Today is the 18th of January 2026, which means that 2 years ago, on the 18th of January 2024, I started my Substack.

I’ve done a similar post like this twice before; first when I reached 6 months on Substack, then again when I hit the one year mark. Now that it’s been two years, I thought it high time to do another. One thing to know about me is I am big on reflection, so any chance I get to reflect on an experience, especially in writing, I am going to take it.

First of all, two years — insane. If my Substack were a person, it would likely be able to walk by now and even say a few words. When I first started this Substack, I was 18 going on 19, and it was the summer holidays. I had finished Year 12, my final year of school, and my first year of university was fast approaching. Having a blog was something I had always loved the idea of, and once I heard about Substack, I decided to finally take the plunge, even though I had no idea if anyone would even care about the things I had to say.

Now I’m 20 going on 21. It’s once again the summer holidays, but this time I’m two years deep into my degree and my third year is fast approaching. On one hand, it doesn’t feel like Substack has been in my life for two years now, because surely it hasn’t been that long? On the other hand, I feel like it’s always been part of my life.

When I first started my newsletter, I was a writer who was scared to have other people read my writing. No one in my real life reads my writing; I don’t even like it when my teachers have to read my writing. But I knew if I wanted to actually one day achieve my number one goal in life of becoming a published author, this was a fear I’d have to get over.

I didn’t have one of those overnight success stories with Substack. It was a slow process. I had no engagement whatsoever for the first six months of being here. My posts were getting no views, no comments, no likes. I was doing all the things they say to do; I was posting on Notes, I was consistent, and I even started a Twitter account to promote my stuff that actually overtook my Substack in terms of followers before I quickly abandoned it because Twitter is a scary, scary place. No, Substack isn’t perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot better than whatever’s going on over there.

I didn’t gain my first subscriber that wasn’t me until two months in. I didn’t gain another subscriber until another month after that. I’m not going to lie, it was disheartening. However, I made a promise to myself that I was going to keep posting, even if no one ever read my work. Because even when no one was reading my stuff, I still found the entire process fun.

I started posting in January of 2024. It wasn’t until July that I started gaining momentum. The thing that gave me my “big break,” of all things, was posting on the Substack subreddit. Quite literally the only time I have ever posted on Reddit.

The reason I’m saying this is in case anyone reading is in a similar position, in that they’ve been posting for a while and they just don’t seem to be making any progress and it’s starting to get a little disheartening. To those people, please remember that patience and consistency are your best friends. It’s so easy for people with the numbers to tell you not to care about the numbers, and that is of course true to a degree, but at the end of the day, none of us would be posting our writing online if we didn’t want other people to read it.

I recently had two posts of mine surpass 100 likes, which blew my mind. The first of which was “The Tortured Poets Department VS The Life of a Showgirl: The Double-Edged Sword of Exchanging One Thorn for Another.” That post is rambly, it is 5,800 words long, and it is a near 30 minute read. Despite that, it is easily my favourite thing I have ever written for Substack. But whenever I post something excessively long, I’m always aware that it lessens the chance of more people reading it, because people’s attention spans are only getting shorter. Not to menion people are busy and have lots going on, I get it. So the fact that it did so well is honestly a surprise. It’s a good feeling that my most successful post happens to align with the one I’m most proud of.

The other post was “Are Reading Influencers Qualified to Write Books?” which was a spur of the moment piece I wrote within a few hours. What I loved most about that piece was the really interesting conversations I was having with people in the comments. As it turns out, so many people were also passionate about the things I was talking about and brought up really good points that I hadn’t even considered myself. I love when that happens.

But don’t mistake me, just as many of my favourite pieces have also not done so well. I still constantly have to remind myself that the amount of likes a post gets is not indicative of its quality or worth. In October of 2024, I wrote a post called, “A Deep Dive into Fangirl Culture.” It was one I put a lot of effort into and was really proud of, so I was a little disappointed when it only got 3 likes. Nonetheless, I was still proud of it. Then, a year later, it started randomly gaining traction out of nowhere. I don’t even know what brought it on. Now it’s among my top 10 most popular posts. All of this to say, you can never, ever predict what will do well and what won’t, so you may as well just have fun with it and write whatever the hell you want.

I’m not the kind of person who believes in putting yourself down in order to feign humility, so I’ll happily say that I’m really proud of a lot of the things I’ve written for Substack. In saying that, does some of my earlier stuff make me cringe now? Yes. But simultaneously, what a joy it is to go back to my earlier stuff and compare it to now and be able to see evolution and improvement. In the beginning, I was kinda just throwing whatever at the wall and seeing what stuck, but I feel as if I’ve now found my niche. I’ve found a niche, but I also don’t want to ever be restricted by it. I don’t want to ever put myself in a box of only writing about one thing.

I’ve learned you guys really like it when I talk about pop music, which is great, because I love writing about pop music. Contrary to what some would say, I don’t think pop music is shallow or generic or “not real music.” I like to think my Substack is a safe space for people to unabashedly enjoy pop music. I’ve written my fair share of excessively long and rambly Taylor Swift deep dives over the last two years. I’m not going to lie to you guys, there are few things that bring me as much joy as writing excessively long and rambly Taylor Swift deep dives.

I will also write the occasional post diving into the world of reading and writing. That I actually feel qualified to write about in comparison to music, though I think I’m inspired to write about music on here more because I already have to think about reading and writing incessantly for university. It’s healthy to have more than one obsession, I think. But despite writing mostly about music, books, and pop culture, I will also ocassionally scream into the void about what is going on in my own life. I’ve ranted about feeling lost in my career and life, I’ve ranted about university, I’ve ranted about my grandparents selling their house, and for some reason, people have listened. I’ve come to learn there’s something strangely therapeutic about treating the internet like your diary.

But easily the best part of my Substack experience has been the people. I have interacted with so many genuinely lovely people on here. People who are kind and supportive and welcoming. It also must be said: You guys are so dang talented. I have been blown away by so much of the writing I have read on here. I have also learned so much through the writing I have read on here. The most unexpected yet fulfilling aspect of my Substack journey has undoubtedly been the little online community I have found on here.

So happy 2nd birthday to A Fraction of My Mind. Or really, happy Substackiversary to me. I can only hope the next 365 days bring just as much community, fun, and excessive rambling.

Until next yap,

- Lilly :)

Merry Christmas Eve. Or merry Christmas Eve Eve, depending on where you are in the world.

I haven’t been feeling as Christmassy as I should this year, so this post is an excuse for me to curate a Christmassy vibe. Feel free to grab a hot drink or a sweet treat or whatever makes you happy and sit in this curated Christmassy vibe with me.

I talk about not feeling as Christmassy this year, but in all honesty, I think it’s just because I’m getting older. It’s an unfortunate truth that Christmas simply doesn’t hit the same as an adult in comparison to when you’re a kid. But I still love the way this time of year gives me nostalgia for those simpler times. I still remember how much I would always love the last week of primary school.

At some point in the week, we’d do our Christmas carols night. While we’d wait to perform, each grade would gather in a classroom, and the teacher would put on a Christmas movie, which for some reason would always be either Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer or Frosty the Snowman. Although one year it was The Nightmare Before Christmas, which scared the hell out of 8-year-old me. Then each class would line up and go into the church to perform their carol, where I would mumble and/or lip-sync my way through All I Want For Christmas is my Two Front Teeth or Grandma Got Ran Over By a Reindeer.

But the last day of the school year was the best day. We’d get to wear plain clothes instead of our uniforms. We’d spend the morning cleaning out the classrooms, which sounds dreadfully boring, but when you’re 12, going out into the courtyard and cleaning desks with a sponge and soapy water is as fun as it gets. I had one teacher, my favourite teacher, who would buy everyone in the class a gingerbread house to decorate. I don’t even like gingerbread, but I loved decorating them. At lunch, people’s families were invited to come and bring a picnic. You’d eat lunch with your family, go play on the playground with your friends, and then get to go home early because it was a half-day. It was great. I’d give anything to live a ‘last day of the school year’ again. When I think of fond childhood memories, that is as warm and fuzzy as it gets.

But of course, a lot of the magic of childhood Christmas comes from the Santa Claus of it all. What would be more exciting than leaving out milk and cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeers, and then waking up in the morning to find them gone? My parents used to give us the “Santa comes to Australia first” lie so we’d go to bed earlier. I remember lying in bed, straining my ears in case I’d hear Santa. I remember convincing myself one year that I’d heard him yell out “Blitzen!” from the roof. It’s so strange being old enough now to watch my mum take a bite from the cookies and drink the milk and do all that same stuff for my younger siblings. It’s strange being old enough to know where she hides the presents every year.

But it’s important to remember that even in adulthood, there are ways to find the magic in Christmas. I love painting my nails red and green every year. I love getting to wear a Santa hat to work. I love walking to see the Christmas lights with my grandparents every Christmas Eve. I love being able to tell my little brother that Santa’s watching any time he annoys me. I love watching movies like Elf and Home Alone and The Santa Clause. I love listening to songs like All I Want For Christmas is You and Last Christmas and Santa Tell Me. People will talk about the commercialisation of Christmas and why it’s bad, and I understand that to a degree, but I’m okay if they keep churning out tacky Christmas movies and music. The tackier the better, actually.

Being in Australia, Christmas for us is actually smack bang in the middle of summer. While it may seem absurd to some people reading, I associate Christmas with sunshine and warm weather. Growing up, we’d have a barbeque on Christmas, then go swimming in my grandparents’ pool, then play a game of cricket at the park next door. I always find it so funny that despite this, America still rubs off on Australia enough that we nonetheless sell trees with fake snow and sing songs like Let it Snow. I even saw Christmas sweaters at the shop the other day. You’d have to be pretty mad to wear a knitted sweater in the middle of an Australian summer. Personally, I wouldn’t recommend it.

Although I’m sure it would tickle some non-Australians to know of the Australian version of Santa we have, which is just Santa in a bathing suit, sunglasses, and for some reason always holding a surfboard. Maybe it’s just because of absorbing the romanticised version of it in movies and songs and whatnot, but I think a part of me will always yearn to experience a white Christmas at least once in my life.

I’m not religious, so Christmas for me isn’t about what it is for a lot of other people, but I nonetheless love what Christmas has come to stand for. Christmas is about giving to others. It’s about counting the blessings in your life. It’s about spreading love and positivity. It’s about doing more good deeds than you usually would. It’s about spending time with those you care about most, be it your blood family or the one you chose. The other day, I was listening to Madeline Rubicam’s The Lizard Review, and she did an episode ranking her favourite Christmas songs. In it, she talked about how Western society is so individualistic and self-centred most of the time, and yet Christmas is the one time of year where we think about other people more than we think about ourselves. I thought that was really potent.

In a weird way, writing this did make me feel a lot more Christmassy. Mission accomplished. This will more than likely be my last post for the year, so I will see you on the other side in 2026, where there will no doubt be more excessively long rants about all things music, books, and pop culture.

Merry Christmas. Or, if you don’t celebrate Christmas, happy holidays.

I feel as if we spend a large chunk of our lives looking ahead. Every day, we do things to benefit our future selves. We work so our future selves can enjoy nicer luxuries and afford that car loan. We study so our future selves can have a career we can’t access yet. We eat well and exercise in hopes of our future selves being in good health. We manifest and write out ‘five year plans’ in hopes of our future selves living that life, even though in five years’ time, we’ll probably just be focusing on the next five year plan.

As someone in the first year of their 20s, I feel as if I spend much of my days preparing for the future. I work a job in customer service not because I want to, but because I want to be able to put a certain amount of every paycheck towards my savings, in benefit of my future self. I study every day so my future self can have a career in teaching. I work on my manuscripts and invest time and energy into my Substack in case my future self actually succeeds in becoming a professional writer.

When I look around at others my age, it’s much of the same. Their current jobs are just a stepping stone to the actual job they want to have one day. They put money into their savings so they can maybe afford to live on their own one day. Obviously, I know that this is what your 20s are supposed to be like. They are supposed to be the years where you don’t really know what the fuck you’re doing. They are supposed to be the years of exploration and trial and error and self-discovery and blah blah blah.

I’ll be honest in saying I don’t have much of a social life (and a non-existent love life), so I invest most of my time and energy into my career. University and my writing are the centres of my universe. Yes, I’m aware that’s probably not all that healthy. But I’ve been struggling lately with feeling stagnant in my life; feeling as if I’m not moving. Every day is much of the same. My degree is almost entirely online, so I spend a large chunk of my week sitting at my desk studying, alone. On Mondays, I have a cleaning day and do a big grocery shop. On Tuesdays, I go for a morning jog. On Wednesdays, I usually spend the day at my grandparents’ house who live out of town. On Thursdays, I go to the library for a few hours. On Fridays, I like to take my dog for a walk. On weekends, I go to work.

Look, I am someone who loves structure and routine. But week after week after week of the same structure and routine is starting to get a bit much. I can’t help but wonder if my life is boring. I know they say comparison is the thief of joy, but I look at the other people my age going to the club every Friday night, or going to concerts, or falling in love, or travelling to exciting places, and I think perhaps I’m missing out on something. A girl I went to high school with is currently taking a gap year in Europe and whenever I see her Facebook stories from Rome or Paris or London, I look on with envy.

It doesn’t even make sense, because I’m a huge introvert who loves her alone time. Whenever I go to parties, I absolutely hate it and just want to go home. I don’t drink, and if you’ve ever been a sober person around a bunch of drunk people, you know how unenjoyable that is. And yet, I still feel as if there’s something essential I’m missing out on. I would hate to look back on this time of my life in however many years and regret not living more. It doesn’t help that the older I get, the more I start to resent the small town I’ve lived in my whole life, and how tiny and opportunity-less it feels.

I’m currently reading Jane Eyre for the first time, and in the 12th chapter, Jane expresses a dissatisfaction at the stillness of her life. She spent eight years confined at Lowood, and now three months at Thornfield, where she finds her company kind but unengaging, and she longs to see the world beyond and actually feel something. It’s in chapter 12 that she says something that particularly struck me: “It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility; they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.”

At the same time, I feel as if I’m in a transitional period. Next year, I’ll be in my second to last year of university; year three of a four year degree. I’ll be starting my teaching prac. I’m also hoping to leave the customer service job I’ve worked at for the last three years so I can get a job as a teacher’s aide next year. I’ve somehow convinced myself that once those things happen, my life will begin. I’ll actually be out in the real world, gaining real world experience, spending my weekdays at a place that isn’t my bedroom desk, at a job that I’m actually passionate about and doesn’t bore me to death. So I’ve found myself stuck in waiting mode. I don’t care about this chapter of my life, I just want to skip to the next one. I know this is probably a trap.

One thing to know about me is that I am big on nostalgia. Underneath my bed is a treasure trove of childhood items I couldn’t bear to part with, from weathered teddy bears to old notebooks. I often look back on past eras of my life more fondly than when I was actually living it. Which is how I know that some day in the future, I will look back on this time of my life longingly, despite Current Me just wanting to get it over and done with. As Taylor Swift wisely says on one of my all-time favourite songs, I Hate it Here: “Nostalgia is a mind’s trick.”

This is a struggle I’m constantly grappling with. I’m always living in either the past or the future; I’m rarely ever living in the present, the here and now, looking at what’s right in front of me. Despite having self-awareness of this struggle, I don’t know how to break free from it.

The last thing I want is for this piece to come off as me sounding ungrateful. I’m very aware that I live a very privileged life where I am fortunate enough to live in a decently politically stable country like Australia, where I have been raised by a middle-class family, and now work a well paying job while simultaneously getting to study the things I am most passionate about in the world, that being English, writing, and education. That good fortune has not slipped my mind. But at the same time, I can’t help that I feel this way.

So perhaps a good exercise for me to try here is to put myself in the shoes of Future Me, the nostalgia whore who is no doubt looking back on this time fondly, and pinpoint exactly what I am likely to miss about this chapter later down the road. I never planned on or chose for my degree to be entirely online. Basically the only time I am ever on campus is to use the library. In a past essay of mine, I spoke of how I used to have this really romanticised version of university in my head. Now being almost two years deep into my degree, I’ve had to come to accept that the romanticised version of university I had in my head does not align with reality. But there are still benefits to doing uni online.

Because my uni work consists almost entirely of independent self-directed work besides a Zoom class once or twice a week, I am pretty much able to decide my own schedule. If I wanna finish up early on a Friday, I can. If I want to make lunch plans, I don’t usually have to work it around anything. That flexible schedule is easily something I see myself missing in the future when I’m working a full-time job. I love my Monday reset days. I feel as if I’m one of the few people who would say Monday is my favourite day of the week. I can see myself missing my Monday reset days in the future.

As I mentioned earlier, every Wednesday, I travel up to my grandparents’ house that’s out of town. Said house also happens to be in walking distance of a beach. I love the change of scenery this day brings. I imagine at some point I’ll be too busy to travel out and visit once a week. I can see myself missing these weekly visits in the future. On Thursdays, when I go to the library, sometimes when I’m done studying, I’ll walk across the bridge to the park, where I’ll find a quiet spot to read. I can see myself missing those peaceful little rendezvous I have with myself in the future.

Perhaps if I shift my mindset this way; if I think of these regular occurances as scarce and limited and things I will one day miss, then I’ll learn to appreciate this current chapter I’m in for what it is, instead of ruminating and agonizing over what it isn’t.

I’m aware this post has been somewhat rambly and disjointed. Whenever I write one of these venting, sprawling personal posts, I don’t do so with the intention of writing something with any creative merit. I do so because getting my thoughts out onto the page makes my head clearer. And there is something strangely therapeutic about taking those thoughts and posting them online, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, someone will read it and resonate with the emotions expressed.

I am currently 19 years old. In early July, I turn 201. I have never been drunk. I’ve never been to the club. I can count the number of parties I’ve been to on the one hand. I’m aware that’s somewhat abnormal for someone my age. And yes, I’m aware some might find that sad.

To be perfectly clear, I’m not judging anyone who does like drinking and partying. I’m not trying to get on a high horse and act like I’m all superior because I don’t like those things. On the contrary, this essay is more so about how I’ve often felt inferior for not liking those things. I live in Australia, and drinking is a big part of Australian culture. Anyone who knows anything about us knows Aussies love their alcohol. There’s a reason why you can find a pub and a bottle shop on every bloody corner of the CBD in my hometown — because they’re in high demand.

I didn’t have my first drink until I was 18. I know, I know, that’s not that strange considering that’s the legal age in Australia, but where I’m a from, underage drinking isn’t uncommon. In fact, it’s probably the norm. So yes, me not having my first drink until my 18th birthday was strange. The first time I drank alcohol, I wasn’t very impressed. For starters, it doesn’t even taste that good. Vodka just tastes like soda but worse and every shot I’ve ever had has just made me feel like I’ve guzzled hand sanitizer. Drinking also makes your mouth unbearably dry. Not to mention you need to pee every 5 seconds. Oh, and you also feel like absolute dogshit the next day.

And yet, this is something people love. This is something people look forward to throughout the work week. They can’t wait to get home and crack open a cold beer or go out on the town on Friday night. In the 2 years I’ve been legally allowed to drink, I’ve noticed the subtle societal pressures around it. There have been times where I’ve been out somewhere and haven’t had a drink and someone will say something along the lines of: Have you had a drink yet? Oh, go on, have a drink. Just one. One won’t hurt. Or they’ll just flat out ask me why I’m not drinking, like the fact that I’m not is strange. I know these people aren’t ill-intentioned, but it’s odd to me that there’s this expectation to drink at social events.

But it’s not just pressure from other people. There have been times where I’ve been at a social event, looked around, seen that every other adult in the room has a drink in their hand, and thought, “I should have a drink.” Not because I want to, but simply because everyone else is. It’s the innate sheep mentality people have to fit in with the crowd at any given moment in time.

While I’ve never been drunk myself, I have been around my fair share of drunk people throughout my life. I know the signs — the slurred speech, the droopy eyes, the increase in impulsiveness and reckless behaviour, with a decrease in rational thinking — there’s a reason why just about the worst thing you can do while drunk is get behind a wheel and drive. Sometimes I feel crazy that I don’t see the appeal in something that sounds like such an awful experience.

In a way, I get it. Drinking is an escape for a lot of people; a distraction from the stress of their daily life. But I still think the blind ignorance some people show towards the negative sides of alcohol is concerning. It’s universally accepted that smoking is bad for you, whether it be cigarettes or vaping. Even heavy smokers I know wouldn’t try to deny that. For some reason, however, there seems to be a denial for many around admitting alcohol is bad for you. Heavy drinking can have detrimental impacts on your health. Is it as bad as smoking? No. But it can still having lasting impacts on your heart and liver. And alcohol, like the nicotine in cigarettes, can be highly addictive. I know people who are clearly alcoholics. Yet people dance around it and and pretend it’s not there, but it is. I think alcoholism is more normalised in society than it should be.

An ever-returning, ever-polarising debate on places like TikTok and Twitter is the topic of dry weddings, which is a wedding that is alcohol free. Some people get so up in flames about it. They say it’s not fair of the bride and groom to force their guests to not drink just because they don’t. There are even people who go as far as to say they won’t attend a wedding if it’s alcohol free. I’m gonna hold your hand when I say this: if you can’t go to a social event without alcohol, then you have a problem. If you can’t have fun without alcohol, then you have a problem. If you can’t go one Friday night without alcohol, then you have a problem. How disrespectful to the people you claim to care about that you would rather miss the most important day of their lives than spend a few hours at one social event that doesn’t have booze.

This is the sort of stuff I’m referring to when I say a dependancy on alcohol is normalised in society. Again, if you genuinely enjoy drinking, then great for you. I just wanted to point out how there’s something of a taboo around talking about this kind of stuff. I really do think there is a judgement shown towards people who choose to be alcohol free (one example that comes to mind is the dramatic reaction some people had online when Tom Holland announced he was starting an alcohol free beer brand).

But hey, I’m still young. Maybe one day I’ll understand the hype, or maybe my opinion that drinking is overrated will stay the same. In the meantime, I’d love to hear if anyone relates to anything I’ve said. Or if someone disagrees, I’d love to hear that point of view too.

In less than a week, my second year of university starts.

I’m feeling both nervous and excited for that. I finished school last year in early November, which means I have had an almost four month break. I know people who work full-time jobs would kill for a four month break at the end of every year, but honestly, whenever school ends, I stumble. School gives my weekdays structure. It’s jarring to go from having structured days, to no structure at all. It’s jarring to go from having hardly any free time, to all the free time in the world. It’s jarring to have this one big thing take up a huge chunk of your life, and then suddenly you don’t have to worry about it at all for the next four months.

Nonetheless, I’ve enjoyed my break. I’ve enjoyed getting to focus on creative outlets, like Substack and my WIP. I love art and craft, but last year, I hadly had time to do much of it. I’m happy to report I’ve done lots of art and craft in my break. And I’ve finally broken out of my months long reading slump. I’ve also enjoyed having more time to do pointless shit, like binge-watching tv shows and putting way too much effort into building a giant castle in Minecraft. I also had a great Christmas and New Years. Despte all this, at many moments I found myself missing uni.

I miss walking to the library every Wednesday to study. I miss learning new things every day. I haven’t done entirely nothing all holidays, I do still work a part-time job, but I miss uni giving me something to do. Or to put that more eloquently, I like how uni challenges me. Rest assured, there are moments where I hate school. There are moments where I feel really stumped working on a certain assignment or where the last thing I want to do is write a stupid essay. And yes, there were moments last year when the words “drop out” crossed my mind. But as much as I hate school, I love it even more. I was helping my younger cousin with her English homework the other night and found myself getting overly invested in it. That’s how much I’ve been missing uni.

I don’t quite remember when, but at some point within the last few months, I decided I was “locking in” this year, as the kids would say. I want to really dedicate myself to doing as well as I can. I did well last year and was happy with most of my results, but I still feel as if I can do better if I apply myself more. I feel as if this year will be easier in certain ways because I now know what to expect. Going into my first year, I obviously had some idea what it would be like, but you can’t truly know what something is like until you’ve experienced it first-hand.

I’m also going into this year with more clarity about my future. I’m studying a Bachelor of Arts (majoring in English and Writing), but at the end of last year, I decided to add a Master of Teaching onto my degree. Now I have a solid career path I’m working towards, and that has definitely eased my stress in some ways (although it has also added stress in other ways).

Back in September of last year, I wrote a post called feeling lost (a rant). At the time of writing that, I was struggling at uni. I was in a constant state of feeling overwhelmed, I never felt motivated to work on anything, and I was struggling to keep up in my classes; something that wasn’t an issue for me in semester 1. In hindsight, I realise now I was in a state of burnout. Yes, I know, burnout is one of those mental health “buzzwords” people love to overuse (e.g. gaslighting, love bombing, victim complex, narcissist, just to name a few), but burnout really is the best word to describe how I felt.

I think I reached that point because I hadn’t really taken a break all year. I missed out on the semester break because I did a fast-tracked course that ran in-between semesters. Even though I was only taking one class during this time, it was an intensive class, meaning we had to do a week’s worth of content in a day, every day. No wonder I burned out.

This year, I want to work on my time management skills. When I was burnt out at the end of last year, I became a horrible procrastinator. I left almost all of my assignments to the last minute. On multiple occasions, I would complete probably 90% of an assignment the day it was due (I do not recommend this, it’s a terrible idea). I didn’t intentionally do this — I was overwhelmed with no motivation, so when an assignment came up, I would push it off and procrastinate. Then somehow, before I knew it, it was the due date and I had barely even made a start. Then there would be a mad scramble to get it done. By some miracle, I always got them submitted on time.

So all is well, right? Well, no. Even though I would always finish on time, when all was said and done, I’d get so mad at myself. I’d feel disappointed in myself, because I knew I was better than that. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to pull my head in. I realise now how badly I needed that break. Sometimes the only way to get out of a rut is to stop and give yourself permission to catch your breath.

So while I do want to “lock in” this year, I also want to avoid falling into the same trap I did last year. I only set one New Year’s resolution this year, and that was to prioritise my mental and physical health. Yes, I want to do well and study and work my ass off, but I’m not going to do that at the expense of my wellbeing. I’m going to force myself to look up from my computer and touch grass by going for a walk a few times a week, even if it’s only around the block. I’m going to make sure I stay hydrated by always keeping my water bottle at my desk. And if I feel like I need a break, then I am going to allow myself to take a break without feeling guilty, even if it’s only for 15 minutes.

This year, it’s all about finding the balance between pushing myself enough that I become a better student and overall better person, but not pushing myself so far that I exceed my limits.

Until next time,

- Lilly :)

1.

Between the ages of 5-14, I was convinced that when I grew up, I was going to become an actress. Nowadays, there are hardly any other career paths that sound less appealing to me.

I was a hardcore drama kid growing up. When I was around six or seven, I was at my grandparents’ house when an ad came on the tv where kids were dressing up and pretending to be princesses and pirates. I looked at my grandmother and said, “I want to do that.” Little did I know, that was an ad for an after-school drama program, which I was then signed up for. As soon as I first stepped foot on a stage, I was absolutely hooked.

Despite being a rather shy child, I had a mind that was constantly racing. I had a vivid imagination and was full of energy — drama was the perfect outlet for that. My parents did try to get me into more athletic extracurricular activities. I tried netball for a while, but complained because it cut into my drama time. I went to one basketball training, got hit in the face with the ball, and told my mum I was never going back (and I didn’t). I wasn’t interested in sports. I had already caught the theatre bug.

In addition to being part of a drama club, I also heavily participated in my primary school’s shows. To name some of my more memorable roles across both: I played both Clara and Mrs Claus in ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, the grandmother in Little Red Riding Hood, Alice in Alice in Wonderland, Miss Honey in Matilda, The Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz, and the Baker’s Wife in Into the Woods. I loved every part of the process — memorising my lines to the point where I could recite them in my sleep, trying on my costume for the first time, taking a bow at the end and getting showered with applause, knowing all my hard work had paid off. It was everything to me.

But then high school happened.

By that point, I had left the drama school I was part of, but that didn’t mean I was letting go of my years of dedication. I enrolled in drama as an elective and joined my high school’s drama club. All of a sudden, I wasn’t at a small school in a group of 4 or 5 kids who loved drama anymore. Suddenly, I was at a huge high school in a drama club with 50 other students, most of which were seniors, and I was just a measly 13-year-old grade 7 who didn’t know anything about anything. Nonetheless, I was determined to make my mark, because at that point, I was still convinced drama was my one true calling in life.

Anyone who has ever been a theatre kid at any point in their life knows how serious it is. Or at the very least, how serious it feels. When you’re in it, it feels like life or death. Not getting the part you wanted? End of the world. Messing up your lines on stage? That’s a death sentence, right there. I often hear people say being a theatre kid in high school is like being in a cult, and honestly, I see the similarities.

When I was 15, things started to change. I would go to drama class only to find that… my heart wasn’t in it anymore. I think I was partly tired of how competitive it was. By that point, I was also a lot more introverted. Between that and being two years deep into my teen years, I wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to put myself out there. The next year, I switched to a new school. I didn’t sign up for the drama club. I didn’t enrol in it as elective. Something that was once my entire world was now nothing to me at all.

Nowadays, I’m so quiet and introverted that whenever I tell people I used to do theatre, they respond with shock. I can’t blame them. I really don’t seem the type. If I turned around and joined a new drama group tomorrow, I’d feel like a fish out of water. And yet, it is still something I think about all the time. I think about drama now in the same way people think of an ex-situationship from 10 years ago that fizzled out and they never got closure from, or an old friendship where they moved away or got a new job and you slowly drifted apart. It’ll always be my “what if…?” and my “if things were different,” I fear.

2.

Music has always been a major part of my life.

My primary school used to run a band program. I always dreamed of being a part of it so I could finally learn how to play a musical instrument, just like I’d always dreamed. When I was 11, I finally convinced my mum to sign me up for the program. We went to an orientation day of sorts, where I got to walk around and try the different instruments. I loved the idea of playing the flute, but I struggled to even get a noise out of it. I managed to successfully get a sound out of the trumpet, but I wasn’t too keen on it. I adored the violin, but I was discouraged by how hard it was to play.

Finally, I was able to test the instrument I’d been dying to try all afternoon. The saxophone. Even though I only managed to get a honk out of it, when played well, I loved how the saxophone sounded (was I also partially inspired by Lisa Simpson? I’d be lying if I said no). I left that day confident in my choice. Before long, I got my hands on my very own alto sax. Once a week for the next two years, I’d get to leave class with my fellow bandmates and go up to the library for practice. At the end of each year, we’d do a giant concert with all the schools in the region where each school would get to do a performance. It wasn’t as fun as drama, but I still got a thrill from performing in front of a crowd.

When I got to high school, things changed (I’m sensing a pattern). The level of dedication I had to give to band drastically increased. I went from getting out of class once a week, to having an hour long band practice after-school every Thursday, a practice with just the saxophone players during lunch on Fridays, and a weekly one-on-one session with the saxophone teacher. I didn’t see playing the saxophone as something part of my career, I only ever wanted to do it for fun. But having to take it so seriously and put in as much effort and dedication as required completely drained all the fun out of it for me. I started dreading going to practice. I would spend the entire hour staring up at the clock on the wall, daydreaming about being in the car on my way home as each minute slowly trickled by.

So the next year, I quit. I thought to myself that if I had to practically drag myself to every practice, then it probably wasn’t worth it. Unfortunately, this meant I had to hand in my saxophone back to the school. After a while, I found that I missed playing an instrument, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to sign up for band again. Instead, I asked for a ukulele for Christmas. Relying entirely on YouTube tutorials, I started teaching myself how to play.

My dad had bought an old classical guitar on ebay for $30 a while back and had left it to gather dust in the garage, so he let me have it. This was around the time quarentine first hit in 2020, so learning how to play the guitar became my lockdown project in the same way baking sourdough became a lockdown project for many. Being self-taught was completely different to doing lessons. It was so much more freeing. I got to decide when and for how long I practiced; no set routines and strict rules I had to follow. I could learn at my own pace without having to worry about falling behind my bandmates. There was no competition either — it was just me, in my room, teaching myself how to play my favourite songs. But most importantly, I was having fun again. In my final year of playing the saxophone, I completely forgot why I had even wanted to learn an instrument in the first place.

After a while, I saved up enough money to buy a proper acoustic guitar. I loved it. I would sit in my room playing for hours. I started out only doing basic strumming patterns, but then I taught myself how to palm-mute, and then I started learning picking patterns, and then I taught myself bar-chords. In three years of playing guitar, I progressed further than I ever did in three years of playing the saxophone. In 2023, it was my final year of school. I was determined to end that chapter of my life on a high by really focusing on academics. As a result, I started picking up my guitar less and less. On the rare occasion I did, I wasn’t inspired. At all. My guitar became just another relic gathering dust in my room.

The other day, I picked up my guitar and played it for the first time in weeks. It amazes me every time how quickly it all comes back to me. Muscle memory truly is fascinating. It’s funny how every time I play, I think to myself, “why don’t I do this more often?” but then I don’t pick it up again for weeks afterwards. I guess music became another drama in my life; a hobby I fell out of love with.

3.

I suppose drama and music were just phases in my life. They came and went, as all phases do. But calling them “phases” seems to undermine them somehow. It’s weird how for one moment, something can be everything to you — it can fill you with passion and enthusiasm and excitement — and then the next moment, it just doesn’t fulfill you creatively anymore.

If I were to go back to 10-year-old me who lived and breathed theatre and tell her that in ten years time, drama isn’t a part of my life anymore, she’d be devestated. Similarly, if I were to go back to 15-year-old me playing for hours in her room every day and tell her I hardly pick up my guitar anymore, it would be upsetting. But I suppose phases are just part of life.

There’s one hobby, however, that has been interwoven throughout my entire life. One that I don’t think is possible for me to fall out of love with. I’ve loved reading and writing ever since I knew how to do it. I lived through books when I was younger; I was hardly ever not reading. I was also always coming up with stories of my own; my desk drawer is full of notebooks filled with scribbles of stories from every era of my life. Even now, as an adult, writing is a huge chunk of my everyday life. Why do you think I have this Substack?

When I did drama, storytelling was a big aspect of why I loved it. I loved getting to become a character so I could try and understand their psyche. I loved allowing the audience to watch the story unfold. Even with music; my favourite kind of song has always been the songs that tell a good story. The lyrics have always been the most important aspect of a song to me because the lyrics are what contain the story. In retrospect, I realise maybe what I truly loved all along was just that: storytelling.

I don’t know if someday later down the line, my love for either drama or music may be reignited. Who knows. But one thing I do know for certain is that my love for stories will always be a constant in my life.

Today is the 18th of January 2025, which means that exactly a year ago today, the 18th of January 2024, was the day I started my Substack.

Six months ago, back in July, I wrote a post called, “6 Months on Substack: Here’s What I’ve Learned,” where I reflected on my Substack experience at that point in time. Seeing as though I’ve now hit the next milestone, I thought it only fair to write another such post.

As I explained in my 6 month post, I started a Substack because I was someone who had aspirations of one day being a professional writer, yet I had a fear of other people reading my writing. I knew that had to change. You have to understand how much starting a Substack was a jump out of my comfort zone for me. I was not someone who liked posting online. The internet is a scary place filled with millions upon millions of judgemental and opinionated people who like to say whatever they want behind the safety of a screen; why would I want to expose myself to that? But again, I knew this was a fear I’d have to get over.

For the first six months of having this newsletter, I experienced essentially no growth whatsoever. It took me 2 months to get a subscriber that wasn’t me. I didn’t get another subcriber until a month later. My posts and notes were getting no views, no likes, no comments. Despite having no audience, I was having fun. I wasn’t writing to no one, I was writing to myself. In July, I had something of a “big break.” After having a Reddit post and some notes do quite well, I went from 3 subscribers to 50 subscribers in the span of three weeks.

However, I’m slowly trying to teach myself not to care about the numbers aspect. I’m constantly reminding myself that the amound of views or likes a post gets doesn’t determine the quality or worth of it. The “algorithm” (I know we all hate that word) is totally unpredictable. To use a solid example, last month I published three essays. The first one was a listicle titled, “The 10 Songs that Shaped My 2024.” I put very minimal effort into it and it only took me a couple hours to write. It’s now the second most popular post on my page and it performed a whole lot better than my average post does.

A couple days later, I published another piece titled, “it’s been a long time coming… the end of an era.” It was a goodbye post to Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. I put a lot of effort into this essay and spent several weeks working on it, so I was a little disheartened when it didn’t perform nearly as well as the piece that took hardly any effort or time at all.

The last post I published in December was one called, “A Retrospective Look at ‘The Tortured Poets Department.’” I did not expect this to do well at all. It was long and it was wordy, not to mention it would be a second Taylor post in a row. So colour me shocked when it did better than my average essay, and better even than my Eras Tour goodbye. All of this to say: You cannot predict what will and will not do well, so you may as well not care.

You should care about the words you’re saying. You should care about whether or not you feel a sense of pride over what you’ve written. You should care if someone takes the time out of their day to leave an encouraging comment under your post. You should not care about the number of views a post gets. You should not care about the number of likes a post gets. You should not care if your most recent post doesn’t do as well as your last.

I know it’s the norm for writers to not like reading back their old writing for self-deprecating reasons or whatnot, but I love re-reading my old posts. When I look back through my archive, I see many pieces of writing I’m proud of. I’ve written posts breaking down my favourite songs or albums through the form of lyrical analyses or long-winded essays. I’ve written pieces about my own life, from my grandparents selling their house to my struggles at university to feeling uninspired creatively. I’ve written more niche pieces such as a deep dive into fangirl culture, the best examples of good girl complexes in media, or the current worrying state of art and media literacy, yet also the current worrying state of snobbery in art and media.

It’s surreal to me that it’s already been a year since I started this endeavour. I swear time isn’t real. But at the same time, I feel as if Substack has always been a part of my life. If you’ve ever taken the time to read any of my posts, thank you. If you’ve ever liked or left a comment under any of my posts, thank you. Whether you’ve been here for a few months, a few days, or a few hours — thank you for being here at all. It genuinely does mean a lot to me when people take the time out of their busy lives to stop and read my words. There are so many insanely talented writers on here, and I love being a part of this community.

So happy Substackiversary to me. I can’t wait to see what the next year brings.

Since 2019, I’ve made it a tradition with myself that every New Year’s, I write an end of year reflection. Usually, I would write these reflections in my journal and no one else would read it, but this year, I thought: where better to write my Year in Review than on Substack? So where to start with 2024…

February was a huge month for me. It contained the highlight of my year: The Eras Tour. I flew to Melbourne for night 3 at the MCG. It was not only my first Taylor Swift concert, but my first concert ever. The show was everything I wanted it to be and more. It was quite possibly the best and most special day of my life; I’ll even admit that I cried when I caught a glimpse of Taylor for the first time. Another major life event in February: I started my first year of university. This was more tumultuous than I thought it was going to be.

In September, I wrote a post called, feeling lost (a rant). This post essentially sums up my experience of my first year at uni. While I was enjoying my classes and the content I was learning, I didn’t like the fact that my entire year at uni was 100% online. I didn’t have a single face-to-face class. The only time I ever really went on campus was when I used the library to study. This single factor made my first year more isolating than I thought it was going to be. Semester 1 was great, but throughout semester 2, I found myself in a state of burnout.

I’d never actually experienced burnout before, but having now done so, I can say this much: 0/10, would not recommend. I was in a constant state of overwhelm and struggling to keep up in my classes, which is unusual for me. In full honesty, I seriously considered dropping out at one point. I still don’t fully know what brought on this burnout; maybe it had something to do with the amount of academic stress and pressure I’ve been under these last few years, going straight from high school to university with hardly a gap. Despite the period of burnout, I know I must’ve enjoyed uni as a whole last year because in the time I’ve been on break, I’ve missed it.

As also discussed in feeling lost (a rant), throughout all of 2024, I struggled with feeling as if I was wasting thousands of dollars (and precious time) on a degree I couldn’t even make a career out of. For context, I’m studying a Bachelor of Arts, and majoring in English and Writing. About a month or so ago, I had the epiphany to change my degree slightly. I’m still doing a Bachelor of Arts, but I’m now also doing a Master of Teaching. It’ll only add one more year onto my degree thankfully. This way, I get to continue studying what I love (English and writing), but at the end of it, I’ll have the qualifications to become a teacher. This will inevitably bring with it new challenges in 2025, but I’m excited for the road ahead.

April was another huge month for me. It was April that I achieved my proudest accomplishment of 2024: I got my drivers licence!!! I got my learner licence in January of 2022, so getting my Ps (provisional licence) has literally been two years in the making. Taking my driving test was quite possibly the most stressed I have ever been in my entire life. I still feel sick to my stomach just thinking about that day. I thought everything would be amazing once I got my licence, but it wasn’t as straightforward as that. For the first few months, I barely drove anywhere because I felt an extreme amount of anxiety every time I was behind the wheel.

But now, I love driving, and even more so, I love being able to go wherever I want whenever I want. If you’re reading this and you’re procrastinating getting your licence like I did for so long, this is me telling you to just do it. The independence it gives you cannot be understated. Also in April, Taylor Swift dropped her 11th album, The Tortured Poets Department. Yes, I consider that a noteworthy life event for me. That album truly was the soundtrack of my year. Overall, 2024 was an incredible year for music.

2024 was a big year for me writing wise. In January, I started this Substack. Easily one of the best decisions I made last year. I’ve had so much fun writing these silly little posts over the last 12 months. It was a slow start, but I’ve slowly but surely built a bit of an audience on here. I really do love the little writing community I’ve found through Substack. Also in 2024, I wrote and finished the first two drafts of a novel. I put it away for the last three months of the year and have only recently gotten it out again to begin working on the third (and final?) draft. I have no idea what will happen to this story of mine or if it’ll ever even see the light of day, but nonetheless, it’s a project I’m proud of and have enjoyed working on.

In July, I celebrated my 19th birthday. Nothing major; I went out for lunch with my cousin and then had a home-cooked dinner with my family. In August, I wrote a post called, “learning to let go of what is out of my control,” which was about my grandparents selling their house. They’ve now officially sold it. That was probably one of the saddest things for me in 2024.

I feel like both a lot and nothing at all happened last year. It was both a good year and a bad year, although I’m leaning more towards good. In 2025, I’ll be turning 20. I don’t think I’m ready for that. I don’t think I’m ready to officially no longer be a teenager. Nonetheless, I’m excited for whatever 2025 may bring.

So long, 2024. You were a real one.

Every second of every day, there is an unsettling thought looming in the back of my brain. It is someone that I carry with me everywhere I go. Someone that is constantly hovering over my shoulder. Someone who will never leave me. I like to call this companion of mine, “the panic monster.” The panic monster is unpredictable. He’s irrational, aggressive, controlling, and scares the hell out of me. He hides under my bed and jumps out at me when I’m least expecting it. He has a say in every choice I make. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I can’t shake him off. I can’t ignore him. Because he’s a part of me, whether I like it or not. Although I often wonder what my life would be like if he hadn’t latched onto me as tightly as he did.

When I was 15, I had my first panic attack. I can quite easily separate my life into two sections. There was my life before I had my first panic attack, and there was my life after I had my first panic attack. I was getting ready for bed one night when my dear old friend Dread came to greet me. But something was different. I was no stranger to restless thoughts late at night, believe me, but there was something sinister about this. My gut was telling me that if I went to bed, something bad was going to happen. I had no idea what, I just knew it wouldn’t be pretty. I put off going to bed for as long as possible, but once the rest of my house was asleep, I knew it was time to accept defeat. And so I went to bed.

It always happens slowly at first. I was sweating, like, a lot. I was tossing and turning; no matter what I did, I couldn’t get comfortable. Plus, my brain wouldn’t shut up. But that’s nothing new, my brain never fucking shuts up. And then I burst into tears. I didn’t even know why. I was just sobbing uncontrollably like a baby. But the tears stopped once the horrifying realisation hit me that I couldn’t breathe. It’s funny, really. Breathing is an innate thing we can all do. It’s something we do without needing to be taught or even having to think about it. Yet in the moments I need it most, that’s when it abandons me.

Of course, I can’t really not breathe, because if I couldn’t breathe, I’d die. But I am hyperventilating, and I’m not sure if you’ve ever experienced hyperventilating, but it certainly makes it feel like you can’t breathe, and it is most definitely not a pleasant experience. 0/10, would not recommend. Apparently when you have a panic attack, your brain goes into fight or flight mode and releases adrenaline into your body. The adrenaline sends most of your oxygen to your muscles, so your muscles have the energy to fight off the supposed threat. Of course, there is no actual threat, your silly little brain just thinks there is. But because most of your oxygen is being sent to your muscles, there’s less oxygen being used to breathe, hence the sensation that you can’t breathe. The lack of oxygen going to your brain impacts your ability to have rational thoughts, which is why people in the middle of a panic attack will often convince themselves of the most unreasonable, illogical bullshit.1

So there I was, lying in bed, hyperventillating. My heart was beating significantly faster than it should’ve been. My eyes felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets. The world was closing in on me. I couldn’t breathe. My room was fading. I couldn’t breathe. My chest was tight. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to die. I couldn’t breathe. My heartbeat was only getting faster. And faster. And faster. I could hear it thumping in my ears. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. It was never going to end. I couldn’t breathe. And faster. And faster. And faster. And faster, and faster, and faster, and faster and faster and faster fasterandfasterandfasterandfasterand fasterandfaster
andfasterandfasterandfasterandfasterandfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfast
fastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfastfast

it stops. Just as quickly as it comes, it goes. I knew immediately what had happened. A lot of people go to the ER when they have a panic attack for the first time, because they mistake the symptoms for a heart attack or a stroke. But I knew instantly that I’d had a panic attack. It wasn’t a surprise. With how bad my anxiety had been getting, I had almost been expecting it. Not to mention they sort of run in my family.

I knew the logical thing to do would be to tell someone. My parents, a friend, anyone. But I didn’t. Maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe it was all in my head. Who knows, I might never even have one again. So I didn’t tell anyone. It sort of became my dark little secret. But one thing to know about the panic monster is that he doesn’t like being ignored. He demands to be paid attention to.

Three months passed. We were invited to go out to dinner. I don’t necessarily love going out for dinner even on a good day. It requires a lot of socialising, which I find rather draining. It didn’t help that we were going out for dinner with a bunch of my mum’s friends; people I didn’t know very well. We got to the restaurant, and it was anxiety central. The room was small and it was fully booked, so it was packed full of people crammed together, and it was loud. I sat down. I tried my hardest to socialise like a good little functioning member of society even though I was overstimulated. And that’s when the panic monster tapped me on the shoulder to let me know he was there, and he was about to cause a scene.

That familiar feeling of dread hit me. That feeling that something bad was going to happen, but I just couldn’t put my finger on what. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Once locked in the toilet stall, I began doing the breathing exercises a psychologist had taught me in an attempt to calm down.

Breathe in through your nose for 4 seconds…
Hold for 4 seconds…
Breathe out through your mouth for 5 seconds…
Rise and repeat.

Psychologists and teachers and guidance counsellors will often tell you that it’s really easy, actually, to talk yourself out of a panic attack. All you have to do is do some breathing exercises, and the returned oxygen to your brain will help you regain your logical thinking, which will help you recognise that you’re not really in any danger. This is a load of bullshit. Coaxing yourself out of a panic attack is difficult, and I’ve only managed to do it a handful of times. The key to it is early detection; putting a stop to it before it really begins. There’s no point trying to stop a panic attack when you’re right in the thick of one. But sometimes even early detection isn’t enough, sometimes the only way to relieve the emotions bubbling up inside of you is to actually feel them.

Like in this instance at the restaurant. I could’ve sat in that stall forever doing those breathing exercises, and it never would’ve been enough to prevent the tidal wave that was about to hit me. Not wanting to be gone for too long, I went back to my seat. I tried to hold it in, I really did. But you can only hold things in for so long before it all comes spilling out. I burst into tears right there at the table, in front of my family and all my mum’s friends. And then without saying a word, I got up and walked out.

That night was a catalyst event in my life. From that point on, I was terrified every time I left the house that I would have a panic attack. My solution to this? Stop leaving the house. I’ve been fortunate in that I’ve only ever had a panic attack in public twice. I detest having them in public because they’re humiliating. They’re dehumanising. I’m something of a control freak, and when I’m having a panic attack, I’m not in control at all. To see someone having a panic attack is to see them in the most vulnerable state you could possibly see them in, and not only are they extremely distressed, they’re often distressed over nothing.

But eventually, I got over it. In the last four years, I’ve had 28 panic attacks. For the longest time, I thought it was the greatest misfortune of my life that I had this constant burden weighing me down, which was the knowledge that the panic monster could strike at any moment, and I could never stop him. But the more time that passes, the better I’ve gotten at controlling and managing them; the more I’ve accepted and come to terms with that aspect of my life. Don’t mistake me, I’ll never be glad I have panic attacks, but I’m more at peace with it now than I was four years ago. It’s so easy in a moment of panic to convince yourself that it’s the end of the world. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s not the end of the world.

The panic monster is a powerful force. He’s terrifying. He’s suffocating. Yes, he’s impossible to ignore, but he’s not impossible to deal with. Things that scare us in the dark often look not as bad in the light of day.

It’s not the end of the world.

Ever since I was a kid, my favourite activity has always been camping. My grandparents own a block of land that is quite literally in the middle of nowhere, and we’re fortunate enough that we can go there whenever we like. Something about being so far removed from society and being surrounded by nothing but trees and mountains and wildlife has the ability to relieve me of all stress. Camping is my happy place.

So many of my favourite childhood memories took place while camping — celebrating New Year’s Eve with glow sticks and sparklers and some years even setting off our own fireworks; riding our bikes through the bush and finding new paths and tracks; spending time at the river, whether it be for swimming on a hot day, going fishing, or that one time we went gold-panning (we didn’t find any gold).

One of my favourite aspects of camping is getting the opportunity to spend quality time with family. Camping is one of the few times a year other than Christmas and birthdays where everyone on my dad’s side of the family gets together. It’s becoming something of a camping tradition for me at this point that I play Yahtzee with my great grandmother whenever I’m there; it’s not a proper trip without it. While we play, she tells me all about the “good old days” as she shares her crazy stories about the mischief her and her sisters used to get up to when she was a teenager. Getting to hear those stories is something I’ll always cherish.

One thing that’s incredible about being in a place so rural is that you’re literally living alongside wild animals — deer, possums, kangaroos, wallabies, wombats. I never don’t find it amazing going for a morning walk and having a kangaroo casually bounce past me or randomly hearing the kookaburras laughing up in the trees. Unfortunately, that list also includes snakes and rather large spiders, but I’d rather focus on the positives (I’d still take dealing with a tarantula while camping over a grizzly bear any day, I don’t know how you Americans do it).

But when the sun sets and the mosquitoes come out, that’s when the real magic happens. When you’re in a city or an urban setting, you can’t see as many stars in the sky because of something called “light pollution.” So when you go out to the countryside or a rural environment, because of the lack of light pollution, not only are more stars visible, but they’re also brighter. I cannot even try to put into words how gorgeous and breath-taking the night sky looks when you’re far away from the city. It’s one of those things where you’ll never understand it unless you’ve seen it for yourself. Whenever it hits nighttime when I go camping, my neck always starts to hurt because of the amount of time I spend looking up.

But the other great thing that happens around nightfall is the campfire conversations. Some of the most random yet thoughtful conversations I’ve ever had have been late at night gathered around a campfire. Campfire conversations can range from topics such as famous serial killers throughout history to whether or not Fleetwood Mac are overrated1 (two real examples). There’s nothing better than sitting around a hot crackling campfire swapping stories, roasting marshmellows, and loudly and obnoxiously singing along to rock’n’roll classics all night.

So yes, the entire point of this post was simply for me to rave about camping. But I mean it when I say it’s my happy place. I’m a different person when I’m camping; I feel lighter. I love that I hardly ever check my phone while camping. I love that I’m not worrying about work, or an upcoming assignment, or god knows whatever else. It’s the only time I am ever truly and totally in the moment.

(I wanted to include this video because when I first listened to it while scrolling through my camera roll for this post, that 4 seconds of sound hit me with such an intense rush of nostalgia. Plus, those birds were really showing off their vocal pipes, so it would be an injustice to them not to include it.)

If you have any similar stories or memories from camping trips, I’d love to hear about them in the comments!!

I haven’t been an adult for very long, but I’ve already decided that it sucks.

Having a real actual job is scary. Being at university is scary. Driving a car is scary. Having to worry about finances is scary. Are these things actually scary or am I just overly paranoid about everything? Probably the latter.

Speaking of university, I’m 7 or so weeks away from finishing my first year. Fuck. For context, I’m studying a Bachelor of Arts with a major in English and Writing. So basically that means in five years time I’ll probably be working at McDonalds anyway.

If I were to be completely honest with myself (something I don’t like doing), I’d have to admit that university isn’t anything like I thought it would be. I’m reluctant to admit that because doing so would almost be like accepting defeat. Accepting that everyone else was right and I was wrong. Pretty much every time I told someone last year that I was going to study English at uni, they responded the same way: “Why?”

To be fair, it is a valid question. I know it’s confusing to most as to why someone would spent that much money on a degree that isn’t “necessary” or “useful.” But English and writing is what I’m passionate about, more than anything else in the world. I’ve always loved reading, I’ve always loved writing, and according to the school grades I’ve gotten my entire life, I’m pretty good at those things too. Do I need a fancy piece of paper to prove that? No. But it helps that I genuinely love learning. And getting a BA means that I’ve had the flexibility to study other areas I’m interested in too, like Psychology and photography. I knew it would be expensive, but hey, you only live once. I knew if I didn’t take the jump and go to uni then for the rest of my life, I’d be left thinking of the what-ifs and what-could’ve-beens. Plus, I was under the impression that in addition to exploring my areas of interest, I’d also be getting the “university experience,” to which I was wrong.

I’ll admit: throughout both primary school and high school, I romanticised the idea of university. I had this idea in my head that I’d go for a quiet and peaceful walk through the town square every morning with a coffee in my hand, a croissant in the other, and an audiobook in my headphones, before heading off to my lectures for the day where I’d take neat, organised notes and I’d make so many friends in all of my classes and be surrounded by like-minded people who were also passionate about books and literature and writing and blah, blah, blah. So far, this has not been my experience whatsoever.

My entire first year of university has been online. I have not had a single face-to-face class. The only time I ever get to actually be on campus is when I use the library to study. Considering my entire year has been online, it’s been essentially impossible to make friends. You can’t really make small talk in a Zoom lecture. At first, this didn’t worry me. I figured I’d just join a club (maybe a book club of sorts!!) and make friends that way. But as it turns out, I go to a rather small university where there’s a limited number of clubs available (and no book club :( :( ).

Because of this, university is more isolating than I thought it would be. The majority of my weekdays are spent alone in my room, studying at my desk. But shouldn’t I be grateful? After all, most people spend their weekdays slaving away at a job they hate, at least, that’s what most of the adults I know seem to do.

I’m enjoying the content of most of my classes and I’m learning heaps, but it’s harder to engage with online content that you mostly work through independently than it is to engage with face-to-face learning where you’re actually in a room with your teachers and peers. I think I’m starting to feel the panic sink in because I’m reaching the end of my first year. Because when it comes time to enrol in my classes for next year, that’s when I have to confront the question: Do I see this the whole way through or do I give up before I’m too far deep in financial debt?

Maybe I made a terrible mistake. Maybe one day I’ll regret going to uni because I gained nothing from it except a flimsy piece of paper and student debt. Maybe I’ll wish I could go back and shake myself. Or maybe, one day this is something I’ll laugh about. Maybe one day I’ll say going to university was the best decision I ever made and I wouldn’t be who I am without it. I don’t know what the outcome will be; that’s the gamble I’m taking.

I hate when people ask me the question: What are you going to do after university? Because truth be told, I have no clue what I’m going to do. I’m getting a Bachelor of Arts for christ’s sake, it’s not like the employers are going to be lined up outside my door. It’s true I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I do know what I’d like to be doing. I just don’t know if it’s attainable. I wouldn’t be getting a degree in writing if I didn’t want to go into a career that in some way involves writing, but somehow people never seem to connect those dots.

Maybe I’d like to work as an editor. That seems like a job I’d love. Or maybe I could tack a few more years onto my degree and become an English teacher. I might enjoy that. I say “I don’t know” and “maybe,” but in reality, I know exactly what my dream career is. I know full-well what I really want to do is be an author. But I never admit that to anyone in my life because it’s not “realistic.”

On the rare occasion I’ve confessed to someone that I’d like to maybe be an author after I finish uni, every time I’ve gotten a similar response. Based on their reaction, I can tell that what they really want to say is: “That’s nice, but what are you actually gonna do?” So most times when someone asks the dreaded question, I umm and ahh and dodge the question until the subject gets changed.

I know this is how it goes across all creative fields. Whether you want to be an author, a musician, an artist, an actor, a filmmaker, whatever it is — these things are seen as just hobbies, not legitimate career options. In some ways, I get it. Creative work isn’t stable work. Never has been, never will be. I just wish I had the backbone to proudly say I want to become an author in the same way other people my age proudly say they want to become a teacher, or a pharmacist, or a chef, or whatever.

I’ve lived in the same small town my entire life. When you live in a small town, the amount of opportunities you have are lessened. You’re not encouraged to reach for the stars, you’re encouraged to get a nice, stable, sensible job. But as much as I bitch and moan about it, I know I’ll never be able to leave. Because as much as I hate my hometown where everyone seems to know everyone and there’s only one university to choose from and there’s nothing to do on a Friday night, I love this stupid place too dearly to ever leave it.

Nobody in my real life knows I have a Substack where I post my writing. Nobody in my real life knows I’m currently working on a novel. Nobody in my real life knows just how badly I want to become an author. Nobody in my real life knows it’s all I ever think about.

I don’t know why I’m so secretive about these things. Actually, I do (sorry, saying “I don’t know” is just my default). It’s because I’m scared of being judged. It’s because I’m scared of getting laughed at. It’s because I’m scared of failing.

It’s not like I haven’t got backup plans. I’m passionate about mental health, I bet I could be a good therapist (with the proper training, of course). If not, I could always give teaching a try. All else fails, I’d make a killer librarian (if libraries still exist by the time I finish uni, it’s hard to say).

They say your 20s are the time for confusion and feeling lost. If true, that is terrible news. I’m not even 20 yet, so you’re telling me I’ve got 10 more years of this? And some people say your 30s are just as bad? At any point, do we get a chance to catch a break? I don’t think I’ve truly caught a break since I was 10.

But one thing about my personality that never fails to piss me off is that no matter how much I claim to be a pessimist or a “realist” — I’m an optimist at heart. Even if all the odds seem to be against me (and lord, do they test me sometimes), I always have this blind faith that everything will probably turn out okay.

Thanks for coming to my incoherent TedTalk.

My grandparents are selling their house.

It may sound small, but this is devastating to me. I love that house. I grew up in that house. My entire life, I’ve always considered it my second home. It’s always felt like just as much my home as my actual home is. When I was a kid, the days of the week where I got to go to my grandparents’ house after school was something I looked forward to. When I was a teenager, I still enjoyed getting to sleep the night there; it felt like a mini holiday. Even now, as an adult, I love visiting every Wednesday. Every corner of that house is steeped in memories throughout every era of my life.

Yes, it’s an old house. In fact, it’s over 100 years old (it’s been renovated since then, but still). I usually tend to get creeped out over old places, however in this case, I think the age is part of its charm. I love the high ceilings, the arched door frame in the hallway, the stained glass windows above the front door. I love the old-fashioned light switches and the ornate door knobs. I despise modern interior design. There’s something so cold and lifeless about the lack of colour and the “minimalism.” When I look at the details of my grandparents’ house, no matter how old it is, I’m reminded of how lacking in personality modern houses are.

In case you haven’t already pieced this together, I’m someone who gets easily attached to inanimate things. I was the kid who treated their teddy bears like they had feelings. I’m not the sort of person who can easily let go of things; under my bed is a treasure chest of memories — old school books, my favourite childhood toys, novels that are falling apart but I can’t bear to part with. Is this an unhealthy personality trait? Probably. But I’ve always been this way. Nostalgia is a trap I constantly fall victim to. As someone who has essentially lived in the same house for as long as I can remember, I’ve never experienced saying goodbye to a home before.

I’m also someone who hates change. I’ve never adapted well to change in any way, shape, or form. I love routine; I love when things are familiar. Any change, even positive change, is always scary and stress-inducing to me. In saying this, it’s probably not a surprise that I’m something of a control freak. Admittedly, I like when things are in my control. Because in that control comes a stronger guarantee of certainty and familiarity. My grandparents have been talking about moving for years, and in those years, I have done everything in my power to convince them otherwise. Obviously, my attempts have been futile. I don’t like that. I don’t like the lack of control I have over this situation.

I want it to be known I’m 100% aware I’m being selfish. After all, it’s not my house. If they feel it’s in their best interest to move, then they’re allowed to move without anyone else’s input. But it’s not just the house. My grandparents’ current house is a 10 minute drive from where I live; where they plan to move is out of town, and it’s a 40 minute drive away. Which means that my weekly Wednesday visits will go extinct. Those visits are a highlight of my week, so that’s a change in my routine I don’t want to happen, but I don’t have the petrol money or the time to go out that far every week. I’ll also no longer be able to just pop in whenever I want. You can’t pop in to a place that’s 40 minutes out of town. Whenever I wanted to escape the chaos of my 6-person household, just a quick drive away was the calmness of my grandparents’ house as a refuge. For the first time in my life, that security won’t be there anymore. Is it selfish thinking? Yes. But it’s how I feel.

This is probably the most vulnerable Substack post I’ve ever written (less of a post, more of a rant). I don’t know If I’m even going to post it; I wrote this only because I felt like I needed to write it. No, writing it didn’t give me any epiphanies about my life or a solution to my problem. I think I wrote this in an attempt to gain even just a little bit of closure.

Today is the 18th of July, which means that 6 months ago today, on the 18th of January, I started my newsletter!! Coincidentally, this also happens to be my 20th post I’ve uploaded on Substack. I’m someone who believes reflection is of great importance, so now that I’ve reached a milestone, I’d like to do just that: reflect.

I decided to join Substack because I was a writer who was scared to have other people read my writing. Neither my friends nor my family read my writing and I didn’t even like it when my teachers and professors had to read my work. My goal is to one day be a professional writer for a living, so I knew this was a fear I’d have to get over. I’d always had this idea at the back of my mind of starting a blog, but the technology side of that was what always held me back. That was when I discovered Substack. I had never heard of Substack before, so I really am so happy I found out about it when I did.

When researching Substack, I’d seen heaps of things saying that unlike other platforms, on Substack it’s guaranteed you will experience some sort of traction quickly. I soon discovered this is a lie. For the first few months, there was no activity on any of my posts. No likes. No comments. I wasn’t even sure anyone other than myself had actually read them. I didn’t gain my first subscriber until 2 months in. I didn’t get my second subscriber until a month later. It was a slow progress.

But even if no one else was reading my work, I was still having fun. There was one benefit to starting a Substack that I hadn’t anticipated, which was that I was actually finishing my writing projects. I used to be a chronic not-finisher with my writing. Before Substack, if I started 5 new writing projects in one month, I’d probably only finish 2 of them. My Google Doc account is a plain of abandoned writing projects from the last 5 or so years. But throughout the last 6 months, I’ve been finishing my writing projects more than ever before, because in order to post a piece, that obviously requires me to actually finish it first. Multiple posts that I’ve published have been essays I started months ago and deserted, but picked back up and finished because I wanted to share them on Substack. That was an unexpected aspect of joining Substack that has been a huge benefit.

I decided early on that even if nothing ever came of my Substack, I was still going to keep on uploading my work, purely because I enjoyed it. Substack became a sort of passion project for me; a means of a creative outlet. But I won’t lie, even though I’d decided this, it was still a little disheartening at times that little to no one was reading my work. I hesitated admitting that in my reflection for fear of coming off as shallow or caring too much about the numbers or writing on Substack for the wrong reasons, but I do want to be honest. And the honest truth is that I found it disheartening at times that my Substack wasn’t experiencing much growth. But I think I learned an important lesson about resilience in the process.

I tried all the tips and tricks they say to try: I posted on Notes, I commented under other people’s posts, I started a Twitter account to promote my newsletter - all to little effect. The trick that finally did something was posting on the Substack subreddit. After posting on there and having a few Notes go semi-viral, I went from 3 subscribers to 30 subscribers in the span of a week; and to be upfront, I’m unbelievably grateful for all 30 of you :) :) :) It honestly still feels surreal knowing I have 30 people subscribed to my newsletter.

Finally, the last thing I want to say about what I’ve learned from being on Substack for 6 months is that there really is a strong sense of community. As someone who doesn’t know any other writers in real life, I love getting to have a space where I’m surrounded by other writers. I love getting to read about other people’s writing journeys and see passionate discussions about reading and writing. In an industry that can usually be quite competitive, it’s genuinely so uplifting to see writers encourage and support other writers.

I may be 6 months deep into my Substack journey, but I have a feeling this is only the beginning. I’ll probably write another post like this 6 months from now when I’m celebrating one year on Substack, and to be honest, I can’t wait. This has been such a rewarding experience so far.

There’s three things you should know about me:

1. I’m a people pleaser.

2. I’m a perfectionist.

3. I’m a major goody-two-shoes.

I have what some would call a “good girl complex.” What does that mean? Well, I’m a high achiever. As already mentioned, I’m a people pleaser and a perfectionist. I live off of praise and validation and have never reacted well to failure or criticism. I’ve always had a fear of disappointing people and hold myself to ridiculously high standards. When I was a teenager, I avoided “rebellious” things such as swearing and drinking.

Growing up, I was always “the good kid.” I was rarely ever in trouble, I wasn’t loud or rowdy, and I always did as I was told. Naturally, I was a good student too. I was the kind of student teachers described as, “a pleasure to have in class.” I was deathly afraid of getting in trouble at school. My entire life, I’ve always had a deep fear of disobeying authority (which was probably instilled into me through attending a strict Catholic school).

I’m one of five children. I have two older siblings, and two younger siblings, meaning I am exactly the middle child (I’m also the eldest daughter, lucky me). When you’re the middle child, it’s easy to get overlooked. My two older brothers were always the athletes, just like my parents. I am not an athlete. I’m uncoordinated, clumsy, and to be frank, have no interest in sports. As I watched my brothers win sports trophy after sports trophy, I knew I needed to do something that would make me stand out in the family, lest I become the unmemorable forgotten child. And so I turned to the area where I had the upper hand — I turned to the world of academics.

The world of academic validation is a steep hill, and one I would not necessarily recommend. Once I got to high school, I became obsessed with my grades. When there’s a grading system such as A, B, C, D, it becomes so easy to use that system as a reference for how good you are, how smart you are, how successful you are. It becomes so easy to base your entire self-worth around those stupid, meaningless letters.

Ever since I could remember, I have always had this need for people to see me as, well, good. It is a key characteristic of my personality; it is a defining factor in the way my brain works. And it is, to be perfectly honest, a major pain in the ass. But I know I’m not the only one. Over the years, I’ve noticed countless examples in the media of the good girl complex.

“And I wouldn’t marry me either, a pathological people pleaser.”

- Taylor Swift, You’re Losing Me

I’ve been a Taylor Swift fan ever since I was 9 years old. For a decade now, her music has always been something I deeply connect with. I’ve come to realise that part of the reason why I connect with Taylor as much as I do is that she too has a good girl complex. She talks about it extensively in her documentary, Miss Americana. She even states within the first few minutes of the film, “overall, the main thing that I always tried to be was a good girl.”

Throughout the beginning of Taylor’s career, her demographic was mostly teenage girls, and it was clear Taylor had a need for parents and the media to see her as a good role model for teens. In other words, she was a chronic people pleaser; which was why she never did anything edgy or rebellious, such as swearing or drinking or wearing revealing clothing. She really leaned into the good girl image and made it part of her brand.

“A nice girl doesn’t force their opinions on people. A nice girl smiles and waves and says thank you (…) I was so obsessed with not getting in trouble.”

- Taylor Swift, Miss Americana

It’s no secret that Taylor Swift is a high achiever. She started working towards becoming a country music star at 10 years old, and not only did she actually do it, but she somehow managed to become one of the most famous and successful people to ever exist. But we know validation and praise is something that means a great deal to Taylor. We see this in her documentary when she finds out Reputation wasn’t nominated for any of the major categories at the Grammys and is genuinely gutted by this, responding with- “I’ll just have to make a better record.” Even though she tries not to, she cares about the awards. She cares about the accolades. She cares about breaking records.

There’s a quote from her doc that really resonates with me. It comes after Taylor talks about people telling her she’s doing a good job, to which she says: “Those little pats on the head were all I lived for.” That’s what you do when you have a good girl complex. You feed off those compliments and praises, no matter how small, to fight against the perfectionist in you that is constantly telling you that no matter what you do, it’ll never be good enough for the impossibly high standards you set for yourself. If there’s one thing I know for certain about people who have a good girl complex, it’s that both their biggest critic and their greatest enemy is themselves.

“I just felt this weight on my shoulders, like if I lost… I don’t know, I just had to win.”

- Alex Dunphy, Modern Family

There’s also an abundance of fictional characters that I feel are a good representation of the good girl complex. Leslie Knope from Parks and Recreation. Monica Geller from Friends. Annie Edison from Community. Amy Santiago from Brooklyn 99 is a great example of it. It’s repeatedly mentioned in the series that Amy grew up with 7 brothers and parents that constantly pitted them all against each other, so as a result she’s a major people pleaser and perfectionist. She’s constantly seeking validation from Captain Holt, an authority figure, and whenever he expresses any disappointment in her, it’s catastrophic for Amy.

There’s two characters who are, in a way, cut from the same cloth; those being Rory Gilmore from Gilmore Girls and Alex Dunphy from Modern Family. Rory’s whole schtick throughout the first few seasons is that she’s a stereotypical good girl. She always has her nose in a book, she gets good grades, she spends her Friday nights studying in comparison to partying, and her dream is to get into Harvard so she can become a journalist — she’s essentially any parent’s dream child. No matter how you feel about Rory as a person, you can’t deny the character trajectory of gifted kid burnout she experiences in later seasons is actually quite realistic.

A key trait of Rory’s character is her inability to handle failure and criticism. In season 1, we see Rory spiral after getting a D on a test for the first time. In season 5, she spirals after Mitchum Huntzberger tells her she doesn’t have what it takes to be a journalist. One conversation leads her to steal a yacht, get arrested, drop out of Yale, and have a falling out with her mother. She spirals so much because she grew up being told by everyone around her that she was special and one of a kind. So when Mitchum, a giant in journalism, told her she wasn’t special and didn’t have what it took to achieve greatness, everything she knew and the way she viewed herself all came crashing down.

Alex from Modern Family experiences a similar mental breakdown. Her entire character is based on being “the smart kid” in her family. In season 5, we see Alex attend a therapy session in which she opens up about the responsibility she feels to uphold the title of “the smart kid” and the pressure she feels to achieve greatness. It’s one of the most touching moments of the entire show.

“Once you start over-achieving, people expect things from you (…) the world, teachers, parents, other kids. It’s not all internal.”

- Alex Dunphy, Modern Family

Two of my all-time favourite literary characters are Amy March from Little Women and Hermione Granger from Harry Potter. Hermione Granger is quite possibly the ultimate example of a character obsessed with academic validation. Out of the trio, she’s the brains. She’s the goody-two-shoes who lectures Harry and Ron for breaking the rules. She’s at the top of all their classes, she spends an ungodly amount of time in the library, and she’s constantly seeking validation from all the professors. But Hermione also has this fierce competitiveness to her. She likes being the best and hates when someone threatens to take that away from her; like in Half-Blood Prince, when Hermione goes slightly mad after Harry starts overtaking her in Potions, or how she continually struggles with accepting she’s hopeless at Quidditch. The older I got and the more I re-read the series, the more I related to Hermione’s obsession with her grades and need to be the best in everything she does.

“Talent isn’t genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing.”

- Amy March, Little Women

While Hermione is a beloved character to many, Amy March is a character I’ve always viewed as misunderstood. Jo, as the free-spirited and boisterous March sister, is the fan favourite. In comparison, who would like uptight, pessimistic, perfectionist Amy? I related to Amy so much while reading Little Women. She dreams of being a painter, yet she lacks the self-confidence Jo has with her writing. She feels as if she lives in Jo’s shadow, and so she puts pressure on herself to do great things. But because she’s so critical of herself, she’ll never live up to those expectations. That quote from Amy, “I want to be great, or nothing,” is quite possibly my all-time favourite book quote, because I share the same mindset. I think all the characters I’ve mentioned share that same mindset.

One thing I find really special about art is the way it can be a mirror. Whether it’s seeing yourself reflected through a fictional character or music or otherwise, it helps to know you’re not alone in feeling the way you feel. Maybe even while reading this, you see yourself reflected in what I’m saying. If you do relate to the struggle of constantly seeking validation from others and putting pressure on yourself to be great lest you let people down, then I hope it brings you even just a little bit of comfort in knowing you’re not the only one.

When I listened to Taylor Swift’s newest album last month, I was not expecting to come across a song I would have such a visceral reaction to. I’m sure everyone’s had the experience of listening to a song and feeling as if the artist was reading your mind as they were writing it. It’s not the first time Taylor’s written a song like this for me- The Archer, The Prophecy, mirrorball, this is me trying, right where you left me, seven- all examples of Taylor songs that have cut me to the core. And not just Taylor Swift songs, others as well- Ribs by Lorde, Repeat by Luke Hemmings, The Future by Bo Burnham, just to name a few. It’s songs like these that you deeply relate to that can remind you of the power that music holds. But never have I heard a song that made me feel quite as understood as I Hate it Here, which is just 1 of the incredible 31 tracks on Taylor’s newest project, THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT: THE ANTHOLOGY.

Ever since I was four years old, I’ve been an obsessive daydreamer. I don’t know why I did it when I was younger (probably just for my own amusement), but as I got older, it became a coping mechanism for me; a means of escapism. I’ve always lived in my own little world. There’s who I am in my head, and there’s who I am in real life. In my head, I’ve lived a thousand lives. I’ve been a world famous actress. I’ve been a best-selling author. I’ve been a charitable and revered philanthropist. I’ve been a comedian. I’ve been a film director. I’ve been an academic. The list goes on.

From the ages of 4-12, I imagined that my life was a sitcom of which I was the main character. That is something I have never admitted to anyone in my real life, and I’m quite certain if I did, they’d think I’m delusional (although I recently read a Substack post that made me realise this is more common than I thought, you can read Faith’s post here). While I no longer pretend my life is a TV show, I still spend a ridiculous amount of time with my head up in the clouds. So much so, to the point where the lines between fiction and reality can start to blur in my mind. Sometimes reality is grim and grey when I compare it to the vibrant life I’ve curated in my mind.

My entire life, my mind has always been my safe haven (which is a somewhat contradictory statement, because as someone with an anxiety disorder, my mind is simultaneously my greatest enemy, but that’s a different essay). Whenever I’m sad, or scared, or something bad happens, my first instinct always is to daydream; to retreat to my mind. Daydreaming soothes me. It makes me feel better. I’ve tried in the past to stop daydreaming, but it is so deeply intertwined with who I am at this point, that I genuinely don’t know if I could. I also don’t know if I even want to.

That first line of the chorus: “I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind people need a key to get to, the only one is mine.” That perfectly captures how I view my daydreams. It’s almost as if I’m travelling to an enchanted garden in my mind where you can step through magic doors into different worlds in which you can be whoever you want to be and do whatever you want to do, and I am the only one who has access to these worlds, which only makes them all the more sacred.

I feel as if there’s quite a large crossover between people who are daydreamers and people who are writers. In a past essay of mine, “Why Do I Write?”, I talk about how writing gives me the ability to bring life to at least some of the stories swirling around my head. Not all of the stories in my secret garden are about me, many are about the characters I’ve created in stories I’ve either already written, or intend to write some day. Perhaps there’s a crossover in my love of daydreaming and my love of stories.

The next line of the chorus is: “I read about it in a book when I was a precocious child.” This is most likely a reference to the 1911 children’s novel written by Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden. While I haven’t read that book specifically (although I intend to one day), I was a major bookworm as a child. Not only did I live in my daydreams, I lived in the worlds of the books I read. One moment I was a teenager at an American middle school, the next I was a witch learning magic at Hogwarts. I adored the way books gave me the ability to transport myself into other worlds. In addition to a love of reading, I can also say that, like Taylor, I was a precocious child. I wasn’t a stranger to the phrase, “you’re so mature for your age,” growing up. She mentions this first on the track, But Daddy I Love Him, when she says, “growing up precocious sometimes means not growing up at all,” another lyric that I deeply relate to.

It’s easy to romanticise things of the past. A lot of my favourite novels are ones that were written decades ago, e.g. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery, Pride & Prejudice and Emma by Jane Austen. When I watch the screen adaptations of these classic stories that sweep you up in the cinematography and visuals, it’s easy to romanticise the elegant balls and gowns and sophisticated way of talking. But as Taylor acknowledges, if I were to actually live in that time period, I’d hate it. I’d hate the lack of independence and control over my own life I’d have as a woman. But it’s just another means of escapism.

“Nostalgia is a mind’s trick” is one of the most accurate things Taylor has ever said. I find it especially true as someone who regularly falls victim to the trap of nostalgia. I often longingly look back on the memories of childhood; playing make-believe in my backyard and running amuck on the school yard at recess. Sometimes I even look back affectionately on memories as early as last year. I always look back on things more fondly than when I’m actually living it. It all ties back into escapism- I hate it here, so I will travel to the past and future, anywhere but the present (for a song based entirely on this concept, check out The Future by Bo Burnham).

The new chorus: “I hate it here so I will go to lunar valleys in my mind, when they found a better planet, only the gentle survived,” is almost as relatable to me as the first chorus, but for completely different reasons. I’ve always been a sensitive person; for better and for worse. To quote Taylor herself from the song Sweet Nothing, I often feel like “I’m just too soft for all of it.” In a world that can be as harsh and mean as ours, I relate to Taylor’s daydream of a planet much better than this being found where only the soft and the gentle can survive.

“I dreamed about it in the dark the night I felt like I might die,” is such a weighted lyric, and it can be interpreted in so many different ways. But it does perfectly demonstrate the way daydreaming can be used as a coping mechanism. As someone who frequently has late-night panic attacks, it’s a line I can relate to. Similar to how the line from the first verse, “I was a debutant in another life but now I seem to be scared to go outside,” is a line that I can relate to through my experience over the years with social anxiety.

The line, “no mid-sized city hopes and small town fears,” is another line I deeply relate to, as someone who was born and raised in one of those in-between places that some would deem a mid-sized city and some would deem a small town. Taylor herself grew up in a place of a similar size, and she’s spoken before in songs about how she felt trapped in her hometown growing up (i.e. “I didn’t choose this town, I dream of getting out” from You’re On Your Own, Kid). As much as I love my hometown, I can admit that sometimes living in small towns can feel suffocating.

I always thought of my daydreaming tendencies as something I’d eventually grow out of, but as I’m reaching my 20s and still daydream just a frequently now as I did as a child, I’ve come to accept this is just the way my brain works. I’m still figuring out if that’s a good thing or not. “I’ll save all my romanticism for my inner life,” is the perfect way to describe it. Maybe to Taylor, this song is about something completely different, but to me, that’s what this song is about- the escapism of daydreaming.

But that’s the great thing about poetry. You can interpret it however you want and apply it to your own life to give it a whole new meaning. Taylor herself has said she loves it when fans do that. If you haven’t already listened to I Hate it Here by Taylor Swift, do yourself a favour and listen to it now:

I’m having a great time digesting all 31 songs on THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT, but I have a feeling this song is going to remain my favourite, and it’s probably only going to become more special to me as time goes on.

Imagine you’re a woman who’s just completed medical school. You’d feel proud, I imagine, and also excited for the future. Excited to help people and create a positive change in the world. Imagine, then, that at your graduation ceremony, some guy who kicks a football around for a living tells you that you aren’t living the life you’re supposed to, and that you should forget about your degree and instead dedicate your life to your husband and kids.

When Kansas City Chiefs’ player Harrison Butker gave a commencement speech at Benedictine College this past week, he went on several political tangents that were completely irrelevant to the task at hand, which was to lift up and inspire the graduates. But the part of his speech that has caused the most severe backlash is his encouragement to the women of the audience that they should forget about pursuing their careers, and instead embrace their role as homemaker. Here’s what he said specifically:

“For the ladies present, congratulations on an amazing accomplishment. You should be proud of all that you have achieved to this point in your young lives. I want to speak directly to you briefly, because I think it is you, the women, who have had the most diabolical lies told to you.

How many of you sitting here right now, about to cross this stage, are thinking about all the titles and promotions you are going to get in your career? Some of you may go on to lead successful careers in the world, but I would venture to guess that the majority of you are most excited about your marriage and the children you will bring into this world. I can tell you that my beautiful wife Isabelle would be the first to say that her life truly started when she began living her vocation as a wife and as a mother.

I’m on this stage today and able to be the man I am because I have a wife who leans into her vocation. I’m beyond blessed with the many talents God has given me, but it cannot be overstated that all of my success is made possible because a girl I met in band class back in middle school would convert to the faith, become my wife, and embrace one of the most important titles of all- homemaker (…) Isabelle’s dream of having a career might not have come true, but if you asked her today if she has any regrets on her decision, she would laugh out loud, without hesitation, and say, ‘heck no.’”

It baffles me that so many men don’t understand why this statement is so insulting and degrading. To say that a woman’s life doesn’t start until she gets married and has kids is to imply that her life is worthless and meaningless before that point. By that logic, my life hasn’t started yet. Nothing I experience or learn or think will matter until I become someone’s wife and pop out a few kids. By that logic, the only way I can possibly contribute to society is to help my husband become a less shitty person and further populate an already overpopulated world. My belief that I’d find building a career and focusing on myself in my early 20s more fulfilling than immediately settling down and starting a family is a diabolical lie I’ve been fed, apparently.

When are these kinds of men going to realise that women weren’t put on this earth solely to serve them? When are these kinds of men going to realise that women are people too? Why is it that in their minds, men are allowed to have both a career and a family, but a woman can only have one, and the “morally just” thing for her to choose is family? A woman doesn’t become whole and complete once she gets married and has children, a woman is born whole and complete, just like a man is. A woman doesn’t have to dedicate her entire life to her husband and kids in order to be a good wife and mother. She’s not only allowed to have a life of her own, but is deserving of it, as is everyone.

I’m all for a woman wanting to be a stay-at-home mother. I’m also all for a man wanting to be a stay-at-home father. I actually think being a stay-at-home parent is very respectable. I’m someone who believes it’s a full-time job that you don’t get paid for and don’t get to clock out of. But what I’m not in support of is telling women that being a stay-at-home mother is their only option in order to be happy. Because it’s not. Some people find happiness and fulfilment in marriage and child-rearing, and that’s okay. Some people find happiness and fulfilment in pursuing a career and exploring their passions, and that’s okay too. Some people find happiness and fulfilment in both, and guess what? That’s okay. What’s not okay is using your wife’s experience to speak on behalf of the thoughts and feelings of all women as a collective and telling them on one of the most important days of their life that they will only be truly happy if they devote themselves to their husband and children, and if not, their life is meaningless.

You can’t use religion as an excuse to hold this extremely misogynistic and damaging way of thinking anymore. Being Catholic or Christian doesn’t automatically equate to having such backward-thinking views. I’ve already seen countless Catholics and Christians online saying they do not claim Harrison Butker, and they wholeheartedly disagree with what he has said. Even though he gets emotional when speaking of her, I feel bad for Butker’s wife. Openly admitting that your wife sacrificed her dreams of having a career once she married you is not something you should say with pride.

I’ve already been thinking about misogyny and sexism a lot lately because of the current crisis happening in Australia. It’s only May, and already in 2024, at least 27 women in Australia have been murdered by men, and the government has done jack-shit about it. All the news articles written on the topic have described it as women dying of “gender-based violence.” We need to stop taking the perpetrator out of the equation. This isn’t a problem of women being murdered, this is a problem of women being murdered by men. It’s all good and well to tell a woman to watch her drink when she’s at the club or the bar and to not walk alone at night, but what we should be doing is teaching men and boys to respect women and girls.

I’m aware there is a significant difference in the severity of the situation in Australia right now and Butker’s at best tone-deaf speech, but it all adds up. Right now is an exhausting time to be a woman. If I sound pissed off, it’s because I am. And I feel like I have the right to be. I wish I could end this rant on a positive note, but I can’t. Because it’s comments like the ones made by Butker that remind me perhaps society hasn’t progressed as much as we would like to hope it has.

Productivity is something I’ve always had a complicated relationship with.

I’m a hardcore perfectionist, which I would describe as both a blessing and a curse. I think it’s because of my perfectionism that I have this need to be productive all the time. Whenever I’m doing something that’s not productive, like scrolling on TikTok, or watching YouTube, or honestly just staring at the ceiling, there’s always a little voice in the back of my head saying, “you could be doing something more important right now.” Even if I have a really productive day and get a lot done, when the day is over, there’ll still be a voice in my head saying, “but you could’ve done more.” Hustle culture is a trap many fall into.

I know I’m not the only one who feels as if there aren’t enough hours in the day to do all the things I want to do. I wake up at 6am, and then I blink and it’s 7pm. I wake up on Monday and then somehow it’s already Friday. I wake up every morning with a dozen things on my to-do list, and by the time my head hits the pillow that night, I’ve somehow only done two of them, but it cancels out anyway, because two new things have already been added to the list.

I want to study more, but I also want to regularly go on runs and exercise more. I want to write books, and I want to learn more songs on guitar. I want to paint more, and I want to learn how to cook and follow a meal plan each week. I want to read more books, watch more films, listen to more music. I want to write more poetry and Substack posts. I want to spend more time in nature, meditate more, journal more, and all the while keep my room clean. I would do a better job fitting all these things into my week if it weren’t for a dear old friend of mine, procrastination.

I recently read a book called Feel-Good Productivity, by Ali Abdaal. Ali has a YouTube channel dedicated to productivity that has almost six million subscribers, which is how I found out about his book. The whole book is built around the premise, “success doesn’t lead to feeling good. Feeling good leads to success.” Success is such a loaded word, and it looks different for everyone. Some people see success as being wealthy or having status; others see it as being adored and praised by your peers because of your talent or skill. So many people have this idea that once they become successful, then they’ll finally be happy. But this is often not actually the case, which is why it’s common to see people who are society’s definition of successful still be unhappy.

It feels like a paradox, because we are taught to believe that success leads to happiness. We are taught to believe success guarantees happiness. I know I somehow manage to bring Taylor Swift into everything, but her new album, The Tortured Poets Department, is a perfect example of this. Last year while on tour, Taylor was at the most successful she’s ever been in her career- she was making a ridiculous amount of money, she was breaking all sorts of records, she was performing to a sold-out stadium every night- yet her new album is all about how unhappy she was during that time.

Which is why Ali argues in his book that it’s the other way around. When we feel good, both mentally and physically, then success will follow. If you’ve never read any productivity books before, then I’d definitely recommend this book. It covers a lot of ground and gives heaps of tips that you can easily incorporate into your life.

Reading this book made me take a big step back, and look at how I view productivity. For a while now, I’ve been trying to incorporate a weekly schedule into my life. This schedule includes a morning routine, a daily study routine, a nighttime routine, and certain days where I do certain tasks. For example, according to my schedule, on Thursdays I take my dog for a walk, on Mondays I vacuum my floor, and on Fridays I practice guitar, just to name a few of the tasks. As I was creating this schedule, I thought it was the perfect way to make myself be more productive. But I’ve found that actually implementing this schedule has been more difficult than I thought.

I wake up every morning with the intention of following this schedule to a tee, but when making it, I didn’t take into account the fact that life is unpredictable. Sometimes my schedule gets interrupted, and as a perfectionist and slight control freak, I feel disgruntled when this happens. But you can’t plan your day out down to every tiny detail, no matter how hard you try. I also didn’t take into account that some days I just don’t feel motivated. Some days, I don’t want to meditate in the morning before I check my phone or sit down at my desk ready to study by 9am just because my schedule says I need to. On days like this, I feel guilty. Guilty that I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing; guilty that I don’t have as much self-discipline as I’d like.

But in Feel-Good Productivity, Ali talks about days like this, and says that they’re inevitable, and when they happen, you need to be forgiving of yourself. This is something I definitely need to work on. As much as I’d love to be the sort of person who wakes up at the crack of dawn every morning, watches the sunrise, makes a smoothie for breakfast, and then does an hour long workout before meditating for 30 minutes, all before 9am- I don’t think I ever will be. And that’s okay. Nobody is perfect. Nobody is productive every second of every day. I’ll still keep my schedule, but moving forward, I want to think of it more as a guide and a helping hand than strict rules I have to follow. I’m sure it’ll take time to adjust to that, but that’s okay too.

A few months back, I became obsessed with the idea of “getting my shit together.” When I finished my last year of school, I had a four month gap between then and starting university, and I decided that in those four months, I was going to completely organise my life. I even had a Google Doc solely dedicated to tracking my progress. At the end of the four months, did I feel like I had my shit together? No. It was maybe 10% more together. I’m starting to think that maybe the whole idea of having your shit together is a myth anyway. If I were to ask most of the people I know if they feel like they have their shit together, I feel most if not all of them would say no. Maybe feeling like you don’t have your shit together is just a part of the human experience. We’re all making it up as we go. We’re all just trying our best.

31/12/2022

I slammed shut the car door as the loud bangs of fireworks sounded in the distance. Our little group, consisting of me, my mum, my cousin, and two of my siblings, moved towards the stairs. It’s dark, it’s cold, we’re pulled over on the side of a highway; cars are flashing past us. We had decided last minute to try and catch the twilight NYE fireworks, but didn’t make it in time, so in a spur of the moment, mum pulled over on the side of the highway. You know those crossing bridges some highways have so that people can get from one side to the other? That’s what we were climbing up to get a better view of the fireworks.

I’d lived in that small town my entire life and driven across that highway thousands of times, yet I’d never been on the bridge that goes across it. On one side of the bridge was bush, the other, a river, so mostly only rowers ever used it. My family all climbed up the concrete steps with ease. But a couple steps in, a queasy feeling sunk in and I felt like my knees might buckle. I cautiously made my way to the top as I clung to the rail for dear life. It was only worse once at the top. As my younger siblings roamed free, I couldn’t let go of the rail. Every time a car sped past underneath us, the bridge would wobble just the tiniest bit, and with it, my stomach would drop. I only just managed to get out my phone to take a blurry photo I’d probably never look back on.

As my family and I watched the rather unimpressive fireworks show, I thought back on the last year of my life. 2022 was a quiet year, but far from a bad one. 2021, with all the crippling anxiety and relentless panic attacks, was quite possibly the worst year of my life, so I didn’t exactly go into 2022 with high expectations. Perhaps that was why I ended up pleasantly surprised with how the year turned out. In the last couple months, I had made some small personal victories. I had put myself out there, even if it was in ways that would seem like no big deal to others.

But I was scared; scared that 2023 wouldn’t pan out the way I wanted. What if, in 365 days time, I was still in the same spot? What if I was still the sort of person who let their anxiety and fear control them? What if I ended up back in the same rut I was stuck in for all of 2021? The fireworks ended. It was time to leave.

My grip on the rail only tightened.

31/12/2023

I couldn’t believe it. We were somehow doing the exact same thing exactly a year later. We had decided last minute to try and catch the fireworks, and ended up pulling over on the side of the highway to watch them from the bridge. The only difference was that this time it was just me, my dad, and my two younger siblings. I got out of the car and began approaching the stairs. But as I began climbing, my knees didn’t shake. There was no sickly feeling in my stomach. While I was using the rail, I didn’t hold onto it with a deathly tight grip. I reached the top, expecting that same dizzying feeling, and felt… fine.

2023 was not a quiet year, but it was a good one. Those small personal victories turned into big ones. Those little steps outside my comfort zone turned into leaps. I was almost a completely different person. I had never felt further from the 2021 version of myself. As I got to the top of the bridge, I looked down at the road, at the cars loudly rushing past, and didn’t feel fear. Instead, I felt pride. The last few tumultuous years of my life had come full-circle in the most metaphorical way. I guess life can be pretty poetic when it wants to be. When 2024 kicked off in a matter of hours, I knew it would mark the start of a new beginning for me; a new chapter of my life. I was entering my first year of University and so, in a way, entering my first true year of adulthood. I was leaving my childhood behind. I could only hope that 2024 would bring as much personal growth as 2023 had. Whatever was about to be thrown my way, I could handle it. The fireworks exploded into shimmering colour in the background.

I let go of the rail.