Notes to Nowhere: Notes to Nowhere

She Deserves to Be Feral

Lydia Roe — Wed, 25 Mar 2026 15:00:58 GMT

We like to believe we are singular, but spectrums are what we all fit onto in life. No matter how unique we think ourselves, we all fall onto one. It’s the nature of humanity; we are a species interlinked and related no matter how much we sometimes feel disconnected from one another. On the spectrum of humanity, there are even more. Spectrums within spectrums. Take a shot each time I say ‘spectrums’.

Sexuality is a spectrum.
Gender is a spectrum.
Neurodivergence and mental health are a spectrum.
Identity is a spectrum.
So is intelligence, class, opportunity, everything.
All of it, spectrums.
Femininity is a spectrum.

I know my place on all the other ones, but for some reason femininity has been the concept that I have had the hardest battle with.

Spectrums don’t allow for black and white, not really. It is a gradient that slowly shifts from one to another until each end feels entirely different from the other. However, I do think there has been a forced two-tone expectation on femininity. Who decided the female must be binary?

When I was a little girl, I was a doll, described by everyone in my family as one. As the first-born grandchild, I was given some level of favouritism, and I was put on a pedestal that I did not want to be on. I looked like I fit into the archetype of the typical little girl, and just because I was a girl, I had expectations placed on me to be a lady.

Now, thankfully, I was not pushed to be too stereotypical thanks to my mum and dad, who let me play with dinosaurs and run in the woods with dogs growing up. But thanks to a misogynistic patriarch in the form of my grandfather, emotionally, I was forced to internalise my wildness. It was a silent battle, one throughout the years, slowly growing out of this perfect little doll worth bragging about into an actual living, breathing, dare I say, even thinking little girl. The moment I refused to be an object to boast about, when I removed myself from the pedestal, I was no longer worthy of love.

This idea of objectified femininity, being something owned by a man, became what I call the ‘likeability tax’.

To be liked, to be seen, to be wanted, I had to be agreeable, polite, reserved, censored. Subservient.
If I argued back, if I dared to have a voice of my own, I was in debt and had to repay it by being a ‘good girl’.

This was my learned femininity, the right femininity. This was not the type I wanted, and it caused me to cut familial bonds that should’ve stayed strong. Though I realise now those bonds were not tied right in the first place.

Combined with other significant traumas, I spent my teen years rejecting this learned femininity and, in a lot of ways, the whole concept of it altogether. I allowed my tomboy side to take over. I cut off all my hair, I refused to wear dresses and skirts, I refused makeup, and I hated anything ‘girly’. I think this was my form of teenage rebellion because there was NO WAY I would be doing it the usual way, if there even is a usual way. I was too busy hiding away from the world, healing, processing, and I didn’t know it at the time, but stripping myself of girlhood had been more of a punishment to me than an act of defiance.

There’s this view that on the spectrum of femininity, it is either you are a girly girl or a tomboy.
Quiet, fragile, roll over on your back for men to do as they please, or a rude, boyish bitch who hates men.

For a long time, it felt like these were my only two paths. I often wonder how I picked up this idea of being a woman, given my mum didn’t fall into either of these, but I suppose that is the whole nature versus nurture argument. Maybe nature and nurture versus society?

I did recover my girlhood in my late teens, but unfortunately, I did so without fully addressing and healing the wounds that made me reject it in the first place. For every boyfriend I had, I was either their mother, their therapist, or their punching bag. I became this good little girl again who took everything and anything because the likeability tax had now been presented to me as a woman. To be loved by a man, I had to be a victim to a man.

I know that I just chose the wrong men, and to be perfectly honest, I do not trust my judgement much now.
Do I regret this though? Not at all, because in a weird way it helped me heal those wounds that had been instilled within me from birth.

Every time my heart broke, every time I was hurt, I learned something new: how to say no, how to set boundaries, how to hold my ground and keep myself me.
The more I did that, the more power I felt, and ultimately, the more feminine I became.

I present to you now my femininity at twenty-five. This is my healed femininity, my discovered and self-taught femininity (maybe now take a shot every time I have said ‘femininity’).

I am wild, I am feral, I am free. I don’t hold my tongue, and I say what I think. I am unapologetic, strong in my convictions.

I am emotional, very much so. An extremely emotional young woman who feels deeply, and that is far from being a bad thing. This idea that women must be so, but not too much, to make men uncomfortable is an idea I refuse to subscribe to.

My softness, my kindness, my empathy, it is all strength.
Womanhood isn’t having the heart and disposition of a mouse; it is to have that of a lioness.

I give in to passion, I am romantic, I rage, I feel, I think, and I speak.
I run with dogs like the feral child I was.
I love wearing dresses, beautiful things, and having long, wild, untamed hair.

My femininity is that of a she-beast long caged, beautiful. It is not my fault if it is frighteningly so.

Emily Bronte once wrote:
“I wish I were a girl again, half savage, and hardy and free.”

I plan on always saying:
“I am a woman, entirely savage, hardy and free.”

This is my femininity, healed.

My Fig Tree

Lydia Roe — Sun, 22 Mar 2026 12:40:27 GMT

I’d like to think that the influence that Sylvia Plath had on my writing is evident but for me, her impact is far more than that in the words I write.
I first read The Bell Jar when I was around seventeen. I was starting my A levels and deciding on the path that my life would take. It was quite daunting to think about, and I still think it is unfair to expect an uncertain teenager to be certain about their future. I had no idea at that time, of what I wanted to do.

Like Esther Greenwood, I found myself under the proverbial fig tree without even knowing it.
This was the metaphor from Sylvia Plath and her only novel that resonated with me the most. The unending possibilities hanging as ripe fruits from extensive branches, rotting with every moment I delayed, desperate for me to pick something.
I don’t want it to sound like a brag, but I was a gifted child. I played violin, guitar, I danced, I acted, I painted and, I wrote. If I had been born in the time of Jane Austen, I might’ve been called a very “accomplished young woman” but it was this that left me frozen in place, just like Esther. Growing up like this, being perceived as capable, “gifted”, has left me exhausted. Too many things pulled me in different directions. So many times, it’s caused me to feel burned out and unaccomplished. I have very little to show for it now given I have forgotten how to read music, play the violin and hold a single ballet resting pose. I do make up interpretive dance routines in my room though and I can play a couple of songs on guitar so that’s something.

In the end, I pursued art, dedicating my studies to art history and fine art painting; the former of which I still enjoy immensely to this day. I find it interesting though that it was when pursuing art history that I truly realised how much I love writing, dissecting, analysing and pulling together my findings and thoughts. That’s what has led to this, I think, writing essays. Up until then, I had been under the fig tree of life, but it was during this time and after that I planted my own.

Around this age, post A levels I had no idea what to do. I remember standing in Tesco and telling my mum I wouldn’t go to university, yet I did. After trying and failing at jobs in hospitality, I decided to at least apply.
This was the time when my fig tree began to flower from its quickly grown branches.
I got in but I was torn as to what I wanted to do. By now I think it is obvious that I chose creative writing. I loved everything about it, and it has really set me on a path as a writer but still, as I stand holding the fig in my hand I feel a greed, a gluttony to do more.

So about to start my Master’s, creative writing once more, I am taking the first bites of this fruit, gushing with seeds of its own opportunities, I look up to survey all the other figs that hang.
The fig wishing I hadn’t given up ballet,
The fig disappointed I never became an Olympic swimmer,
The fig moulding because I no longer have a passion to paint,
The half-touched fig of the modelling world.

There are also figs that I had tried but they had tasted of nothing and didn’t nourish me; the fig of the “trad-wife”, the “marketing girl”, many others too.
I am surrounded by figs of possibility, of what I have wanted to do, the possibilities bearing far too much fruit for me to ever eat. It is stressful and it has left me frozen in place.
This fig tree is dying, my possibilities diminishing before my eyes, successes I could’ve had but I chose something else instead.
The writer’s fig is in my palm, juicy, tasty, one I want to bite into again but before I do I notice something within.
A smaller fig, a seed it seems.
It contains more possibilities, all stemming from my writing fig.
Actress,
Playwright,
Magazine writer,
Author,
Novelist,
Poet.

I now realise that my previous fig tree was bound to die, and I am not meant for all these successes but instead the ones that are woven into my true passion of writing. They all come from this one writing fig. So many possibilities and a promise I never have to define myself with just one thing. I have allowed the other figs to die and now I plant a new fig tree, one that won’t grow too big but one I will be able to eat every single fruit from and enjoy it too.

Being in Love is NOT the Same as Being in Happiness

Lydia Roe — Wed, 18 Mar 2026 10:27:36 GMT

This time last year, I was in love, like in LOVE love, but when my ex and I broke up, to the shock of everyone around me, it was strangely easy to push it all aside and get over him. I didn’t even do anything to make that happen. I didn’t date, I didn’t pick up a new hobby, I didn’t cut my hair or do anything drastic. Instead, I came to a realisation. The thing is, when you understand that you haven’t been happy for a long time, or that you haven’t truly been in happiness, it becomes extremely easy to fall out of love too.

It’s insane how your body picks up on things before your brain does. I wasn’t happy, and my body was screaming at me to wake up to that fact. It sent me panic attacks and intense waves of loneliness. I found myself crying nearly every day, and one evening I polished off a whole bottle of wine by myself whilst he was out with his friends or pursuing one of his hobbies; hobbies that seemed far more important. Remember that scene in Closer when Natalie Portman is asleep on the sofa and Jude Law comes home late? That was my nightly existence for a good few months after moving in with him. I would fall asleep waiting for him, and then when he did come in, we would go to bed together, exchange a couple of words, and go to sleep. We spoke and spent less time together than when we lived apart. On the evenings he was home, he was so absent, but sex was still on the cards, and going to sleep came with kisses and cuddles; lip service to my nervous system, but it wasn’t working.

I was in love though, so I should’ve been happy, right? I realise now that being in love and being in happiness are two entirely different things. I loved him, yes, but I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy with his absence. I wasn’t happy with the way his family treated me. I wasn’t happy not quite knowing where I belonged. I was an hour’s drive away from my parents and my pug for what? To sit alone every evening, after he was the one who asked me to move in. That whole relationship was a contradiction.

There is no shame in confessing that I love being in love, and I do love being a girlfriend, but I love being happy more. Single and happy, I will take any day over being a girlfriend in sadness. Being in happiness, in my opinion, and this may be shaped by my previous life experiences, is far harder to attain and maintain. To me, it now holds a much higher value.

Yes, being in love should make you happy, but love needs happiness to thrive. It is not sustainable without it. Being with my pug, daily conversations with my best friend, time with my parents, and pursuing my lifelong goals; that’s what I love, and therefore it’s what makes me happy.

To close, I’d like to leave you with this little piece of my own newfound philosophy: being in love is for your heart; the physical. Being in happiness is for your soul; the eternal.

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The Age Delusion

Lydia Roe — Sat, 14 Mar 2026 10:01:00 GMT

Episode 14, season 7 of Friends opened my ten-year-old eyes to the horrors of growing old as a woman. This is one of the most prominent memories in my mind on the matter. At that age my teenage years seemed unfathomable let alone the idea of turning thirty. I am twenty-five now, halfway through my twenties and getting closer to that age has made it even more real. This memory stayed hidden away in the back of my mind, until recently upon realising that I am in fact five years off of this dreaded age.
I am not frightened of reaching this number, in fact I am quite looking forward to seeing who I am at the coming stage of my life but I have found myself slightly worried about the signs of aging that will begin to appear. Realistically not much shows at thirty but still that fear is ingrained in us that the moment we hit the big three zero we become old women, middle aged, past it and “over the hill” as Rachel’s birthday card said.

We are only enforced to believe this idea with the culture of Botox, fillers, surgery and injectables we find our modern world immersed in. It has distorted our idea of age and how to present it. You’re supposed to stay looking twenty forever and any hint of being past that golden number is considered old, imperfect. It is shocking to us that a woman at say thirty-five can still have smooth skin and a youthful glow like her thirties are still not incredibly young. Is this the new “spinster ideology” from the 1800s? We don’t have to be engaged by eighteen anymore but instead it’s an expiry date?

If age is just a number, then surely, aging is just a concept too, right? So why is this the excuse for an old man to lust over a girl, barely a woman but not for a woman to embrace any lines or changes in her face? Is it because as we grow older, we grow wiser? We stop believing bullshit and lies, false promises and we call them out on their own mistakes. We are stronger as we get older, a blasphemy to the misogynists who control our beauty and identity industry who require us to remain youthful – stupid and malleable.

I have seen so many, disregarding the evidence of their years of good fortune just to perform youth to varying degrees of success. Our baseline for how we are supposed to look has been shifted and I fear that intervention is no longer becoming optional but expected. If we don’t want to become invisible, past our sell by date, we have to fix the beauty that wisdom and age give us. Perhaps age and the human ego have converged into a summit of ridiculousness.

You are either young or old, no middle ground. We jump from a girl to woman who is either “holding on” or better off not seen. Invisible or trying too hard. What about just being a woman, one that changes with age?
Or better yet, fully seize that power that age gives us and show it on the outside.
I love the older woman, the one who doesn’t try to be twenty but also refuses to let herself become unseen. She shows her age, wearing it with pride. She embraces her grey hair and eye wrinkles. She dresses to be seen, not desired.
She laughs in the face of the fear that looking any older than bloody thirty is worse than death.

My grandma was one of these women. She made it to an age where it showed and to me she was one of the most beautiful women in the world.
My mother, her daughter, is one of those women too, the women who I believe no matter how old will always remain a flower never wilted. She is the furthest thing from invisible and in no way looks like the typical concept of near sixty. Sometimes she worries about how she looks, about aging and being old but when I look at her, I see a different kind of beauty far from youth. Youth is not the only thing that is beautiful, so is letting yourself smile and laugh, using your face as intended instead of worrying about smile lines. So is wearing your hair as you like and dressing in a way that makes you feel good. Youth is meant for desire; age is meant for admiration from the youth.

When I look in the mirror, I still see a young woman and of course I hope to for many more years to come, I will remain this way but never will I worry about wrinkles, about stretchmarks or smile lines. I suppose one day my hair will go grey and I will wear it like the eccentric old witch I plan to be.
Perhaps I will revisit this notion when I am this old witch, no longer wanted by a man but loved by women a generation or so down. I may look at it differently and think myself at twenty-five to be so naïve or maybe I will think that I have also been wiser beyond my years. However I think, there is no escaping that one day my youth will disappear but, in its place, I hope an assuredness I lack now will take its place and no quick fix back to twenty or even thirty will tempt me.

No Longer Looking for Darcy

Lydia Roe — Thu, 05 Mar 2026 12:17:30 GMT

Mr Darcy, how I used to search for you in every man I had a relationship with. I looked for quiet, silence, tall dark and (relatively) handsome. I sought everything you were. I was convinced I had found someone who embodied you entirely. Unfortunately, it was desiring these traits that made me realise that what I need is far from you.

Ever since his conception, Mr Darcy has become the epitome of the romantic hero. He has evolved to become an ideal referenced across all forms of literature and media. Women fawn over him and I have seen an unending number of posts complaining about how men need to be more like him.
What if I told you that they already are?
What if I told you that this beloved figure is in fact the early template for emotional unavailability, elitism and moral superiority that we have diluted and reframed, dressing it up as depth, reserve and masculine mystery?

If we look at the Darcy archetype beyond the rose-tinted spectacles, we see someone much more akin to the emotionally unavailable men we complain about.
As a man, he relies upon the notion that male coldness is complexity. His aloofness is profound; his rudeness is excused as social awkwardness and his silence is a marker of intelligence. In truth, his appeal leans on us framing his emotional withholding as depth. Many times, I have looked at a guy, in fact many of my exes and thought this exactly. Hell, I have even admired them for it (something I heavily regret now and am incredibly embarrassed by). So just like many women attracted to this, especially those with a prefixed idea that Darcy is the perfect man, I took on the Elizabeth Bennet role of softening him, decoding him and even redeeming him. If they comply then they have completed that arc, our reward for our emotional labour. If they don’t, we chalk it up to them just being assholes and once again start the search.

“But he did change!” I hear you cry. Yes, he did complete this arc, of changing for the better but it was thanks to the work of Elizabeth. She was a tool and a motive to change rather than just changing himself to be a decent person to begin with. Surely, if he was capable of this all along then why did he withhold?
Doesn’t that reinforce the toxic equation that kindness equals weakness and stupidity?
If he needed Elizabeth in order to change, and couldn’t be a good man from the start then maybe he isn’t the strong, stoic and honourable man we mark him up to be.
Why does a woman’s love have to function as a moral corrective for a grown man?

Then there is the argument that Elizabeth misread him. This only reinforces the idea that women should be nothing but emotionally fluent and empathic from the start.
Why should she be responsible for seeing through the blatant insults he threw in her direction?
Honestly, I don’t blame her.
His silence is romanticised yet without communication it becomes superiority and control. It is withholding emotionally. How many men have used the excuse of avoidant attachment or being non-committal for explaining why they refuse to meet you emotionally? How many times have you felt that his restraint is mysterious and intriguing?
In truth I think Darcy and Elizabeth hold the record for the most confusing no contact situationship ever.

Could it be his upbringing? This excuse I have heard many times from women about their emotionally neglectful partners and once again, this applies to Mr Darcy.
Pride and Prejudice as a story is about power, class and the imbalances caused by it. Mr Darcy is significantly higher class than Elizabeth who isn’t by any means belonging to the most impoverished of families. When someone is of the higher class, it is often suggested that they are more civilised, well-bred and inherently better than those below them. Especially during Regency England this was the case as exhibited by Mrs Bennet’s obsession with marrying her daughters off to men of good money. Wealth and status are aspirational and to this day that fact has not changed.
We see this institutionalised elitism from Darcy in how he puts down Elizabeth’s family, deciding that he likes her beyond his better judgement. I myself have been on the receiving end of such backhanded compliments in the past.
I would perhaps forgive Darcy for his elitist and emotionally shut down attitude if it wasn’t for how much of a sweetheart Charles is.

So, I present to you an idea.

Embrace Mr Bingley instead.

In my opinion Jane got the far better man. From the very start, in the book, in each portrayal he is the complete contrast to Darcy. Smiling, full of emotion and honest about it too. He took to Jane straight away and despite the nerves and shyness she caused, he didn’t make any hesitation to dance with her and further pursue her.
He doesn’t need a grand reveal for his emotional vulnerability. He doesn’t need redemption to become kind or lovable. Yes, I admit he did drop the ball a little by being easily dissuaded from proposing to Jane but that was due to his emotionally immature counterpart. I find it funny how Bingley is seen as the least adult of the two when honestly, I think Mr Darcy’s approach is the furthest thing from mature.
Despite this, he did not hide how he felt from Jane and did not need redeeming to be deserving of her love nor did she have to emotionally labour over him to earn his. He did not regard Jane by her class or whether her family was less than ideal. All he required was her. This is the rule I plan to follow in the future:

Men who are warm and emotionally expressive, not cold and imposing.

Of course, none of the characters in this story are perfect and beyond being fictional, it is difficult to compare the desirability of a Regency man against modern standards but this myth of Mr Darcy being the perfect man really needs to be debunked given it’s really not helping anything at all. I have grown up significantly and after having my fair share of partners, I can safely say I no longer want to seek a man I need to decode.
After this there is the question of whether I still love Pride and Prejudice. Of course I do! However, would I want a Mr Darcy for myself? I think not.

Opening the Bottle

Lydia Roe — Thu, 26 Feb 2026 16:01:36 GMT

I have not been myself lately.

Mental illness is so debilitating, and for me it gets significantly worse during the winter months. I technically count November as autumn still, and December isn’t so bad because of all the festive lights. But as soon as January hits, I nosedive into absolute hopelessness. It happens every year, but this year it has been particularly bad.

I have found myself crying, unable to do anything, and it’s a miracle I have even been able to write. I love a little bit of melancholy but COME ON!
I do not know what it was about 2025 or the start of this year in particular. Maybe it is the state of the world, the persistent coldness, or simply toxic self-comparison. I am doing better now, but I wanted to take a moment to look at the tool that helped me the most, even though it’s the one I resist.

Talking.

I am a talker. I can yap for hours about subjects I find interesting or things I am passionate about, but when it comes to myself, I find it extremely hard to speak up about how I am feeling. There’s probably some deep psychological reason why I avoid being honest about my emotions with other people, even those closest to me, despite never actually being told to bottle up my feelings.

There’s probably a whole shelf of jars and bottles full of unspoken emotions within me. Some feel permanently sealed, but others are fighting to pop their tops.

As someone who has suffered with mental illness for the majority of my life, I have adapted to recognise the warning signs when things are going downhill and catch them before they spiral completely. I usually do this alone, in silence. I get back on top of it. I am always determined to do so, and as far as I know, no one really picks up on it.

I think it’s because of pity. I hate being pitied, and I hate being worried about. That is why I struggle to reach out and why I close myself off. But in the last few months, it had become impossible to hide. Lack of sleep started to show on my face. My skin was a mess of scabs from picking at it. I was bursting into tears on the sofa for no reason at all. I am sure many can identify with that state of spiralling.

We have such a stigma in our world when it comes to mental illness, one that is longstanding, and as much as I advocate against that stigma, it is during these times that I find myself playing into it.

So it was time to be honest. I should not have left it until breaking point, but I finally did what I call “letting out the fizz.”

Those bottles, the ones shaking on the shelf because of everything bubbling inside them, I take down and open. Not too much, just enough for me to control and manage. Enough to let the people around me know that I am not doing well. First, I reached out to my mum and dad. Then my best friend. Each time, I opened it slowly, knowing that if I did it all at once, I would probably reach full mental collapse.

Of course, the shame was there. The embarrassment that I was once again falling victim to that demon in my head, the one that always tells me “What if?” and “I’m not good enough.” It really is a hungry beast, storing up all these bottles and jars of feelings to devour.

However, it starts to starve, to struggle and pull away, the moment I put my feelings into words. I started to spill everything I needed to say. Everything I thought, felt worried about or hesitated over. Sometimes it is written; that is the best therapy I could ever have. But I am learning to talk.

It has been a big step. Sure, it is nothing groundbreaking, but reaching out and talking, in spite of my worries and the hope that if I bottle it up it can simply be ignored, is something I am still learning to do. Even if this hungry demon tells me to shut up, I brush it aside.

There are many reasons why I have been feeling so terrible lately. An imbalance of past and recent traumas has weighed me down significantly. I have gotten over the majority of it and moved on, but I cannot deny that it has taken a toll on how my mind feels. Frankly, I am sick of it. I do not want 2026 to be a spillover when I have so much I want to do.

I am sure my bottle shelf will never be empty, and my demon will always be quietly ravenous, feeding on my self-doubt. But with each day, with each step I take and word I speak, I am getting better.

So I implore you, don’t wait. Speak up. Crack open those bottles. Starve that demon, not yourself.

You might be surprised at how ready people are to listen.

The War of the Female Intellectual

Lydia Roe — Thu, 19 Feb 2026 12:01:29 GMT

Now that I have completed my bachelor’s degree, I made the decision that I wanted to go further and do a master’s as well. I applied to a few universities, and I am thrilled to say that January brought me interviews and acceptances from every one of them. However, there was one interview that stood out to me and truly put into perspective just how large the gender gap still is in academic circles.

Naturally, there is nothing more intimidating than an interview that will determine your future path, but there is a lot of added pressure when you are a young woman faced with two dusty old men from the dark ages and your job is to convince them that you are worth their time. How archaic is that? This power imbalance and gender bias in academia sounds like something that should have died out fifty years ago, yet even now it is still very much present, no matter how subtle.

After this interview, I felt deflated and doubtful of my own intelligence and ability. Not to mention, I felt straight-up embarrassed for even bothering to turn up. So much so that I couldn’t even talk about it with my parents when they asked how it went. Even when I was accepted by them, I didn’t feel the thrill I should have. Instead, I found myself questioning whether I would even want to be around those sorts of people. A year of constantly vying for approval and fighting to be taken seriously? It’s 2026, for God’s sake. Women should not have to prove themselves more than their male contemporaries simply because they are women.

Conditional recognition

Have you ever noticed how women are often celebrated for their intelligence only when they meet a very specific criterion? Even then, that criterion never seems to cover the invisible areas we are supposedly lacking in to be fully deemed intelligent. My default is often to be palatable and self-effacing, but I find it increasingly difficult not to be seen as a threat, or, heaven forbid, to stay below a predetermined intellectual level.

It is often quietly funny to watch the shock flicker across academics’ faces when they are caught off guard, but it is incredibly frustrating when they then do everything they can to verbally put me back in my place. Often this comes in the form of patronising remarks, making me feel as though I am trying far too hard when, in reality, I am simply challenging their perceptions of a young woman stepping into their world.

Body vs brain

I used to make myself very small in the way I took up space, but recently I have learned how to project my voice. Still, I am often underestimated because of how I look. I am not a bold-looking girl, I am not tall or physically imposing, and that alone is often enough to have me brushed off.

When a man is intelligent, it is seen as obvious or innate, regardless of his appearance. For women, however, how we look seems to decide how smart we are allowed to be. Why is it that a woman’s intellect is not permitted to exist without reference to her appearance? Even now, a female professor is more likely to be judged on how she dresses, styles her hair, or whether she wears makeup than on her ability in her field.

If you wear makeup, dress well, or have conventionally attractive features, you are dismissed as a bimbo or a false intellectual trying too hard to be taken seriously. If you wear scruffy clothes, never brush your hair, and let skincare go out the window, you become invisible, ignored because men don’t want to give attention to a woman who “doesn’t make the best of herself”.

So where do we win? Is there some elusive middle ground we are missing? And why should we let musty old academics dictate what makes us intellectually viable based on appearance?

Academia is an inherently toxic space

It is a sad fact that academia has never made much room for women, and even today women like me still have to fight for our voices to matter. There are also many systemic issues within academia that affect more than just women. Class divides and racial inequalities are prevalent in many university spaces, and it would be wrong to ignore them.

Thankfully, there has been some progress. It is no longer a misogynistic shout. Women can publish without needing a pseudonym, they can even attend university without question. Students from different social backgrounds are increasingly able to access higher education, and racism is no longer (openly) tolerated. However, as my interview proved, there is still a long, long way to go in some institutions. A whisper still remains.

I am pleased to say, though, that my final interview went a hell of a lot better and dismantled all the doubts those dinosaurs planted in me. How I can’t wait to study again. Sure, I am stepping back into the academic circles that I critique but isn’t a core idea of learning and growth to question and call out even the groups you are in? Isn’t that the only way to call about change?

On Being a Solo Traveller

Lydia Roe — Thu, 12 Feb 2026 12:00:41 GMT

Something rerouted me on purpose.

I’ve never really been religious or had much faith in a godlike figure. I always found it difficult to imagine an all-powerful being allowing bad things to happen to people. Look at all the war and cruelty in the world. I doubt anyone with a higher power that surpasses all human will would actively allow that.

I do, however, believe in the universe. There isn’t some overarching entity; instead, individuals are watched over by something, I suppose the only word for it would be a guardian angel. I however prefer calling them my Spiritual Sidekick.

I’d call it spirituality rather than religion, given that this belief is very personal to me, but it’s one I’ve been experiencing more and more recently. Looking back on the past year, 2025 really was a dual-sided form of shit, or a two-sided turd, if you will. You know the phrases “every cloud has a silver lining” and “there’s no rain without flowers” that you see on cheesy self-love posters alongside “live, laugh, love” for middle-aged Facebook mums? Well, I think those phrases, for me, were more like, that whole cloud was made of silver, and the rain it let fall gave me a whole damn garden.

I believed I was on a path, one I was meant to go down. It was safe, boring, the type I really thought I wanted at the time. I blindly let someone else drive me. Now, looking back, now that I’m on a very different road, I almost feel like screaming at my past self to change her course sooner.

When everything fell out from under me in August, it was perhaps the best thing that happened to me that year. As much as I didn’t want to believe it, my relationship had hit a dead end. In fact, him breaking up with me was probably the best thing he ever did for me, so I thank him for that. I tried to reroute my plan just a little, but I was alone in a place I knew I didn’t belong.

So I turned off the navigation system (that boring radio too) and got out of the car. I turned around. I went back home and started planning my own map.

My path now? The best I’ve ever been on. Why? Because I’m doing it as a solo traveller for the first time in my life. I’m factoring in myself, and myself alone. This route is simply for me, and it will lead me into a future I know I want.

The universe helped me here. It put roadblocks in my way, cut off paths, and forced me down the wrong route so I could realise exactly who I am, what I want, and that I should never accept anything less than that. I now realise I’m meant for so much more than a boring life of washing dishes, laundry, and BBC Radio 4. My train car is empty, apart from my pug, and I didn’t let someone else choose my ticket. I may pick up hitchhikers along the way, maybe even a travel buddy I meet up with at stops that suit us both, but I’m certainly not slowing down for them or letting them choose the route, or the music, for my journey. My spiritual sidekick won’t allow it.

So I am Now 25

Lydia Roe — Thu, 05 Feb 2026 16:02:26 GMT

Happy birthday to me. Twenty-five years ago I landed on this earth (metaphorically, but I do have my suspicions about being an alien), and since then it has been one hell of a quarter of a century. That’s insane to think about. I am (hopefully) a quarter of the way through my life, and it doesn’t quite seem possible that I’m this old. Obviously, in the grand scheme of things I’m not old at all, still relatively young in the human lifespan, but I can’t help but feel like I was a little girl one moment, I blinked, and suddenly I’m halfway through my twenties. So not cool.

My teenage years are a blur, most of which I don’t remember, and do not wish to remember, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve been a little robbed. Twenty-five feels ridiculous when weighing up what you’re “supposed” to be doing at this age. I don’t have a stable job; I am very much single; and yes, I still get excited about Sylvanian Families and stuffed toy bunnies. Is there anything wrong with that? Not in the slightest. I’d much rather be where I am, writing nonsense, than sitting in a job I hate, allowing myself to settle for anything less than what makes me happy. I did not survive that blur of tweenhood and teenhood to become a boring, unhappy adult.

I did a huge clear-out in January, part of my Operation Better Me, and the amount of shit I got rid of required multiple attempts before the full declutter was done. So many toys, so many things I’d collected in recent years that I now realise were bought in a desperate attempt to reclaim those disrupted years of girlhood. It was instant gratification, an addiction that made what I lost feel a little easier. None of it meant anything to me, nothing with real emotional depth. Now I know that in the attic I have approximately three plushies (all bought by my beloved grandma) that I will never part with, some children’s books that formed me, and nothing else. My Sylvanians are in my room. However, I will say this, this wasn’t an erasure of my childhood, nor an attempt to force myself into some preconceived cultural ideal of “growing up.”

Instead, it was an act of liberation. It was shaking off the shackles of my trauma and trying to find something I deserved but never had. It was making room for more, making room for memories I will truly treasure, memories that will actually mean something to me. What form those mementos will take, I have no idea. But I know that as I step into this new stage of growing up, shedding the past and entering my next quarter of a century, if those mementos take the form of a stuffed toy or something else that could be reduced to nothing more than a trinket, they will be a celebration of surviving. A symbol of me stepping into my (apparently) fully formed brain adulthood while embracing the girlhood I should’ve had at the same time, this time in a far more positive way, a way that reflects who I am now rather than who I was. I needed this clear-out. It was more than just that, a recalibration for my future.

Happy birthday to me, the girl I was and the woman I will become. Never let anyone shame you for your past or how you choose to live your life or your future.

I Will No Longer be a People Pleaser

Lydia Roe — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 12:02:28 GMT

Fight, flight, freeze and fawn. I never planned on becoming so well acquainted with all of these responses to trauma. Some I became more familiar with than others. I fought, I froze, funnily enough I never ran, but I certainly did fawn.

This last one is probably the response I relied on most during my teenage years, and really, right up until recently, I had no idea I was even doing it.

It was during a day-long training course on child psychology that I first learned about fawning. I had always believed there were only three responses: fight, flight or freeze. But since discovering this additional response, I’ve started to evaluate my past interactions with people very differently.

I don’t like to be mean; in fact, in my mind, it is one of the worst things I could be. I don’t want to be seen that way, but just a couple of months ago I would have said I was terrified of it. The thought was so scary, so anxiety-inducing, that I made myself wholly and entirely compliant. Thus was born my life as a people pleaser.

It was a habit ingrained in me through persistent rejection from my peers at school, and when I left to be homeschooled, it never had the chance to develop beyond that. By the time I went to college, I don’t think I’d realised that I could still be liked even if I disagreed. Luckily, when it came to friendship, I quickly learned that I could be myself. And even though I don’t have the widest group of friends, I know I have friendships rooted in unending loyalty. Likewise, I know that loyalty is returned. I’d choose that any day over being popular.

So friendship-based people pleasing was out of the window. And honestly, I never fawned with my family either. That left only one emotionally intimate relationship left to conquer.

Dating always felt daunting to me. It still does. But thanks to discovering fawning and recognising it in myself, I now see just how prevalent it was in my romantic relationships.

In every single one of them, I felt I had to earn love, that if I didn’t play the role of the good, compliant girlfriend, I would be tossed aside. I could sit here and blame the boys I dated for being romantically and emotionally sterile, but not all of them were. There were also varying levels of fawning on my part. I would give up areas of my life, water myself down to fit what they wanted.

Some of them liked it, pushing me to fawn more by withholding the very things I was begging for. Others, no matter how well I played the role, still discarded me. I think I was the one doing the breaking up only once or twice, when boredom or frustration finally outweighed my fear of leaving.

It was my last relationship that finally proved it to me. No matter what I did, I was never perfect enough. In the months following the breakup, I remembered the fawning, how, despite being a survival tactic, it had never served me well. If anything, it only made things worse. It made me less myself, and god damn, myself is powerful. So why the hell would I continue doing it?

I believe fawning is ingrained in women as it is, and for those of us who have experienced immense trauma, even more so. I want to explore this idea further in a future piece, perhaps focusing on different types of women. But for now, I want to prioritise the liberation that comes with realising what I had been doing all these years, and with understanding that I no longer have to do it. I once feared I wouldn’t be loved for my authentic self, that I would have to fawn to get what I thought I should want. Now I know what I do want. I know exactly where, and who, I want to be. I can promise myself, and the world, that I will never fawn again.

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Operation New Year More Me

Lydia Roe — Thu, 01 Jan 2026 10:33:52 GMT

Happy New Year! I hope all of you closed 2025 on a good note. Now that we’re at the start of 2026, I thought I’d share some of my New Year’s resolutions with you all.

This year, I want to get to a place where I can say I am truly happy with myself. It’ll be a year of self-acceptance and becoming the woman, I know I can be, not to put too much pressure on myself or anything.

There’s that good old mantra, “New Year, new me,” but I don’t think that’ll be the case for me. Becoming a new person and starting from scratch doesn’t appeal to me after all I’ve done to get to where I am now. I like the term “rebrand,” but even that feels like scrapping all the progress I made toward the end of last year.

I was trying to figure out whether I should call this “New Year, More Me” or “New Year, Better Me,” but then I realised that no matter the wording, it’s the same thing. I want to be me, but a version of myself that takes everything I’ve already done and builds on it. So, let’s commence a rundown of the steps that’ll be part of Operation More Me.

I will live light and spend wisely

I will confess: I am a shopaholic. I love pretty things I can collect, and I love clothes, but the older I get, the less frivolous I feel I need to be. Since I’m (hopefully) starting my master’s degree this year, I want to build a bit of a nest egg and find a form of therapy that won’t be quite so detrimental to my bank account.

Of course, this doesn’t mean giving it up entirely. Instead, I plan to follow the philosophy of whether something will:

Be used, loved, and admired by me on a frequent basis
Truly make me feel happy, or if it’s just the rush of the purchase
Be worth buying now, or if it would be better to save the money for something I really, really want

I’ve found joy in investment pieces, things I truly love and know I can turn into multiple outfits. I think this’ll work, and given how much I’ve already slimmed down my shopping baskets, I’m clearly making progress. Not to mention, getting dressed is a lot easier when I can keep a mental catalogue of my wardrobe.

Hand in hand with spending less, I want to live a little lighter. I find endless clutter overwhelming, and too much around me often stifles my creativity. This is a particularly difficult balance when I’m such a collector of trinkets and love surrounding myself with things that feel like reflections of me. But maybe it’s time to find a middle ground, and keep the unending clutter in my head. Let’s be honest: my brain is so full and bursting at the overthinking seams that decluttering any of that would be impossibly futile.

I will do what fulfils me

Last year, I barely created. I didn’t draw, I didn’t bake, I didn’t paint, and somehow, I managed to finish my manuscript. That is far from who I am as a person. I create; it’s what I love, it’s what I do, and not doing so for most of last year really affected me. It was the biggest part of myself that I lost, but now that I have it back, I’m determined never to let go of it again.

This step of Operation More Me is about creating again, whether that’s with words, paint, sugar and flour, or a camera. I discovered last year that I love making vlogs and videos, and that’s something I really want to grow in the coming months. Maybe more vlogs? Talking videos? I’m not sure yet, but I’m certain the ideas will come.

I create for myself, yes, but I won’t lie: the most fulfilling part is seeing other people enjoy what I make. I truly hope you’ll continue to do so with whatever manifests itself this year.

I will be kind to myself, take my time, and never lose who I am again

I have a lot I want to do in life, this year especially. However, I do have obstacles I’ll never fully overcome, and they require me to pace myself. To achieve what I want, I need to learn to be kinder to myself and stop throwing myself away just because of something I feel I’m supposed to do.

I will not lose myself. I will continue to be the woman I’m meant to be. I will be an author. I will be a creator. I will do everything I love and everything that makes me who I am. I may fail, and I may have setbacks, but I will not beat myself up over them like I always do.

Last year was messy, full of emotions that were both incredibly beautiful and deeply painful. This year, I’ll take what I went through and learn from it. I’ll push forward and pause to breathe when I need to. I will set boundaries, and I will never compromise myself for anyone else.

Getting out there

I spend most of my days at home. Actually the vast majority of them are spent at home. It was my health that confined me to this lifestyle mostly, that and my anxieties about the world beyond my front door. I actually wrote a short story about my past Agoraphobia in my manuscript (fingers crossed for publication this year). It has gotten to the point now though that I am healed mostly (chronic illness still at battle with) and this whole staying at home all the time thing is getting a little too comfortable. This year though, I will meet new people, form new friendships and broaden my social circle beyond anything I have ever known previously. I don’t trust easily but I also am tired of being by myself all the time. As much as I love it, I know if I want to live the life I want, I need to get myself out there. I need to form new connections and meet more people like me. Even if its little things like making conversation in the corner shop, I want to put in the effort to stretch beyond my sheltered social circle.

P.S. No dating apps.

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2025 Wrapped

Lydia Roe — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 17:00:47 GMT

Oh, 2025, what a year you have been. So full of ups and downs, curveballs and surprises (both good and bad). I think it’s probably one of the most eventful years of my life so far! Definitely up there with 2019 in terms of drama and stress, but alas, I made it through that just as I have made it through this year. In celebration of that, I wanted to reflect, to take some time to look back and remember what I lived and learned, the things I plan on carrying into next year.

Spring

My god, I was happy in the spring. So damn happy. Life felt as if it had finally fallen into place. I had explored Japan, I had been to Edinburgh, and I had hopes of new friends. I was in love, I had just moved away from home to be with my boyfriend, and he doted on me like I was the most important thing in the world. I thought it would never end, and in a way, I wish it hadn’t, but at the same time, I’m quite glad it did.

In spring, I learned that I can be independent, that I can get on a plane and go to a different country and have the time of my life. I think I grew up a lot during this season. Like the lambs and the baby birds hatching from their eggs, I sprang up and took flight.

Summer

Summer is the time of year when the sun is highest and hopes are too. It’s warm, it’s bright, days are long and full of fun. Often, summer is associated with being totally carefree, and for those in love, totally happy. For some of the summer, I was those things. My relationship felt as if it was moving forward, the home stretch of my degree was in sight, and I was looking at permanent employment.

It was August, at the very end of the summer, that I learned I was not in fact as happy as I should’ve been. Anxiety attacks started to plague my days. I was lonely even though I lived with my then-boyfriend, and I was carrying pressures on my shoulders that frankly were not important. I put myself aside and started to pursue a life I didn’t want, forcing myself into something I thought was right, something I felt I should’ve wanted. It was normal, regular, boring, and it did not feel like me.

At the end of summer, my life diverted onto a different course, and I faced many endings, the end of my relationship, the end of my degree, and the end of having any clue who I was or what I was doing. I was frankly lost this summer, but I learned that I will never dare lose myself like that again just to please others who don’t even like me or care about me.

Autumn

Autumn was the season of healing for me. After my summer, I needed to hibernate and take time for myself. Everything that had been chopped down began to grow again, ironically enough, just as the leaves died and fell from the trees. I cocooned myself, curling up into the space I needed to get back in touch with who I am.

It wasn’t an easy process. I gained a bit of weight (which I’m working hard to lose), my acne flared up, and so did my chronic illness. I spent most of my time tired, decompressing, and reevaluating everything that had happened this year. I also learned that I will NEVER use Hinge again, dating apps are completely off the table. If I can give anyone advice, do not try to jump back into the dating scene so soon after the end of a relationship, especially one as serious as mine was. It can do real harm to your mental health when you’re suddenly filtering through endless people who don’t interest you after being so sure you’d be looking at engagement rings by New Year.

Winter

Maybe winter is my time. When the rest of the world feels like it’s hibernating, I feel the most like myself. It encapsulates everything I love, cosy nights in, warm knitted jumpers, candles, and cute things, baked and gifted. My Scandinavian roots really come out at this time of year, and this winter they’ve been so healing. I’ve managed to accomplish a lot too, such as earning my 2:1 degree and completing my first manuscript!

As the year comes to a close, I feel both exhausted and rejuvenated. I feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. I have achieved so much this year, my Bachelor’s degree, my book, and a renewed sense of identity. I did a lot of things that had me leave as a child and return as a woman, and for that I am thankful, even if the process wasn’t always kind. I’ve learned to appreciate my home a lot more, and my parents too.

I have taken time to be kind to myself and to listen to what I truly want. I’ve explored both the world and myself, and for 2026, I cannot wait to see what comes my way.

I’d also like to thank you all for the first year of this blog. It’s been a big step for me to make this, to actually put my thoughts out there and share things with you that, in the past, I would’ve deemed not worth sharing. Seeing how much support and love you’ve given me has helped more than you can ever imagine. See you next year!

Love,
Lydia x

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