Just keep going.

If you asked me 10 years ago what would make my perfect evening, I would have said that a perfect evening consisted of at least 2 hours of swimming training, followed by a packet of crisps in the car, waiting for J, secretly listening to the final strains of evensong echo in the car park. Then going home to bed.

Swimming was my physical outlet. It was cathartic. I remember thinking that it was perfect, because no-one could tell if I was crying. The tears pricking my eyes merged with the stinging water of the pool. Some more strokes forward, and tears were just another drop in an infinite number, through which I swam furiously. You had to be strong to swim. Just keep swimming, and everything would be ok.

But it wasn’t. Soon after that, my health meant I had to stop. My way of dealing with the stresses and pains inside my mind was ripped out of my hands. I felt impotent, and my relationship with any kind of physical activity deteriorated. When I started year 7, I decided fervently that I hated all kinds of sport, because they were a reminder of what I could not do. I was awful at lacrosse, gave up trying in netball, and took to deliberately hitting the tennis balls over the fence into the town park, so that I would spend my sport session walking out of the school grounds and through the gates into the park, to pick up all my wayward balls. The worst of all was cross country, when we were made to run round the same park in a t-shirt and shorts in the middle of January. All the best girls were at the front. They ran with ease all the way round. And I walked, bringing up the rear.

It only made problems worse. If you weren’t sporty, you weren’t cool. If you weren’t cool, who were you? Why would they talk to you, unless it was to jeer at your inability? I wanted to scream to them to say that I could do it. I wanted to do it. But after 2 years of not trying, I became so unfit that by the time I tried, it was painful. And then I gave up completely. I developed an infallible strategy of persuading my male sports teachers that I had severe period pain, every time we had sport. I just didn’t think I could do it.

As a result, I became very self conscious about my body image. It was the worst in gym class, dressed in leotards, and being instructed how to do flips and tumbles. Everyone else was tiny, and I had this podge of fat. We were told in biology aged 11 that we would all put on weight in our early teenage years, affectionately termed ‘puppy fat.’ But in an all girls’ school, the notion of the ‘thigh gap’ became much more important, and seemingly everyone around me, aged just 12 and 13 was stick thin, and was taking measures to ensure they stayed so. I was sure that I was not thin enough because I didn’t do sport, when in reality, I was of a perfectly normal 11 year old weight. I was sure that all my problems, bullying and anxiety, could be put down to my weight. And I bottled everything up in my mind, with all the anger and hatred whirling around and around. I had no outlet for it. It was like a Molotov Cocktail just waiting to explode. I had given up swimming through it all. I wasn’t strong enough to swim anymore.

When I moved school at 13, my self-consciousness was debilitating, and the first thought in my mind whenever I met someone new was: do they think I’m fat? But soon afterwards, I made the conscious agreement between my body and my mind that I was not going to let this define the rest of my school career. I couldn’t face being with the girls, on the hockey pitch. It brought back all the fear. So I joined the boys’ recreational football team, and sustained my first sports injury, a broken wrist. Because if you were the only girl on the boys’ team, you were obviously the only choice for goalkeeper. But I didn’t mind so much, because I enjoyed it. I could run around on the pitch, and the boys didn’t make snide comments like girls do. In the summer, I played cricket.

Gradually, over the 5 years I have been at my ‘new school’ (it’s not so new anymore!), I have got back into girls’ sport, and played some netball and rounders. But I have always struggled with fitness, and feeling comfortable enough to wear a t-shirt and skort. Last year, when I finally got an all-clear to swim again, I was so uncomfortable wearing a swimming costume that I wrapped myself up in a towel all the way from the changing rooms to the diving blocks. And then the bleeding started again, and once again, just keep swimming was no longer an option.

But I realised that I had to find another way out. I couldn’t spiral downwards again. I didn’t want to leave school with a self-consciousness about my body image, and I needed a physical outlet for mental pain. So I started running.

Over Christmas, J received a fitness challenge as part of RAF training. 30 days. And he forced me to go with him. It was my worst nightmare at first. Dressed in clinging leggings, I was sure that everyone could see my weight, and running in public, through town, I was convinced they were laughing at my red face. When I got back home, I shut myself in my room, and collapsed on the bed. But although I was drained, it felt so good, and I felt more confident about myself. I had believed that I could, and I done it. For the first time in 10 years, I had voluntarily gone out on a 20 minute run. It felt amazing. I felt so happy.

Everyday, my brother and I have done at least half an hour of exercise, and the minutes have slowly increased to the point where we are now running for an hour, once a week. Last Friday, we were running at night for the first time. J is strict with the days of the challenge, and so whereas I suggested we might swap ‘100 squats, 80 sit-ups, 30 press ups’ we were due to do on the Saturday, with Friday’s run, he insisted we went, equipped with head-torches and reflective jackets. I’m so glad we did.

There was something very powerful about running together in the dark. It was a clear night, and the stars were super bright, the brightest I’ve seen them for a long time. On the left of the road, there was a purplish streak, and it faded to black on the right. The moon gave everything a hazy glow, and made the raindrops on the trees shine ephemerally as we sped past. The sound of our feet, landing in time together on the pavement, was like the beat of a drum spurring us onward. It was biting cold, but I felt so warm, and not just because I could feel my legs burning. I could process my emotions in a physical escapism that I have not felt for 10 years. Even when the stitches kicked in, we carried on, and felt the pain melt away. And by the end of the run, I felt as if we could conquer the world. There was no self-consciousness, but a self-awareness and sense of self-acceptance.

So, though, 10 years ago, I would have told you that swimming was my sport, and running was the worst thing in the world, I would now tell you the opposite. I have become a runner. This week, burdened by so many stresses, coping with mocks, and competitions and music auditions, and university decisions, and friendship dramas, I have found so much comfort in thinking and praying whilst running. They seem to go together.

Over the course of these 30 days, I may have lose weight, I don’t know, I don’t check anymore. But what’s more important is that I have become able to tune into myself, and listen, and see. I’m so much happier. I’m so much closer with my brother. We’re a running team. And I’m sure that as we move into month 2, I will become in tune to so much more.

Each day, I take step one. It’s just me and my thoughts, following the beat of the drum, feeling a glorious pervading love for the divine world around me, and sense of appreciation for myself and who I am. It lasts until the final step.

Even if you think you can’t go on, if you are drowning in self-consciousness, self-deprecation, and a distance from your self, you can, or you will. Just keep swimming. Just keep running. Just keep going. Believe.


Every time I reflect on this, I feel so so sad that the state of our society is such that there are 12 and 13 year old girls, and boys, who are forced to be so preoccupied about their weight. It makes me so angry that often bullying stems from issues of size, and that so many children and teenagers are suffering from self-consciousness, and a lack of self-confidence. And the problems that arise from such a culture are not just short-term, but can cause mental health struggles into adulthood. If you know someone who is struggling, with weight, with bullying, with low self-esteem, or is just having a bad day, please be there for them, and point them in the direction of help.

Someone who smiles, who gives a hug, shares a story, runs or walks with you, holds your hand, or just sits and prays with you, is someone who will change your life, and change the world, one small action at a time. I have learnt that you are so much stronger than you originally conceive, and if you believe, anything is possible. It’s often the believing part that is the hardest. In sharing our belief, we help others to see a light, when so much the world around them is dark.

Perhaps in doing so, we can be that bright star in the night sky, that voice of God’s glory here on earth. We can show another runner that they can.


I don’t think it is a coincidence that as I wrote that final line, this song came on my iPod. If nothing above resonates with you, just give this a listen.

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To me, to you

I was privileged to have a visit a couple of weeks ago from Hannah from ‘Hello me, it’s you‘, a charity that aims to help give teenagers a voice, normalise mental health issues, and offer hope. It was a moving visit. They have collated letters from a wide variety of contributors, all of whom have experienced mental health struggles in some way or another, which give advice to their younger selves. It got me thinking about what I would say to my younger self. I am 17; this is a letter to my 13 year old self. Thank you Hannah, for giving me the impetus to write this. 

Hello me, it’s you.

You’re sitting in the toilet cubicle, in the bathroom. You’re getting changed for sport there, because you don’t want to change in the locker room, with all the other girls. They are so much thinner than you. They are so much prettier than you. They are so much better than you.  You’re sitting on the toilet, with the scissors in your hands. You are staring at them, like they are going to bring you some kind of relief. But they won’t. The tears of blood won’t weep away your pain. Put the scissors down. After a while, you will.

You might have saved yourself the physical scar. But every time you stopped yourself, you carved a deeper scar in your mind. Putting down the blade doesn’t make you feel ok just like that. You still don’t feel good enough. You are still wracked with guilt that you weren’t good enough, you aren’t good enough. You thought you had ticked every box you defined yourself by, unmatchable grades, honesty, modesty, the rest. But you told them your secret, and they punished you. You were being honest. But this was how they repaid you; not even your grades could save you. There was no seat for you anymore. They filled it with another, thinner, sportier, perfect girl. And you are the leftovers. You’re not enough.

You go back into the changing room. It’s claustrophobic, it smells, there are clothes everywhere, girls shouting, taunting, screaming, throwing paper planes, beating their lacrosse sticks against the wall. Someone has rubbed your books with rotten banana, the black skin is sitting in your locker. Your perfect books, which never had a cross in them. You feel dizzy, you feel your heart beating faster, faster, you are shaking, there are those pains in your stomach and you think you are going to fall and you know you have to leave but you can’t because that would be showing you are weak. So you are sitting,  waiting for them all to leave so you, and Mr A can be alone, and sort some things out. You want to pick up the scissors, but you don’t want to go back there again.

You see, Mr A has been in your life for a long time now. Those symptoms are Mr A’s way of telling you that he’s coming round to stay. Right now, you think you are alone with Mr A. You don’t even know he has that name. He’s just this thing that’s inside your head, and you know he’s there but you can’t really describe him to anyone. He’s like an indescribable criminal that is blackmailing you, robbing you of your smile, your sparkle, your life. But you can’t tell anyone. Because that would just make him stay. You think if you forget about him, he might go away. After three years of trying, you’ll realise that Mr A is like any guest. He’ll come and go as he pleases, and you can’t really control it. But when he comes, there are rules. And by the time you are ready to leave home (and not running away, properly leaving home), you and Mr A will, mostly, respect each other, and each other’s rules.

But for now, you and he are in a war, raging in your mind. And you think he’s about to explode, and you can’t tell anyone. It’s easy for me now to say that you were wrong. That you could tell. But I remember how you were feeling, shaking in front of that rotten banana.  You couldn’t tell someone. You were the odd one out, not them. They’d never believe you anyway. But the people who mattered already knew you weren’t right. They didn’t know what, where, when, why or how. They didn’t know about Mr A or about the bullying or about the murderous perfectionism or about the scissors. But they knew something wasn’t right. Because you used to smile with your eyes. And right now, your eyes are black voids of pain. While you are sitting there, with your eyes closed, waiting for the shouting to go away, and fighting with Mr A to shut up, they are already planning to come and save you.

One week later, you won’t have to go to school anymore. Not for another five months. And even then you wouldn’t be going back there. But you will have to go back for your final speech day. Prizegiving. Where that perfect girl will take your seat, and your parents’ seat. And you will be crammed into the back of the regimental Chapel, Mr A’s hands on your neck, suffocating you, whilst she took your seat. You will think that you will never be good enough again, no matter where you were going.

You will move school, and you will think that everything is better. For a year, you will be perfect again, the same star in a new sky. Shining brighter than everyone else, and filling every space with your light. And it is partly true, you will regain some of your light. But not all of it. And it won’t stay that way. Because you will think running away to a new school means running away from your self consciousness, and from your imperfections, and from Mr A. You will forget about him. You think he will forget about you too. But he won’t. He will come back, with the others, and his friend, Mr D, so much stronger than before. And, aged 15, you will be struck by a wave that winds you, and you will be a whale beached on the shore, unable to swim. You won’t even want to get up in the mornings. You will experience bullying for an innumerable time. You will be irritable. Then silent. Then burst into stupid tears at the smallest things. You will lose all your friends, and no will understand. The closest person to you will tell you simply that clever people are always lonely, and you’d just have to get used to it. You’ll try to keep it to yourself, the emotions clashing, and bubbling, and exploding.

But there’ll be one difference that time. You will sit at the table and you will cry and cry. You will realise you are not, and would not be perfect. You will realise that you are incredibly lonely, and you just want someone to give you a hug and tell you that it will all turn alright in the end. And you will realise that Mr A had become inseparable from Mr D, and together they are binding you. And you won’t be able breathe and you will feel dizzy, and you will almost collapse in pain. And you will touch the scissors. But she will come in, and see you, and you will say: I’m not ok. And that will be you at your most vulnerable, and at your strongest. You will say, I’m not ok. And, in effect, you will say that you need help.

And she will give you a space to talk, where you won’t feel judged. She will give you a counsellor, a support team, daily meetings. She will give Mr A his name, because you didn’t want to be shut in a box labelled ‘Anxiety’ for the rest of your life. She will help you to control Mr D, Mr A’s Black Dog. Because having a relationship with Mr A will be so much easier. Everyday you will just have to rank yourself and Mr A, 1 through to 10. Gradually, you will move from 1 to 8. Gradually you will build rules for Mr A. Even by age 17 you’ll never push yourself above an 8. But you’ll still working on it. Gradually you began to see a true light, and find a true sparkle.

And while all this bullying, anxiety, loneliness and pain is breaking you, you will be saved. Saved by your school, for sure. But saved by something all together more wonderful, indescribable and heart-wrenchingly beautiful. You have just been confirmed. You believe, sure you do. But I think you’ll really only need to test your belief, and learn to BELIEVE in the next few years. Because you won’t be on this journey alone. You’ll soon come to realise that the place you feel most at home, the Church, will become more to you than just a place. It will become that place where Mr A has been, and Mr A is, and Mr A will be, but it will also be the place where God is, and will be forever. There will be times where Mr A takes over; you’ll wobble emotionally, and religiously. But you will always find God again, and you will be able to do anything with Him.

Your relationship with Him will grow and grow and grow, to the point that there won’t be a day that goes past without you seeing a glimpse of his presence in the world. In the sunlight, bursting through the trees. In a chick as it finds itself in the wrong egg. In the soft breeze as it whispers through the trees. In snatches of music. In the comforting embrace of a warm bed. In the frost as it smokes. In a laugh. In a smile. In a tear. You will learn what it is to experience transformative prayer.

And you will be called into His service. You will live out God’s love in your own life, wherever he calls you. You will hold a hand. You will lend a smile. You will laugh and cry with people. You will serve. You will testify. You will speak. You will share. But you will be there. Because you will come to understand that the loneliness you are feeling right now is nothing unusual. And though you might still struggle, you will understand that the love you experience can make others’ lives better. You can give them the love you are searching for right now. With God by your side, you will inspire, you will love, and you will be.

I don’t know why, but you’ve never been good at talking to your parents about how you’re feeling. Yes, I’m talking to you, who still hasn’t told her parents that she’s spending her lunchtimes in the library to avoid people. You who haven’t told them that you need them. Because you don’t know how. You still find it hard at 17. I mean for goodness’ sake, you will take to writing them letters, because it’s easier than talking.

But at the Cathedral, you’ll find a family you can talk to. An angelic host. Clergy, Virgers, Stewards, Choir Parents, Choristers, Lay Clerks, Organ Scholars, Congregants. Friends. People who love you, and care about you and your family. Sure, you’ll have your run-ins there. But you will also find your voice again. You will share in their joys and sorrows. And they will want to share in yours. You will be ok with going to have coffee and talking about scary things, without feeling scared. You will be supported and uplifted. They will bump into you in random and unexpected places – on the street, at the station, at a concert, at school. They will talk with you, pray with you, light candles for you. And they will enable you to shine like the star that you are hiding away behind the facade of books.

It will all start with you saying: I’m not ok. And sometimes I wish that you would have said it earlier, because you knew it all along. But you said it at the right time for you. And so I guess that’s ok too. And every day that you continue to say: I’m not ok, I am proud of you. And every day that you say: today I feel good, I am proud of you. And you and I both know that there will be days when together, we will sit in front of that locker and fight with Mr A. But there’ll be other days when he will be visiting other people, and you can breathe.

You will still have Mr A days. Though you sometimes still get breathless and dizzy, you will sometimes just be angry, or extremely tired, or unproportionately emotional. You will feel sick, and you will get that sharp knot in your stomach. Those days will be tough. There will be weeks that test you to the maximum. You will feel incredibly lonely. But you will know that you’re not alone. You will never be alone. You have faith, friends, and family. And each day that passes, you will show your strength. One day, you and Mr A may even have a day where you will stand, hand in hand, and smile. You’ll say: we’ve got this. You and I, we’re OK today.

I know that you probably didn’t read that all. It all seems a long way off, and you don’t believe me that things will get better. So if you didn’t read anything else, remember my these pieces of advice for you, to get you through the next few years. And remember, I’m still learning too. You and I, we’ll be learning for a lifetime. And I bet we’ll never find one right answer.

  1. Don’t be afraid to talk. Talk to your friends, talk to your family, a teacher, a co-worker. Say: I’m not ok. And go from there.
  2. Stick to your own values: honesty, compassion, kindness, selflessness, modesty, fortitude, reverence, patience and trust. Learn to be ok with you Catherine-ness, and celebrate it.
  3. Take it one step at a time. Don’t try to run before you can walk. Don’t run away from the problems. Acknowledge they are there, and take each day as it comes. Try and make one small change a day and in a week, a month, a year, two, you’ll see how far you’ve come.
  4. Cherish the memories you make with family in the moments they happen. We all know families aren’t perfect, but you have a good one. When you feel able, tell them how you feel, write if you need to. Look out for them too.
  5. Don’t be afraid to try new experiences. You know that there will be occasions/weeks that trigger Mr A but don’t let that make you say no. You can try, who knows, you might even have some fun! By doing this, you will have some life changing experiences.
  6. Don’t be afraid to voice your opinion, and speak up for what you think is right. Sometimes people need to hear a new voice.
  7. Embrace your inner nerd, it will make things easier in the long run. And there are lots of normal people who like Classics too.
  8. Pray. A lot. For your friends, for your family, for the world, for you. They all need your ongoing prayers.
  9. Say thank you. Give praise for everything you have got, and how far you’ve come. You’re awesome, and the world around you is too.
  10. Serve others. It’s where you find your greatest joy. Listen to others. Be there. Give more than you receive. Love.

I love you. You are enough. You matter. And I think, though you might not recognise me right now, you’re going to learn to love me too. And if you can’t quite manage that right now, put your fingers around the cross you bear. And know that He loves you.

See you on the other side of 17.

Cx

As a lamp shining in a dark place

I love school. But it isn’t always easy. Those were the words I said to a member of staff last week as I tried to express how I was feeling.

Coming back to school after the summer has always been something I’ve looked forward to. It is exciting to revel in the September sunshine, laughing over whichever teacher decided that growing a beard over the summer would make them look far wiser. There are always new people to get to know, new routines, new activities and new licks of paintwork across the school site. You are excited to go to lessons, for maybe the first and only time in the year. You are eager to find out the curricula you will be following, and who will teach you what. The boredom of long summer days is over and each year you discover a new passion, a new talent, a new energy.

It was strange to think that this would be my last ever first day back at school. After 14 years of school, this would be my last. But I was ready for it, excited about this transitional year, seemingly between childhood and the big wide world. And what is more exciting than being an U6th former, the oldest in the school, finally being able to walk across the quadrangle whose paths have been barred for 5 years? Believe me, it is most convenient when the bell starts ringing before lessons and you still have half a cup of tea to drink and prepare your books. Suddenly taking the diagonal of the Quad enables you to drink that tea, and have all the right books, and make it to your lesson on time. Awesome.

And being in U6th comes with many new responsibilities – time management is key when you are simultaneously editing the school magazine, being Chairman of the Food Council, secretary to the school council and Choir Librarian, organising school debating, becoming the barricade between 300 ravaging hangry teenage boys and the canteen counter, monitoring the tuck shop queue, making sure 20 girls, who normally stay up far later, are in bed by 21:30 and then somehow still having the energy to apply to universities and keep up with 4 A levels.

Life sure is busy. But I enjoy all the responsibilities; these past 3 weeks have been fun, getting involved in new areas of school life, and seeing the work that goes in behind the scenes to ensure that the school runs as it should. And whilst I am currently in a love/hate relationship with my personal statement, I am finding the process of applying to university incredibly exciting. My teachers are all lovely, I have the majority of my Classics lessons on timetable for the first time in ever and the work is stimulating and engaging.

But if I’ve learnt anything over my 14 years in education, it’s that people come before work every time. The most significant reason why a new year at school is exciting is simply because there are so many new people to get to know. It has been great to get to know the new Head, new teachers, all the new year 9 girls in my house, to mentor new choristers and be a face that people know that they can come to for help.

And, at the end of a long day, with a hand that feels like it’s dropping off from the amount of writing it’s done, there is nothing more rewarding to hear an 11 year old whisper to her friend, ‘I want to be like her when I’m in the sixth form.’ Then when you turn to approach her, having heard, though she didn’t mean you to hear, she blushes slightly as you look her in the eye, squeaks a ‘great thank you!’ in response to ‘How was your day?’ and then smiles as she walks off to the Lower School, in some kind of awe that I actually asked her how her day went. If students see you like that, then you know you’re doing something right. Yes, they admire you for all the crazy things you do, the work, the positions of responsibility, the captainships and assemblies, but they admire you more because they feel like you are person they relate to. You engage with them, and that makes all the difference. People want to feel like you care about them.

In that sense, the first few weeks of term have been great. But somehow, even among 1000 other people on site, the first few weeks have felt incredibly lonely.

Being an U6th former means you are the face of the school. You walk into assembly each morning. 720 pairs of eyes stare at you. Everyone knows your name, even if you don’t know theirs. Everyone knows what you look like, what you do, what you don’t do. Gossip spreads like fire through the school. Suddenly, a girl you maybe spoke to once in year 10 seems to know something about you, giggling as you pass in the corridor. You know something is going round. Something that is probably not even true. The next week, someone tells you what the gossip is. It’s hurtful. Never would be true. It shows people don’t know you. People who knew you would never believe that. Then you find out who started the rumour. Who is seemingly forming clique after clique to oppose you. Things teachers don’t see. Everything becomes a competition. Nothing you do is right anymore. You spend your life looking out for others.

You spend your life in prayer to be there to help people when they need it. You give more when you’ve got nothing left to give. But suddenly, there is no one there to look out for you when you need it.

It feels like no one understands, no one gets you. There are so many other teenagers who spend their Sundays in Church. There are so many other teenagers who don’t spend their Saturday nights drunk, having sex, and throwing up over a stranger’s toilet seat. There are other teenagers who learn Ancient Greek and Latin. But not here, not now. I’m the weird one. For now I am all alone.

It is so hard to walk into assembly, with 720 pairs of eyes staring at you, knowing that you feel alone. 5 years ago, the rumours, the competition, and the catty girls would have broken me. Now, I sail on. I hide the pain, carrying on being there for those who need me, busying myself with the duties assigned for me to do. Sometimes it gets too much and the pain and hurt bubble to the surface in a night of tears. But I get up each day, I smile, I delight in the joy I can bring to some, and I ignore others. I try to love my enemy. I hold out the eternal hand of friendship to those who need to take it. I pray, praise and seek guidance. I look for the day when I will go to University, and there will be people who share similar values. I cling to faith and family. I have an acceptance of myself as I am. I sail through.

And just when things get too much, divine fate drops someone in the way to pick me up. Someone who understands that it is more than ok for your way of acting to be different from the world’s way.

A conversation with my step-grandfather in the car, waiting to collect my brother. The car lights are off, the rain dashes the windscreen. How do I find living in London? Busy. Isolating. He gets it. We’ve never talked like this. He has so much love to give. I never let him give it before.

Sitting down with friends after evensong. They know something’s wrong before I even say. Work issues or people issues? People issues. I try not to cry. I fail. But it doesn’t matter, because they’re there. Their prayers. Their support. They lift you when you fall.

Days off school. To rest, to sleep. To see. Friends drop by, on their way to fly back to Jackson, Mississippi. A little laughter. Brownies. Alain Ducasse chocolates brought from Paris. Their son my closest confidante, a freshman in Swarthmore. Philadelphia’s a long way away. I know, I said. But technology is both the cause of my pain, and a degree to its relief.

I have felt so alone the last three weeks. I’m not going to pretend that bullying disappears in a cloud of smoke. I’m not going to pretend that it doesn’t still affect me. There are malicious people out there. There are still some pains that people can’t share. But there are so many that are relieved. Unlike before, there is a net that catches me. That gives me the ability to bounce when life throws me down. I am so grateful that. I continue to do my best to be as a lamp shining in a dark place. The day will dawn. The morning star will rise. And until then, through the darkness, my candle will not burn out.

When you’re weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I’ll dry them all.
I’m on your side, when times get rough
And friends just can’t be found.
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I will lay me down.

When you’re down and out,
When you’re on the street,
When evening falls so hard,
I will comfort you.
I’ll take your part, when darkness comes
And pain is all around.
Like a bridge over troubled water.
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I will lay me down.

Sail on silver girl,
Sail on by,
Your time has come to shine,
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine!
If you need a friend,
I’m sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I will ease your mind.