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The biggest regret

When people talk about their biggest regrets, it’s usually met with something contrite like “I don’t believe in regrets” and “everything happens for a reason”, and sure, I’ll bite. I’ve told myself that many a time to get through all my wrongs. But no part of me believes all that much in ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’, or that there’s some grand plan for all of us. Maybe once upon a time I did, before somewhere along the way this hopeless romantic got struck down, knees scuffed up by cynicism. And, by some cruel twist of… not fate, but careless actions and falsely placed trust, my biggest regret happened. Or, rather, he walked away.

There are words lying around here in old, dusty posts vaguely talking about being unhappy, about giving up too soon — about how I didn’t and don’t deserve nice things. My most painful almost. The first sits primly in March 2014, not two months after I pushed away a boy I still to this day, three and a half years on, think I could have very easily fallen in love with. It’s a big regret of mine. Actually, it’s humungous. It’s this gigantic, hollow, echoey hole in my chest that still — still — hasn’t been filled in your wake. Three years is a long time to still care, longer than even the most stubborn, resilient teenage hearts. Because, oh boy, did I tumble in and out of (something that sure felt like) love hard when I was young and fearless, thinking my heartache would never end. But the broken hearts mended. Far quicker than the three years and six months I’ve accumulated of this.

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The month of July

Is it bad that with July drawing to a close, I’m becoming more and more aware of just how close autumn is and, wait for it, Christmas. Okay, okay, I won’t be that person, but I am stupidly excited about the leaves changing and reaching for scarves and knitted jumpers. I love layering up and wearing cosy clothes. As happy as the sunlight makes me, as much as I love, love, love those scents of freshly mown grass and hot tarmac that’s been beaten down on all day long, crisp mornings and frosted edges are more my thing. I am a winter baby after all. I’m more comfortable in the cooler months, partly because wearing anything remotely exposing is a tad difficult with my body image issues, but just… Orange and yellow leaves, pumpkin picking, candles and fairylights and holding a hot chocolate takeaway cup in your hands, letting the heat bleed into your palms. It’s all good stuff and I am about it. Obviously July didn’t bring any of that (I am the Queen of tangents), but I guess whilst we’re talking about July moods… my autumn af-ness is shining through.

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Book Bites ft. Louise Pentland, Carlie Sorosiak & Jennifer Mathieu

Here we are again. More reading has been done and reviews written in — fairly  quick succession. I say that, but I’m pretty sure I’ve read at least two point five more books since finishing these three, so I’m probably, definitely still behind. But anyway. Fabulous books? Turns out I’ve been reading them. I loved all of these quite a bit and, quite coincidentally, they actually go from a three start review to a four, followed by a five. The best until last (even though, duh, I loved them all, I already said that). Again, unintentional, I promise. Read them all. They’re all pretty special in their own ways and I’ll get onto exactly why right… now!

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A bee & a bonnet

As a woman, I am upset right now. And it may be because I’m even more hyperaware of my inferiority complex since finishing ‘Moxie’ by Jennifer Mathieu. In the book what girls have to say doesn’t even register; they don’t even rank in terms of their… impact, I guess. And I’m upset by this and by my own experiences. I’m upset by the fact that, even since identifying as a feminist and feeling empowered by what I am, I still have these internalised feelings that a man’s word is more important, that I should keep my lips pressed tightly shut even when what I really want to say is, “Hold up, what I wanted to tell you is important, too.”

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