try softer

on documenting the tangle

The end of the year always feels like a sprint to the finish line. December is a month of getting things done, checking off lists, tying up loose ends, closing things down, and rounding things up. We pour out our last reserves, believing we’ll be rewarded for our efforts. Soon, we’ll be comatose in a food-and-fizz-induced stupor, unaware of what day it is or which extended family members we’re seeing tomorrow.

But my legs don’t have much sprint left in them this year.

What if we didn’t push ourselves to give more than we have? Instead of draining those reserve batteries before the inevitable hard reset on January 1st, what if we tried softer?

When I started this newsletter, I framed it as a way to untangle my thoughts — to carefully separate each strand to make sense of the mess of it all. But I’ve since come to realise that writing (or any creative act) isn’t always about finding clarity or coherence. Sometimes, it’s about savouring the mess as it is.

I owe this change of tact to Ann Friedman, whose newsletter I devour as soon as it lands in my inbox each week:

The goal is not to separate the strands, it’s to document the tangle.

So in that spirit — with low-power mode on, and with a commitment to show up here more regularly, without chasing perfection — this week offers a tapas-style serving of small thoughts and half-formed ideas I’ve been gathering. None are fully cooked. Maybe they will be, someday. For now, consider this a documentation of the tangle.

There’s no theme tying them together, except that I’m letting myself off the hook for needing one.

fragile beauty on the 18:34

I’m being followed by flowers. Or that’s how it feels to me, anyway.

Every other person on the southeastern corner of the TfL network is carrying flowers. It’s the classic frequency illusion: the more I see them, the more I notice them, the more I look for them, the more I think it’s happening.

Nothing stirs the imagination like catching sight of someone with a bouquet on a train. Who are they for? Who gave them to you, or are you giving them to someone else? Or did you buy them for yourself? Was it a rushed, last-minute panic grab from the station flower stall or a carefully chosen, specially selected bouquet? Are the flowers celebratory or commiseratory? Romantic or platonic?

Will the flowers be trimmed and thoughtfully arranged in a vase, or simply shoved into the nearest available vessel — probably a pint glass? Will they be dried after their first bloom fades, allowed to live a second life while scattering petals and debris on a shelf? (Or am I the only person who attempts to dry every bunch of flowers I’m ever given?)

Seeing flowers out in the world, on the move, only emphasises their transience. Stations and trains are places made in the image of impermanence: we’re always just passing through.

If I were to extract a life lesson from it (why not, it’s Christmas!), maybe leaning into gentleness means embracing the fleetingness of things — knowing it won’t last but savouring it anyway.

“You cried over things like the fact that flowers didn’t bloom for that long,” writes C.J. Hauser. “That they had to die.” You are a sensitive soul. A small, fragile beauty in transit.

wealth

December is also a month for using up leftover annual leave before it renews. This week, I took a rare mid-week day off, deciding that instead of carrying over an extra day for Future Me to enjoy, I’d gift it to Current Me instead.

I toyed with the idea of heading uptown to see the Christmas lights, finishing (read: starting) my gift shopping, or catching an exhibition. Instead, I slept in, walked the dog, and moseyed down to a local café to write.

I’m glad I let my energy levels lead the way. I’ve realised how often I treat blank spaces in my calendar as holes to be filled — as if seeing “No more events today” on my home screen widget is a sign of failure.

I once heard someone say you should judge your wealth by your calendar, not your bank balance. That resonated with me at the time, probably because I was socially rich even if financially feeling the pinch. But really, the issue isn’t the absence of plans — it’s that I don’t protect or respect time spent on, with, or for myself as fiercely as I do time given to others.

I’ll fill an empty evening here and there, only to find myself with eight consecutive nights of plans and no energy left for the things that nourish me. As a recovering people-pleaser, I tend to prioritise others’ requests and invitations over my own need for solitude.

Maybe it’s because deep down, I fear that protecting my time is selfish. But here’s the truth: guarding your time isn’t selfish; it’s generous. When you’re recharged, you can offer the fullest, most present version of yourself to others. If you’re always running on reserve power, no one gets the best of you — least of all, you.

The goal isn’t to conserve energy so strictly that you never run out. It’s to balance your inputs (quiet time, creativity, rest, solitude) with your outputs (socialising, obligations, productivity).

This lesson cost me one day of annual leave, but it was worth the investment.

seal it with a gif

When friendships aren’t formed by the natural glue of work or school, they sprout from more delicate ground — a shared hobby, a community of interest, or friends of friends. By the time you reach your 30s, I’ve found, these connections arrive fewer and farther between.

If your 20s are a decade of social expansion, your 30s are about trimming the fat, distributing your social energy wisely, and nurturing what you already have. That, I’m learning, can be the hardest thing.

At this stage, most of us probably have all the friends we need. New friendships, therefore, are about friends we want. And pursuing that comes with a particular kind of vulnerability: putting yourself out there and telling an acquaintance, in no uncertain terms, “I like you and want to keep you.” It’s an admission that feels raw, exposing, and therefore terrifying.

We often think the milestones of a new friendship are formal: having them over for dinner or hanging out one-on-one outside the context where you first met. But sometimes, the real turning point is far more subtle.

My recent experience of forming new friendships has shown there’s a curious tipping point — when you’ve built enough rapport to send a gif. The gif requires a nuanced kind of synergy that the overt emoji doesn’t. Will they get the reference? Will they find it funny? Will they get me?

I dub this “the gif threshold” — that moment when a playful digital nudge transcends small talk and becomes a marker of trust and connection. A silent nod to your respective weirdness.

Crossing this threshold requires shaking off the fear of coming across as too keen. But maybe being an adult in search of genuine connection doesn’t mean playing it cool. Maybe it means being open.

Just send the gif. They’ll get the gist.

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what’s simmering

• Days since last bolognese: 49. Unacceptable and you deserve better.

  

  we are best friends now <3

• Here’s something you can rely on to tempt your tastebuds weekly: London Supper Club serves up weekly inspo from Camy and Rahul for the best places to eat in London, and general gastronomic ✨good vibes✨. I contributed my Snog, Marry, Kill of holiday foods for their recent issue, and there might even be another #colab in the pipeline…

• Currently reading: Milk Fed by Melissa Broder — my last scheduled read for 2024. With this, I’ll have completed my Goodreads challenge of 31 books. (Last year, the year I turned 30, I read 30 books. Clearly, I made the terrible decision to increase the challenge with each passing year in sync with my age.)

• Currently (re)watching: Normal People. Sigh.

• Currently holding space for: the entire Wicked soundtrack.

• Currently wondering: Where are you finding softness lately? I’d love to hear.

• One last thing: