a starter pack of postcards, notelets and stickers to start a pen-friend relationship, called Snail Mail. That’s how I met JM. A training nurse who lives in Maryland, USA. Diagnosed at pretty much exactly my age, 2 years ago. It’s so good to have someone who understands, and whilst our medical systems are completely different, I don’t feel so alone. Thanks JM for everything, and for everything you will continue to be for me; I have a feeling our letter writing will last a long time. You make me feel a bit more normal.

It’s also been the most amazing concentrated time of prayer and support from my closest friends and extended family. I have felt alone, but never alone at the same time. I have received so many messages, so many letters and cards, the most beautiful flowers, pens to write my heart out with, books to write in, books to read whilst I’m stuck waiting for appointments, or hooked up to IVs, pictures of baby elephants from Sri Lanka to make me smile, and countless hugs, chats, phone calls, texts and many instances of “I don’t know what to say, except that I’m here for you, and I’m thinking of you.”Countless “my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family at this time.” Immeasurable love.

And I have also felt like I’ve understood another part of the world. Much of this I can’t understand. I want to know why: why me, why now, why this, why not that. I can’t. But what I can now understand is a bit of everyone’s life who experiences pain. A bit of those lives where you wake up in the morning and think “I can’t do this today.” A bit of those lives where you wake up in the morning and think “Yes! I’m going to smash it today.” A bit of the lives of the chronically ill. A bit of lives of the dying. A bit of the lives of those who love unconditionally and freely. A bit of lives of those who are scared. A bit more of the lives of all of us. And I have felt moments of absolute extraordinariness in the ordinary.

So I guess, this isn’t all bad. And it will get better. Everything, as M would say, is going to be fine.

If you’ve got this far, you 100% deserve at least 5 Maltesers. Thank you for all your continued support. You can watch this slideshow for a more pictorial idea of life!

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Extraordinary in Ordinary

Three things before we start –

Apologies for the stupidly excessive amount of times the words ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary’ are used. I hope you don’t get lost. I admit, I lost myself a few times. So please “bear with,” as my brother would say.

And huge credit to Canon J for reminding me of the jigsaw analogy – it is one I seem to be using a lot at the moment to explain life. I will never forget the bobbing conversation we first had after sabbatical when you explained it. It really helps, and not just me.

Finally – thank you to all those special people who make my ordinary extraordinary, and who share with me in extraordinarinesses day by day. You know who you are. 

We’re back in ordinary time. Though I missed it in somewhat spectacular fashion (I don’t do things by halves!), Easter is over. Pentecost has been and gone. So it’s ordinary time again. It has the capacity to sound rather bleak. Ordinary, in fact, or how the word ‘ordinary’ has come to be used. And whilst it is principally a measured and numbered time, it definitely has the capacity to drag on. When you get to the 21st Sunday after Trinity, there is no doubt you feel older. Or I do anyway. But ordinary time charts an extraordinary life. So ordinary time has the capacity to be a time for learning, growing, appreciating. And for every individual, the ordinary might just have the power to become extraordinary.

As much as the last few months have shown me that every day we are gifted is extraordinary, it’s difficult to remember. Now as I settle back into life, back into school, into exams, and slowly back into myself, I find that I am slipping into a new ordinary. I have new routine into which each day fits and becomes ordinary. It’s different than it was before Easter, it has to be. But it’s still kind of ordinary. And it certainly feels like it will become more natural as each day passes. I find it harder each day to find extraordinariness.

So I woke up yesterday to what I thought would be an ordinary Saturday. I hit the alarm at the luxurious time of nine o’clock – it is, after all, finally, half term. And I rolled out of bed and into the shower, not quite literally, but close. I checked my bloods, gave my first dosings of medications, and about an hour after waking, finally got around to eating breakfast (don’t tell my DSN!). It was Shreddies, if you’re interested. I told you this was going to be a pretty ordinary day.

I settled down to work and my desk soon turned from a blank canvass of a space into brain flow carnage. Paper covered every inch of wood, and, of course, decided to take flight onto the floor, into the garden and under the sofa, as soon as I opened the door to get some fresh air. Highlighters merged colours with bleeding ink. Arrows, asterisks and splashes of colour showed my exploding thoughts, linkages and patchy knowledge. I stepped back when I finished for the afternoon and was quite astounded by the chaos I was able to create. I am ever close to trusting in my family’s belief that ‘every space I inhabit is messy.’ Being legal types, they made me sign a document in 2015 that affirmed it. But I guess they can’t complain. Under the proviso that everything I am currently doing is ‘revision,’ most things seem to pass familial scrutiny, including eating a square of dark chocolate every once in a while: cocoa was a key export in the triangular trade originating during 17th century Stuart Britain, so it definitely counts as sensory immersion in the Stuart economics course. That’s my argument at least. Don’t you agree?

An ordinary day. I got in the car to go up to the Cathedral (it’s technically down geographically, but never mind), and it was a pretty ordinary drive, dodging weekend drivers and enduring my father’s regular exclamation: “what did he do that for?? Look where it got him… nowhere!” Suffice to say he’s not very good at channelling road rage. To be honest, hitching a lift was really just an excuse not to get the train, since my Dad had to be there anyway. So I suppose enduring road rage is sort of part of the package. And who knows – maybe I’m as bad when I drive…

I don’t know why, but I didn’t talk at all whilst we drove. I guess I just wasn’t really in the mood. Going back to places where I felt more than comfortable ‘before’ is even harder with an ‘after’ identity that’s still piecing itself back together. I hate that divide, but it’s sort of the only way I can think of to describe this. Whatever this is. It’s like before there was a jigsaw puzzle that before was almost complete, and so you could see life’s picture coming together. But now the jigsaw puzzle has been mauled, or trampled on, or broken up by someone frustrated that all the pieces of sky were the same colour. The edges are still roughly there, or at least they are the easiest bits to put back together. The boundaries of life are roughly in place. It’s the rest of the picture that’s missing or jumbled up. All the pieces are lying topsy-turvy on the floor. The picture isn’t clear anymore. You hope all the pieces are still there. But you don’t know – there could be one that’s missing. You don’t know when or if the picture will be complete again. It’s the feeling that the world has shifted under you, and you’re not quite sure where to stand, or if you are about to embarrass yourself in a spectacularly un-elegant mudslide. They are the same places, but you’re not quite the same person. I’m still trying to find where the ‘after’ person slots back in. I’m still piecing back the jigsaw puzzle.

I needed space.

So as soon as we parked up I headed to the gardens, sheltered by the body of the Cathedral itself, and shadowed with the wooden cross, the golden angel flying high above. They are the same gardens I used to play in in the transience of past summers, hoping desperately that the choristers would take 5 extra minutes, so I could have 5 extra minutes chasing the other siblings round and round, with the final strains of evensong just ever so slightly lingering as the sun slowly waned and the night crept in. The tufts of grass find a beautiful luminescence at this time of year, trapped daily between bouts of sweltering sunshine and scattered showers. It was the same grass where I would sneak a sandwich, or picnic with the other families enduring a three-service extravaganza of a Sunday. It doesn’t happen anymore, but the same gleaming grass is still there. And it harbours the same attraction to the child inside of me.

And, with an hour to spare before evensong, I took my books. Rather ordinary. It’s exam season, so I’m rarely anywhere without a book and a pad of paper to jot down any unusually inspired ideas, plans or thoughts. In fact, think my consultant was a little surprised when I came for my bi-weekly assessment this week accompanied by a hefty volume of Tacitus. But you never know about hospital waiting times, and I’ve found that a historian who is characterised by his ability to politically psychoanalyse is a great match for the joys of sitting on an inconveniently placed plastic fold-down chair that is unimaginably uncomfortable (who designed those things?), waiting for a delayed appointment to be drained of yet more blood or infused with some new IV goodness, watching doctors, nurses, paramedics, patients, assistants, relatives, children, the elderly, wheelchairs, beds and trolleys trundling past down clinically sanitary white corridors, long, maze-like and dingy. And when other spare time allows, the ducks and the adorable golden and fluffy goslings in the local lake are becoming ever well-versed in Ovid, Propertius and Tibullus. It is somewhat less awkward learning the erotic Amores in the shaded woodland than in a public space. The ducks don’t seem to mind anyway.

But whenever I go to the Cathedral, it’s normally Greek. Rarely anything else strikes me as having the right gravitas. And if I want to work on my translation, the Greek Bible feels very at home there, as I hide, tucked out of sight in the library, beavering away to the sound of organ practice, or tourists wandering and wondering what lies beyond the solid door. But I wasn’t in the library yesterday. It was too claustrophobic, too dark and too serious. Besides, Thucydides was charting the battle of Pylos, with its precipitous headland and rocky terrain. It was much more fitting to be out in the gardens, atop the hill with its views down onto the town below.

And I needed space.

And I hadn’t been feeling anything particular all day. And it would have been a completely ordinary hour to anyone else. But suddenly, sat there, on a bench in the garden, a bush shading me from the sun beating down, but still feeling the all-encompassing heat in all its glory, and with the blue sky traced not a single whisper of cloud holding my gaze, dreaming to the strikingly familiar soundtrack of children racing down the hill below, and the students sunbathing, and the birds singing joyful hymns in the budding branches, a wave of extraordinariness struck me. I can’t really describe it in a way that it merits. Except that this was a moment I wanted to capture forever. Just a single moment with all the sounds and heat and scents of summer. A perfect and extraordinary moment in an ordinary minute.

I felt so grateful to be in that moment. Grateful to be alive. Grateful for summer. Grateful for faith. Grateful for the chance to have a moment of silent solitary stillness. Grateful for hope. Grateful for youth. Grateful for strength. Grateful for survival. Grateful for the world’s beating heart.

Those moments are truly extraordinary. When you feel like all the darkness and the light and the pain and the hope just align for a single second. When you feel like the world is yours to share in. When you feel like there is a split second of ultimate peace. When you feel like all you can do is love.

Slowly, the moment melted. It dissipated before my eyes, as another dog walker turned my gaze, a child’s shriek struck me unaware, and the pages of Thucydides started to flap incessantly as the breeze picked up. And I too seemed to melt back into the ordinary routines of working. But that feeling of extraordinary power didn’t seem to leave me. And it’s still there, locked away in my heart or mind.

I can tell I was still in a haze even 10 minutes later, despite returning from dreaming to studying, since a gentle and quiet “hello” half-startled me and I jumped, much to both of our amusements. But I think the unconscious haze that followed, as I held that moment close, is indicative its beauty. It was a moment that shrouded me so completely; I was so perfectly in tune with my own thoughts to the extent that, for that one moment, I could transcend the earth’s pain.

It is the extraordinary moments like that one that you come back to when the world throws you, knocks you back and winds you. Moments which change you. Second by second.

But change takes many forms. Sometimes it comes all at once. In fact, I left school on Friday, a time tinged with so many bittersweet emotions. I’m ready to leave. So ready. But there is a part that tugs me back. It’s certainly a big change, and therefore overwhelming. Yet it seems pertinent, since, as I write this, it is my headmistress’ departing words to us that echo in my mind, that we shouldn’t feel the pressure to have to be glorious, and live an extraordinary life. “There is nothing wrong with living an ordinary life well.”

For me, it’s definitely not about living an extraordinary life. I’m about the most ordinary you get, with rather ordinary hopes and fears. But living an ordinary life well, that’s more like it. And I think it’s not always the big changes that make the difference. It’s the ability to discern the changing extraordinary second hidden in the ordinary minute, and cherish those extraordinary moments, that make a day lived well and that make an ordinary life extraordinary. In that sense, there is no better thing than living an ordinary life well.

And sometimes there are those rare hours and days when there are so many extraordinary moments that you just want to capture them all and hold onto them in your heart forever. So, what had been an ordinary studying Saturday became an extraordinary one. For that moment was just the first.

The second was like, namely this. The same bench, the same shade. The same sun, the same breeze. The same golden angel and same shadowing cross. The same blue sky, the same striking green. But two people. Two people who chose to cast books and stress aside for a few hours of just being, and enjoying living (and pizza 😊). The picture was quite ordinary: two people sitting on a bench in the sun, quite alone in that part of the garden, but not really alone at all, talking about the weather, the week and the future, laughing, and commiserating. Yet however ordinary, there was a similar wave of extraordinariness to the feeling I had experienced alone. Although, this time, the moment seemed to harbour a greater profoundness. Because it was not divine for me alone. It was the extraordinary shared.

I lay in bed later. In fact, you won’t be surprised to hear I lie in bed most nights. It is distinctly ordinary. But somehow this, again, was extraordinary. It was characterised by thoughts different to my usual angst-filled reflections on A levels, or mental essay planning. None of my usual cares seemed to cross my mind. The window, cracked half open, let in just a subtle coolness to the overwhelming heat of the room. The curtains waved, and beat ever so softly against the pane. The birds were still singing though night was swiftly dragging at the sky. But their tune was no match for the music the day had brought. I closed my eyes from the ticking of the clock and just listened to my breath fade into nothingness, arms wrapped round me in a sure embrace. I wished I never had to leave that moment.

Ordinary time is measured. It drags on. Watching the clock is a reminder of how, in the grand scheme of things, there is so little time we have left to spend together. I have lived for 9,672,480 minutes up to this point. That’s 580,348,800 seconds. I’ve roughly spent 2400 of those writing this. And probably more by the time you read this. So how many of them have actually counted? I don’t know. Ordinary time drags on.

But sometimes, in ordinary seconds, extraordinary time is found. It doesn’t feel measured. It is both ephemeral and lasting beyond the confines of time. It changes you. It counts. It is what we hold to. It is how we move through the pain. Everyday, we must try to search out extraordinary time in an ordinary second. To hold onto it. To cradle it. To come back to it when there is no one to turn to.

Though I share something of this with you, deep down, in my heart, I know no words, no language, or music will ever be able to describe the true sense of extraordinariness. Maybe it is foolish to even try to write it down. I can only ever go part of the way to acknowledging the love of it. The rest you’ll have to feel for yourselves.

This ordinary time, find the extraordinary moments. Share the extraordinary. Make the decision to live, and love living. Hold onto the extraordinary in the face of the ordinary. Look to the extraordinary when the ordinary overwhelms. Who knows, this ordinary time, you might just see for yourself the extraordinary person I know you are, and continually called to be.


Ready to be 18?

Written on New Year’s Eve… and posted today because these last couple of days have just been a bit of a blur with family, New Year appointments, travelling and facing the reality of work!  

Today is the 31st of December. New Year’s Eve. And tomorrow will be a New Year. 2018. Today is also interesting, because it is the only day that scientists reckon in history that everyone who is an adult was born in one century (the 20th), and everyone who is a child was born in the following (21st). Random fact, I know.

But that fact hits home for me, because it means that I am nearing the end of my childhood. In just a couple of days, this millennium baby will be 18. A scary thought for me as well as you. Adults have always been who I’ve looked up to. And now I am going be one, and for a while I’ve struggled with the question of whether I will capable of the burden of wisdom, assertiveness and self-belief that seems to magically be present in the adults in my life.

At the end of the school term, this was really worrying me. I was sat in my House, probably looking a little forlorn, in the process of finding snippets of the Christmas story in the Greek NT for translation later in the day, when my tutor came in and asked me what was wrong. Nothing, I said. It’s not important. But it is, he said. You are worrying about something. And I just said it: I’m not ready to be an adult. I don’t want to let go to the innocence and protection of childhood. I want more time.

And he said: So let’s make it stop. For two minutes. Let’s think about your last year of childhood. And let’s think about whether you’re ready. And so we reflected on this last year, what has happened, and how it has changed me.

Learning to drive: At the beginning of this year, I couldn’t even contemplate getting in a car. When we had been in America in 2015, staying with our friends from Mississippi, I had been scarred by them physically pushing me into the driver’s seat of the hire car and telling me to drive around the driveway of the property. I couldn’t do it – I was shaking and terrified that I would kill someone. They said I’d be perfectly safe. Their son, one year older than me, was driving by himself aged 16. So could I. But I couldn’t, and there were tracks through the grass to prove it. So suffice to say I was terrified that I would be learning to drive. I did want to, the freedom afforded would be worth it. But getting in the car for the first time was scary. And so it went on. Each time I learnt a new procedure, I was convinced I’d hit someone. Then I passed my theory test first time. And my driving did get better. And I became more confident on the roads. And I drove to school every day, and home again. And then I failed my first test. I was ok about it – 1 major and 1 minor. My driving was safe, I just made a stupid mistake. I’d try again. I failed again. And that time I was mad with myself. Old thoughts of failure came raging back, and I could feel myself getting more and more agitated, and frustrated and angry. When I got home, both my parents were out and just sat in my room and cried because I thought I had failed. I had failed myself, and I had failed my instructor, and I had failed my parents. It would be 2018 before I had any chance of passing with the new test regulations. And I didn’t know what to do to stop myself from drowning in this dangerous thought whirlpool I recognised so well.

I remembered that when I failed the first time, I read a book that one of the Canons at the Cathedral had sent me. JK Rowling’s Very Good Lives: The Fringe Benefits of Failure. And so, I took a deep breath and opened it. Unlike the first time, I don’t think I read much of it. I just had to look at it. I knew that someone had sent me that book because they believed in me; I wasn’t a failure. And I knew I had to get back in the driving seat. I’m going to take my test again. Of course I hope I’ll pass. But if I fail, I’ll find the book again, and I’ll be OK.

I was changed because I saw that in the grand scheme of things, people love and appreciate me for who I am, and not whether I can drive or not. I was changed because I picked myself back up. And I have been changed, because I am beginning to understand what it is to succeed in failure.

Being operated on: Being operated on was a big thing for me (background to the operation is here). I had never had an operation before, and I was very scared, because the operation I had did carry risks, not only that, with my blood condition, I could have had a dangerous bleed, but also that it might not stop the nasal aspect of the condition, it could actually make it worse, especially as by working on both sides of the nose, they left me with a very thin dividing cartilage which might collapse or be easily perforated. And to save you more gory details, the operation wasn’t going to be as easy as it should have been. In the pre-op meeting, the nurse could tell I was nervous, as we went through all the major risks of surgery. And I just broke down and said: I’m scared. I took down that barrier of pretending that I am not afraid. And it has let me live for 6 months without being admitted to hospital with major blood loss.

And I was changed, because I admitted I was scared, and I let myself be vulnerable.

Athens: In April, I was able to go to Greece for the first time. As an aspiring Classics student, this was AWESOME. I was soo excited. We visited all sorts of Classical monuments, from the Parthenon (obviously), to the Roman forum, Hadrian’s library, the temple of Olympian Zeus, Sophocles’ prison, the Panathenaic stadium and more. We ate lots of ice cream, wandered all over, and even had cocktails on the waterfront at Piraeus, and watched the sun set behind the Acropolis, painting the sky with flaming pink. What more could you want? Well, this trip didn’t just confirm to me that my UCAS application would not be in vain. This trip showed me the cross-cultural community that exists in faith. The last day that we spent in Athens was Palm Sunday, and to be honest, I missed being at the Cathedral, despite the eternity that is usually spent singing All Glory Laud and Honour whilst trudging around the entirety of the Cathedral, only then having to do the awkward side swapping to get back on the side you were seated on as you approach the nave. And I wasn’t in a very good mood. But it is evidently a custom in Greece to hand out orange blossom and real palms to passers-by on the street. Christ’s coming was everywhere. And throughout the next few days, and the rocky emotions accompanying them, I was repeatedly struck by the inescapability of faith, and the wordly body of faith that transcends a single heart, Church or country.

I have been changed because I realised that I couldn’t escape God however hard I tried, and that He would never escape me.

Ypres: Just after we went to Athens we were lucky enough to tour with our school Chamber choir to the Ypres Salient, notably singing masses at Ghent Cathedral, in St Martin’s Cathedral Ypres, and St George’s English Church Ypres, and performing at the Menin gate, and at various CWGC sites. It was a great opportunity to see the world with friends, meet new people, perform and hang out. Ice cream and chocolate featured heavily; unfortunately we were too young to join the staff in Belgian beer. We were also able to go to the cemetery where my great great Uncle, who was killed in the First World War, is buried, and leave a cross and wreath. It was a personally touching moment in the frenzy and chaos of a choir tour. But for me it was a difficult couple of days, coping with the emotions of being in a place that evokes so much sorrow and yet so much hope. It was difficult to share a room with 5 other girls with one bathroom. And it was difficult to get up there and perform, often very exposed, in buildings I wasn’t familiar with to larger audiences than we ever have when we sing in England. I have always been a nervous performer, but the tour took nerves to a new level. But I got through every performance, and by the end our conductor even said that I smiled sometimes. And at our last performance, singing at the Menin Gate Ceremony, I was able to sing with strength for the men we were representing, to smile and to talk with pride with visitors who had come to the Ceremony from across the world. One woman burst into tears when I was able to converse with her in French about our school and why we had come to tour. It was a very special evening.

Coming back to England, the performances that stacked up were more high-profile and exposed than I had ever done, with an evening at St John’s Smith Square singing Duruflé’s Requiem, soloing the Pie Jesu, followed by performing alongside Tenebrae and playing in our quartet for weddings. But each time, despite only being able to think ‘I can’t mess this up. I can’t mess this up. I can’t mess this up,’ I survived, remembering that night at the Menin Gate. And each time I got a little bit more confident. It was a massive achievement to be able to sing Darke’s In the Bleak Midwinter at Nine Lessons and Carols in December in front of the whole school. And for once, I am excited as to what the New Year of music making holds, especially upcoming performances at the Cadogan Hall, and competing in the Barnado’s Youth Choir of the year competition in March.

This year the nerves didn’t beat me. This year I was changed, because I learnt how to channel nervous energy into music that captured people’s hearts.

Doing the impossible: Two years ago, I was told that taking an A level early would be impossible. Taking AS Greek would also be impossible. I would have no lessons, no teachers could fit me in. I would have to juggle the work on top of 4 other A levels. I would not be given compensation, I would not be given curricular help. I wouldn’t get study leave. And ultimately it wouldn’t be worth it, because I couldn’t give it the time. But I wanted to challenge myself.  Whilst taking my GCSEs, I took French AS. In September, I saw the head of MFL again. What can I do, I said, to convince you to let me take the A2 in June. Nothing, he said. It’s not possible. So I took my timetable to the Head of Academic Studies. I want to do this. Show me how we can fit in time, to make 5 A levels possible. She did it, warning me to stop if it got too much. And slightly nervous, I knocked on the door of the U6 French class, and said that I would be joining them for the year. And so it began. That afternoon, I went to the Head of Classics, and we started Greek. Let’s do this, she said. And so my Lower Sixth year was characterised by never-ending lessons, my free periods occupied by French, and with Greek lessons before and after school. I was so tired, most of the time. But it was worth it, in August, when I received the results that proved everyone wrong. I did it, and I am now taking a second year in Greek. Looking back, I probably did cause myself a lot of unnecessary stress, and I sacrificed a lot of myself and my energy to working late into the night for two exams. I should have taken my Deputy Head’s advice, and stopped when it got to much. I would sit on my floor at night and ask why I was doing it. I would pray for guidance and rest. Looking back, I probably should have thought a bit more about what I was letting myself into before I jumped in headlong. I should have taken more time for rest. But, having often leant on God, I had managed it. And even if I hadn’t, my attitude to results had definitely changed.

And so I was changed, because I realised that with prayer, motivation, and lots of hard work, the impossible is always possible.

Becoming a prefect: In May, I was made a School Prefect. It’s a job that involves many menial tasks, running around the school, as well as managing behaviour in lunch queues, tuck shop queues, rugby matches, in corridors, and during breaks, and acting as a secret spy network for the Head. Someone’s been feet away from a plate being dropped from the third floor window of one of the male houses, we know about it. Someone’s suspended, we know about it. Someone’s being bullied about it, we’re their shield. Someone’s looking under the weather, we’re there. Someone needs someone to talk to, we’re the closest shoulder to cry on. Someone looks sad, we’re a bit of sunshine. Someone is jeopardising their livelihood by not crossing at the zebra crossing, we have eyes in the back of our heads. And that’s why it such a rewarding role. You are daily on the front line of issues, disagreements, break-ups, inappropriate behaviour, successes and failure. You’re the link between pupil and teacher. You lead the school, but you walk with the school. You share in laughter and tears. And I’ve been able to hold people’s hand and say I’ve been there. This happened to me. I’m here today. I got through it. And they squeeze my hand back. Thank you. It’s so simple. But it can be hard too. When I first got the role, I sat down with my Housemistress. We talked through what I would find difficult being a Prefect for the School. I said that I would probably find time commitments hard. Sacrificing lunches and breaks to stand in freezing weather, in the snow and rain, to shout at 16 year old boys who are jumping on each other in the canteen queue wasn’t exactly something I was looking forward to. I liked to have every minute possible in my control, either to work, or to take time out. She acknowledged this but said she didn’t think it would be a problem. You have a gift for giving of yourself when you have nothing left, she said. I think you’ll manage. Here’s what I think you’ll find toughest. Giving too much. You are too compassionate. You bear everybody’s problems, and sometimes you forget that there will be problematic times for you too. And she was so right. It is such a privilege to stand beside pupils through the good times and the bad. But I have had to learn to say no sometimes. I can’t humanly cope with stretching myself between 5 places. I have had to prioritise and put my health, work and primary duties first. And say no to things that other people can, and are willing to do. And in doing so, I’ve been able to spend more time doing the things that I love within the school, acting as Librarian to the Choirs, serving in Chapel, leading Debating, singing in choirs, playing in quartets and orchestras. I do as much as I can, and say no to things that don’t matter. But my door has always remained open.

But I have been changed, not only because I have learnt the joy of sharing in compassion, and being a face of light in darkness, but because I have had to recognise the balance between giving freely to others, and giving too much of myself.

Community Holiday: This week was probably the stand out week for me this year. It is one of the greatest things that our school is able to do, to host 20 children with disabilities ranging from high functioning Autism, to Cerebral Palsy, ADHD and Down’s Syndrome, and to provide a team of student volunteers, assisted by medical and teaching staff, to care for them 24/7. I use disability in the loosest possible term. Because although some of these children were wheelchair bound, partially sighted, provoked by the smallest movement, or the slightest change in environment, had no verbal capacity or no concept of social conventions, they were some of the happiest and most able people I have ever had the chance to work with. Each of us was paired with a child to care for overnight. I had no idea what to expect, and I was in for a tough week. My night time child was mid-teens, with ADHD and Asperger’s. She came from an incredibly difficult social background, and arrived  with little other than the clothes she came in. For a week with activities ranging from high ropes, to muddy trails, swimming, the beach, a theme park and a boating expedition, she had one spare shirt, and a towel. It was heart breaking to see how scared she was of the shower, revealing to me that she has a bath once every other week. And when we tried to bathe her, she wouldn’t let anyone touch her. She was a runner, and I spent a large portion of my week chasing after her down the corridors, as she sprinted away from medication, meals and bedtime. And during the night, she would wake up, screaming. I ended up having to take three nights off, just so that I could get some sleep. It was certainly difficult. But seeing her smile in the morning made it worthwhile. And whilst of course I remember the big moments from the week: ice cream on the beach, seeing Aladdin at the theatre, the pirate ship at the theme park; it is the smaller moments I remember most fondly: after spending an hour in the dining hall, successfully managing to coax a child into eating a single meatball, followed by an empty plate 10 minutes later, or getting a child to sit in the sing-song ring for the first time. It was a week full of smiles, laughter, and the greatest joy. To see the children’s faces light up was incredibly special. By the end of the week, I had built a connection and a sense of trust with all the children. It was incredibly hard to say goodbye. And whilst the week faded into joyous memories, the abiding peace that I felt having sung Kumbaya to the children at the end of each evening is something I still hang onto.

I was changed because I was forced to lost myself and my inhibitions in giving of myself for a week. I was changed because I could make a little girl who had nothing experience everything. I was changed because I couldn’t communicate through words, but had to communicate through showing love. And I was changed because my appreciation of the value of life, and what is to truly live, was transformed.

Lambeth Palace: In the middle of July, I was lucky enough to have just come back from the beach, had taken a shower, and was just contemplating the bubbles in the boiling pot of spaghetti, when my phone flashed with an email from the Dean of the Cathedral. I can remember that moment vividly; I think because that email, and everything that has happened since, was completely unexpected, completely humbling, encouraging and so completely scary, it has become imprinted in my mind. I was invited to be interviewed and speak at Lambeth Palace about my experience of being young and in a Cathedral. I have to admit that, at first, the stubborn part of me thought about saying no. I didn’t want to be dragged out again as the ‘token young person.’ But I knew this was an amazing opportunity, and something made me reprimand myself for thinking as I had. I had to go, and clearly, from babbling on here too much, I have a lot to say. And it was a day that I will never forget.

But what was perhaps more affecting for me than actually what I said, or what my heart said, was the response I had following the evening. I remember being on the bus back to Waterloo, and I did feel slightly in awe of what I just had the opportunity to do, and I had a lot of thoughts and prayers buzzing around in the back of my mind. But what I was not expecting was the torrent of messages, tweets, hugs, calls, emails and letters that I received, and all the conversations that arose. I felt such divine love. I was so completely overwhelmed. I didn’t realise that people had been so touched and affected by what I had to say. In sharing my experience of faith, and my journey, I could spread the word of how faith has saved me. In faith, I could touch people. I know that the conversations and opportunities that have arisen from that one night are not over. I keep receiving new reminders of how transformative sharing and serving can be. My thoughts are continually racing. I don’t think it would be so far to say that whatever indescribable glorious thing I experienced that night, and the ongoing friendship and fellowship,  has been utterly life-changing in how I see the future unfolding. And I know there is so much more to come.

I was changed, because I allowed myself to openly speak from my heart and share who I was, and who I have become in faith. I rejoiced with those around me, and have felt such connection to so many more. I acknowledged the indescribable glorious thing.

And somewhere in the midst of the speaking, in the frenzy of the following days and weeks, I was changed because I heard God calling me.

This year I was changed. In so many different ways. In ways that I could never have predicted at the start of the year. Changes that arrived on unexpected days, in unexpected places, with unexpected effects.

My tutor and I sat there. Me in tears. His eyes gleaming with his own appreciation of the significance of everything I just told him. And he said: I think you know what I’m going to say. You are already adult. And to be honest, what I’ve learnt is that the secret of adulthood is knowing that you’ll never really feel like one. You’ll never want to let go to the protections of childhood, because the nature of adulthood is incredibly scary – you are getting ready to venture into the world alone. And you need the strength to be able to thrive. But since I met you, 4 years ago, you have continued to grow in strength and love. You’re continually changing, you’re learning to find that strength. You’re ready to take on this world, and fly.

As I watched him leave the room, still clutching the Greek NT, I sat in silence. It was a profound movement of stillness and self-awareness. I realised that I did change this year. I grew in resilience, in openness, in wisdom, in empathy, in perseverance, in failure, in success, in leadership, in trust, in vulnerability, and a lot in faith. And so, sitting here on New Year’s Eve, I’m not so scared anymore. Adulthood is not about perfect wisdom, life-experience, maturity. Adults still fight battles with self-belief. But I think adulthood can be about taking your childhood, and, acknowledging how you have been changed, finding the courage to fly.

“We are both the authors of our own stories, and the heroes of our own destinies… A new year is just another day. And the dawn of each and every day brings equal hope. We never know which change we make will be the one that will twist our story for the better, but I can bet you that it won’t always be the change you make at the beginning of the chapter, at the beginning of the year, but the one that comes on an unpredictable page, on an unpredictable day. So take every second, every word and relish it. Have courage, faith and make changes each and every day, even when you are afraid to do so, and you will live your life to its full capacity. You never know – perhaps your story will be read for eternity.”~ Me, one year ago, A New Year Hope

When I wrote this a year ago, how little I knew that it would come so true. The best plot twists this year have been unforeseen, shocking, scary, and emotional, but all utterly life-changing. And so, with myself as my own author and my own hero, I am once again ready to take each day as it comes. I can’t wait to experience more unexpected life-changing moments in 2018, and I’m so ready for all that this next crazy year is going to throw at me – from finishing school to leaving home.

And although I never thought I’d say this, I’m so ready to be 18. Bring it on!

My thanks go to all of you for supporting me throughout this year. It’s been one of up and downs, but I have been so touched by all your prayers, emails and messages. You are all amazing, and the love I have felt has been so overwhelming and has lifted me up in darker days. I give my love back to you, and wish you too all the best for this new year ahead. May you continue to love, laugh, and live.


Don’t go through life, grow through life. ~ Eric Butterworth


I saw this quote this afternoon, after an enriching and encouraging talk with one of the Canons at the Cathedral. To be honest, I had been dreading it. I’m not a particularly confident person at voicing my opinions outside the home. Trust me – my brother would easily confirm that I’ll put up a domestic fight where I see it is necessary.  I accept the fact that I am opinionated in certain spheres, and I mostly I feel confident in my own opinions, but I won’t often share them, for fear of being judged.

Much of my fear of voicing my opinions comes from the fact that I am still 17. What weight do my little words have on the world? How can I see things in a way that adults can’t? I must be wrong. I stay quiet, and let the adults talk.

But recently I’m beginning to understand that it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m proud of my opinions, and I’m gaining more confidence both in myself, and my abilities to voice concerns and suggestions. I’m almost an adult – I can take responsibility and show leadership, despite my age.

I felt alone before, like no one would understand me if I spoke out. They weren’t saying the things that I saw, so I must have been wrong. But, in truth, we all see the world in a different way. It is, therefore, important that everyone feels able to voice their own opinions. Perhaps they don’t say what I see because they don’t see it. And if they don’t see it, then they should see it. And it’s my responsibility to make them see what I see. Because I am important, however young I am. I can play a role, and my little words might just make a difference in my communities – because sometimes God speaks to the young.

That’s something I’m still in the process of accepting.

And key to that was doing something – was speaking out. And I spoke. I probably spoke too much. Bottled up thoughts turn into an avalanche of offload. But I spoke. And that’s what’s important. It felt like a relief, a burden gone. The thoughts I’ve kept inside for so long, the anger and the confusion, could all flow out to someone who, actually, understood. And, as a result, I found a bit more of myself. A bit more confidence, trust and resilience. A part of me seemed to heal. I grew in myself.

One of the things that I will always remember from the conversation we had, was the word ‘appreciate.’ We should ‘appreciate’ people in our communities. That doesn’t just mean appreciation in terms of gratitude, though this vitally important, but also appreciation in terms of growth. We should enable those around us to grow, physically, mentally, in strength, in confidence, in faith, in understanding, in curiosity, in vocation.

So perhaps we should just go through life, ignoring our opinions and bottling things up, but grow through life. We should appreciate, and we should be appreciated. With the help of those around us, our communities, we can grow in confidence, and discern our calling. We should grow and become the people we strive to be – freed of shame, fear, doubt, and lack of self-confidence. We should speak out, be strong, and we will grow. And perhaps we will see that we are not so alone.

Thank you to those who appreciate me and enable me to grow in every way.

Lead by example with hope; never fear

My brother and I, usually amicably but occasionally not quite so, share an office. Usually a great source of dispute is what we listen to when we are working. My brother, when I am listening to something he doesn’t appreciate, takes pains to remind me that it has been proven listening to music with lyrics while you are working significantly reduces your brain’s capacity to take in the information you are studying. He learnt that from Vish, his study sensei (but that’s a different story). I similarly take pains to reply that he is a music scholar and academic musician so he should be listening to all music and drawing astute links between them. He usually leaves the room, slamming the door as he goes.

But if we happen to get on amicably (63% of the time) we tend ignore Vish, and a fly on the wall would not be surprised to hear plainsong, psalms and hymns in the office as we work (the hymns aren’t so good as we tend to sing along, sometimes substituting words for others especially with naff hymns – “I the Lord of sea and sky/I have made my people fly” and “Who put the corn into the cornflake” are two of our favourites – you get the picture). But last week was half term, and, having had a bit of that unknown quality of sleep, my brother and I were on good terms (it lasted 2 days). One day I allowed him (sorry Vish) to listen to a podcast whilst he played Fifa, and I wrote my french essay. And it was something that was covering the installation of the new President –

“I want our young people to know that they matter, that they belong,” Obama said, her voice breaking several times near the end of her remarks. “So don’t be afraid. You hear me, young people? Don’t be afraid. Be focused. Be determined. Be hopeful. Be empowered. Empower yourself with a good education. Then get out there and use that education to build a country worthy of you boundless promise. Lead by example with hope; never fear.”

And I’m not American, far from it. But I felt as if at that moment, Michelle Obama was speaking to me too. Somewhere in our lives we will all experience a feeling of not belonging, of fear, of lack of focus, of lack of determination, of lack of hope. And in that moment, I was feeling all those things.

We are constantly afraid, and we hide behind this dark shadow of fear, letting the world slip by. It is all too easy to think that we don’t matter, that people will not listen to us. But Obama rekindled that hope in me that there is a way that we can all change the world if we try. But she also recognises that it’s not going to be easy – there are times when we are so afraid that all we want to do is curl up under the duvet, in the warm, and not come out. We revert to our inner child. But it is our responsibility to get out there and use our gifts for good – to send a message, to be the person that we want to be. Because if no one tries then the world will slip by.

I remembered these feelings when I was at the Eucharist on Sunday. I didn’t really want to go – it felt more of an obligation than a choice. I put on my jeans, not usually deemed appropriate, heaved myself into the car and we went. At the beginning of the service I felt really uncomfortable, a feeling I haven’t experienced in a long time. I was afraid to go there, a place that seems so full of despair. I was afraid of what I would feel. But the reading was –

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? 26 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27 Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life[a]?

28 “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29 Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30 If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? 31 So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ 32 For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33 But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Matthew 6:25-34

And this also touched me, and made me think about my fears, worries and my current failure to empower myself to be the best person I can. Sometimes, a lot of the time in fact, it is so easy to let worries about health, religion, business, day to day life, education, exams and relationships weigh you down and take over your brain. But life is about making the choice to be that young person Obama wants you to be. It’s about trusting fearlessly in God, no matter how far you feel from Him, because everything will be given to you that is necessary.

I don’t want to be someone who gets to my mid twenties and looks back and thinks ‘what did I do in my teenage years that made me the person I am today’ and regret not doing anything. I’m not going to stand up in the street and start preaching at people to change their ways. But I write it on here. Every day I make a choice to be the person I am. Every day I have the choice to be empowered and to stick up for myself and have no fear. And 60% of the time I do that. 40% of the time I let time pass me by. And I regret that, but I know I’m not, nor will ever be perfect. So all I can do is try to make that choice when I wake up, and carry that choice through to the end of the day.

Sometimes it’s those little epiphanies that make me think: yes. I can do this – I can be that person I choose to be and I will have no fear because God is beside me. It is the everyday God who reassures us of his constant presence and allows us to live in hope, and not in fear. Even in the darkest pit of despair, he tells us that there will be hope: we must not worry. There will be mistakes along the way. You won’t make it to that person every day. And it’s taken me 17 long years to accept that it’s ok to cry. I think I cried more this weekend than I have in a long time. But in a way, I feel more at peace, though my worries and fears still rage inside me, I want to use them to make me the person I see in my head when I think of who I am in God.

So maybe, just sometimes, Vish, it’s a good thing to listen to words whilst you’re studying -maybe it will reveal to you a determination to achieve your full potential.


A little GCSE Results Day inspiration

It’s 25th August, and you’ve spent the whole summer trying to forget about them. But you can’t put it off anymore. It’s either the day you have waited patiently for, or the day you wish would never have come.

Either you now have to log on to your school website to get your results, or you have to go into school and you will be given an envelope. For me, the latter is probably worse. To hold something in your hands that contains your results, and which in some way will direct your future, is daunting to say the least. You may choose to get your results alone, locked in the school toilet cubicle, or with friends, or family. Do whatever you feel most comfortable with, and don’t let anyone pressurise you. They’re your results after all!

After my AS Results Day last week, I’m feeling a lot calmer about GCSE Results today. However, I wasn’t always like this. Like I expect many teenagers, I have spent at least a few minutes each day replaying an exam, or thinking about the results looming. To read more about my feelings approaching Results Day, you can click here, to read my blog post of 18/08/16. I’m sure many of you will either be going through or have gone through exactly the same things as I was last Thursday. But my main message was this – it doesn’t matter (and everyone will tell you this and you won’t believe them even though you should) what the result is. Your result does not define you, and you can do anything you want to, if you want to achieve it. Don’t let a letter on a piece of paper change who you are, because you will be loved no matter what.

Here is what Winston Churchill has to say. Whether you think you succeeded or failed today, let his words inspire you to go on to do great things.

“Success is not final; failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts.” Winston Churchill

#QOTD (Quote of the day)

I have spent most of my day reading Wuthering Heights for my English A level, and writing an article on the importance of religion for my school magazine which will be published in October. Consequently, I didn’t really feel like writing all that much tonight as my words are running dry, and my eyes are tired from the screen.

However, I wanted to share with you this quote from Wuthering Heights which I read earlier. Although I have got better, I am a great procrastinator when I am not at school. This quote really made me think about retraining my work ethic during the summer and getting all my coursework, writing and reading done in the morning so that in the afternoon I could relax, sunbathe, walk, cycle, read for pleasure, watch a movie etc. without the pressure of doing work in the afternoon (which I usually don’t end up doing and I put off until the next day).

During the next few days I am going to try and keep this in the forefront of my mind and start achieving more…I’ll let you know how that goes!

A person who has not done half of his day’s work by ten o’clock, runs the chance of leaving the other half undone. –Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

What helps you to stop procrastinating? Comment down below or send me a tweet @christiangirluk!