A love letter to awkwardness

I've had the privilege of not ever being considered cool in my entire life. This is good, because you cannot lose what you don’t have, and I don’t have to upkeep a mysterious, underground persona. How do you know I’m telling the truth? Here’s how— no cool person has ever used the word ‘cool’ in their entire life. They just haven’t. They’re too busy looking spectacular in neon clothes at festivals. It’s just not something they say. I don’t know how old I was when I realised I was uncool. It might’ve been when I got cast as Ant and Dec in a primary school play or when I clapped during a plane landing when I was thirteen. You don’t decide to be uncool, it just sort of chooses you. It’s the product of being the girl who is perpetually clumsy in P.E lessons and literally cannot throw a ball to save her life, or being someone who loses their shoe whilst walking up a flight of stairs and continues to walk because they're embarrassed to acknowledge what just happened. You'd rather walk three miles in one shoe than have to ask someone to "please get off my shoe" and then continue on having a normal day. What exactly does it mean to be ‘uncool’? Here’s a few tell-tale signs—It’s when you have to try and pronounce the name of lagers you don’t understand in a pub full of attractive bearded men because you literally don’t have the slightest clue about what a ‘cool’ beer is and don’t want to embarrass yourself in a micro-brewery. It’s forgetting how old you are when somebody asks you and saying “um” before telling a stranger what your name is. It’s unironically saying phrases like “blimey!’ and “what’s the delio?” (the latter of which not even I condone in a public setting.)

 People who choose to reclaim their awkwardness are often viewed as borderline unbearable, like they’re so scared of being normal that they desperately try and explain how quirky they are to everyone they meet. See: the people who have ‘I’m just a bit of a spontaneous nerd. Sorry!!!!!!’ written on their Tinder profiles. Look at the character Jess from New Girl—she is both adored and despised. She’s the poster girl of uncomfortable personalities, constantly wearing oversized glasses and not understanding popular culture. I’m part of the group who fell in love with her character on the show, often relating to her complete inability to ever say something remotely smooth. It’s a pleasure to watch somebody acting so painfully awkward yet still being loved by all their friends, even by Cece—who represents the archetypal ‘cool girl’. In my opinion, those of us who are undeniably awkward should be allowed to find joy in it. It should be a deal, if you had boys in secondary school laughing at you because of your personality then you’re legally allowed to romanticise your awkwardness. It’s just fair game. If you’ve ever had a football land smack bang in your face in front of your entire year group on what would’ve been a joyous summer day, then yes, you’re well within your rights to call yourself quirky when you enter adulthood.

Here’s what I believe though—aren’t we all a bit awkward? Don’t even the coolest of the cool sometimes trip over thin air and bump into a table in front of someone they fancy? Haven’t we all mispronounced the word ‘necessary’ whilst giving a presentation? Learning to love the awkward quirks that we all have is the beauty of life. Is that not friendship, after all? Is it not breaking down the shell of your cool persona until you’re both comfortable enough around each other to snort laugh at rubbish jokes? Here’s a toast to awkwardness, to my teenage self and to self-acceptance. The next time I spill a drink I’ve just ordered down myself in a crowded bar, I’ll think of this blog post. Then I’ll probably slip over said drink because I’m too distracted by my own writing. But it’s cool now, because I said so.

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The relationship between beauty and shame

I feel genuinely, and quite overwhelmingly torn about debates circling around at the moment discussing beauty. Should we all have to feel beautiful? Is it truly a necessity? Is beauty a privilege that not all of us will experience, that only some can reap the benefits of? My initial answer to that should probably be a defiant, proud ‘YES!’ I’ve grown up as a self-identified ‘unattractive person’ my entire life. I've never had the pleasure of existing in my body and not hating it. It’s sad, it’s awe-consuming, but it’s true. I remember the first time someone spoke negatively about my body when I was six years old. I can distinctly picture going home and clawing at my stomach, running around the garden in circles. I’d count the amount of times I circled around the trees that enclosed our spacious leafy garden, pulling up my top on every tenth lap, to check if my body was different. Although, these comments on my size and shape were almost minuscule in comparison to how insecure my face made me feel. I was thirteen, sat in the back of a classroom, when a boy turned to me and said “You’re so ugly, I can’t even look at you.” The words hit me hard, like a wave crashing against your ankles whilst you’re stood on the edge of the water at the beach. It hit me with force, with power, with shame. I am so deeply aware of the exact feelings those words catalysed within me. I wanted to run out of the classroom and hide. I wanted to tilt my head down, covering my face with my hair just to stop anyone looking at me. I became hyper-aware of myself, as if every single action I ever made was being criticised. I developed an intense paranoia, that I could be walking down the street and someone would suddenly shout about how horrifically ugly I was. When I was seventeen, I went to see a therapist about this ‘ugliness’. He described it analytically and logically, explaining how it was  lodged in my daily memory, it had somehow gotten stuck and kept replaying in the future, so I couldn't leave it in the past as merely just an uncomfortable moment. He said that I imagined those words being said to me as a young adult, not an awkward teenager with a badly cut fringe during a monotonous GCSE lesson. I still hear those words now. I hear a friend telling me “I don’t even understand why anyone has ever called you pretty?” These phrases have all become tangled around my rational, critical thoughts. I can’t walk past a group of men laughing without assuming it’s about my ugliness, because suddenly I’m back in school, where to be beautiful was a prize. Beauty was respect, worth and popularity. I grew up thinking I was a girl whose face was so shockingly awful that it was a disservice to for others to even look at.

I wish I could say that those thoughts have left me, but the truth is that it takes a lot of hard work to build yourself back up from that sort of torment. I hear them as I flinch when someone tries to take a photo of me. They are there when I’m looking into the mirror before I step into a hot shower, or if I'm trying on clothes in a horribly lit changing room. Rationally, I know that beauty is not everything. Yet, with every single disappointment, every time something goes wrong in my personal life, I blame it on my ugliness. I started to a imagine a different, more fulfilling life, one where I could be looked at without somebody's eyes striking fear into my soul. I desired, so desperately, to feel comfortable in someone else's gaze.  In the universe where I was beautiful, I had never been cheated on, never been laughed at, never had to shake at the thought of speaking in front of people, I didn't tense up when walking into a big crowd. I dreamt up entire universes, of a version of me that didn’t feel trapped inhabiting my body. I envisioned being someone who could freely pose in front of a camera without having the worry that a bad photograph of myself could send me into a horrific spiral of self-hatred. So in that case, with all of my personal experience in mind, of course I think beauty should not be expected. The idea that we have to be beautiful to be worthy of respect and love has governed my entire life, stopped me from truly living. The amount of parties I have cancelled on, because I have felt too unattractive to go, is something I can’t think about without bursting into tears. There are so many group photos I’m absent from, a plethora of opportunities that I've refused to take, all because I’ve considered myself too ugly to enter that space.

Yet, here’s where I contradict myself. It sounds whimsical and proud, but I truly find beauty in the majority of people I meet. I have never been around someone and deemed them too ugly to inhabit a certain space, so why must I do it to myself? Even with physical beauty standards aside, which hold a multitude of issues that could be critically analysed and pulled apart, there’s so much beauty in the soul of a person. There are so many instances where I’ve been around my friends and considered them the most beautiful people in the world. For my friend Anna, it’s the way she lights up any room she enters. She’s the wittiest, most intelligent and warm person I have ever met. There's nothing I crave more than to be sat by her side in a dimly lit pub, drinking a glass of red wine and making each other burst into tears of laughter. I see beauty in her whenever she goes to tell me a story, in her incredibly well structured way, that is so perfectly paced and thrilling that I swear she could be an actor if that’s what she wanted. For my friend Ellie, it is the way she is so passionate her hobby that she turned it into an incredible career. She inspires me to always follow the route of what makes me happy, because it’ll hopefully work out in the end. It’s how she listens so deeply to everything her friends are saying, remembering conversations that happened years ago. It’s that same warmth that Anna has, it’s a beauty that cannot really be described through features or clothes, it just beams out of them, in the same way that the brightness of the hot sun gleams through your window on an August day. It’s the wonder of getting to see Tori when she laughs, how Izzy lights up when talking about sustainability, or the way Hannah is always smiling and looking to make others laugh even when she is struggling herself. It’s the concentrated look on Harry's face when he's talking to me about the visions he has for his music, how Lucy looks when she’s softly curled up reading a book, or the excitement in Rachel’s eyes whenever she gets home from Acapella having learnt a new song. There’s so much beauty that seeps from all my friends, from the intricacies of people.  It's the way they tell a certain joke, or how they always quote that one T.V show even though they're aware nobody else has ever seen it, or the way they hug you firmly when your chest feels tight. It seems unfair to deny anyone an opportunity to bask in the word 'beautiful' just because I've failed to feel it for myself. My friends, truly, are beautiful. So many people that I see every single day are beautiful, in ways that I cannot fully explain. Learning the complexities of someone's personality, entering the labyrinth of their mind. Beauty is seeing your friend who always wears perfectly crafted make-up waking up next to you, being allowed to look at them with their hair knotted and their eyelashes stuck together, and still deeming them incredibly, unequivocally beautiful. It upsets me to think of never calling my friends beautiful ever again, because they truly are. Of course because of the fundamental parts of their personality, but It’s all the features on their face, too. From Anna’s icy blue eyes to Hannah’s beautiful curly hair to Nicole's sincere smile. It’s the uniqueness of them all, it’s the way they laugh and the way they express themselves. I wish I could dedicate this entire piece about the sheer beauty of the people I love, in ways that are all completely different and worthy of their own, exclusive description. I could pick out the beauty in every single one of my friends and family members, as if I was analysing the meaning of  a pretentious novel. I would find it easy to explain the exact details of why I think they are wonderful, of why they should never have to experience a single day of being insecure.

So, rather than viewing myself as a failure because of this ‘ugliness’ I have attached to my appearance, why don’t I start trying to find the aspects of me that are beautiful? Yes, maybe if I had longer hair, was a little taller, or changed my face in some way, I’d possibly be perceived as more physically attractive. But also what that plan fails drastically? What if I go through all the trouble of changing every single perceived flaw, only to realise that the hatred was never towards those specific features, but was simply my anxiety trying to attach itself to absolutely anything? I am beautiful because of the very essence of who I am.  I will still, inevitably, have days where I feel a bit too big, too ugly; it will cross my mind that I  somehow simultaneously take up too little and too much space. I, of course, will still live through days where I check the mirror thirty times before leaving the house. Although, I will remind myself that even if I had longer hair, grew a few inches taller, or lost some weight, nothing would really change. I would still breathe the same air and read the same books. I would still make my friends laugh, and feel a rush of joy every time I noticed them smiling at something I’ve said. I would still say "awww" each time I pass a squirrel whilst walking through Hyde Park. I'd still have a crush on floppy haired Hugh Grant, and I'd still dance around my room to Ariana Grande songs in exactly the same manner that I do now. All of the best parts of me cannot be altered physically. It’s not my fault that I’ve always been told women must be pretty, in a highly detailed 'conventional' sense, to be valued. My friends and family probably wouldn’t even notice if I got a nose job, or lost weight, or ordered an entirely new wardrobe on ASOS because I suddenly hated all my clothes. They love me because of the way I make them cups of tea when they’re sad, or draw silly cartoons of their cat when they’re feeling homesick or stay up at 1am singing Torn on Karaoke because they’re sad about an ex-boyfriend. They don’t love me because of what’s on the outside, they cherish me because I will sit and talk to them for hours about everything and nothing, because I’ll be the first to walk them to a doctor’s appointment when they’re feeling low, or to text them at 8am to make sure they’re up in time for a lecture.

I know that prettiness is fleeting, that physical beauty is not the stuff of life. All the moments where I've been the most content, seem to be where beauty does not enter the picture at all; it is being in grubby pyjamas watching films with my family, taking my  dog for a walk in a muddy park, or making dinner in the kitchen with my housemates wearing only a massive jumper that I found in the bin of a charity shop. One day, I truly hope, I will feel beautiful. Not because I’ve got a new dress, or because I've posted a nice picture on Instagram. It will be because I’ve made someone’s day a bit better than it would’ve been if I’d not been in it.  I won’t ever let this feeling of ‘ugliness’ stop me from doing anything ever again. It has taken so much from me in the past. You do not owe exterior beauty to anyone, but that doesn't mean it's not there. It's there for everyone, in some way. I truly believe that.

I always find myself thinking ‘now is the moment you need to start loving yourself’. It’s my mantra, I repeat the words again and again until I feel soothed. I say it whenever I get my heart broken, or I’ve cried about my body, or I’ve gotten a bad essay mark. I say it when it feels like every single part of me has been destroyed and needs to be built back up again. This time, though, it’s going to be a tougher type of love. This type is going to force me out of the house even when I feel ugly, it’s going to make me stick to plans even when my heart is racing. This love will mean to live, truly and freely, without fear. I don’t want to cancel on my friends just in case I make a fool of myself. Maybe I will, and that’s not shameful. There’s no shame in being human, with all the vulnerability and chaos that brings. This love will force me to stop avoiding cameras, to go to events, to arrive at the party and to always speak up when I’ve got ideas swirling around in my mind. I’m no longer separating myself from everybody else, as if I was made incorrectly. This self-love will reprogram the entirety of my brain, forcing me to unlearn everything I know and feel is safe. The truth is, I’m not safe here. I’m not safe with this mindset. So, I am worthy of this love; I require a love that will push me forward, that will untangle all the thoughts I’ve ever believed, to dismantle whatever it is inside my mind that means I flinch when I’m near a mirror, or how I stay silent in a room out of fear of being heard. I’ve decided that feeling ‘too ugly’ will never stop me from doing anything ever again. It’s not a proper excuse, it doesn’t hold up. I will not look back on my life and have no stories to tell because I felt that my body, or my face, wasn’t enough. Truthfully, now I have accepted that I am not my worst thoughts. I never have been. I have always been enough, I have never been left behind. There is so much more to life than fear of ‘ugliness’. If I can find beauty in my friends, in humanity, there must be some left for myself. I won't be giving up the idea of beauty entirely, I'll just be redefining the way I perceive it.

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Heartbreak

Heartbreak always feels like collateral damage. I’ve suffered from that little pang in my chest a multitude of times, whether it's from experiencing the security of a long-term partnership coming to an end, or a blossoming relationship suddenly falling apart. It accompanies you when you find out you were cheated on, or when you start sensing that someone you deeply care for is losing interest. That’s the dangerous part about heartbreak, it can hurt so fiercely and intensely, regardless of the situation that catalysed it. It’s painful if you lose a long-term partner, and it can feel just as unbearably sad if you have to let go of someone you met two months ago. In most cases, the tears still rush down your face as heavily, the embarrassment of telling your friends and family it equally as hard and the aching of losing something you had grown accustomed to completely encapsulates you. Love and time do not always make perfect sense together, the heartbreak you go through from losing love doesn’t go away just because it was short lived.

I write about romantic love a lot, usually from an outside perspective. I am an observer of love, rarely ever involved with it. I’m the person who gets excited at seeing people I barely know get into loving relationships. There I am, rooting for partnerships and happiness, letting the joy of witnessing love light up my day. I have acknowledged, plenty of times, the all-encompassing love you can gain from friendships and family, but there is definitely something to be said about the indescribable and unique ecstasy that romantic love can provide. I remain fascinated by it, whether that’s seeing two people cuddling up in a university bedroom, under some messily hung up fairy lights talking about everything and anything, to married couples marching through a supermarket like a dynamic duo, with a routine so that has become second-nature to them; the type of love that it seems as if it were a dance, like people are moving in and out of sequences that they know and cherish. I’ve experienced a lot of different loves in my life, but rarely the romantic kind. I have had tastes of it, breathed it in briefly. Though, here I am, waiting for my time to come where I can fully let my guard down and experience what it means to be completely adored in a way that is fearless and without insecurity. I'm not looking for a type of love that you read about in classic romantic fiction, I just want someone to talk about rubbish films with, to roll around laughing about jokes that only we understand and to hold the hand of someone who I can trust. 

But this isn’t about love, this is about heartbreak. This is about what to do when you’re scrolling through sad Spotify playlists in the evening so you can find songs to cathartically cry to, or for when you walk to the shop in tears so you can buy yourself three packets of biscuits. We do weird stuff when we’ve had our hope shattered. Unfortunately, I don’t have a cure. I’d do anything to have a magic potion tucked up in my drawers that could soothe any broken heart, I’d sprinkle it on all the crying friends I’ve had to squeeze through heartbreak, and keep little droplets for myself for when the inevitable happens.

What I will say, is that whenever you get your heart broken, it feels like you will never love again. It seems as though you will never have inside jokes that are just as good, or that another person will never make you smile in the same way. You convince yourself that you will never fully appreciate the specific features of someone’s face as lovingly ever again, or image yourself answering the door so excitedly to another person. Everyone else seems cold, void of personality and warmth in comparison. But, this is just temporary. It’s cliché to say, but there is some comfort in knowing that heartbreak is just as fleeting as love can be. In a few months, all the heartbreak will eventually blur together. It will all be a part of the same feeling, a concoction of events that gave you that pang in your chest.

When I was crying to a close friend recently, she gave me  some of the most reassuring advice I’ve heard in a while. She said, “You will get through it, because you always do... until one day when you won’t have to anymore. I admire how you get back up every time. I always remind myself that going through it all again is worth it because of the little glimpses of happiness.” Certainly, there’s a lot to be said about the strength we have, how heartbreak forces the toughest versions of ourselves to take centre-stage. The next time you feel shattered and exhausted, remember all the other times in your life where you’ve had to build everything back up again. It hurts and it’s sad, of course. Equally, it’s bearable, it’s passing and most importantly, you will manage this pain beautifully.

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Valentine's Day blues

Valentine’s day can be hard for multiple reasons. For me, it’s because all the good deals are always ‘meals for two’, and I have to wonder whether it’s okay to buy yourself two heart-shaped vegan caramel desserts that are blatantly marketed towards couples (can I just say, it most definitely is okay, and yes I did buy them.) It’s equally a tough time for people who perceive themselves as unlovable, as if the bothersome day was created purely just to mock them. I used to feel like this, shouting about the ‘commodification of love’ and how ‘everyday would be special if you really loved each other!’ I shortly realised that I was bitter for one prominent reason, I was undermining my self-worth because of my singleness. It was as if everyone in romantic relationships had ‘won’ and I had lost. It took a few years, and a lot of self-discovery, to understand that romantic love is not a game with winners and losers.

One day an epiphany comes, where it hits you that you could be the loveliest, kindest, wittiest and most-gentled hearted version of yourself and you’ll still be cooking meals for one, buying yourself flowers and sighing at Tinder matches. We shouldn’t seek to better ourselves purely to secure a relationship, it must come from an inner desire to reach our own expectations that we've envisioned for ourselves. Romantic love is not a gift that is granted to those who are the most worthy, it’s just what happens when people find an opportunity to intertwine their lives through being in a relationship. It’s making the decision to care for someone and grow alongside them and, most importantly, having the desire to do so. The moment you stop seeing yourself as unlovable, purely because you have not yet found romantic love, you will encounter an overwhelming feeling of wholeness. All the perks of relationships can be experienced through different forms, the intimacy of spending an evening cosied up in front of a terrible film whilst eating all the snacks that the corner shop had to offer is not exclusive to romantic relationships. You will not ‘discover’ love the very moment you agree to be in a relationship with someone, you will find it through little acts of kindness that infiltrate daily life.

It’s important to define your own version of love. For you, maybe it’s not about receiving one-hundred roses in the post or being taken to Paris for the weekend, but it’s someone folding the corner of a page in a book because they know you’d be interested to read it, or your friend seeing your favourite biscuits are on offer whilst they’re doing their shopping and deciding to get them for you. Love does not have to be a monumental, life defining, long-lasting relationship; love can be the feeling you have as you realise that everybody you care about has a mutual care for you too, as you become aware that you’re safe and secure amongst those who you call friends. You could do all the self-improvement available and life will not grant you romantic love, so remember that the most important love in your life is with yourself. You must nourish and protect your body and mind in the same way you would with a friend. Don't wear yourself thin by spreading all the goodness you have without leaving any for yourself. Self-love is often trivialized into images of bubble baths and eating ice-cream, but don't lose sight of the true meaning. Let this be a reminder that even in the most difficult of times, you can work on being kinder to yourself.

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