Becoming, Lucy

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  • If I’m Not Sad

    I’m currently going through a period of big change in my life and with it there’s a quiet hope – a hope for happiness. Which is weird. Because I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad and I’m not sure if I want to know the happy version of me.

    I would say I am a stranger to happiness, the word feels foreign on my tongue. I only ever remember sadness – I was diagnosed with depression at 14 and I don’t remember much of my life pre-16 – I don’t know who I am if I’m not fighting.

    I like this version of me, the one who thinks too much, spirals too quickly, writes for hours about a shadow that dimmed the moon, loses herself in lyrics and their meanings. The one who laughs loudly at dark humour, who finds beauty in the small things. The sadness can be lonely, but with it comes a unique perspective.

    If I’m not sad, then what do I have?

    I think I know what it is to be content, but nothing more.

    But why would I hope for happiness if I like the sadness? Do I hope for ‘normal’? Whatever normal is? Maybe I hope for a break from the spirals, the overthinking, the drowning in my emotions until I write them out – maybe I hope to breathe for just a second without the weight of the world pressing on my ribs.

    But sadness feels like the only thing that is keeping me together. Living in this space for so long has meant these are the pillars of who I am and if I remove them then will I collapse within myself with nothing to hold me up?

    If I lose those pillars then would I lose my depth? Would I lose my sense of self? If I take away the sadness, I no longer have an excuse.

    Fuck.

    If I lose the sadness, I stay profound, I stay intense and I can’t excuse my intensity with sadness. I can’t hide behind a reason. I’ll no longer be able to apologise for being who I am. Profound. Intense. Me.

    As I reflect back on this piece, the hope flickers – the constant flick of a light being turned on, my sadness turning it off, hope switching it back on… Maybe I was never meant to live this heavy.

  • Surviving Built This Life

    My drive home today was a metaphor. Not something beautiful but… Bittersweet. One of those metaphors where people say the end is always worth it, where the goal is worth the struggle, worth the pain, the ugly, the bad.

    It wasn’t the drive itself, it was the view. I have driven this road hundreds of times, it’s the main way out of town… It isn’t new to me. It is always beautiful though – I do live in a beautiful place. But it was the weather, the colours, the way dark and light made a picture.

    It has rained everyday of 2026 in the UK, so everywhere is hues of browns and greys. The road is surrounded by open rolling hills on one side and woodland the other, then further back you can see the hills get higher, the famous peaks surrounding my town. Today, the sun has tried it’s hardest to come out, to push the clouds away and the scenery showed that. I turned the corner and in front of me, left and right, browns and greys surrounded me – my current journey, but then I looked further. I looked higher and there was the sun, shining down on the peaks, no clouds surrounding them. Just… Peace.

    I paused (not literally, I was doing 50mph with cars in front and behind me, that would have been rather dangerous), realising what I was seeing, then laughed bitterly, followed by a small moment of tears. I didn’t need that reminder today – that life feels grey right now but if I keep going it won’t be. I’ll be able to see the warmth, feel the warmth as I get closer… I’ll be in the warmth. The peace.

    I didn’t want that reminder. I think I’ve become comfortable in my own sadness.

    I know I have. It’s easy here. Predictable.

    If I stay here, I can’t be disappointed. If I don’t reach, I can’t fall. I survived here.

    I’m too scared to step out of this container I’ve built around myself. I’m too scared to think of what is possible if I keep going. I have grown comfortable here – in the identities I have given myself, in the ones others have given me. If I try stepping away from those identities, everything will break.

    Or at least I think it will.

    I’m not sure if I’m allowed to want more. To step away from the roles, the masks I wear. This version of me… The one who survived by shrinking, by never reaching – she won’t let me step away, she won’t allow me to hope.

    Taking one step feels like it will cause a landslide, the ground will give out from under me and I’ll no longer be half way to peace… I’ll be starting at the bottom.

    If I reach for warmth… Will I have to burn everything down to get it?

    Surviving built this life. I’m not sure who I am if I’m not surviving.

  • Altitude

    I climbed a mountain today.
    There was no view waiting for me.
    There was no relief when I reached the top.
    Instead I asked,
    What now?

    Now. I feel stuck here.
    There’s no way down.
    There’s only up.
    Still.

    I thought I reached the top.
    Turns out, there’s more.

    The air around me is suffocating.
    Maybe I could just
    Jump.
    Off the edge.

    I can’t see the peak.
    Thick cloud surrounds me.
    There’s no clear path.

    Maybe here is enough.
    Maybe I can just wait here.
    Or maybe I should just,
    jump.

    What is over the edge?
    What happens if I go higher?

    It’s suffocating here.
    Why is there no clear path?
    Why is no one else here?

    I shout into the void,
    it echoes.
    It’s just me here.
    I’m alone.

    I can’t see.
    I’m suffocating.
    Maybe I should just…

  • Allowed

    Today I did something scary. I admitted to a friend I wanted to be a writer. And here I am admitting it again. It’s a big day for becoming Lucy. 

    When I admitted it, I was instantly reminded of something I saw the other day – if you want to be something, but already do it, aren’t you already that something? e.g. if you want to be a writer, but already write, then you are a writer. 

    And I am. I write my blog. I write my novels. I write (bad) poetry. I write random thoughts. 

    The thing, I realised, making me not believe I am a writer, is because of that funny thing I discussed earlier in the week – resonance. 

    I do not feel seen. 

    So I took a leap today and published my writing on another platform. Not just my blog. 

    I don’t write for views, nor do I want to write for views. I want to write for me, and I do. But sometimes, as most people do, I want someone to read my words and resonate with them. In whatever capacity. Whether that’s taking a completely different meaning from them or taking them as they are, I just want someone to resonate. To say “thanks, I needed that.” 

    It’s all about feeling less alone at the end of the day, I suppose.

    My writing might make someone feel less alone but knowing there’s someone out there, seeing me… Yeah. That’s what I’m searching for. Not to make someone else feel less lonely, but selfishly so I feel less lonely. 

    I never thought 25 would be this lonely. I hate myself for feeling lonely. I chose this life. 

    I don’t feel like I fit in with other mums – I stand in playgrounds and feel like I’m wearing someone else’s life. Or I don’t fit in with people my age – I see their Instagram posts and can’t resonate with the life they’re living, building for themselves. I don’t have a category I just fit into. A group I can easily say “yeah, these are my people.” 

    Maybe that’s a fortunate thing. Being able to fit everywhere. But truthfully, I don’t want to fit everywhere. I want somewhere that feels like mine. 

    I don’t know if I’m allowed to want anything more without breaking everything. 

    For now, it is lonely. Never quite fitting. Just being. I’ll just be.

    I’m a human being that is just being. 
    Being human.
    Becoming me. 
    Becoming Lucy. 

  • On Wanting to Be Seen

    Lately I’ve been noticing my patterns and how I respond to certain things, specifically around being supported and being seen.

    I crave being seen. It has taken a lot of internal work to realise that is what I want, what I need. I find myself seeking it in people I love, in people I know love me but I’m never fully met with what it was I was searching for.

    And that’s okay. They’re still supportive. They still love me. I still love them. But they don’t really get it or understand me. It’s a weird thing to be okay with.

    I think you can only really ‘see’ yourself. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really have a clear answer on that.

    I have been searching for clarity. But instead I realised that clarity arrives as discomfort rather than answers, and I have been living in discomfort for a long time as I worked through what I needed, what I wanted.

    And what I need, what I want is resonance. I used to think resonance was attention seeking… I don’t anymore. My soul craves resonance. I think all souls crave resonance. I’m not sure where I’ll find it but I know it’s out there. A song, a book, a person… Fuck. Maybe a mirror. Who knows?

    I know it’s not something I will solve straight away but maybe I can find peace in my discomfort, in my search for clarity, in the lack of resonance. Maybe, just maybe there is peace in the unknown.

    Does anyone ever really know someone? Or can you only know yourself?

  • Seconds

    I burnt myself in the shower today.
    Not by accident.
    I got in and turned it up.
    Slowly.
    Gradually.
    It got to the perfect temperature.
    Then I asked what if I kept going,
    so I did.
    When the water touched me next,
    I couldn’t feel it.
    It was so hot, it was cold.
    Numb.
    My skin felt fine.
    But underneath the surface,
    it screamed.
    I wondered if it was a metaphor.
    For how I live my life.
    I know I’m not okay.
    I know what’s wrong with me.
    Yet I still live this way.
    I don’t turn it off, I don’t stop.
    I keep going.
    Till it’s numb.
    Till only the inside hurts.
    It screams.

    I burnt myself in the shower today.
    If I’m in control of my emotions,
    why can’t I turn them down?
    Why can’t I turn down the dial?
    Why can’t I make it stop?
    Do I choose to be in pain?
    Do I choose to live this way?
    Soon the burn will start to show.
    Soon the pain inside will start to show.
    Make it stop.

    I turned down the dial today,
    just a little.
    It still burned.
    But the screaming,
    it wasn’t deafening.
    I could hear
    for just a second.
    I could breathe,
    for just a second.
    It still wasn’t clear.
    But it was better.
    Just a little.
    I had more time.
    I had seconds.
    To think.
    To breathe.
    To feel.

  • Tonight

    I’ve been listening to a lot of NF recently… I know, that tells you a lot about where my head and heart is at.

    Not sure what I’m to say about that, or why I felt the need to share. I needed to write tonight – I have nothing to write about but everything is just sort of sitting heavy on my chest at the moment… So here I am. Showing up for myself. But with nothing to say.

    It always feels anti-climatic. “Oh shit, I can’t breathe, the weight of the world is squeezing against my ribs” then, “oh, now I’m sat here trying to figure it out, I’m clueless and the weight just feels imaginary, made up.”

    I swear I do it to myself. Make things ten times bigger than they are. I was always good at being dramatic.

    See, now I’m just being… The word has completely gone from my head. Oh. Self-deprecating. I’m good at that. Good at finding nothing nice to say about myself. I always make myself out to be too much, every trait is too much. Too curious, too hopeful, too much of a romantic, too kind, too sad, too dramatic, too quiet, too reserved. However, sometimes I’m the opposite of hopeful, I’m pessimistic or I can be too open with people and overshare. It’s confusing and I think that’s part of the reason I don’t know who I am.

    Fuck knows what I’m saying honestly.

    There it is again. Self-deprecating behaviour. Not trusting the words I have to say are worth writing, worth voicing, worth reading.

    I write everything I think. It’s a habit. I don’t stop to rethink the phrasing of a sentence, I just let it fall out my brain to my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to pause, I would lose my train of thought way too quickly.

    I have no idea where I am going with this and the weight on my chest doesn’t feel any lighter, it still feels unresolved.

    I have re-read everything I have just wrote and the answer is there. I know what’s wrong with me but I can’t bring myself to admit it. If I admit it out loud, I have to do something about it. Okay.

    Deep breath.
    Long exhale.

    I have been dreaming. Not sleep dreaming, although I’m sure I have, but dreaming of a different life. Maybe not life but a career. I have two big dreams and they’re both extremely scary to even consider but there’s a part of me that just thinks: “what if?”

    What if I just tried? Just did it? What’s that saying? Something about just starting? Another one just came into my head: ‘Just make it exist now, you can make it perfect later’… And this thing, these dreams will never be perfect but I think that’s the beauty in them.

    I simply just need to believe in myself for a change. I need to stop being afraid.

    I think tonight… Tonight I don’t need to resolve it all. I don’t need to make my dreams a reality right now, I just need to stop circling the truth – my dreams aren’t imaginary, they are not too big and I don’t need to decide everything all at once.

    Tonight. Tonight I showed up, I spoke my truth, I released some of the pressure in my chest, I didn’t hide. Tonight I laid the first brick.

    Maybe my next step is to stop believing I’m flawed for dreaming, for wanting more, for longing.

    I’ll figure it out. Brick by brick.

  • A Calling

    A calling.

    It has been on my mind for a month now.
    I saw a video from one of my favourite creators, not knowing their calling,
    I realised I don’t know mine.

    I have never known what I was meant to do.
    Where I am supposed to go.
    Who I’m supposed to be.

    I feel so lost.

    But also not at all.

    I’m not sure what that means.
    Life just kind of feels like…
    Groundhog Day.
    Repeating.
    No true purpose.

    I’m an imposter everywhere.
    Right now.
    Alone.
    I’m an imposter.

    What’s my purpose?
    Am I even meant to have one?
    Am I simply just a being put on this world because two people created me?

    Some people have clear purpose.
    To make history, to research, to be a mother, a father, to make a difference.
    But what about me?
    Am I really here just to exist?

    Maybe I’m just a mistake. An accident.
    No purpose. No calling. Just a being.

    I should take that and run.
    No calling means I am free.
    Free to explore.
    Free to be whoever I want to be.
    Free to discover.
    Free to live.

    But there has to be more to this life than just living it.

  • Notes From A Coffee Shop

    I have rewritten this starting sentence about twenty times. I’m just not sure what I want to say and that summarises my week. The truth is I’ve been busy working on evenings, overwhelmed and exhausted from the day so I’ve been too disassociated and tired to really focus on writing at the times I usually write.

    But today is different – today I have scheduled time to write during the day. I need this, I need to process the week. Honestly, I feel like I’m failing as a mother. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this in a coffee shop as that was a heavy truth and tears are threatening. But yeah, I’m just carrying a lot as a parent this week, this month but I know it’s just a season and it’ll soon get easier.

    Although I haven’t found much time to write this week, whenever I’ve had something that I needed to get down and out of my mind, I have written it somewhere. I can’t remember what the inspiration was or what I was thinking about at the time but I wrote something in my notes app as a prompt for later writing or to dive deeper into when I have the energy.

    I’m so human
    Full of life
    Energy
    Silly gestures
    Happiness
    Sadness
    Curiosity

    I wouldn’t say it was some sort of big revelation or this big empowering moment as I was writing it or even now as I read it… It’s this quiet acceptance of being human, of being no more than a being.

    I have been thinking a lot recently about purpose; my purpose, the purpose of the human race. I’ve struggled with an answer and truly I don’t think there is an answer, not a straightforward one anyway. But writing that… I’m not sure. It just made something click for me – that I’m okay without a purpose as long as I just keep being human. Whatever that means.

    I was going to leave it there but I’m sat here, sipping my coffee and watching human interaction. Strangers saying good morning to one another, elderly parents with their middle aged children talking, couples sharing silence and sipping over roasted coffee beans, a husband winding up his wife shining a torch from his keys in her eyes, a group of friends gossiping animatedly.

    We’re all human.
    And it’s so beautiful.

  • Blah

    I’m just not sure today.

    I need to write because the thoughts feel like they are stacking up again (it has only been two days since I last wrote) but I’m not sure what I want to write about or what I need to write about.

    I feel like I’m waiting for something to happen but I have no idea what it is. I should probably try find the answers but I don’t know where to begin searching or what I’m searching for. I suppose some people would say just start searching and you’ll know when you’ve found it or that I can’t wait for the answers to come to me. But… Blah. (Great use of words, I know.)

    I’ve just stared at my keyboard for the last 5 minutes wondering what to write next and all I can think of is ‘blah’. That’s just how everything feels. Every thought. Every feeling. Every action. They feel blah.

    I should be crowned for my amazing describing words.

    What’s the point of it all?

    Maybe I should have some big revelation that the point of it all is ‘this’. This thing that I call becoming. But right now it sounds ridiculous. Even trying to believe it annoys me.

    I don’t know. I feel… suspended. But almost as though someone is holding me upside down by the ankles and telling me to find a specific puzzle piece in a room filled with different puzzles.

    I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel dramatic. I don’t feel inspired. I just feel blah.

    Can someone press ctrl, alt, delete on my brain please? Thanks x