I write this, my first piece in nearly two months, on my Birthday Eve, having just peeled myself off the floor from having cried from the centre of a fort made of moving boxes. On the sob scale it wasn’t a big one, rooted in pity with a dollop of overwhelm served on a plate of my usual birthday-induced melancholy.

Back in January, I tried to spring into the new year with such verve and optimism. Proudly declaring I was 32, the same age as Lorelai Gilmore & Carrie Bradshaw & Bridget Jones the first time we met them all, I looked forward to what the year was going to send my way.

Since I’m turning 33 tomorrow, can we also get some new showrunners in please? Because, honestly, whilst I asked for new storylines, I’m outraged by what I got given.

Barely two weeks into the year, we were told that our school building would be no more – but there were plans to find a new location. Barely two weeks after that, we were told that wouldn’t be happening. Our school would be no more.

Nothing prepares you for hearing that the school you had left your previous job for, having been so filled with excitement at the prospect of being part of a team creating and setting up a BRAND NEW SCHOOL, is being shut down by various entities who are too busy pointing the finger at each other like that Spiderman meme to actively support you through the process. It’s a form of bereavement, mourning what you have poured into it and the years you thought you had remaining. The slate featuring all the wonderous possibilities of what was to come is wiped clean, the achievements that had gone on before seem futile and wasted.

Three months of limbo followed before I interviewed and then got awarded what I’ve always thought of as my dream job. Except, now it’s only a week away from starting, and I am plagued by imposter syndrome. Terrified that I’m not going to be good enough for it and they’ll catch me out immediately.

The nature of my previous job required me to be constantly on alert and anticipating every & any scenario. Curriculum content took a backseat to pastoral support. My brain became leaner and sharper having to respond & predict the unpredictable. And now I’m off to a high performing and high achieving school – a fact that has resulted in a residency of 3am anxiety dreams about how little I know or remember about how to teach.

I’ve been on 8 first dates, no second dates, and 6 singles events where I made really cool friendships and connections, but not the kind I really went there to form. Clearly the current scriptwriters in control of my narrative are favours of comedy and horror tropes, rather than those of romance. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m going to magpie the plot of Sister Act and make the non-existent status of my love life official by joining a nunnery.

There is a set change happening though, as I move locations are 4.5 years. I’m moving to a new part of town, with a short term contract as I chase the small possibility that buying is within my grasp. We’ll see how the gods of plot let that story arc play out…

On a more positive note [I heard that a sigh of relief!] I continue to have some of the best family and friends a girl could ask for. My recent holiday and birthday drinks were a much-needed reminder of how lucky I am. My support network, a rolodex of loved ones from all walks of life and backgrounds, is testament to the fact I am not unloveable. I am seen and known, even if I sometimes feel adrift, colliding with what I feel my life ‘should’ look like and what it actually is.

I’ve undertaken 39 of my Project 52 adventures, but recent events mean I’ve totally lost will or momentum with it. Please, if you read this, please do hold me accountable for completing the final 13 within the remaining 129 years of this year! Set me challenges or suggest things we can do (post move and new job start..)

Whilst I feel battered by this year so far, there is still part of me that (naively?) remains open and optimistic to what awaits. Whilst my 32nd year may not have been what I wanted or hoped, and I will grieve that for a little longer, there’s been so much joy and brilliance within it too – I must resist letting it get drowned out by the uncertainty triggered by so much change.

Let year 33 be about truly appreciating and embracing what is there, rather than what isn’t. Let’s trust the process and find the beauty within it.

That’s what Superman tells me is ‘real punk rock’.

[Narrator voice] Previously, on my dating diaries, two and a bit weeks ago I wrote about how I was feeling a bit more chill about things. A bit neutral. A bit numb. I’m starting to appreciate that this, whilst evidence of some emotional progress is also probably a side effect of burnout. Considering how many times I’ve cried since I last wrote, how exhausted I feel no matter how much rest I get, how noisy my brain is and how I’m currently finding it so hard to find joy in my favourite things. I’d say your girl is burnt out.

It’s no surprise really. My job is mad, every day is so different and often extremely difficult that it’s near impossible to prepare for what comes our way. The last five months have been significantly harder, for reasons I might talk about at some point. I’ve been pouring myself into the young people I work with, some of the most vulnerable young people in London, maybe even the country, but that cup hasn’t been replenished for a number of factors.

I’ve also overstretched myself with adventures and outings and shenanigans. My plan for 2025 was to say ‘yes’ to more and challenge myself, doing things outside of my comfort zone to make my world bigger. I’d never stopped to consider the emotional energy that would require, resulting in my levels being depleted more than I’ve ever known it.

Then there’s the big D-Word. Dating. This is the year I’ve been the most ‘out there’, where I have consistently tried more than I can ever remember – both in person and through the apps. It also means I’ve faced the most rejections I’ve ever had, be that micro or macro rejections. They’re like bees though, they sting then die. The problem I’m facing is that, should a mystical pair of scales arrive to way up my near-first-half of the year, with good dating experiences on one-side and bad on the other, it’s less a see-saw and more of a catapult with how unevenly weighted it is.

Let’s take the last two weeks for instance.

Following the literal wanker I encountered on Bumble, exactly a week later – near enough to the hour – I matched on Hinge with what seemed like a catch. Both cute and with excellent bio responses, he proclaimed he was on the apps only looking for a life partner and ‘those looking for a short time so not apply’. I was sold. His opening message? A pretty seedy one about my red hair and red lipstick. Disappointing but not irredeemable, maybe he’s just not great at flirting? Throughout what little exchange we then had, I gave him 3 increasingly less subtle chances to shift from objectifying me into actual conversation. But, no. Instead this man wanted to ‘clone me to make more of me’. Sir, why do you need more of me when I’m right here and open? When I put in a boundary, said he was making me a little uncomfortable with the appearance chat and could we move onto something else – he *unmatched* me.

In a similar vein, but in person this time, when at comic con helping my friend Sarah sell her excellent books (all currently 99p on Kindle!) I had several uncomfortable exchanges with men who approached me & utilised flirting styles they must have learned from the manosphere. My least favourite of these exchanges occurred on the Saturday (on Friday I was dressed as Meg from Hercules, the Saturday I was Jessica Rabbit) and it went like this.

[Man approaches the stall]

Me: (Delivers an impeccable pitch for Sarah’s books]

Man: Oh, I don’t care about that. Like, don’t care at all. I’m only here to talk to you. Jessica. Jessica Raaaaabiiit.

Me: Thanks for the compliment, I guess?

Man: (he stares at me)

Man: (he stares some more)

Man: (he walks away)

These exchanges, both in-person and virtual, left me with the same icky feeling. Not only was I objectified by men with zero rizz or chat, it was how both men were unapologetic with it all. I don’t want to be lusted over, I wanted to be loved. The two are not mutually exclusive, from what I gather, but it’s not something I’ve ever really experienced. And I’m finding myself being drained looking for the latter whilst only finding the former.

Of all the cries I’ve had the last fortnight, the most impassioned sob was the night I got home after speaking at a conference. I’d been invited to attend and nailed my briefing interview. I only told a select few friends and family that I was doing it, imposter syndrome rendering me comparatively mute. The conference itself came and went, none of the people I told really asked after it. (This is not an indirect towards those people, I totally get it – I made very little show of it and hid how anxious I was about it!)

However, the night after, I felt myself haunted by a phantom boyfriend. A partner who would have seen how anxious I was that morning, and held me and kissed my forehead. Who would have texted ‘good luck’ beforehand and ‘how did it go?’ after. Who would have surprised me with flowers and takeaway that night, whilst we dissected how it went over glasses of malbec.

Yes, that might be pure idealised fantasy. That a relationship is more than those moments – it’s work and compromise and reality gets in the way. But, I also sort of don’t believe that it’s pure fiction and I don’t think there’s anything wrong in wanting that. If the roles were reversed, I would do that for my person. I do do it for my friends, my love language is acts of service and gifting. Somewhat ironically, consider you’re reading these ramblings, I’m not so great at telling people how I feel about them to their faces. I rely on attentive actions to do the talking for me. My TikTok FYP is littered with thoughtful and romantic acts men across the world have done for their partners, lately it’s been making me sadder than ever that I’ve not got someone doing that for me.

So, what’s the plan moving forward? Pass.

A huge part of who I am is the hope I hold despite all reason. My ability to find joy in the dark moments. My want to keep open to the universe despite it’s disappointments. But is it the definition of madness to keep trying when it’s making me so exhausted? If my inner candle of hope is close to being extinguished, how do I keep trying to fuel it with such limited supply? How do I maintain the flame’s momentum when there feels little reason for it to continue?

Answers on a postcard please.

I know dating is hard for everyone. I strongly suspect that anyone who finds it easy or genuinely a completely enjoyable experience is probably a sociopath. Add in how things have been warped by over a decade of dating apps and, well, these trenches are bleak my friends. As Pat Benatar declared, Love is a Battlefield, and all of us soldiers have the things that make us feel vulnerable. The things we may perceive as making the warfare all the more difficult. For me, that is my height.

At 6ft tall (thank you to the Long Covid Clinic nurse who confirmed this in 2021, after spending my adult life declaring, as a form of self-flagellation, that I was ‘only’ 5ft 11 and 3/4 in…). As the average height of a women in the UK is 5ft 3in, I am 9in above average. I’ve always been something of an overachiever in many aspects of my life, but that it some achievement – albeit one totally at the hands of genetics.

I wasn’t always tall, or at the very least the tallest. The way I remember it, I finished year 8 of school at a totally average height. Maybe on the taller end, but not noticeably so. Then, I returned in year 9, Godzilla-style. The tallest person in my year. And I went to a mixed gender school, so this was significant and extremely noticeable.

Add in the fact I’ve never been model skinny (that aforementioned Long Covid Clinic Nurse I praised earlier praised me, in the same sentence for ‘not looking’ [insert number] stone and for ‘carrying it off well’ – so we can hold back the applause for her) and I have bright red hair (we’ll talk about ‘ginger’ another day). Then add in the fact that in year 9 I got glasses and braces. I was a quadruple threat.

Phwoar. My allure and appeal with regards the opposite sex was undoubtedly profound*.

*non-existent.

Let’s breeze over the, pretty much, unrequited crushes and what we could now label situationships that occur over the following few years. How often I tried to make myself smaller and more appealing, trying to fit in so I could feel wanted. And let me tell you about the defining moment that so much of my dating angst hinges on.

We’re talking the university era. David (not his real name) and I had been friends for nearly a year. I really liked him. It’s probably the first time I’d been friends with someone had started to fancy them, in that distinct order. We always sat next to each other in seminars, text occasionally and our friendship groups occasionally overlapped. On the last night out of uni, before we all departed, I decided to ask David out. Before it was too late and uni was over. Finally, I would tell him how I felt and that I would like for something more between us. And that’s what I do. How did he respond?

He tells me that I’m too tall for him and it couldn’t work out at all between us. He even illustrates his points by gesturing and emphasising our few inches height difference, before returning to his friends.

Nearly 12 years on, as I write this, I still feel the prickly echoes of the total humiliation that immediately flooded my body. I felt monstrous. Overlarge. Too big for this world and unwanted because of it.

Prior to that, it’s not something I had really noticed before or taken too much into consideration. It certainty hadn’t been a filter for how I viewed prospective partners. Instead, as a result, David’s comment became a chink in my armour. My kryptonite. A vulnerability that must be protected at all costs.

Not only did my height mean I would never be able to buy a pair of jeans in High Street retailer, and that I would be asked to reach for things on high shelves on a – minimal – bi-monthly basis. It would also impact my prospects of finding love? How had I been so naive?!?

In the years that have passed, I have unpicked much of this. It is still a raw point. I don’t respond well at all to the fetishization my height receives on dating apps or in person. I’m not going to give those comments any volume by repeating them here, but I’ll just say they are icky. And, as much as I hate to admit it, it’s still something I feel so so conscious off when it comes to dating. Whilst I do not regard myself as a rollercoaster (there’s no height restriction to go on this ride…) it still feels like it’s a big deal. A disclaimer I must provide, a something to declare to any prospective partners. A thing to check they’re ‘okay’ with.

Writing this is triggered by the fact I’m going to a big dating event tomorrow, a social of hundreds of people, and I couldn’t work out why the strand of nervousness I felt was so distinctive. It was recalling 21-year old me facing that rejection, even if my height had been just an excuse, it’s being said in this context, by someone I had cared about and thought cared about me (even on a platonic level) manifested into a toxic train of thought that remains in rotation to this day – hitting key stations of self-doubt and vulnerability.

Going to this event tomorrow is the epitome of submersion therapy, exposing myself up to endless, unpredictable possibilities that I could never even possibility prepare for. It makes me want to fold away and hide, make myself smaller and more palatable, apologise for the extra cells and space I occupy.

Which, really, is exactly why I have to do it.

That’s what these #Project52 Adventures are about, facing my fears and conquering them. It just happens to be that number 25 is the one that has been the most triggering so far.