Why explaining my neurodiverse brain has been the hardest thing

How big is the brain? Who knows—even our best efforts to calculate its  capacity are flawed and meaningless.

I’ve been reflecting a lot recently, and more so since my ADHD diagnosis almost two weeks ago at the age of 31. Something I’d contemplated being a possibility for quite a while, after reading about intelligent women, holding down professional jobs, but seemingly drowning in everyday activities that everyone else does without a second thought. I was, despite all of this knowledge, and being around in the neurodiversity community for several years already, still hit hard by this new diagnosis and wondered why it hadn’t been picked up earlier, that I’d been dealing with untreated ADHD for so long, somehow still gaining two Masters degrees and being able to make it to India and back at the age of 21. I only got the application in for India after a night fuelled by hyper-focus and I remember my undergrad dissertation running on red bull and several all nighters, not advisable if you can help it. On the outside for those who weren’t a fly on my wall, I looked very together, I was clever, had lots of education under my belt, developed a good circle of friends, appeared to have a plan and in later years was always travelling up and down the country having a jolly time. But this you see, was also the problem.

When I was seven and first diagnosed with dyspraxia, neurodiversity was a word no one had really heard of, it was first coined in 1998 by Judy Singer, and only became a commonly used term much later than that. As a child everything I struggled with was pulled apart and examined, mainly physical difficulties and educational attainments. Executive function was another term I became aware of much later. It made sense, with this focus on my failings and difficulties at school, that I wanted to focus on everything I could do well as an adult. I’d been examined and tested more than the average young person, and became acquainted with most professions from psychiatrists to neurologists and OT’s, so by 16 I wanted a break and to be left alone, to do my own thing. And doing my own thing worked for a while, as most people in their 20’s are a little bit chaotic so I blended in just fine, finding ways to hide my inner monologue of chaos or laughing things off when actually I really struggled, and wished someone would understand.

We’ve come a long way in understanding the neurodiverse brain, more people have been speaking out online about their different way of being and experiencing the world, and this is really reassuring to see. It helps if you’re newly diagnosed, or diagnosed young but still don’t understand your brain yet. It makes you feel quite a lot less of a freak and in some ways normal, or good enough. It make us, as the neurodiverse squad feel that we belong, or fit in somewhere. We are able to explain why something happened or why we reacted in a certain way, as I realised after my ADHD diagnosis assessment. This new found community is great – it really is – but it doesn’t help when sometimes, having a conversation is one of the hardest things. We can talk amongst ourselves till the cows come home, but we all get it. The people who don’t quite understand are those who need to be involved in these conversations, and that isn’t always an easy task.

Over the last few years I’ve tried to navigate adulthood, build a career, work out what I want and where my brain fits, I’ve stumbled across several things and the ADHD diagnosis has made much come to the fore. Firstly I am a woman, and as a woman expectations are put on me by society that say, my younger brother doesn’t have to justify not meeting by a certain age. As a woman we are meant to organise everyone else, alongside ourselves. Moving out is expected, children, relationships, running a home. If you choose to be single, people don’t understand why. If one of your primary difficulties is organisation, I’m sure you can see the problem with the expectations to be organisation queen, cooking a three course meal, whilst breast feeding a baby and applying for a mortgage. I struggle to focus in work zoom meetings most days, so moving away from the North East, despite wanting to, is the equivalent to climbing mount Everest with a cow on my back to me. Exhausting. A male colleague once said; “I can’t multi task because I’m a bloke,” expecting me to pick up his work, because I’m the opposite gender and would clearly cope fine. A former boss commented on my personality and suggested “I change” because my Myers Briggs profile wasn’t what she wanted in her staff team. I didn’t change. She hounded me for months until I finally left the organisation. There will be more examples like mine, subtle biasses and prejudices because our brains don’t fit in with the expectations of society. And it’s often difficult to challenge people, and talk about some of the most intimate details of our lives to explain yourself, and justify why you can’t do something the way someone wants or expects. I kick myself often, when I wish I’d just opened my mouth and said something.

I’ve had mixed responses following announcing my ADHD diagnosis, some have been pleased and supportive, others have remained silent and the rest have expressed pity. Some people are so used to me writing about dyspraxia and neurodiversity online, that ADHD is just another thing that doesn’t warrant much attention. I haven’t got round to explaining it in an employment situation, and I’m unsure if I will for a while. Most people assume the stereotype that ADHD is something that affects hyperactive boys, and have no idea how it can manifest in women, so explaining that will be tough. I haven’t even got round to doing much of the explaining to people closest to me yet. As a child I was embarrassed by even the mention of the word “dyspraxia”, it carried with it connotations of failure and not being like everyone else. There was much internal and external stigma about having a disability too. As an adult I’ve carried with me some of that embarrassment but also realised it’s often about not wanting to express your vulnerabilities in front of other people ALL OF THE TIME. Explaining your dyspraxia or ADHD or neurodiversity, will mean in some ways exposing those vulnerabilities. I’ve lost count of the times when taxi drivers have asked intrusive questions meaning I would have had to expose details of my medical history, I even went along with one assuming I’m much younger than I am, because explaining that I’m actually in my 30’s and not where he expected me to be in life felt too painful. After years of trying to fit in or hide where we struggle, shining a spot light on being vulnerable isn’t something many neurodivergent people are comfortable doing. And that’s okay. Before I started a day in the office, in the days before Covid and working from home, it often felt like I’d done a days work before I’d even begun. Getting out of bed was often a struggle, after a night of little sleep, because my brain doesn’t easily turn off. Everything I’ve done that day, or forgotten to do is always going round in my head on repeat. I’m knackered before I’ve even had breakfast or fed the cats, even before I’ve worked out the order to get myself ready in the morning and allowed enough time to get out of the door, making sure I remember my phone, purse, keys, work phone, lanyard and office keys. My brain is already overloaded as I set foot in the office. So, I can see why sitting quietly, and getting your head down, rather than explaining all of this is preferable to most of us. Appearing chaotic and struggling to meet deadlines or remembering appointments often means we have somehow failed as a woman. Until we read up on inattentive ADHD in women, then we realise that our perceived failure is very much not the case.

When I turned 25 and I left university for the second time, after almost failing an MA, I made it my mission to be as vocal as I could about my difficulties, after years of hiding it away and pretending being dyspraxic didn’t exist. I disclosed at work, on application forms, to friends and on another volunteering programme overseas, and experienced discrimination, stigma and ridicule because of this. I felt judged, that my life was on show. And instead of my abilities being judged by what people didn’t know about me, the opposite happened, assumptions were made because people knew I had dyspraxia. I learned the hard way that being open isn’t always the best way. You only have to look on Internet forums and Facebook groups, to see experiences similar to my own. We are told to disclose, be proud of who we are, educate people, and when we do many neurodivergent people are exposed to trauma that takes years of therapy to heal. Sometimes having a conversation is the worst thing we can possibly do. Some spaces are of course safer than others. Boundaries are only something we develop a deeper understanding of as we get older, and our responsibilities change.

In the future I hope that conversations are made easier for all, that neurodivergent people don’t have to do all of the explaining and that everyone else will make it their mission to learn, to try and understand. And if they don’t understand, to admit this, rather than assuming things far from reality. As a dyspraxic with ADHD in the mix too, I’ve realised that explaining my brain should come at a time, where I feel comfortable, in a space that it is important for others to know and when fear of discrimination or assumptions don’t outweigh the benefits of having that conversation. Starting a conversation is tough, but finishing it is even harder. And if your friend/relative/colleague feels safe enough to express their vulnerabilities, it says a lot about their ability to share with you. Make sure you really listen, that conversation will be on a loop in their head for a while after. Working together is the only way we can make having and initiating these conversations less of a mountain to climb.

I’ve written this piece because I’ve felt overwhelmed by the pressure to explain “why” over the years, the pressure to fit in and the instances where I’ve found myself laughing with others at something directly linked to my ND brain, because it’s sometimes easier than the alternative. I’ve worked out when I do and don’t want to share or announce my difficulties, but I’m still not quite there and the ADHD diagnosis has knocked things off kilter again. We’re all learning more about ourselves and finding spaces to feel included. When inclusion works, it can be one of the most moving and powerful things. The circles I’m in offer that feeling of safety and understanding, but away from these circles having a chat about your brain becomes more tricky. We’re all learning. Accepting a diagnosis has been easier the second time round, and I know, however much or little you are able to explain your neurodiversity, it will all be okay in the end.

Posted in ADHD, Dyspraxia, Mental health | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Why tweeting a cat photo is easier than replying to your message

Sometimes a cat photo helps everything make sense…

“You have time to tweet a cat photo, so in my mind you have the time to answer our questions,” She said.

I thought I was incompetent. That I should respond quicker. That I had somehow failed. That I would never be a good journalist. What I didn’t know is I hadn’t failed or let anyone down, the cat photo was by no means a fair comparison, or indicative of anything other than that I thought Twitter could do with another cat pic.

A few years ago, I finished uni for the third time, and was on the brink of going into business with friends who I had graduated with. We were good at what we did, writing was our thing and were able to create a magazine that everyone we told were impressed by. We thought our concept could really go somewhere, we even passed a prestigious enterprise pitch to prove it. Except there was one problem, my new colleagues were concerned about my commitment to the brand because I had supposedly “ignored” messages. I loved writing and adored our magazine’s ethos, but this wasn’t enough.

When challenged about my tweets one day versus my lack of responses to their Facebook messages, I felt defeated. That it was my fault, “why couldn’t I just reply faster?” “Why did I forget they had sent that message?” “Why was I feeling so overwhelmed by group chats?””Why couldn’t I keep up? Everyone else can.” I felt deflated. They eventually told me to leave the magazine, we were setting up together as a social enterprise. Demonstrating “lack of commitment” by “ignoring messages” was cited as a reason for them not wanting to work with me anymore. I haven’t done any journalism since.

The cat photo required less energy than any lengthy Facebook messenger response, let me explain why. To tweet a cat photo, you normally have to be in the presence of a cat. A cat that is often a distraction from everything else you have to do that day. Assuming the cat is in position, you take out your phone and snap. One click of a button and your cat (or someone else’s) is now on a screen. You then, impulsively (as it doesn’t usually take much thinking or planning) upload and press “send tweet.” Your cat photo is now in full view for all on twitter to enjoy. You’ve probably forgotten about that chore you were about to do or phone call you had to make in the process, but yay! at least twitter has ANOTHER cat photo. You then begin responding to people tweeting you about your cat, so end up down the twitter rabbit hole for another time that day. It is now 3pm. Ugh! you’ve missed lunch. Again!

Now think about replying to a message. What are all the things you have to do? What does your brain have to do? What are you really thinking about? How many things do you have to do whilst deciding what to say? So, you read the message, you understand it requires an answer. So far, so good. We go through an intense process of planning, prioritising, organising and focusing before any reply is actually written. It’s easy to understand the urgency, but understanding and doing are two completely different things. You may see the message, start replying, and then get distracted by literally anything that feels more pressing. You then forget there was even a message to reply to in the first place, or even think that you’ve already replied, until someone reminds you, usually angry that they are still waiting for a response. You get round to it again with this reminder, but don’t have the energy to plan and organise a response. You have no problems with writing, and often beat yourself up as “this shouldn’t be something you should struggle with” but what you lack is the focus. And this lack of focus is exhausting. Motivation often comes with an immediate deadline, often with consequences. “Tell us now or we don’t want to work with you again,” or “Well you managed that cat tweet earlier, we know your priorities.” Except tweeting about cats requires an entirely different set of executive functions and energy, than this response, a response that sometimes we didn’t even know was needed because it had been forgotten. We are not lazy, or unmotivated or lacking commitment as you assume. We are not a bad friend or colleague because we don’t reply to a message as quick as you’d like. We are overwhelmed. Overwhelmed that our brain doesn’t work as quick as we’d like. That intentions are very different to actions. And proving that we are motivated is exhausting. So we didn’t “ignore” you, our brain was just distracted by a different task. And that’s more than okay.

What I didn’t understand then, and I understand more now, is that we have a set of executive functions, that help us plan, organise, prioritise, remember and concentrate. And sometimes the messages in our brain telling us to do these things get blocked, and we can’t work out what comes next or how long something will take. Our abilities to carry out these core functions are what many of us use to judge the capabilities and commitment of our friends, family and colleagues. When these functions look more chaotic than yours, we assume laziness, lack of commitment, being uninterested or rude. Everything must be as easy as a cat photo, right?

At the time, I didn’t understand how ADHD can affect women, and that for many it goes undiagnosed, and if at all, diagnosed late. I didn’t see the the relationship between me and something that supposedly affects hyperactive boys. Women and girls often have the inattentive type of ADHD, so there’s not always external hyperactivity or fidgeting to spot, but the internal restlessness and constant thoughts are exhausting. I listened to the comments about my commitment to the business and couldn’t see where I had gone wrong. I could hyper-focus on writing articles for hours, working hard to make the magazine the best it could be. I cared more about making that magazine a success than they ever realised.

I didn’t realise then that I just might have ADHD too, like many women diagnosed before me, and there was a reason I didn’t reply to that message that day.

There can never be enough cat pics…

Posted in ADHD, Mental health, Writing | Tagged , | Leave a comment

What therapy and a pandemic has taught me about connections

Like many people this year, I’ve gone back to therapy. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to make that re-referal now, sometimes It takes a bit of prompting from others and other times, I just know. I know it’s that time again. I think of it like a kind of MOT for my brain when I feel I’m getting a bit off-kilter. And there’s nothing like a pandemic to give us more than our fair share of that.

In March we were encouraged to “DO EVERYTHING” a bit like giddy teenagers who can’t bare to be detached from their mates for five minutes. “Go to that virtual pub quiz” we heard. “Join that WhatsApp group!” ” Go for drinks with colleagues on teams after a full day of work and meetings… on teams”. “Ooh there’s an online gig you should try..” “Have you considered virtual E learning?” “Online YOGA. you totally want to try online yoga!” “Festival time! Get virtual festival ready!” It went on and on. I didn’t oblige to all of the above. But I did do my fair share. And this was on top of the usual people I’d keep in touch with pre-covid. We didn’t know how long the world would be this way, or indeed if we’d be sitting here in the middle of a North East lockdown, in October, unable to physically see anyone in person outside of our household. Yet here we are. We were encouraged by society, and probably social media, and partly the government, to socialise and form connections like never before. The governments contribution to this of course was the “rule of 6″and “eat out to help out”, cue every woman in her 30’s wondering if they have five friends, they A) like enough to dash out to see and B) live close enough to for socially distanced park dates. Most of us don’t get a jackpot of both A and B in this pub quiz. After thinking really hard I can probably only list about three people I’d want to desperately see if geography allowed.

There was then of course the extra activities or hobbies we thought everyone was taking up, learning languages, intense exercise regimes, origami, knitting a giraffe, baking a five tier cake. To form connections with ourselves and those around us. Despite briefly contemplating learning to crochet, the reality is that on good executive function days I can just about hold down a full time job and remember to make lunch on half the days in a week, never mind “building a living plant wall,” (no idea what this actually is, but google told me it was someone’s lockdown project.)

They say as you get older your circle gets smaller, although mine was never actually massive in the first place, in a pandemic it certainly shrinks further. One thing that took me back in the direction of therapy, is identity and understanding where I belong not just in a Covid world but life before working from home became the norm. Connections lay firmly at the heart of this. Who do we feel connected to? What is important right now? What really matters? Do I matter? I’m sure we’ve all been wondering similar, as we judge which zoom call to join or if reading a book and turning our phone off is a better option.

My relationship with people and things to fill my time has been pretty sporadic, and as my therapist put it I seem to have spent a lot of time cultivating “unhealthy relationships” that as you can imagine by the description, weren’t exactly beneficial. I’ve jumped from one thing to another quickly whether that’s in friendships or activities, I don’t know why, it’s just part of my life that’s always been there. I applied to go to India on a whim, not actually believing I’d get a place, (another 2am application jobby) and then haven’t spoken to or seen many people who I shared that intense experience to India with since. So, like most of us, I have wondered what friendships will still be sticking around when we can see others in person again without the fear of a deadly virus. Will the way we form connections change? It already has in a way, we’re streamlining our time, and I’ve certainly focussed on the friends who have kept in touch throughout. Although I still consider those who I’ve known for years but speak to maybe once a year as some of my very best friends. Keeping those people in my life is a healthy kind.

As we are eight months in, with little sign of an end, I’ve learned to prioritise everything. We all have more to juggle, and working from home in particular has taken longer to do things. We are distracted more, always thinking or wondering about the next thing. Is lockdown imminent? Do I need to stock up on pasta? Since the “everyone must be more sociable than ever!” frenzy, I’ve focussed on people who I have a two way connection with, and places I feel valued and appreciated. I’ve kept in touch with a solid four, and intermittently contact others. I still feel under pressure to do it all. We all do. Doing it all is all our society has every known. But therapy is exploring not doing it all. Taking it slow and putting on the brakes. A bit like the pandemic has taught us to do.

Suddenly we can’t just go somewhere, it now takes meticulous planning to walk out of the the door. Of course we’re going to miss things and the life we once had. I don’t think I’ve ever longed for a hug from a mate so much. I’ve grown up playing folk music, it’s what I’ve always known, and I know it’s where I can be me. Much of folk music is about connections, and most folk songs, if you can get past the constant theme of death, dying and bad relationships, you get a sense of hope, a feeling that we are all united in some way. I miss the times I spent playing in a session in the tiniest pub ever, playing tunes until the early hours, huddled around a table, drinks flowing and laughter in the air. It troubles me to think that the one activity where I felt my safest most of the time, and a constant in my life when many things come and go, could now be a risk. And I’m sure many things we once did with the people we love and care about the most, resonate with this. I really do worry for the arts, and hope it can evolve.

Therapy has made me reflect on not what I have lost, the abandoned hobbies, the jobs that didn’t work out, that girl from uni who suddenly stopped talking to me; but everything I have gained. We spend a lot of time ruminating over the things we have lost, I’ve had more than my fair share of loss over the years, and dealing with that is certainly a thing I’d recommend. But if we come out of the next six months, with at least two brilliant friends, who’ve stood by you, listened when needed and made plans for the less socially distant future, that really is everything to be celebrated. Anything else is a bonus.

As autumn turns to winter we’ll need to hold this close to us. It will get better.

Posted in Adventures, Covid-19, Dyspraxia, Mental health, Music, Politics | 2 Comments

I stand with the women who are exposing the darker side to folk and traditional music…


(TW sexual abuse/harrasment. And it’s important to note; given the world I’m about to talk about, where everyone knows everyone. Despite my best efforts to keep identifiers to a minimum, some of you might recognise places or people. Especially if you know me. Do get in touch if you feel that’s appropiate).

Inclusive. welcoming. friendly. understanding. These are all words I associated with the world I grew up in, a world I felt valued and accepted. A world where I could really develop my love of traditional music. A world where I felt free.  It was of course, all of those things, but there was another side. A side that was rarely talked about then and if it was, no one really knew what to do. Or the right thing to say.

I spent my teenage years and most of my 20’s carting my fiddle around to various sessions, summer schools and festivals. I was over the moon when I was finally old enough to go and play music in a pub.  I spent my summer in awe of often well known musicians. Some I considered friends. Many of whom I’d met in person. And even shared a drink or tune with. I never really understood people who idolised pop stars or longed to meet celebrities, because I was in a world where the people I was in awe of, I actually knew personally. They taught me. We hung out together. And many even became IRL friends and on social media.

Over the last week, I’ve become aware of the #Misefosta movement in Ireland and read similar accounts of young women over here in the UK too. There is as much a problem on the English Folk scene as there is in Irish trad. And I stand with the women in Ireland who have chosen to speak out, and so candidly so. I’m not a professional musician and I wouldn’t be good enough even if I wanted to be, and so it hasn’t affected me in the way that this is literally some women’s livelihoods. But I have grown up in a world surrounded by professional folk musicians and this is my experience of that world. I really wish I’d recognised this years ago. But recognised or not, I’ve become distant from the folk scene over the last few years for these reasons, that I’m now coming to terms with.

It all started when as teenagers, other girls would warn you about the “sleazy men” in folk clubs or at sessions. “Thats what he’s like”, they would say. “Be careful of him,”. We all knew really. But it was accepted as the norm and something as young female musicians we had to put up with. But no one, whether they have a fiddle in their hands or not should have to tolerate abuse or harrasment. At a summer School we were told, the only answer is “yes with a smile,” whenever someone asks you to dance. So I grew up thinking that I couldn’t turn down a dance with anyone. If you were seen sitting out at a ceilidh, it wouldn’t be too long before someone got you to your feet. And this was great to encourage young musicians into traditional dance, and I became a cracking ceilidh dancer because of all this dancing, but it was also an easy way for people to begin to take advantage or try to take things too far. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been inappropriately touched, groped or harassed while literally in the middle of a ceilidh dance floor. Or while sat shoulder to shoulder in a session with a box player. It almost always started with, “do you fancy a polka,” I may have said yes to the dance but not to your wandering hands, or anything else for that matter. You always dreaded someone asking you to dance “The Rosza,” especially if they didn’t know you well. And as young women, we laughed it off but also enjoyed the attention. It was behaviours that were very much normalised. But it shouldn’t be; the normalisation of, “sleazy  men” should not be normal or accepted anywhere.

One day I received a message on social media, from a man I only knew of who said, “I’m randomly adding folk fiddlers, fancy hanging out?” I’d never met him, but I knew exactly which band he was in, I’d even seen him at a festival some years ago, and he knew lots of the people I knew. His mutual friends were many of my friends. The folk world being so small can lead you into a false sense of security. And as a woman in my early 20’s at the time, I was flattered he wanted to hang out with me. We met once, but something didn’t feel right and I felt incredibly uncomfortable, so I made my excuses and escaped to the safety of home. I couldn’t tell any friends, because they knew him, and if his name came up in conversation I’d look away and zone out or pretend I didn’t know him. Another man, an equally well known musician, I became utterly infactuated with, we exchanged endless messages over a number of years and other women joked about “what he was like,” in passing. It was even rumoured that he was in a relationship with a very famous folk musician. He kept sending me messages, trying to get me to come out for a tune and a drink. “Come to the session tonight!” he’d say. “I miss you, when can I see you again?,” “We need to hang out, anytime for a *insert name* today?” These messages didn’t stop and became more and more demanding, despite my resounding NO being as obvious as I could make it, as I made excuse after excuse why I couldn’t see him alone. Sometimes I obliged, we met up, sometimes at sessions, sometimes in town. He sexually harassed me. Made advances I didn’t want. And made me feel guilty for almost encouraging the attention. I wanted to feel liked, but don’t all young women? When a friend told me he’d come onto her while away at an over night event, the night after he sent me an entirely inappropriate text message, I decided to tell someone. I was ignored, by someone who had pastoral responsibility for us at the time. I tried to reach out. To get help. To talk to someone. But it was so so normalised, that men who are often extraordinary musicians, whether people know or not, are often allowed to get away with making young girls and women feel uncomfortable. Later that year, he told me he was moving away for a big opportunity and asked to meet, devastated that he was going away, but pleased about his good news, I agreed to see him at home. I then found myself in a situation I didn’t want to be in, but I will always carry with me that it could have been a lot lot worse. His advances; I didn’t ask for or consent to. I felt trapped. That day I was emotionally vulnerable, I’d had an anxiety attack on the way that he had seen. He knew about my mental health, and would often use this to take advantage. I actually believed that he cared. I made my excuses and left before it could escalate any further. I was vulnerable and confused. At that age, I would speak to everyone who would listen about my problems. This could have been prevented if people had listened to me. If as women we took a stand. And if the men who knew exactly what was going on stood up to their mates too.

Folk and traditional music, whether it’s your hobby or profession, is a very social scene where literally everything revolves around alcohol. Boundaries become blurred and everyone feels like your friend. At sessions you drink, after workshops you drink, during ceilidhs you drink and at festivals there is a beer tent on every corner. Folkies are well known for liking real ale, some are even well known for drinking it on stage, and I tried to fit into that world. Everything I did with my folk friends involved a pub. I didn’t drink much then, and I don’t drink much more now, but I still went along. I have however since gone off real ale. It could be anything from sitting a bit too close in a session, a hug that lasted a bit too long for comfort or groping you under a blanket at someone’s birthday bash. No other profession involves this much drinking, there may be drinks after work in many places, but not literally all the way through it. And this is what these folk musicians were doing, and as young women who hung out with them we were in some ways in awe of the attention but in others, utterly terrified of it. What do we do? Who do we tell? Few spoke about it, but something that was so obvious, no one challenged this some how normalised behaviour. Many of my male friends knew, they even saw, but challenging them often meant jeopardising their bands and potentially careers. “Oh he’s just like that,” it was laughed off. It really was a difficult balance. I remember explicitly telling a male friend how uncomfortable his band mate made me and several friends feel over a number of years, but got no where. I was still invited to things when he was there, and there was no escape at folk festivals where everyone knew everyone. No women should feel uncomfortable in a world that in other ways was so beautiful, the songs, the tunes, the dances, they all had stories and meaning to me. They were all part of how I grew up. They will remain a cherished part of my life. And many people I met on that scene, I will always hold dear to me. But this. This can not go on. Men need to have honest conversations with their band mates too, to help women feel safer not just in folk music, but everywhere. Have I fallen out of love with folk and traditional music? I don’t know. But I do know, the world I adored, was also the world I was terrified of talking about. I don’t love that. And I know, what happened to me could have been a lot lot worse, and for some women it sadly was.

Folk music should be a safe space for all. I’ve been accustomed to talking and writing about challenging subjects, but nothing quite as tough as this. But if more of us unite to confront these challenges, as is beginning to happen, maybe we will see real change on the folk scene.

And thank you to all of the women who have already spoken out and made me feel able to share my experiences too.

(I’ve found this the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write because I’ve hardly told anyone. But I feel I have a duty to do so. In solidarity with all of the women who have already told their stories…)

Posted in Music | 12 Comments

Do I fit in here? On questioning a sense of belonging…

No photo description available.

“I really admire your tenacity to conquer adversity,” I’m told. I’ve accepted these compliments, that my achievements have been noted and that I’ve had some degree of impact on other peoples lives. We all crave attention. Human connection. To feel appreciated. Other people really do matter in shaping who we are. But adversity? Now in my 30’s, I’m at an age when people ask more emotive questions with difficult answers. Many with few clear answers, if they have answers at all. I should understand who I am. There should be a plan. And one thing people don’t give you, is the tools to reconcile the fact that you’ve “conquered adversity” by the age of 31.

I’ve been reflecting a lot recently about belonging and what it means to belong somewhere, to feel connected to others, to a community. We often, if you’re anything like me, hope to have more friends who understand, who get it. People who you don’t have to over-explain things to. One of my earliest memories of belonging, is my involvement in a youth organisation, the woodcraft Folk. A much better youth movement to scouts and guides. A hippy version if you want a comparison. Through woodcraft we’d go camping, and create communities. These communities were made of young people and adults with shared values, built on an ethos of friendship, peace and cooperation. The lyrics of one of the songs we used to sing around the campfire have stuck with me all these years;

“This shall be for a bond between us, that we are of one blood you and I, that we cry peace to all and claim kinship with every living thing, that we hate war and sloth and greed, and love fellowship. And we shall go singing to the fashioning of a new world.”

A song I sung around a campfire, as a round, is more poignant today than ever, the inequalities that covid-19 presents, the Black Lives Matter movement, Brexit, Trump and June being pride month. I was singing for a better world in 1995, a world where everyone could be included. We should have sung louder because I don’t think everyone heard at the back. Quite a heavy song for a seven year old to be singing, and of course I didn’t understand all of the nuances of it at the time, but I understood that it meant we must be kinder. If a seven year old can get that, what does it say about people “protecting” statues that don’t need to be protected? What does it say about grown adults who troll other adults on social media? People who think workplace bullying is acceptable? Or that their disability is an excuse for harassing others? or adults who demand that their story is the right story and the only one that must be told. That other lived experiences don’t matter?

I’ve always felt some kind of otherness, that I was different to other people. Explaining your summer to your classmates at your middle class school, where people often don’t leave the North East, let alone the small suburban village. Most people I went to school with went to the local uni to study business studies, married someone from school, buy a house in the same village, bring up children there, who then go to exactly the same school. The only connection I have there now, is I’ve been going to the same hairdressers since I was about fourteen. I was very very different to the people I went to school with, and these differences were very much down to dealing with “adversity” and developing the social values because of this. I very much cared about other people who felt different too. I knew I didn’t always fit in with school life, so I found my belonging elsewhere.

I always remember a conversation I had with a late friend, about 2am one August morning. He told me that he worried that he was too quiet, that he didn’t always fit in and people wouldn’t notice if he wasn’t there. We went to the same music summer school, he played fiddle like me. For the first time in my life I found other teenagers on mass who liked folk and traditional music too. There has always been an inclusion in folk music, I haven’t felt anywhere else. We could connect to other people, not just through a shared interest, but through the music we played together.

I told him that he always always had a place within our group of friends there and that it wouldn’t be the same without him. I’m glad, we got to have that chat but I wish I could have said more. Knowing what I know now, I really wish I’d given him more time. Since our conversation, I made an extra effort to ensure he felt included and that anyone else I met had somewhere they could belong too. I made sure he was invited up here when I had people over and that no one ever felt left out. We clicked because we were both a bit different. He couldn’t make it to my 21st because my birthday is at a ridiculous time near Christmas, and making plans is always near impossible, but I made sure he knew I wanted him there. I sent him a message so he knew he would be missed and we would make plans for the new year. That’s important – making the effort to invite people – even when you’re certain they won’t be able to come. It’s all about the inclusion. Those words “I don’t always fit in” have stuck with me. They’ve stuck with me, because there have been times in my life when I’ve felt exactly the same. That I don’t always belong too. And now, I’m at the stage of reassessing my belonging again. 

I’ve dealt with my otherness by making sure other people around me feel included. And have a place to call their own. I went into a line of work where inclusion is at the heart of what we do. Ensuring young people can belong. Creating communities that come together. Developing the human need of connecting with other people.

I’ve volunteered to give others a place to fit in too. All of my life because of that one conversation, I’ve made sure friends and strangers alike are given a platform to participate and belong. In my 20’s I went back to Woodcraft to volunteer as leader, I took children and young people away on camps, facilitated wide games, bivyed out under the stars and cooked pasta for the masses, because I believed so strongly in continuing my search for a new world. My days with Woodcraft came to an end when my friend died, and I looked up to another woman a decade older than me, who it turned out was ultimately bad for my mental health. Grief compounded this. Ending that friendship probably more dramatically than neccessary was something I’d needed to do for years. She led me into a false sense of belonging, an unhealthy sense of belonging.

Since recognising that I do have this difference called dyspraxia that won’t go away, not like involvement in a youth group or a music session, that I can literally stop attending. I can’t walk away from myself, as much as that sounds appealing sometimes. I’ve done the opposite of denial as a teenager, and really accepted who I am. Supporting other people to understand themselves too. It was great until I started questioning, why? Why did I do this? Why have I spent years talking about a difference that for all of my adolescence I’d kept hidden? As you may know, and I can talk more openly about this now as I don’t have any volunteering responsibilities, I’ve been trolled, bullied and harassed online by people from a community I thought I’d belonged. A group of people I’d really invested my time in. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve questioned who I am, like really questioned my identity, and distanced myself from anyone who felt like a reminder on Twitter. Do I feel more at home in the neurodiversity world? Is mental health twitter better?

I desperately wanted other people to feel like the could belong too. That inclusion was at the heart of it. I’ve always done it for other people, and never myself. Being so invested in one community has made me forget something important, that having a diagnosis of dyspraxia is only one part of my identity, who I am, where I belong. I would never force friendships on people just because they have dyspraxia too. Having more to talk about means conversations can last three hours and don’t dry up after ten minutes. Those shared connections go further than something, that is intrinsically who I am but isn’t all of me. My friends are writers, musicians, vegetarians, cat owners and self doubters too. Some have “conquered adversity”. Some have not.  They are people I want to meet up for coffee and not feel like we’d run out of things to say. And dyspraxia, whether they are dyspraxic or not isn’t always mentioned. I’ve now realised that it isn’t, and was never my responsibility to make myself belong.

Belonging is something we all have the responsibility to achieve. Not for ourselves but for other people. I learned that it was up to me to include my friend and other friends who felt different too. No one should have to feel that no one would notice if they weren’t there. We should all be able to fit in somewhere. It’s other people who create those barriers and make that seem impossible for some. People who talk about themselves but rarely about others. Shouting that their story is more important. It’s never you and always about them. Since trying to work out where I belong (or don’t belong) again, that 2am conversation is more vivid than ever. It was about eight years ago but doesn’t feel that distant.

I learned to really really value my friends. And that other people’s actions make people feel excluded, we all have a responsibility to include. And listen. Listening is important because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t know all of this. Or maybe I would but it would be all about me. We all have the responsibility to listen. To include. To make fitting in less of a mountain to climb.

I wish more people understood that responsibility.




Posted in Covid-19, Dyspraxia, Education, Mental health, Music, Politics, Writing, Youth Work | 2 Comments

On “where do I belong?” during a pandemic…

I have temporarily stopped using social media and probably will never go back to it, so, this piece won’t be shared there, but will possibly be read by my small following; you; and that’s okay. I still wanted to write it, you can share over on social media if you want to. We are, as I don’t need to remind you, living in very uncertain times, the world has turned upside down. And it’s confusing. On top of living in a pandemic,  I’ve experienced being viciously targeted online for a second time. Trolling as some call it, but these aren’t anonymous trolls. I know of them, although most haven’t met me in person, let alone engage with me in conversation. They are however, not short of opinions about my strength of character.

I wrote a piece when it happened the first time, quoting a 2019 You Gov Poll stating 1 in 4 UK adults being victims of online bullying. This statistic shouldn’t be so high. The first time I encountered online bullies, I had opportunities to distract myself, that I don’t have now. I could if I wanted visit a friend, go out for coffee, browse a bookshop, I could deal with my feelings much better than I can this time around. I have been an extensive social media user for years, like most of us I’ve turned to Twitter and Facebook to connect with long distance friends, distract myself from the world, see people’s cat photos and share experiences with different communities via Facebook groups. Communities who I thought understood me. Where I belonged. Where I felt safe. As a child I was misunderstood for much of my school life, that hasn’t entirely vanished in adulthood, so social media was a sanctuary I’d go to find the understanding I needed. That belonging? Feeling safe? It’s merely a memory now. Online abuse has made social media the last place I want to be. I miss my friends who I can’t see in person but I can’t be where they are, virtually.

Being able to belong is important to me, and like many of you, we crave acceptance. To feel valued. A human need, just like food and shelter. Maslow mentioned our need to belong in his hierarchy of needs. Feeling that you belong is important to connect with others and deal with emotions or experiences, having someone to ask “Do you get this too?” helps us to tick as human beings. To find a place in society. I’ve experienced loneliness at various times in my life, and being unable to find where you belong will surely manifest this. We hear bandied around “you are not alone” related to different life experiences, we feel comfort when we hear those words. Words have a power. They are powerful and when used well house meaning. “Oh it’s not just me!” we scream in unison, as we work through our feelings being similar to other peoples. When these words aren’t used well, being targeted online takes away any belonging. The “you are not alone” reassurance feels distant, that somehow it doesn’t apply to you. And you feel lost. Very very lost.

As now, during this pandemic, words we part with on social media matter more than ever. The impact they have can be profound, as our virtual world becomes our main way of communicating, and our life as we know it is changing. There are people behind the words. And such words can eat away at you for such a long time. Victims of online abuse still have a need to belong, and to understand their identity. We could all become victims of trolling and online abuse, it isn’t an exclusive club for celebrities or those in the public eye. It could be you, me (in fact it was me) or Joe down the street. In a world where people being there for their neighbours is reported by the media, people rallying round to volunteer, helping to deliver medical supplies and food, or simply checking in on people to see if they are okay. We’ve seen a kinder, gentler side to Britain. I used to travel to London for work, where it was rare to hear a stranger say hello. Now we stop to chat to our neighbours. I had no idea who lived in my street before this pandemic. Communities are really being brought together. So, being trolled right now when the media is reporting the good of society when faced with truly awful circumstances, feels like some cruel juxtaposition. It doesn’t make sense. Yet here we are.

Anytime is not the time to attack someone online, especially if they are from the same community as you, but it is even more poignant during a global pandemic. Social media being a friendly, safe, supportive space is important now more than ever. It is after all,  one of the few spaces we have left…

Posted in Covid-19, Dyspraxia, Mental health, Politics, Writing | 1 Comment

I’m exhausted. And I know I’m not alone

Image may contain: tree, plant, sky, grass, outdoor and natureOur lives over the last six weeks have changed forever. We can’t escape the daily reminders from the news, social media updates and our cats being extra intuitive. It’s a strange time. We are learning how to work again. And how to live alongside this new normal. Catch ups with friends over the phone are now the highlight of our days. Before lockdown I was on the cusp of beginning to make big decisions about where I want to be, what I want to do, who I want to be and who I want around me. Having largely been in recovery from the worst of my health anxiety. And dealing with a number of life and family events that made me reevaluate the need to enjoy life more, I was for the first time in years learning how feel content. I’d just started a new job, I have a small but select circle of friends who I adore and my sister was (and still is) acing uni. Then a global pandemic hit us, and my health anxiety recovery decided to become practically non-existent, as the country was sent into a state of shock, confusion and grief. When will lockdown end? Will that running event take place? When will I be able to get on a train again? Do I have this virus? No one knows.

Six weeks ago my colleagues and I, like many people up and down the country were told to work from home. We didn’t know for how long or even how it would work, but we knew we could no longer be in the office. That team I’d spent seven months trying to fit into, was suddenly dispersed. As I moved my office home, my desk chair, paperwork, computer, the lot, I felt confident. I’ve worked from home before and knew I could do it again. Home-working, wasn’t new for me like many other people carting their office home, it was not long ago, my normal. I didn’t prepare myself for or fully consider that working from home in the middle of a pandemic is very different to working from home out of choice or necessity. Pandemic home-working is a challenge, and something neither seasoned homeworkers nor novices could prepare for.

In the early days I welcomed the lack of commute, more time to think and reflect, being able to manage my time better. I thought, with no traveling to do, I’d be full of energy and raring to take on new challenges. Something that I didn’t prepare for is how utterly utterly exhausted I feel. I’m knackered. On weekends I struggle to get up and moving before lunchtime and during the week, I’ve often slept through several alarms, leading to a massive panic as I rush around trying to look half decent for the imminent video call. I know I’m not alone in feeling this, and I know that anything you are able to achieve when the world is seemingly imploding is bloody brilliant. I’m feeling drained because the world has quickly become very terrifying, we’re coping with our usual jobs; and if you’re in my line of work supporting people experiencing more trauma than ever, dealing with our own anxieties and uncertainties, and trying to keep up with how friends and family are feeling too. No wonder we’re on our knees. And some employers expect the same productivity they wanted from us when we were living during a very different time a few months ago. We can’t do all of the above without experiencing some kind of fatigue. It’s impossible. And we won’t be or feel as productive as before.

We’ve lost control

My anxiety is driven by not being able to control certain things, so I worry about events I can’t control and control other parts of my life to compensate. My health anxiety in recent times, centred around becoming seriously ill, I’d avoid specific activities or make steps when I go away to ensure I stay well, like more trips to the doctors. We’ve now been told to stay at home, there is no choice or alternative. The words “work from home to avoid people literally dying” is scary.  And if you have health anxiety, you can’t avoid health. One of my strategies is to ban doctor google from my life, if I don’t know about it, I can’t worry; being the logic. Information that was once a page on the internet I could avoid reading, is now in the form of daily press conferences. And if you choose not to watch the press conference, it’s recalled on social media. Our control has been taken away in how we live, socialise and work and it’s okay to feel sad about that. Working from home is now no longer a choice. Before I chose home-working, for benefits to my mental health and the autonomy it offered. Now, both of those are lost. And I am grieving that loss and coming to terms with a change. And I’m not a fan of change.

Workplaces have gone digital

Places of work are going through this exciting time when everyone is learning to work digitally, and realising that many people are able to work from home, if they put measures in place to support this. A reasonable adjustment many people with disabilities or mental health conditions have requested and been refused over the years. With this new found digital way of working, organisations, charities and companies are working out how much of their previous face to face work they can offer in a digital format. Office banter is replaced by WhatsApp groups and we now find ourselves in more video calls than we have the energy for. And that’s important, because constant video conferencing teams of 10-20 people at a time is draining. I’m dyspraxic, and find that video calls zap my energy. This is because there’s so much more to process than a normal face to face meeting or even a phone call. We have to concentrate on everyones face, our own face, visual and auditory information (including someones background – cat in shot?  or background noise? we still have to process it). We then have to listen, remember what everyone has said and know when to respond. When written down in this way, constant video calls, don’t seem like the best way to get information to a neurodiverse colleague, especially if it’s a meeting with more than one person. And we are often still processing information from one meeting as we go into the next. Workplaces that aren’t used to remote working, want to use technology all of the time, “YOU MUST VIDEO CALL EVERYONE,” they chirp. So questions that would normally be shouted across the office that could easily be answered quickly and efficiently by email as an alternative, are now being posed by half hour video calls. At the start of my home working I felt guilty for feeling so tired. I’m just talking to someone,  why do I have the energy of  a snail? I didn’t understand. But after talking to others and learning that we collectively feel this way, I feel better about needing to take time out after each video call for my wellbeing. I’ve now built in 15 minute breaks away from the computer screen whenever I have to appear on camera. It helps me recover and gives my brain time to just be. And being able to just be is important. This often means I’m taking more breaks than I would in the office, but we are living in different times, and this calls for different ways of working. Looking at a screen all day everyday is draining.

Anxiety increases. And new anxieties appear. 

A common theme emerging is that anxiety is developing and feeds off a pandemic. I’m now unable to leave the house alone, an attempted run last week ended in a panic attack. I worry about bumping into people. Catching the virus and passing it on. Our lives are now so prescribed meaning I’ve become hyper vigilant about what I can and cannot do. Recently I told a friend that I don’t know how I’m going to physically be able to run a half marathon if I can’t leave the house. She reassured me that I will run it, when it comes around. Getting out is vital for my mental health and ensuring that my brain, alongside my body stays healthy. Anxiety is exhausting, worrying about high risk family members, not being able to visit a friend for a chat, worrying about how that friend is feeling and feeling stressed about work is all our reality now. I’ve also heard that people who previously haven’t had any difficulties with mental health in the past, are now developing new anxiety and trauma. Frontline workers are especially hit hard. I’ve learned to swap my usual run for a walk with family, and to aim to eventually build up to running again. I take it slow, don’t go far from home and know I can always turn back if I need to. On days I can’t face crossing the threshold of my front door, I sit outside, make sure I get some sun and vitamin D. I try to read but If I can’t focus, I listen to the birds singing. Sounds idyllic, but most of the time I resemble a meerkat, unable to relax, always looking for the next crisis. I am an expert at dealing with uncertainty, but feeling a million steps behind where I was is bound be tough. And if you do too, know that you will get there eventually and it is completely normal to feel like this. It would probably be more odd if you didn’t have some kind of anxiety at the moment. I want to run and when this is all over feel comfortable enough to travel on public transport again. Both I know this will take time to build up to. Anxiety, makes an appearance when you least want it around, doesn’t it? It’s only natural to feel this way though, focussing on the days rather than the weeks is helping me. As are supportive friends.

We worry about friends and family in a very different way

Workdays are now consumed by extra worry, I’ve always thought about other people, often before myself but now the genuine fear of death has taken over our lives. I’m sure I’m not the only one who genuinely worries that people closest to us are going to die. It’s okay to talk about our new reality in this way. Previously I’ve been able to rationalise worries, as they explore in CBT “What is a more rational thought.” Death is now the rational thought. The news confirms this and so do the words, “This virus affects anyone of any age, anywhere.” There have been times when I’ve had to leave my work because I’ve genuinely been consumed with worry about a friend or family member, if I’m not thinking about their mortality, I’m worried about their mental health. I don’t have any friends who live completely alone, but if I did or anyone unexpectedly found themselves in that situation, I would be very prepared to move in with them (if I was wanted) to ensure they’re okay. I worry about ever seeing elderly relatives again, and when we are finally able to see friends, will those meetings have changed? Has the concept of friendship changed? Will it ever be like before? It is exhausting dealing with these new or slightly heightened feelings. The other day I made a list of everyone I must keep in touch with because I’m terrified in the current state of everything happening at once, that I’ll forget someone.

Focus, concentration and productivity is lost 

I’ve noticed, and I know I’m not alone here, that my focus and concentration on work and home life has decreased. I hoover up like that snail we mentioned before. And the supposedly five minute email is taking me half an hour to compose. I know now that I won’t see my previous productivity levels for a while, and it’s unfair for employers to expect the same productivity they would from a staff team in an office. “I’m going to get loads done when we work from home!” I heard colleagues announce. Something that I know for my own circumstances couldn’t be far from the truth. Great if you are able to develop new projects, write a book, grow your business, landscape the garden, redecorate the house and learn to yodel, let me know your secrets, but many of us aren’t going to achieve any of that under normal circumstances, let alone during a pandemic. I’m learning when I work best and working with that, not setting alarms was something I’ve been dubious of, but allowing myself to wake up naturally, and adjusting my hours to compensate this is helping. Although I’m still terrified about missing the 10am video meetings, so the no alarm rule is still a work in progress. I’m also allowing more breaks than I would in the office and trying to listen to my body more. I know I’m not going to develop new projects or develop a business venture during lockdown, I’m far too concerned about keeping people alive and sticking with the stability of a full time job. I’m lucky to still have an income and relative normality financially, as I know times in my life this wouldn’t be the case, if Covid-19 hit a year ago, this piece would look very different. So I know how quickly and unexpectedly things can change. But yes, having “more time to do things” is utter rubbish. We are however, using more energy to complete tasks on our to-do lists than ever before.

We are grieving for a world we will never know again

They say grief comes in waves. They say grief is exhausting. A half hour task seems to take days and even on good days getting out of bed is a struggle. As a country we are grieving for a world we may never see again. And as individuals we are grieving for a change in how we do things. I read people talk about the positives of lockdown “birds are singing. Air is cleaner,” it seems to have taken a global pandemic to force us to think about the environment. How we socialise will change. There will for many years be an element of fear at big public events and festivals, while we as a community and country get back on our feet. So while I am working or thinking about how to spend my day, I am also, like many of you ruminating about what is to come. I haven’t treasured more, time spent with friends, picnics in the park or weekends away, than I do now. And I feel a sense of guilt for not valuing them more at the time. In phases of increased anxiety I’ve wished a weekend would be over so I could get home, to feel safe. Now I wish I’d had a chat with the anxiety to ask it not to be so bloody inconsiderate. Life has changed and we are united in that change.

The one thing I have learned during and prior to all of this is to give myself permission for how I feel, and right now, for all of the reasons above, I feel exhausted and overwhelmed. Both mentally and physically. And that, is more than a justified response to our new world.


Posted in Dyspraxia, Mental health, Politics, Running | 2 Comments

In lockdown: How are are we meant to feel? On the validity of our anxiety and managing uncertainty…

Image may contain: tree, plant, sky, grass, outdoor and nature

As I get up for my early run, I hear my feet tapping, my lungs breathing, my heart beating. The streets and its inhabitants; they are mostly sleeping. There’s a few people out; off to work for early shifts, the postman and early o’clock dog walkers. There’s also wildlife, lots and lots of wildlife. As I plod along, I think, I always think as I listen to the tunes in my ears and the birds in the sky, about now, then and tomorrow. I’ve become utterly terrified about running anytime other than before the world wakes up. Social distancing; a new word we hear bandied around, and like many I have the fear of “catching it” or passing on “it” Whatever “it” may be.  I worry about running anywhere near people because of comments I’ve read aimed at runners online. So early runs, you are here to stay.

We are living in very strange times, so everyone keeps telling you. Strange and uncertain times. The days merge into one, work days flow in and out, weekends come and go, there seems to be no beginning, middle or end. We feel lost. Trapped in a cycle. Is it a nightmare? Is this actually real? we ask. About a year ago I was told, alongside the collection of all the other diagnoses and anxiety disorders to my name that I have health anxiety. So debilitating I undertook a course of NHS talking therapy to tackle specifically those feelings. In other words, obsessing about my health until it becomes unbearable. I haven’t told friends. I avoid talking and explaining my health fears as much as I can. Writing this piece is making me feel on edge. It’s normal just as anxiety is a normal emotion, to worry about our health a bit, but it isn’t helpful when every waking moment is dominated by ruminating; “do I have an incurable disease that no one knows about?” or “Has anxiety been misdiagnosed and am I actually seriously ill?” So you can imagine my panic when our friend Covid-19 made an appearance. Suddenly the media is dominated by health. Just as I was beginning to forget about health, we are all talking about it. We are constantly reminded why we are in Lockdown. And everyone is feeling anxious. Those who previously haven’t had anxiety disorders before are waking up worrying they have the virus. Colleagues are talking about anxiety in work video calls. Others have taken to stockpiling food because they are scared. The world is in a panic. We don’t know what to do with this much unknown and uncertainty. And those of us with pre existing anxiety disorders? We’re wondering how valid our feelings are, now Covid-19 anxiety is the new norm.

Historically vulnerability has been seen as a weakness. That somehow you’re less than. That you need to be handled with care, as not to upset you. That your voices don’t matter. But now, in the middle of a global pandemic, the whole world is vulnerable. And the extremely vulnerable need to be protected and as has been coined “shielded”. We all feel vulnerable to this thing the NHS and scientists are fighting. Whether we are categorised as vulnerable by the government or not, the world shows its anxiety. Its weaknesses are laid bare. And as a nation we are united by the strong feeling of “What the fuck is going to happen tomorrow?” We often all wake up in the dead of night convinced we have the disease we fear most. Those of us with anxiety disorders have experience of this, sometimes years of it, we’ve developed this thought process long before Covid-19 was even in the air. We are experts in this field. My concoction of dyspraxia, anxiety and possibly other neurodiversities has made me super hyper-alert. And aware of uncertainty. The fear that cannot be planned for. Worried about explaining myself. Terrified that my feelings are “just me” and if they are expressed anywhere other than in my head, people will think I’m weird or avoid me or not include me. Years of low self esteem has developed these conclusions. The “what ifs?” are heightened. We wonder if we need to justify how we feel, but equally we want to fade into the background.

As these two weeks have gone on, I’ve watched daily chores and errands become a literal matter of life or death. Do we risk popping to the shop for milk? The idea of essentials has caused confusion, and for many frustration. What is essential to you, may not be for others. How can the state determine essential? And what are the risks of carrying out such essentials? Leaving the the house, if we have to, has turned into a game of sudoko with no distinct answers. We don’t know anymore. It’s a step into the unknown and with this uncertainty, drives anxiety. We have never, in any of our life times experienced anything like this; the masses working from home, our careers judged on a ladder of importance, queues at shop doors and shelves stripped bare. You could say the nation is justified to be in this state of heightened alert. Feelings that were once irrational are now seen as completely rational because of the world we find ourselves in.

Our new norm makes me, and I’m sure many of you, wonder how much of my feelings I can talk about, but then knowing that everyone now gets it to a degree, that the thoughts in my head are now more justified than they were before. But of course it’s not just Covid-19 I feel anxious about. Are those feelings not as valid? It comes in waves, and sometimes we forget, forget about the lockdown, forget about the news, feel content with work, and then it hits us. This is exactly how anxiety works. It keeps us on guard. It keeps us alert. The last fortnight I’ve reasoned that for those of us with pre-existing anxiety disorders, our feelings are more than valid during this pandemic. The country may feel an anxious unity. We are going through a collective trauma. And in the long run, when we find ourselves out of the other side, it may help to generate more of a shift in societies attitudes towards mental illness in the future, tackle some of the stigma and make us feel heard. Saying this in the middle of a pandemic still doesn’t sound real. So, how are we meant to feel? I really don’t know. But I do know any story, any feeling, any experience is a dialogue worth sharing, and that eventually, it really will be okay. We’ll be okay. And you will be okay.


Posted in Dyspraxia, Mental health, Running | Leave a comment

Why I’m running the Great North Run for Gateshead Youth Council and why it is quite possibly the hardest challenge I’ve ever set myself…

Image may contain: Alice Hewson, standing and outdoor

I didn’t know I could ever be a runner. I didn’t think I had it in me or even looked like one. What do runners even look like? Images of the Harriers and elite runners finishing the Blaydon Races danced through my head. I’ve watched at least one running event a year, there’s a big famous one that goes through my town. We even have a song to go with it; “Gannin alang the Scotswood Road…” Yes, you know the one. And I concluded that the people I saw there, on exactly the 9th of June, weren’t and would never be me.

This year, after running regularly for just over a year, but no more than 5K’s I should add, I decided to enter the ballot for The Great North Run. One of the most famous half marathons. I got a place. At the age of 30 I took up running after years of avoiding sport and exercise as much as I could, and now I have to run all 13.1 miles of a half marathon in September. To begin to prepare and scare myself, I’ve looked up training plans, researched what I should and shouldn’t eat (being a vegetarian, my diet is apparently pretty good for a runner) and talked to friends who’ve ran this distance and further. To find out about something, I’ve always read the bones off it and really researched the new thing before actually doing it. This morning I’ve been reading about all of the varieties of sports bras one can possibly own before concluding that mine is probably adequate. A good friend recommended that I read “Running like a girl” by Alexandra Heminsley, and I absolutely devoured it, reading it in a day. It’s a cross between an advice book going through everything you need to know about running, from getting assessed for trainers and what sports bras to buy, how to deal with injury to an exploration into her own personal journey of running, as someone who like me, didn’t see she could be a runner too. I’d go as far as saying that this book completely changed my outlook on running. It made me cry, smile and nod along empathetically all at once. I’d totally recommend it to anyone who’s in a similar “What am I meant to do now?” situation, and questioning if there are runners like you. I’ve also recently started a full time job, so weaving in running and eventually half marathon training into my working day is going to be especially tricky, but something I’m sure many other people do, and I can get my head around too.

Friends have asked if I’m raising money for a charity, and I’ve wondered if this ballot place should be to support a charity, or just for me to achieve something massive. I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to handle the pressure of fundraising, full time work and training, but I’ve gone for the former and decided I’m going to give it all a go. There’s a lot of charities that mean the world to me, from youth charities, mental health charities, dyspraxia related causes, music education charities and due to recent family circumstances heart charities. I have decided after considering all of the wonderful organisations who really do deserve funds, that this place needs to support the work of Gateshead Youth Council, a local organisation who support young people to have a voice, get involved in decision making and understand their rights and the rights of others. Values that have stayed with me into adulthood. I was at age 14, a painfully shy girl, who was at the time in denial of a dyspraxia diagnosis I’d had at age 8 and certain I couldn’t fit in anywhere. I tried to get people to like me, I wrote to the headteacher complaining about litter that eventually lead to setting up an environmental club at school in the hope I’d find my people, but this fizzled out as people didn’t seem as keen as me and I worked hard to organise a ceilidh for the schools charity week, again my people were there but they were certainly the minority. I then heard a message in the school bulletin one morning asking for people to put themselves forward for a “Gateshead Youth Assembly” election. This is something I can do, I thought. I’d always been good at writing, and had no problem writing a speech about why everyone should vote for me. To a school community who I knew thought I was odd and didn’t understand me, or my awkwardness and concluded that my uneven pattern of strengths and weaknesses was some kind of threat. I wrote the speech. I talked about wanting to listen to others. I talked about being able to listen. I mentioned my desire to make a difference in the world. All very hippy middle class girl stuff, that made me stand out even more than I did already. I still don’t know, why as the shy girl, I decided to put myself out there. Was it a bid to be liked? Was I beginning to accept that I was different and trying to tell the world? or was I just not thinking straight? Whatever it was, it worked and I was elected to represent my school on Gateshead Youth Assembly, which is where I stayed until I was 18.

The Youth Assembly is facilitated by the umbrella organisation Gateshead Youth Council, who at the time ran all sorts of projects, from the members action course, an online magazine and funding committees, alongside the youth assembly. They all took place under the same roof, and occasionally in the council chambers once a month. To begin with I went along once a month for full youth assembly meetings, where we discussed issues affecting young people and consulted with people in positions of power, we had a very good relationship with local councillors and MP’s, many of them knowing us by name. Eventually I was at the Youth Council three or four times a week after school, taking part in other projects they had there, and joined the editorial team of their online magazine, where I really explored my flair for writing. My confidence soared and I felt like I’d found a second home, as I went through school dramas, exam stress and eventually mental health difficulties they were always there. I was listened to, and never told I couldn’t or that something was beyond me. When I was 16 I won an essay competition to travel to Slovakia (with my very understanding youth worker I should add) with local councillors to attend a conference to develop a European wide approach to quality youth work. We met young people from France, Germany, Slovenia, Czech Republic and Italy, young people coming together to make a difference. It was hard. I had an anxiety attack on the first night and wanted to go home on the second when I discovered that vegetarianism is non existent over there, I’ll always remember: “She’s vegetarian” … “But can she have chicken?” But my youth worker was good with me and earned more than her pay that week! By the end of the week I was performing on stage with the most famous Romany Folk band in the Czech Republic. The quiet girl? Not anymore.

I’ve decided to run the Great North Run for Gateshead Youth Council because they gave me a chance when few people would, a place to belong and made me feel accepted for being Alice. The opportunities; attending a Downing Street reception, Slovakia, being sent up into the air in a glider, speaking at and leading conferences and giving me someone I could ring when it all felt like it was all going wrong. And it did several times, I wasn’t always the easiest teenager to support. I nominated my youth worker of the time, Valerie, for a National Diversity Award a few years ago, and she made the shortlist. I wrote that nomination for similar reasons I’m running this half marathon, to give her and the Youth Council recognition for the work they do and the impact they make to young peoples lives. Reaching the shortlist for such a prestigious award says it all. Running isn’t a natural thing to make my body do, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m dyspraxic and with a statement for special educational needs to boot, wasn’t given the opportunity to have a go. I remember PE lessons being a form of ridicule, I wished I could find a way not to be noticed, as I tried to take a serve in badminton or stay in the middle of the little X during trampolining. I was naturally tall and athletic looking for a netball player, but in practice this didn’t amount to much. My school was a sports college, so celebrated sports like most schools do, but gave little attention to those of us who probably wanted to have a go, but didn’t realise it yet or have anyone to tell us we could. “If I run it’ll make me ill” I said, which I now realise was an anxiety reaction to something I found frustrating and difficult.

I’m not just running as a thanks to what I achieved because of and sometimes entirely down to Gateshead Youth Council, but also for all of the young people in Gateshead, the North East and beyond, to demonstrate that youth services really really do matter and change peoples lives. In recent years we’ve experienced huge cuts to services for young people, and the North East has been significantly affected, the Youth Council has drastically decreased in size, and many other services I knew growing up are now non-existent. Places to go, things to do and people to tell a young person on a bad day that “they’re doing alright really” are disappearing. And this austerity and destroying services we all loved so much growing up is set to continue. I trained as a youth worker to have an impact on young peoples lives just as my youth workers did for me, to listen and try to understand. Yet now, I wouldn’t advise new graduates to go into youth work, simply because there isn’t the jobs to go to. It’s especially difficult if you add in the ingredient of being neurodivese. And years on sessional contracts isn’t great for mental health and continuity for young people you work with. I know, I’ve been there.

This run is going to be tough. I joined a running club almost a year ago, completing their couch to 5k programme and being awarded an “inspirational female runner” award at their recent award ceremony. So I know, I have something in me to do it. I have the emotional reasons to run and maybe more ability than I first realised. My next plan is my running clubs annual 10K race in April, that I hope will ease me in gently, and give me something realistic to aim for. Joining a running club has completely changed my outlook on running, and gave me a group of people who ask where you are if you don’t turn up to a Sunday morning run, or indeed a club award ceremony where you’ve won a bloody award. They made me realise that anyone can run if you want to, it’s not about the time or being the fastest, it’s about completing the distance. Words that I’m sure will stick with me as I drag myself around the Great North Run, and consider giving up when I see the beer tent at mile 10.

If you’d like to support me to achieve this goal and say thank you to Gateshead Youth Council in the most emotive way I know possible, you can do some of the following:

  1. It would mean the world to me if you could consider sponsoring me here, I struggled deciding on a target, but concluded that anything is better than the lack of recognition youth services are getting at the moment. If you’re unable to, please do share the sponsor page and my story with people who can. I’d love to be able to fund a residential for the young people or something equally memorable, similar to the opportunities I had as a teenager that are now hard to come by these days.
  2. If you run or do run, this distance or more, any tips you can pass on I’d really appreciate. There’s so much information floating around on the internet, that can at times be overwhelming and sometimes it’s better talking to actual people who’ve been there.
  3. I need to make a running playlist, and I need your suggestions to make this the best thing to run to.
  4. And finally if you know (and like) me, a gentle nudge to remind me to keep up with the training or to look after myself, as I have a tendency to get absorbed into things would be useful. And anything you can think of to encourage me to keep going will be very very helpful indeed.
  5. And if you’d like to be there on the day on September 13th 2020, we can certainly talk about that.

I’m very excited but extremely terrified too. This couldn’t be anymore poignant; being able to run a half marathon in my home region, and doing it for a local charity who did so much for me when I was growing up. They allowed me to learn that “I can” just as much as the next person. And now I want to show todays young people that they can too.

Do consider sponsoring me.


Posted in Dyspraxia, Mental health, Running, Youth Work | 1 Comment

Recognising myself a decade on…

I’m the eldest of three, but I always always wanted a big sister. It felt exhausting doing everything first, going to university, passing exams, traveling alone. I was always the test so the other two knew what to do. I was never a role model though. I didn’t want my siblings to be anything like me. And I was very clear about that. “Do everything I didn’t do!” I’d say, and so far they are and have, maybe too much sometimes. Like many neurodiverse women I struggled with the concept of being “good enough” and what this actually means. Often obsessively comparing myself to others, and, convincing myself that their strengths were my flaws. Deep down I was racked with the guilt of being the difficult (otherwise translated as “different”) sibling, the one that needed more attention and support, the sister who at times wasn’t like a big sister at all. Sibling guilt is something that A) I’ve recognised to be a thing as part of my life and B) I’ve heard mentioned very little within the neurodiverse community. It is, like most experiences, hard to talk about and even harder to understand. So growing up I craved a big sister who wasn’t like me or maybe was like me, that bit is unclear. Someone to look up to, someone to guide me and someone who had already done everything first.

I spent my teens until my mid 20’s looking up to mainly older women, idolising them and wishing I was like them. I hung onto their every word, I wanted to be less like myself and more like these women who seemed to have it all. I felt the buzz when they chose to speak to me, I was always there to answer their calls. I liked that they had done everything before me, and seemed to know things I didn’t. So, slowly I started divulging parts of my life to them, I offloaded things I hadn’t told anyone before. I leaned on them, I wanted support. But I forgot they are human too, and friendships if they are going to work need to be a two way process. And most upsetting of all, I neglected my real long term friends, or I reflected my insecurities brought on by my relationship with these older women, onto my friends, who tried to piece together the jigsaw, often leaving them pretty baffled. I was pleased to have an older female figure in my life, more than once. When I became too much and one friendship fizzled out, or it ended dramatically, usually after unpleasant words that to me felt like an awful break up, I went onto the next person. I didn’t recognise the pattern. And I didn’t understand what I was doing until now, over a decade after the first time. I recognise who I am, and more importantly was, because I am now that woman. I have transitioned from the person who needed a lot of support and to lean on other people, to someone who is doing that for others. I am literally standing in these older women’s shoes, who I had so much admiration for then. I have also learned from myself, that it’s okay to be direct and honest, it’s okay to look after yourself and more importantly I’ve realised what a healthy friendship looks like.

I remember vividly, I was sitting in woman A’s car, we’ll call her Emma, outside university. I was about to go into a meeting with my tutor to discuss strategies to prevent me from failing my degree. She had come along for support. I was in tears and she just turned to me and said bluntly “Alice, are you on anti-depressants?” I wasn’t, but felt like I should be. I didn’t recognise at the time that this was Emma’s way of saying, “I’m at capacity now, I don’t know how to support you.” A few months later I did get that prescription, just before my finals. Months passed and Emma was still in my life, we went away together, her whole family took me under their wing, I felt that she was the big sister I never had. My life revolved around her, even at my lowest, she suggested the day after my friend died, I go camping with her and her family, that included two small children in tow. “I’ve known people who were too young to die too,” she told me. But she didn’t understand my grief, and I was too broken to argue at the time. I went along, desperately not wanting to be there. I didn’t read that with every interaction I had with her, she was trying to be nice and hoped that one day we’d drift apart and I’d get on with living my life. It didn’t and never would resemble a friendship. We had very little in common really, and she was trying to support someone who came into her life, who was vulnerable and slowly the “friendship” was doing more harm than good. It was becoming unhealthy. I became reliant and at times obsessive. I put her in a very difficult situation and now a decade on, I totally understand that situation.

Boundaries are key and as we grow into ourselves, we learn what is and isn’t okay to share, and with whom. Both in person and online, we set our own boundaries. I spent most of my 20’s trying to work this out. A few months ago I experienced trolling online, to the extent that I didn’t want to share online again. I wanted my whole online presence to vanish. I’d had enough, and my boundaries felt invaded. Especially as the trolling continued over DM’S, away from the public. I started to lean on friends when this happened, and rightly so, I needed people to be there. And they were. At times my mind harped back to when I was younger and much more vulnerable, when I’d talk to people about my problems and it would continue for much longer than was healthy or neccessary. I’d forget that friendships, if they are to survive, need to involve support and empathy for the other person too. I needed to listen too. I didn’t listen for years. I now know when to stop talking, and listen. Or allow space to breathe.

Recently I had a very honest conversation with a friend who knew me then, and still knows me now. I talked about my reliance on people, and constant need to be reassured. “I think I might have looked up to you,” I blurted out. “I can’t believe you looked up to me,” he jokingly responded. “No in a different way, it was different with you, than these older women,” I clarified. And it was, he was a friend, who I used to explore my feelings around difficult friendships. I didn’t expect to be so honest in that conversation and later apologised in a text saying so. The conversation did if anything help me to process my feelings towards who I used to be, and as someone who needs to verbalise events or write them down to move forward, it was a useful exercise. I recalled in that conversation a friend telling me to “make sure you tell us the good things too”, and I tried for years to recount the things people also wanted to hear about my life. And at the age of 31, I think I’ve worked out that balance. I know I still need more reassurance than most people, but I am aware of it, making me more wary of the bonds I make and appreciative of the friendships I value most, that do make me feel “good enough.”

Finding the space and appropriate moment to apologise to those I relied on years ago but didn’t listen to, might be useful, or counterproductive. Just simply saying “I get what I did then,” feels like a conclusion. Recognising myself and who I used to be has been powerful. Powerful to know I now know and understand. It doesn’t yet provide a conclusion, but as time goes on and I ruminate more it may do, and as always writing about it is a start.

(Really interested to hear from anyone with similar experiences…)


Posted in Dyspraxia, Education, Mental health, Youth Work | Leave a comment