In many ways, I don’t think I was ever able to fully comprehend exactly what it meant to make a life until I’d reached my early thirties. That’s not to say that it’s the same for everyone—but for me, I hadn’t quite begun to uncover who I was or what I wanted until I’d made my way out of my messy twenties and slipped comfortably into the time of my life where I allowed myself to just be.
As I wrote the opening chapter of Little Life in the Hamlet, I recall feeling both shocked and saddened by the path I found myself on as I navigated life as a young woman finding her feet in the world—or rather, the path I kept falling out of and the life I kept returning to. It was as if those feelings of displacement came flooding back, as raw and unforgiving as they were back then. But I can only acknowledge just how much life will sit you down and show you what’s not for you time and time again until you eventually listen, until you eventually set it right. And while I’m ever so grateful for that time in my life—in how it played such a vital part in the making of me, in the woman I am today—I do wish I’d had access to the answers sooner.
When I look back on who I was, I don’t always recognise the woman I see—not in style, not in disposition, not in heart. Her eyes were blank spheres where the light once shone. Her character much bleaker, much duller, than the vivid personality she was before. Her desires enormously smaller, when once larger than the life she lived itself. At times, I want to cry for her, cry out to her, and tell her I’m sorry. At times, I look back and smile, knowing she could do it—knowing she was about to.
But, Reader, this isn’t a story of sadness, broken dreams, or a woman trapped on the edge of despair with no way of guiding her heart home. It’s a story of a woman in the making, a woman finding her way, and a woman who once knew back then exactly where she wanted, needed, and deserved to be—the place where she resides today. It’s also an intimate look at a creative, free-spirited life and the process it took to get there, what it means to sustain it, and how it’s all been built, entirely on my own terms.
This is the story of an artist. This is Little Life in the Hamlet, Chapter Two.
Once upon a time, I learnt the hard way that there was a price to pay for fitting in. Less driven by the desire for a sense of belonging and more by what I thought might bring me happiness, ensure I felt enough, I’d found myself on a path to success written, produced, and directed by none other than myself. I thought I had my best interests at heart. I thought I was doing all the right things, ticking off all the right goals, reaching all the right milestones. And yet, I felt lonelier, unhappier, and more anxious than I ever had.
But I wasn’t to know the real root of it all. My body knew all along, as the body always does—my body sent me all the right signals in an attempt to get me to stop, to veer me seemingly off course to make sure I could see what way I was actually supposed to go. But I couldn’t see that—I couldn’t see anything at all. All I knew was that I was doing everything I always said I would, and I did so honestly, courageously, and without stepping on another’s toes. And yet, I hadn’t quite realised that the only person I’d hurt in the process was me.
Some say that’s what your twenties are for—for messing up and making mistakes, for discovering and uncovering, for trying, failing, exploring, enjoying, unmasking, and becoming—and in many ways, I’d agree. I just wish mine had been any of those things, if not all. I wish I’d lived and I’d learnt, and I wish I’d made memories to last a lifetime, and I wish I’d been more myself—but isn’t hindsight a beautiful thing? And it’s really quite funny—as ten years ago, I didn’t believe in regrets. I’d quite rightly felt that you didn’t get a redo, so why waste an ounce of energy on rue and remorse? And while I know that time in my life went on to become the making of me, if I could go back, I’d most certainly do it differently.
Reflecting on where you’ve been isn’t always necessary to move forward. I know others may say it is, and perhaps you’d be inclined to agree, but at a certain point, rumination becomes redundant. At a certain point, action is the only remedy. I know because I’ve lived it. I tried too hard in my twenties and fought my free spirit, favouring the idea of a projected perfect image that felt alien to me. I placed too much emphasis on the exterior, accolades, and things, rather than carving out what felt true. I neglected what my heart and soul truly needed—which was authenticity, fulfilment, free time, pure love, inner peace, and a creative, sustainable income source. And now?
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