Today I cancelled something I really wanted to do. I was supposed to be headlining a spoken word event tonight, and instead I’m at home because I am absolutely rotten and exhausted. Not just tired. Properly physically and mentally worn out. And now, just to finish me off, I’ve been hit by the flu too. I got to the point where I realised I don’t even feel like I can speak, never mind stand in front of people and perform. And I think my body and brain have finally gone, “Thank

And just like that… Llangollen Fringe is over 💚 And I have quite literally slept all day 😂 I think my body finally went, “Right, you’re done now,” and completely switched off. I’m not sure I’ve fully processed the last ten days yet. Tired doesn’t really cover it. It’s been intense, emotional, chaotic, brilliant, overwhelming and absolutely bloody wonderful. Taking on the role of director, while curating and hosting Words, Wonder & Wellbeing, has taught me a lot. About what

We started on Friday with our social gathering — a chance to come together, have a brew, chat, share some words and just connect. There was something really lovely about beginning the Fringe that way. No big fanfare, just people gathering in a space, talking, listening and getting to know one another. And I think that has set the tone for everything that has followed. Over the last few days, I’ve watched some wonderful workshops delivered by brilliant artists and facilitators

This time next week, we'll be halfway through Llangollen Fringe. That's a slightly terrifying sentence to write. For months it's been meetings, messages, emails, ideas, programme planning, chasing people, finding people, losing people, finding someone else, filling gaps, changing plans, solving problems and occasionally wondering what the hell I'm doing. And now it's here. Almost. There's something strange about the week before something you've spent so long planning. For age

Yesterday I shared an old poem I had written. I don't even remember exactly when I wrote it, which is slightly ironic considering what the bloody poem is about. Booze. Or actually, not just the booze. I found it and thought, oh, I like this, so I shared it. I didn't really think much more about it. Then the comments came. Then the messages. Are you okay? And yes. I am okay. I promise. But I'm also not going to pretend that everything is always sunshine, poetry and me skipping

I haven't properly smiled for a long time. Well, that's not quite true. I smile. I laugh. I probably laugh too loudly sometimes. But I don't do that full-on, teeth-out grin. Because of my wonky front tooth. I've become very good at smiling without showing it. The closed-mouth smile. The slight turn of the head when someone takes a photograph. All those little things you learn to do when there's a part of yourself you don't particularly want anyone looking at. Vanity? Maybe. T

There's a strange thing we do when we don't know something. We fill in the blank. Not with facts, usually. With stories. Someone's quieter than usual and we decide they're angry. An opportunity goes quiet and we assume we've failed. A room feels different and we wonder what we've done. Plans change. Communication shifts. Something doesn't quite add up. And before we've gathered a single fact, our brains have written three acts and started casting the sequel. I'm particularly

Today is Lammas, a celebration of the first harvest. A chance to stop for a moment and look back at the seeds we've planted and what has grown from them. I've been thinking about what I'm grateful for, and the answer is easy. I'm grateful for all the opportunities I've been given over the last six months. When I look back, it's incredible how much has happened. I've been invited to be part of special events, met so many wonderful people, and had the chance to share my words i

When people saw me at Midlands Fringe, they saw fifty minutes on a stage. What they didn't see were the years it took to get there. I arrived feeling everything all at once. Excited. Nervous. Grateful. Terrified. Emotional. I don't think there was a single feeling I hadn't packed into my bag that day. By my side, as she has been so many times before, was Jen. She has walked beside me through workshops, ideas scribbled in notebooks, performances, self-doubt, laughter, tears an

The Stage Taught Me How to Project My Voice. Lately, I've found myself reflecting on a couple of situations that left me with the same feeling. Different circumstances. The same lesson. The feeling of the goalposts moving. Of expectations appearing after the event rather than before it. Of trying to make sense of conversations where everyone walks away holding a different version of what was said. Communication is a strange thing. We all hear words through the lens of our own

Recovery is a long, unpredictable journey. It is a process of questioning and re-evaluating your beliefs: separating those that were ingrained in you from an early age from those that were forced upon you by an abusive partner. There are moments of bravery when you stand tall, when whispers become a voice, and that voice becomes a release. Then there are the days when you cannot move, stuck in a kind of trance, when your mind and body demand rest. I think that is one of the g

So I've found my voice after years and years of it being denied a space. Now it's here, it's here to stay. You will hear it. Hear it loud and, most of the time, clear. As I can stumble upon them, but the meaning is always there. I'm ready to take it further and invite others to join. Have you been lost, stuck in your own head, with endless thoughts? Now's the time to escape. A bit of time out for you. Discover what it is that's been buried deep, deep down for so long that you

Last night we gathered for a relaxed, unstructured writing session. I arrived late—not on purpose—but was promptly told off and informed I was in trouble with the group. Not really, of course. It was all in good humour. I caught up on what everyone had been up to and discovered that a comedy screenplay was beginning to take shape. We were all assigned characters and personalities. It was hilarious, if I do say so myself. Each of us wrote from the perspective of the character

I have too many clothes. Not in a chaotic, “I can’t close my wardrobe” kind of way (although sometimes that too), but in a way that means I can become almost anyone I feel like being on any given day. I probably have two outfits for every day of the year. I don’t say that to impress anyone. It’s just… true. And mostly, I love it. There’s something about getting dressed that feels like writing a poem before I’ve even picked up a pen. Fabric, colour, shape, mood—it’s all langua

Something exciting is beginning to grow for the Fringe this year. I’ve been quietly building ideas around spoken word, creativity, storytelling, music, workshops and community connection — creating spaces where people can join in, create, share and experience something meaningful together. There’ll be a mix of workshops, conversations, outdoor poetry, creative activities and live performance, including piano and spoken word collaborations that I’m really excited about. It sti

I’ve been thinking a lot about the NHS lately and why this election matters so much to me. I live with endometriosis — a condition that can be absolutely devastating. Over the years I’ve had around eight surgeries. Without those operations, I honestly don’t know what state I would be in now. Living with chronic illness is exhausting enough already. Have I always had faith in the NHS? No. My mum was neglected, dismissed and sent away too many times. Watching someone you love n

Sometimes I just want to blend in. That might sound strange if you know me. I’m usually the one thinking about the outfit—the one that feels like me, the one that stands out without trying too hard. Clothes have always been part of how I express myself. Not trends, not labels—just instinct. What feels right. What feels like mine. But some days are different. Some days, I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want to think about what looks good. I just want something simple. Neutral.

The come down is… Sitting in Stratford, thinking, what is happening? My body aches from the come down from the alcohol. The come down is… I’m never drinking again. The nightmares are… frightening, from the past. I’m too scared to sleep. The hatred of oneself is… I’m not good enough. The palpitations are… constant and corrosive. The paranoia is… I can’t see anyone, nor do I want to. The panic attacks are… an intense tingling from my toes to my vagina, then to my chest, with fe

Watching Coronation Street this week felt less like entertainment and more like witnessing something painfully real unfold in front of me. The storyline around domestic abuse and coercive control hit hard. Not in a dramatic, over-the-top way, but in the quiet, insidious way these situations actually exist. It left me in tears—not because it shocked me, but because it recognised something so many people still struggle to fully understand. At one point, my daughter turned to me

Sometimes the words don't come. Some days, even the poems need a pause. This is one of those days. If I had a poem in me today it wouldn’t come forward it would linger backstage, half-dressed, forgetting its lines numbness sits low in the room, thick as unspoken words time drags its feet across the floorboards even my hands forget what they were reaching for a cold thing — not sharp, just dull enough to quiet the edges of everything a mind in a waiting room, no name being cal