I don’t really know when planning my week started to feel like playing a high-stakes game of Tetris. Like last Thursday, when I wanted to go and see The Outrun with a friend, but I knew that would mean I had to work out on Friday night instead of Thursday evening, and I was meant to go to the pub on Friday night with some uni mates—but I wasn’t sure about doing that either, really, because I had been planning to visit the Van Gogh show at the National Gallery on Saturday, and what if I was too hungover after the pub to actually make it? Thinking of all of the possibilities, I started to panic.
Instead of feeling less pressure to do and see everything the longer I live in London, I feel like I have more and more of a need to prove that I’m cool, that I’m living well, that I’m making the most of every second of every day. I put so much more effort into doing things that will sound good when I describe them later than into doing things that will actually make me happy. My parents are like this, too; on holidays growing up, we’d trudge for miles down rocky cliffs to find the least touristy, most secluded beach, only to discover that it was pebbly and the sea too rough to swim in.
It’s an issue that impacts every area of my life. Like, do I actually want a boyfriend, or do I just think I should have a partner because it’s weird for someone my age to be alone? I was at the gym last week, and I was daydreaming about having a big, muscly boyfriend who would spot me during sets, but then on the way home, I thought about how he’d inevitably come back to mine afterwards when I was hungry and tired and probably just wanted to be by myself, and then we’d have to decide what to watch together because I don’t think he’d be keen on the vlog I like about this girl in Manchester called Madison who spends her days queuing up for matcha and walking around.
I opened up TikTok the other day, and there was this lady in her 50s saying: “I hope you’ve already learned this, but start paying attention only to how your life feels to you, and forget completely how it looks to others.” But how do you actually shift into that mindset? My friend Moya is always telling me that I lack confidence in my own desires, that I should value my own gut instinct more instead of constantly second-guessing it. If a guy approaches me in a club and I ignore him because I’m having fun with the girls, I’ll think about him for days afterwards, fantasizing about how great he probably was and how I won’t ever meet anyone like him again, even though I have absolutely no idea what he was actually like and had a good night out without him.
I have a bit of free time at the moment while my agent looks over my next book. I was focusing so hard on finishing it that I didn’t really think about what I would do after I’d submitted a first draft, so instead of making plans, I’m trying to just take each day as it comes. On my first day off, I tried to go to Eltham Palace, but my train got diverted, so I walked to the Horniman Museum instead, because why not?
It didn’t matter where I was, really. It just felt good to be outside in the sun, wearing this leather trench I have that only works for this specific type of October weather. Wandering around aimlessly, looking at the rabbits in the museum gardens and the views of Forest Hill, I felt like I was in a trance, like all the creases in my brain were smoothing out. Afterwards, I decided to skip the gym because I was tired and got a halloumi wrap on the way home instead. The guy put £5 on the card machine but then deleted it and put £3, which might just be the price but I’m pretty sure he fancied me. Afterwards, while I sat on a bench to eat, I wondered whether it was fated that my day turned out as perfectly as it did, but I don’t think so. I think I sensed what I wanted, that I’m beginning to realize I know better than anyone else what’s right for myself. It might not have looked like the most exciting day to anyone else—but it felt like it to me.
This article was originally published on Vogue.com.
