I’ve come to the conclusion that you will never know a woman wholeheartedly until you see how she navigates romantic relationships. The depth and sometimes the fragility of a woman’s spirit become apparent…

Her fears, dreams and sense of self. All begin to intertwine with the idea of the man and the future she believes that partnership will afford her. And if I’m honest? That feels archaic to me.

I don’t want to become the person someone has always wanted. If I am to commit to anyone, it should be because I already am. That’s not to say we can’t grow. Of course we can. But growth should happen alongside each other, not in service of one another. The foundation of who we become should still resemble the person we were when we first chose each other. Like two stems, separate, but rooted in the same soil, growing toward something fuller and brighter. Never reshaping ourselves to fit a pre-existing mould.

But that’s not the story most of us have been told. We’ve been taught, subtly and overtly, that partnership is something to secure. And once secured, something to maintain. Even if that maintenance requires you to distort yourself.

Because what’s the alternative? Risking it all for alignment? *scoffs*

Walking away from stability, companionship and care, not because it’s bad, but because it’s not quite right? That’s too much to ask right?

So people stay, not always out of love but out of fear.

From my (non-expert) understanding, women once upon a time (not so long ago) felt tied to men out of necessity. Stability wasn’t optional but survival.

Now?

Many women stay not because they need a partner, just because society told them through media, policy, taxes and familial pressures to fear being alone.

Different conditions + different century = same old outcome

And while the tables of patriarchy continue to shift, evolve, rebrand themselves in more palatable way. I’m not entirely convinced they will ever truly be turned in our favour. Alas, we are left with oppression redesigned, dressed up as freedom.

Because now, the pressure isn’t always external. It’s internalised.

“Maybe I’m asking for too much.”
“Maybe this is just how relationships are.”
“At least I have someone, finally.”

And that’s the part I struggle with the most. Not the existence of pressure. But how deeply it’s been absorbed and how little effort women go to really dismantle their reality.

What happens to the woman who once imagined more? The one who saw a bigger life for herself? At what point does she decide: This will do.

Witnessing the erosion of willpower, can be an awful sight. One day, you’re envisioning this big life, not yet in your grasp but eventually attained. The next you’re no longer choosing your life because you’ll get societies acceptance faster if you’re defaulting to it.

There’s something unsettling about how easily we can be convinced to abandon our own standards and how quickly conviction can turn into compromise. How a woman who once wanted more can be made to feel like more is out of reach.

What if quitting writing at 35 means you never see your debut novel at 50?

What if stopping lifting weights at 27 impacts your strength at 70?

And what if ending a relationship at 30, one that no longer aligns, is the very thing that leads you to the person you were meant to meet at 40?

Should it matter when it happens or that it does?

“Not right now doesn’t mean never.”

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I really respect people who can churn out Substack posts weekly. Multiple times a week, even.

Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t work like that. I always have something to say, just not always in the form of a fully-formed piece. So when I do write, it’s usually because something has pushed me there.

Frustration. Fear. Rage… ha. And this one is no different.

Let’s set the scene.

We’re on our commute (yes, we).

Disclaimer: I am aware this is the definition of a first-world problem. In the grand scheme of things, globally speaking, what I’m about to say is a non-issue.

And yet, here we are. Aggravated.

The station is packed. We slowly make our way to our usual spot, the far end of the platform. Strategically chosen, of course, for the convenience of the exit at our destination. The train arrives. Doors open. People pour out. Not enough. We wait. One train passes. Then another.

Until finally, we get a seat, book out, peace restored.

Until the next stop, doors open, a middle-aged man enters. From our peripheral, we watch as he plops himself down between us. Arms pressed against ours on the armrest. Knees spreading, knocking against legs that were already carefully positioned. Upright, contained, mindful. Because, you know… we don’t own the TFL. But he might.

The way he sits, expansive and unapologetic could imply he is entirely unconcerned with the two women on either side of him.

So what do you do in this scenario?

Girl 1:

She stays put.

Internally annoyed, yes. Aware of the entitlement, absolutely. But she shrugs it off. What else can you expect from men, right?

It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.

Girl 2:

She notices everything. The knee. The armrest that once belonged to her. The quiet assumption that he deserves the space more. She looks at him, snarling. Then, she adjusts. Using the very knee he imposed on her… she knocks it right back. His head snaps toward her. Eye contact and an immediate apology follows. Readjusting, he makes himself smaller, mindful and slightly embarrassed.

Ah, justice is served.

Because let’s be honest.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right” has always felt like a phrase designed to protect people who do wrong, from ever being challenged.

Retaliating is good for your health.

This might not be the first time, but it might just be his last.

*Inserts wink*

And scene.

Shocker, I am Girl 2. And this was one of my commutes this week. Was it petty? Maybe. Unnecessary? Debatable. Aggressive? Some would say so.

But why is standing up for yourself so quickly framed that way? Who would this conclusion serve exactly?

There have been too many moments like this. Manspreading, taking up space, swallowing air, moving through the world as though their comfort is the default, regardless of who it inconveniences.

And when that behaviour is met with silence? With quiet annoyance and internal eye rolls?

All it does is reinforce the idea that it’s acceptable. That it can continue. Not just with you. But with the next woman. And the next.

Correct that man today, Womanspread back, it’s a subtle and satisfying act of resistance.

xoxo

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We often hear accounts and anecdotes from women who have spent their lives in service. In submission, against their own will or better judgement.

Those stories usually arrive with a cautionary line. “Put yourself first”, “learn to say no”, “you’ll discover who you are once you do.”

But what about the women for whom that word is the default? It’s always prescribed as a remedy, a gauze to a wound, a solution.

But what about the way some of us still bleed, not because we failed to say no, but because we did?

I was raised by women, one of them a matriarchal Jamaican woman, women who were assertive and self-assured. Ready to defend themselves against partners, friends, strangers, family even.

Against people who would lie, manipulate, or worse to absolve themselves of guilt. People who would reshape narratives in their favour to soothe whatever it is that plagues them. For their own sanity. Or to maintain a version of themselves that deflects the reality both parties actually lived.

Of course, that defence mechanism is passed down.

Through them, I developed a burning desire to be heard. Not because I believe my voice is more valuable than anyone else’s, but because I know everyone has a right to one.

I will fight my corner. I will stand on what is right and I am committed to living in a state of radical self-acceptance.

But alongside that came something else: Caution. It was instilled in me from an early age to err on the side of it. To interrogate the potential risks of any situation before stepping into it.

And I do believe that is a wise lesson to give young girls. Often, it’s the only way our elders know how to ensure we don’t repeat their mistakes.

But lessons don’t come without consequences. For me, it created a resistance to trusting freely. And a natural allegiance to the word “no.” In fact, I got so strict that in 2024 my resolution was to say “yes” more.

As I get older, I’m becoming more aware, both through my own experiences and observing others, of the difference in how people respond to those who are known to say “yes”… and those who are expected to say “no.”

Through my admittedly cynical lens, this is what I’ve observed.

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The person more likely to say “yes”:

You are pedestalised.

Decorated for your “can-do” attitude, always willing to go the extra mile. But that extra mile quickly becomes the baseline.

The praise you receive is tied to how much you can take. How much of yourself you are willing to give away.

It creates the illusion that you are loved. Valued. Needed, even. But that need is conditional.

Those constant, and at times ridiculous, demands are framed as compliments, because “only you” could possibly do them.

But the truth is, how well people speak about you in rooms you are not in rarely protects you from exploitation, it often depends on it.

This dynamic thrives on people who seek external validation, who feel worthy through usefulness and need to be needed.

The person more likely to say “no”:

You are demonised.

Taunted for how well you set boundaries. For redirecting demands that were never your responsibility to begin with. And yet, they still ask. Not because they expect a yes, but because they want to check if you’re still committed to that silly little “no” you say. If your morals are still intact, especially after they’ve been weaponised against you, they want to know if they’ve been successful in breaking you down yet.

You are spoken about before you enter the room, your reputation precedes you. And then you speak. Slowly, people realise you’re not quite what they were told.

Feeling: vindicated.

Some will say at least the person who says “no” is standing in their truth, no matter the consequences. And doesn’t the “yes” person sound like the victim in all of this?

But from my perspective, it’s not that simple.

Because many of the so-called “good girls” are not passive. They are strategic, sometimes evil. Ever heard of weaponised incompetence? Wolves in sheep’s clothing?

The older I get, the more I resent the women who perpetuate this dynamic to their own benefit and to the detriment of those who remain unwavering in their beliefs.

Because it’s harmful and it pits women against one another. Reinforcing the idea that in order to be palatable, we must be agreeable. To be accepted, we must be accommodating. To be liked, we must be easy to manage.

And for those of us who don’t bend?

Our strength is admired, up to a point. Until it becomes inconvenient.

And then what?

What’s left when your boundaries have protected you… but also isolated you?

What’s left when you’ve stood firm in who you are… but you’re the only one bleeding?

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Foreplay doesn’t start in the bedroom.
It starts the moment someone opens their mouth.

Picture this.

You’re on your way to a first date, slightly flustered because you’re running late thanks to a signal failure on the Underground. Typical. You’re moving quickly across cobbled streets when your heel wedges itself between two stones and you stumble. You steady yourself, slow down, and start placing each step more carefully.Your bag slides off your shoulder as you reach inside for your phone. The screen lights up. A message from your date, offering an understanding response to your anxious text announcing your tardiness. You can breathe.

Once you’ve arrived. The host greets you and directs you to your table. As you walk over, you take them in, your brain quietly registering its approval of the person sitting before you.

He stands to greet you. Towering slightly, he pulls you into a hug. He smells good. Just as he did when he first approached you.

You sit down, order drinks, and begin...

At first, the basics.“How are you?”, “what’s new?”, “any plans for the summer?”

But once those are out of the way, the ball stays in his court for quite some time. And he has absolutely no intention of serving.

Your food arrives. You thank the server gratefully and begin eating, secretly hoping that chewing will buy you a moment of respite from the self-absorbed, annoyingly attractive, ego sitting across from you.

Over the next hour and forty-five minutes you learn everything about him: The siblings, the parents, the upcoming trip to Malta, the new jacket he’s thinking about buying, why his ex didn’t deserve him (doubt it) and he can’t forget just how busy he is. But you would bet good money he couldn’t tell you much about you.

So you sit on your journey home, wondering how on earth can someone who is 90s fine make you want to smoke some 80s crack within the space of two hours?

Well, it would seem my attraction isn’t dictated solely by how someone presents themselves physically.

I’m drawn to people who honour curiosity. People who actually want to learn, you, about themselves and about the world in general.

I wish more men understood that what you say, and how you think, directly affects how sexually attractive you are… maybe then they would care.

My generation spends a lot of time grooming the exterior and very little time preening the mind.

And I genuinely think we’re starting to see the consequences of that. We’re living through a period of emotional, moral, and intellectual atrophy.

It’s rare that a conversation can undress a person. That their ideas can excite you and that their curiosity can seduce.

So, I’m bored.

Despite the conclusions I’ve drawn in some of my recent pieces, I am still actively (ish) dating and remaining open to the possibility of meeting someone I feel genuinely yoked to.

This new outlook on dating has coincided with something else happening in my life.

This year, I’ve committed to learning as much as I possibly can across different subjects. I’ve always read for leisure, mostly fiction, but lately it has become important to me that the people I encounter are also engaging their minds in some way.

For some people that might sound obvious, for others it might sound snobbish. And maybe it’s slightly hypocritical considering this is a path I’m only recently recommitting to. But my life, my rules.

In the past I’ve found that pursuing someone who doesn’t actively seek knowledge often leads to the same outcome: a lack of internal interrogation and very little awareness of the world around them. Not, hot!

The obvious solution would be simple. Date more men who do.

Right?

Wrong.

Because it’s genuinely shocking how rarely I encounter men who actively engage in that kind of curiosity. Which leaves me wondering whether I simply don’t attract them, or whether I’m frequenting the wrong environments entirely.

For a while it felt like walking a tightrope between waiting it out or settling for less. But as I’ve said before: settling isn’t an option.

I would rather be single forever than pretend intellectual curiosity doesn’t matter to me just so I can have a partner.

The funny thing is, I’ve been on both sides of this.

Like many people, I allowed technology to dull my curiosity for a period of time. Algorithmic feeds slowly turned me into a reward junkie.

A far cry from the younger version of me sitting in an armchair at my grandmother’s house, devouring novels that were far beyond my years. So I know it’s possible to find your way back.

What I cannot stand, however, is a man who makes you feel lame for caring. I become weird for being curious, embarrassed for wanting to learn.

The kind of person who tries to dampen your enthusiasm and push aside your passion for the things that light you up.

What I would actually love is a partner who is actively resisting the gravitational pull of endless scrolling. Someone who doesn’t want to cognitively offload their curiosity to an app. Someone who still wants to think, question, and learn without being spoon-fed by an algorithm.

Someone who understands that a mind in motion is far more attractive than a perfectly curated exterior.

Because foreplay doesn’t start in the bedroom.

It starts at “hello.”

As much as I’m on a journey of self-acceptance and discovery. There are days, like today, when I genuinely make myself sick.

As in, full-body ick.

There are traits I once demonised in myself that I actively value in other people. Communication, for example.

I respect clarity, admire honesty, I’m drawn to people who say what they mean.

So why, when I send a message that is clear, kind, and open, do I immediately swipe the app away and throw my phone across the bed?

Why does my body physically react? Face twisted, toes curled, fingers scrunched.

All because I told another human being how I feel. “I miss you.” “I like you.” “I need space.” “This isn’t working for me.”

Why must we vilify being open and real when vulnerability is literally the foundation of the human experience?

I wish I could get over myself. And most of the time, I power through the bile that rises in my throat when I press send.

Alas, the ick prevails.

I’m pretty tough. I’ve had to accept characteristics about myself I desperately wanted to change. And what I’ve realised in doing the work is that most of those traits - directness, intensity, honesty, curiosity - would have been completely normal in a different era.

When I share my woes with my mother, she gawks at me in disbelief at my first world problems.

“In my day, if you liked someone and they didn’t like you back, you just kept it stepping. Go out and find somebody new, it’s really not that serious.” She’s not wrong (yes, this is where I get my bluntness from.)

Ahhh. If only it were that simple.

Now we have these electronic boxes stifling intimacy, shaping traditions, and creating new rules of engagement.

My friend says online is our reality, I say that mindset is part of the problem.

Instead of using our devices to connect us, we live inside them. We let people who don’t know us, or the intricacies of our lives, dictate new norms. Often negative ones.

And it’s not working in our favour.

When people say, “I wish I was born in a different era,” I feel that in my core.

An era where society isn’t dictated by what’s trending, connection isn’t gamified and being honest doesn’t feel like self-sabotage.

Where humans are just trying to build solid connections without the performance of it all.

To think we spend all day posting versions of ourselves; our faces, our thoughts, our curated fragments. Just to armour up in real life.

We share, but only the version of the truth that feels safe, avoiding overexposure.

And yet the real bravery is saying the thing that might not be received well.

I’ve spent most of my life going against the grain, despite the consequences that come with being the odd one out.

So why on earth would I stop now?

Even if your body cringes when you press send.I rather be strange to others versus unfamiliar with my self - DonYé Taylor

Read me

Last year, I created a personal curriculum.

Not to flex how many books I could read, but because I have a fear of being loud and wrong and having strong opinions built on shaky foundations.

So I decided to study properly.

I’m not the fastest reader, so I built it in quarters: Black/intersectional feminism, gender, history/geography, politics. I do not think one year will make me hyper-educated, but I am trying to build a habit, a commitment to a lifelong practice of reading, learning and staying curious.

This first quarter has been Black & Intersectional feminism. I’m currently 80% through The Heart of the Race and learning about Black women organising in Britain, unsettled me.

They weren’t just analysing their conditions. They were building structures, study groups, Community centres, Networks and they organised without needing to be seen doing it.

And I couldn’t stop thinking: what changed?

Because across the globe right now, we have brilliant minds everywhere. London, Lagos, Atlanta, Johannesburg, Toronto. Writers, thinkers, commentators capable of nuance.

Obviously we are not short on intellect. But the rise of social media, specifically platforms like Twitter and TikTok mean we are living in an era that rewards the performance of intellect more than its application.

The algorithm favours immediacy, rewarding reaction and amplifying takes.

So we’ve become incredibly skilled at dissecting culture in real time. We can analyse social tropes within hours and we can debate for days, years even.

And to be fair, we’re playing the game exactly as it was designed.

Social media wasn’t built to cultivate depth. It was built to capture attention and to keep us scrolling and reacting. Performing proximity to issues rather than engaging with them materially.

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It rewards the armchair revolutionary, a brush I have been tarred with quite recently. Drafting the perfectly worded story, the public alignment, the visible awareness.

It does not reward the slow, unglamorous labour of organising. The meetings, the follow-ups, the logistics and the work that doesn’t get posted.

So of course we’ve become fluent in discourse because that’s what the system incentivises.

However, it’s clear that fluency does not equal impact.

Right now, it feels like we’re in a performance rat race. Trading perspectives for reposts, takes for traction and analysis for engagement. And while conversation is necessary, I’m not sure it’s sufficient.

What would it look like if our brightest minds organised offline?

What if the same energy used to dismantle discourse was used to build reading groups, mutual aid networks, political education circles, local community archives?

This isn’t a critique of individuals but it is an observation.

We are incentivised to be visible thinkers, not structurally useful ones and I’m including myself in that.

Creating this curriculum is less about avoiding ignorance and more about staying ready so I don’t have to get ready.

Movements weren’t built in comment sections. They were built in kitchens. Church halls. Living rooms and Restaurants by people who understood that analysis is the beginning, not the end.

Let’s be real, this isn’t an abstract conversation anymore.

We’re living through political instability, rising authoritarianism, economic precarity, and humanitarian crises unfolding in real time across the globe. Rights are being rolled back, communities are being displaced and entire populations are in survival mode.

Are we willing to convert our articulation into infrastructure?

If we truly believe we are as thoughtful as we say we are, then the next step isn’t more commentary but it is construction.

That’s what changes things.

“I’m terrified of moral apathy, the death of the heart.” - James Baldwin

Men expecting a woman to have had no previous partners, especially when he’s had plenty… is a wild concept.

When you get this question, what is really being insinuated is that a woman should have more sexual discipline than men.

That we should show restraint with our urges, our desires, our curiosity… even though he’s never demonstrated that ability himself. Why would he need you to have restraint he himself doesn’t have?

If he finds her attractive, he is likely not the first and certainly won’t be the last. Attraction goes both ways. Women have eyes, we experience desire and also might act on it. Clutches pearls.

I once read that men are more concerned about who came before them (no pun intended) than about infections or diseases. Well? That tracks.

Any time I’ve pushed for sexual health transparency, it’s been met with resistance. Like majorly. Imagine that. You want the privilege of intimacy, but you’ll shame the person asking to engage in it safely.

So what is this really about?

Not morality, because if that was the case then surely there would be no need for double standards. Definitely not safety, a fair few don’t even concern themselves with their own sexual health.

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So? Control.

There’s an outdated, misogynistic belief that a woman’s sexuality is something that can be “tarnished.” That it belongs to whoever is currently holding the key.

But my spidey senses suspect something else… Performance anxiety. The fear of comparison, the possibility that you might not be the best she’s ever had.

Inadequacy in men can be dangerous for women. And it often disguises itself as moral superiority.

“I swear every woman’s body count is 3.”

The irony is men hate not having information they can flog us with.

So whether you’re telling the truth: maybe you don’t have the biggest sexual appetite, maybe you’ve been in a long term relationship or you believe sex is sacred and therefore are extremely selective.

Perhaps you’re someone who believes in choice and actively pursues pleasure and decide you’d like to tell a skewed version of the truth because the question is unnecessary, has no bearing on yourself and is unwarranted.

There is no winning when autonomy itself is the problem.

Me: “But how would you want your daughter to be treated?”

Him: “That doesn’t matter, she won’t be allowed to have sex until she’s 30.”

Right.

Because repression has always worked so well and statements like these make me weep for their unborn offspring. These attitudes don’t just affect current partners. They shape sons who grow up entitled to control and daughters who grow up under-prepared for a world they will enter regardless of permission.

And yes, this discourse has probably been done to death. But I still see it and I still feel the undertone of interrogation masked as curiosity.

If your worth can be destabilised by the idea that someone else existed before you, that’s not morality. That’s fragility.

If the idea that you had a life before him destabilises him, that tells you all you need to know.

Cheers to that!

Since turning 26, I’ve grown a true affinity for older women. Sounds weird, I know. But I promise I can explain.

What I mean is I’ve found solace in watching these women flourish over the years. It’s because they represent proof of a path I have yet to walk.

Whether they are thriving in an industry I hope to embark on, self-possessed and self-assured, or defying the norms that have been set for women and showing up in the media boldly and unapologetically, never fearing the consequences of taking up space, when I come across the stories of these phenomenal women, I feel relieved.

Relief that the kind of woman I’ve always envisioned becoming already exists.

Or maybe I’m just obsessed with getting older?

At 24, I was scared of becoming 25. At 25, I accepted I was halfway to fifty. When 26 arrived, I felt relieved I’d made it that far but dreaded 27 and what that meant in the grand scheme of adulthood.

To me, 27 feels like no more excuses. No more “but you’re still young” justifications to soften any self-inflicted misfortune. The only people who still consider me young are people I consider old-er (no offence, respectfully). And I’m almost closer to thirty than I am to 25, *insert gif of someone rocking back and forth*.

The more I think about my birthday - which I will be grateful to surpass, don’t get me wrong - the more I rack over every wrong turn, every poor decision, every relationship gone sour.

And yes, I’ve made leaps and bounds in my personal development. I feel secure in my career direction. I’m comfortable in my skin. The dysmorphia that once plagued it has quietened. I trust my taste, my curiosity, my assertiveness, my kindness.

But if I look at my life clinically? If I forecast based solely on what my current life offers?

It feels pretty fucking bleak.

I can’t see a way out. Okay I can. But it feels out of reach. Like I’m stuck in a circular motion of punishing myself. Like I don’t quite deserve the next step yet…

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The Only Influencers I need (aka this is how I self soothe)

So when I see these women overcoming food insecurity, job insecurity, personal unrest, and quite frankly the odds, I feel a wave of calm.

An “it’s going to be okay” from my many muses who are living proof of that statement.

They affirm my desire to be well-read, well-dressed, well-spoken and well-travelled. That the constant fight to feel comfortable standing in the reality of who I am, saying “no” (my favourite word), speaking up about injustices, advocating for myself and others, is a fight worth fighting.

Because of this, I’ve consciously trained my algorithm, tailored the media I choose to consume to women in their 30s, 40s, 50s and 60s.

I want the stories of women who started over at 40. The women who found love in their mid-thirties. The women who share tips on staying well-dressed, saving money, staying in your truth, and remembering what actually matters in the long run.

The aim is not to abandon girls my age, It’s exhausting watching everyone perform certainty.

It can be depressing to look across at my peers who seem like they have all the answers, when in reality the pool of people in our age group who are actually thriving is slim. The rest of us spin narratives online that show the best bits and omit the trials and tribulations that come with building something real.

There’s a truth that comes with age and a willingness to be vulnerable in a way that allows other people to learn from your mistakes instead of pretending you never made any which why I choose to look ahead to those who have come before.

Meet My Board of Directors

Tracee Ellis Ross (of course). Issa Rae. Amanda Seales. Mara Brock Akil. Karen Pittman. Tina Fey. Amy Poehler. Solange.

Why not read me?

Each of these women have something in common…

• They didn’t rush. They didn’t let early mistakes define their ceiling.

• They built consistently.

• When they doubted themselves they kept going anyway.

And maybe that’s what I’m actually obsessed with. It’s not their success and not even their stability. I’m obsessed with proof that you don’t have to have “arrived” by 26. My real fear isn’t aging, I will always view that as blessing, It’s stagnating.

The idea of never quite breaking through. Never quite but always almost, haunts me.

It’s the fear that everyone else will transcend while I stay in purgatory.

And maybe that’s why I keep watching women who already have, to reassure myself of a process that has already begun. In reality regardless of how I feel about it, it’s happening with or without my say so - I may as well make it worth my while.

I have been searching for the words to articulate the admiration (yes, parasocial) I have for Tracee Ellis Ross and how her existence, the gems she drops in interviews, the joy she seems to embody has encouraged me to embrace a state of soloness that women are usually only permitted later in life.

From an early age, I have been a big supporter of adoption, and I mean really early. In fact, I’d say it would be have been my ideal route to creating a family. I didn’t fantasise about a dream wedding. I designed dresses for other people’s weddings. I never clung to the ideals that have been ascribed to “womanhood,” so I was able to move through my teens and into my early twenties without impending societal pressures looming over me and shaping my decisions. Something I know a lot of Black women have to navigate.

Instead, I lived selfishly. And I mean that in the healthiest way. I invested in my interests, my taste, my ideas, my curiosity, with only one person in mind: myself.

However, womanhood humbles you.

I still had to navigate friendships, groupthink, dating, insecurity, and the grief of letting go of the career I thought I’d have from age ten. And even with all that freedom, I look back and see a version of myself who was lost. I bent myself to fit into spaces that didn’t really care about my wellbeing unless it benefited them. I tolerated dynamics that drained me. I had encounters with men that taught me lessons I didn’t ask for but still had to learn from. I worked in environments where the male gaze wasn’t just present, it was the business model.

I started moving like someone who didn’t expect to be fully understood or deeply met. I quietly admitted defeat without even realising I had.

An autism diagnosis later, and suddenly the shame I carried had context. I could see my intensity, directness, and honesty no longer as flaws but as a different operating system. One that doesn’t do surface-level well. I ask real questions because I’m inquisitive and I care. An operating system that cannot run on make-believe.

Over the last two years, I’ve returned to reading, writing, and movement, all the things I pushed aside to experience a life that was never meant for me. I often wonder how different I’d be if I never abandoned those interests. Alas, everything happens for a reason.

Now? I feel good. Actually, I feel great. Not in comparison to other women, but in comparison to the girl I was at fourteen. The girl with big dreams and so much optimism.

So where does Tracee Ellis Ross come in?

At first, I thought this was about dating. I almost called this The Tracee Ellis Ross-ification of My Dating Life. But that would have flattened the lessons I’ve learned.

Tracee doesn’t represent singleness. She represents a way of being. She contradicts the old spinster-surrounded-by-cats narrative. And yes, she’s rich. And yes, her mother is Diana Ross. But I’m positive we can all learn a little from her.

She embodies gratitude. A woman who doesn’t wait, who has patience, who will not shrink, who does not apologise, and who is alive. She centres curiosity, joy, embodiment, and purpose. She speaks about partnership as something you welcome, not something you chase to feel complete.

She reminds me not to build my life around the absence of something. My main goal is to build it around the presence of myself.

That’s the Tracee Ellis Ross effect.

Isn’t Tracee 53? Yes. She has endured years of questioning, doubting, and curiosity around the woman she has become, and it would seem no amount of shame has steered her from the path she’s chosen. I may be 26, but I find that inspiring. I know many women who have succumbed to society’s demands, dampened their dreams, and settled for a partner to become the model woman the world tells them to be. I don’t want any of that. I’m choosing myself over longing, soloness over scarcity, and depth over surface.

That said, I can openly admit: I predict a partnerless life. The idea of me is much more enticing than the reality of me, this is just the data I’ve collected over the years. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

The thought of reading my book before bed next to a husband who endlessly scrolls, wants to sleep with the TV on, and doesn’t brush his teeth before bed makes me shudder.

I simply cannot settle. I have too many interests. And finding someone who isn’t self-absorbed and can actually indulge in — or share — the things I love feels exhausting.

(PS. I don’t want to be sitting in the passenger seat listening to mumble rap ever again!)

The end.

Lately, I’ve noticed a trend among my friends (mostly the women) when it comes to food. It sounds like:

“That soup made me so full.”
Girl… no it didn’t.

Or,
“I don’t need dinner, I had a big lunch.”
Yeah… four hours ago, babe.

I used to shrug it off. One or two friends? Fine. I mentally placed them in the “she’s not a real eater” category (no pun intended) and kept it pushing. But now? It’s like 85% of them. And it’s concerning.

I love to eat. I’m a sensual person. I enjoy all the senses - scent, taste, sound, sight, touch. Some people love padel courts; I love a good restaurant recommendation. A dream birthday? Eating out all day in three separate outfits. And I’m lucky to have one friend, my best friend, I know I can count on to do that with me. The others? Absolutely not.

Especially not without remarks like:
“Are you gonna finish that?”
Well, yes. I am speaking to you, AV.

Boooo not on my Birthday!

The older I get, the more I see this restrictive approach to eating, not just dieting, but almost punishing their plate. It feels like a coping mechanism for insecurity, or the echo of outdated marketing and messaging that’s been following us since childhood. It looks like control disguising itself as discipline. And while yes, it’s their choice… it’s still sad to watch.

People obsess over portion sizes - believing a “big lunch” needs to be compensated for, or that fullness is a moral failure.

“This meal was too big, so now the next one must be tiny.”

Mathematically? Sure. Biologically? Spiritually? Emotionally? No.

If I were a fly on the wall, I’d pay less attention to portion size and more to the questions that actually matter:

How many vegetables?
How much protein?
How much movement this week?
How much sleep?
How much stress?
How often do you actually sit still all day?

Because what’s the point of skipping meals if you’re barely drinking water, barely moving, barely resting, and speaking to yourself like shit? The food was never the real enemy, it was just the easiest thing to control.

Restricting without understanding isn’t discipline, it’s distress disguised as wellness. I’d respect it more if it came with researched, measured practices. But most of the time, it doesn’t.

Because here’s the truth:
People rarely restrict how much they drink.
How much they smoke.
What they consume online.
How they speak to themselves.
How sedentary they are.

So maybe the food was never really the problem.

Yes, body positivity rose. Yes, curves had their moment (shoutout Kim K for mainstreaming big bums, as if Bernice Burgos and Draya Michele didn’t exist). But we still grew up in homes influenced by the Atkins diet, Beyoncé’s lemon-cayenne-maple-syrup “detox,” cabbage soup diets straight out of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, magazines teaching women that skinny is best, and beauty standards that excluded marginalised women.

And patriarchy did what it always does: convinced women that fragility was desirable - physically and socially. That lifting heavy would make us “too bulky,” in every sense. Of course that thinking was passed down. Of course it trickled into our friends. Into their bowls. Onto their plates. Of course it shaped us.

But now?
We have research led by women that finally prioritises women’s bodies and biology. Studies highlighting the importance of:

Muscle mass
Hormonal health
Reproductive health
Bone density
Perimenopause/menopause support
Life expectancy
Postpartum recovery
Libido
Overall strength and resilience
Aging well

And guess what? None of that is sustained by starvation.

Eat protein. Eat fibre. Eat healthy fats. Eat carbs that actually fuel you. Not surviving on vibes and iced lattes. (And sometimes? Eat chocolate. I say this as someone who just inhaled a whole bag of sweet and salty popcorn and a Tony’s bar. It’s been a week.)

When I trained for my half marathon, I had to learn that eating wasn’t indulgence, it was fuel. I learned through exhaustion, through research, through people like Gabrielle Lyon and Stacy Sims. No one in my family handed me that knowledge. I went and found it. And every woman deserves to.

More on my fitness journey here!

I just decided to do something hard, and did. And now I know better. So I do better.

So let me say this directly:
Restricting isn’t doing you any favours.
Starving isn’t strength.
“Not being hungry” is not a personality trait.

Get curious. Read. Learn. Listen to people who know what they’re talking about. Please stop warring with your plates when life is already hard enough.

So no, the goal shouldn’t be to get smaller.
The goal should be to get stronger: physically, mentally, emotionally.

I’m not perfect. I get it wrong. I’m just urging women to learn. To unlearn. To eat. To live.

Because honestly? I’m tired of watching brilliant women shrink themselves - literally and figuratively.

The inspiration for this article was sparked while watching a recent Winners Talking episode with Trillary Banks in the gym. Am I an avid watcher of Winners Talking? No. Am I a Trillary Banks super-fan? Also no. Although ‘Come Over Mi Yard’ went triple platinum in my playlist during my uni years. So why did I click play?

Because I’m a fan of culture.

I passively (because I’m no student) observe social behaviour in response to culture, and I’m compelled to consume commentators across our scene, not because I agree with them, but because each represents a pocket of the wider community. As a marketer, I want to understand what people think, what they consume, and what they deem important. I trust myself enough to sift through the sense and the nonsense, take what’s useful and leave the rest.

During that two-hour Christmas Eve gym session, I also watched an Azealia Banks interview. I do not share her views. I actually couldn’t finish the episode. But before she spiralled, she lamented the death of the mixtape.

Between Trillary’s reflections on being an artist outside London and Azealia’s valid observation, I felt the urge to write. These thoughts aren’t new, they’ve been floating around my head as my career in the music industry has progressed. This piece is long overdue.

So here is my take on the current state of UK rap, the attitudes of execs, the enabling of artists, and the erosion of artistic integrity that has led to what feels like a state of no return.

Black and Not From London

Trillary has spoken for years about what it means to be an artist outside of London, long before scouse accents became cool. If you’re from outside the capital, you’ll understand the Amerification of Black London culture and the superiority complex that often comes with it. From mocking accents to assuming that not conforming to London standards (duhhh we’re not from here) means you want to be white - the ignorance is casual, but consistent.

That same mindset extends to the music industry. Power is hoarded in London. Regional talent is ignored until it becomes impossible to overlook, yet those same regions are essential when it’s time to push records nationally. London support alone won’t get you chart success, but London still insists on being the gatekeeper.

The music industry here is a microcosm of a wider issue: late-stage capitalism. Every recession indicator is present; risk aversion, centralisation of power, profit over preservation.

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Virality Replacing Taste

Take the Essdeekid moment. We watched top-tier rappers rush to jump on a remix. Sonically, his sound sits outside what’s been pushed as the sound of the moment. It makes me ask: would the same eagerness exist if the record hadn’t gone viral?

Yes, there’s an argument that virality makes collaboration a no-brainer for emerging artists. But there’s a counter-argument: many artists no longer have individual taste.

The number of artists who tell me they don’t listen to music is alarming. Referencing traditional hip-hop and not having a clue, is bizarre. What I see is a lack of care for musical history and no backbone.

Personally, what I see is a group of artists who have a skill for poetry but poetry wasn’t “cool”, so it shapeshifted into UK rap, a form that aligned with the racialised expectations Britain already had for us - aggression, struggle, poverty. Add mass validation from middle England and suddenly you have the commodification of a very specific, very negative portrayal of Blackness.

When Craft Stops Being the Focus

Our culture in this country was built on Jungle MCs, Grime, Hip-Hop, Drill; yet very little heritage has been meaningfully preserved. I knew UK rap was in trouble when I realised freestyles weren’t actually freestyles, but pre-written performance pieces.

Call me naive, but I was raised on Nas, Foxy, Kim, Jay, Common, Slum Village. Watching that shift felt like watching knives stop being sharpened. There’s no pressure to improve as a wordsmith and no incentive to grow as a performer.

Supporters become an afterthought, not partners in growth, but a by-product of success. Which is backwards. Without supporters, there is literally no success.

The Death of the Mixtape

This is where Azealia Banks, problematic as she is, made a valid point. She said the mixtape was where MCs cut their teeth: a space to experiment, collaborate, refine. Unofficial but necessary.

The industry abandoned mixtapes when budgets tightened and albums became the sole focus, where the “real” money was made. In doing so, artists lost a crucial developmental stage. Now we see years between projects, where a mixtape would’ve sustained momentum, nurtured growth and satiated supporters. (Take Cardi B for an example.)

Execs don’t trust artists anymore. More projects + more spending = less profit. Artist development has been replaced by TikTok A&R - data analysts masquerading as tastemakers.

The preservation of culture has been sacrificed for efficiency, and when culture isn’t protected, it becomes lawless.

Then everybody gets amnesia at how we arrived at a next generation of frontrunners that doesn’t look like us. The integrity of preservation of culture and proper practice speaks to this lawlessness.

Of course, when we live to supply the avg. British person the natural progression would be for them to take their turn at a genre that was not created by them or quite frankly for them… but popularised by them.

So What Are We Doing This For?

It makes me wonder: is this money-over-everything mentality what being a Black Brit has become?

Have years of shaming, oppression, micro-aggressions, and covert racism conditioned us to abandon cultural responsibility at the first dangle of a pound sign?

Because right now, the gatekeepers seem to only hold doors open for themselves and for those with equally self-serving interests. The community only matters when it’s time to extract from it.

And if profit is the only thing we’re preserving, then culture becomes disposable.

UK rap deserves better than that.

College was the first time I realised I could be seen as attractive… desired, even. It was the first place where people liked the way I looked before they knew anything else about me. I had my first boyfriend, my first cycle of “reinvention hair”: braids, weaves, a pixie cut I wasn’t quite built for, and the many filtered faces of early Snapchat.

It was the beginning of understanding how much energy I poured into being looked at… and how little attention I paid to who I actually was.

2018: Performance Mode & the Power of Presentation

University unlocked a whole new aesthetic era for me. Being single, newly aware of my desirability, and suddenly surrounded by nightlife, I leaned into sex appeal.

PLT dresses were basically a uniform. Club LIV became a weekly residency, sometimes three nights a week. My social media was thriving; a version of me online was performing so well that someone hacked into my account and deleted it entirely.

This was also the year I started wearing wigs - switching up my look with a kind of freedom that felt thrilling at the time. It was an entry into what I like to call the IG Baddie aesthetic: the confidence boost, the reinvention, the way a new hairstyle could influence how people responded to me. It was also the beginning of trying on identities instead of building my own.

This was also my first encounter with Facetune - smoothing, sharpening, sculpting myself into a more accentuated and acceptable version.

Slowly, I started to see the pattern:
People were engaging with a version of my appearance that wasn’t necessarily the real one.

2019–2020: Maintenance, Monetisation & Misalignment

2019 became all about maintenance - keeping up the look, the attention, the online presence. A new friendship group appeared. I drifted further from myself. I was working as a waitress/receptionist in a gentlemen’s club. That job unvielled the real transactional nature of beauty. Beauty wasn’t just validated there - it was priced. Negotiated.

It was the first time I saw the monetary value of desirability up close. And it made me miserable in a quiet, heavy way no one would’ve guessed from my social media feed.

Then the world shut down.
Pandemic weight gain.
Starting my career in music.
Grieving my nan.

It was a weird, suspended period where looking beautiful felt not only impossible, but irrelevant and that irrelevance became unexpectedly grounding.

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2021: Returning to Rehana

2021 was the year I started wearing my natural hair again. My mum had always felt strongly about this, not out of criticism but out of pride.

It was uncomfortable at first. Vulnerable.

But something about returning to my natural hair felt like reclaiming an earlier self. The self before edits, before wigs, before smooth filters and identity gymnastics.
Something I didn’t realise I’d been missing.

2022: Unedited in London

Moving to London was like arriving as a completely different person. I was now socially anxious, extremely shy, and hyperaware that people who’d known me only online would now be seeing the unedited me in real life.

It was a reveal I wasn’t prepared for.

But slowly, I realised that if I felt this exposed simply by being seen as I actually was, maybe I’d built my confidence on the wrong foundation.

2023: Curiosity Over Aesthetics

2023 softened me again. I was surrounded by a circle of people with completely different values. I roamed the city, discovered its endless niches, and suddenly didn’t feel so strange anymore.

I fell back in love with fashion and the arts in general - not the kind you buy for validation, but the kind that comes from taste, inspiration, and curiosity.

I stopped editing my pictures entirely. If I didn’t like a photo, I didn’t post it. Progress in its simplest form.
But I still couldn’t step outside without makeup. I wasn’t ready for that yet.

2024: Rebuilding From the Inside Out

2024 was a real turning point.
Travelling. Buying books. Producing podcasts. Diving deeper into my LOVE for US hip-hop. Collecting vinyl. Inheriting my mum’s iconic CD collection (which now must legally follow me into every new flat I occupy).

I started training for a half marathon, a shift that made me see my body as something capable rather than decorative.
I felt myself returning to the things that made me whole as a child: reading, music, movement, style, curiosity.

And in all of that, it hit me: Everything I find interesting about myself has nothing to do with my appearance.

2025: Me Core

Now, I’ve run a half marathon.
I’m disciplined in the gym.
I read. I write. I create.
I go to the shop with no makeup.
I actually like my bare face.

For the first time, I can say I like the way I look — not because someone else validated it, but because it finally feels like mine.

I’m working on emotional regulation, choosing genuine people, and only consuming media that actually feeds me.

And somewhere in all of that, I’ve learned the truth I wish I had years ago:

The way I look is the least interesting thing about me.
It may open some doors, but it will never build a life.
My depth, my curiosity, my mind, my humour, my resilience - those were always the most compelling things I had to offer.

Everything else was for engagement.

A friend recently shared a post from a girl who said she’d given up on her search for meaningful connections with women. She’d been jilted too many times - jealousy, competitiveness, disappointment - and decided it just wasn’t worth it anymore.

At first, I felt genuinely sad. Sad because I couldn’t imagine a world where I didn’t have the fulfilling friendships I’ve found in the women around me. Sad too because I knew that by choosing not to try again, she was cutting herself off from the joy that comes when you do find your people - the kind of joy that still surprises me sometimes. (I’m definitely projecting here.)

Then I started thinking about how often I’ve been seeing this sentiment online lately -people swearing off friendships after being burned, captioned carousels about “protecting your peace,” and threads about the pain of outgrowing friends. It’s everywhere. Even among my own friends, there’s been this collective growing pain around friendship - some soft dissolving, others sharp.

And when you zoom out, it’s fascinating. There’s this split online: on one end, we glorify friendship - group photos, inside jokes, holidays, nights out - and on the other, there’s this quiet retreat into emotional self-protection. The “no new friends” energy. The soft-blocking, the cutting off.

I get both.

I’ve definitely fallen victim (for a brief second) to it. But I also get the other side - the safety in stepping back, in guarding yourself from the hurt that can come when friendships turn sour or when jealousy or competition sneak in.

The real question, though, is this: have you found the friend dynamic that best matches your personality type?

For me - and maybe this is the tism talking - that happened around age 21 or 22, as we phased out of the pandemic.I started curating the kind of friendships I actually wanted to have. Not the ones that happen by convenience - like at school, where you’re thrown together with people just because you share the same class - but intentional friendships.

I met new friends through DMs with girls who seemed like-minded online, through house shares, and even at work (taboo, I know). And I found something interesting: I don’t have a friend group.

Woe is me, I know - but hear me out.

I’m a pretty multi-layered person. Hoetep today (minus the misogyny), justice warrior tomorrow, and sometimes face-down in a random research hyperfixation by the weekend. So it makes sense that my friendships are more like a constellation than a single cluster. Each person honours a different part of me.

And while sometimes I do feel a little sad when I see those tight-knit friendship groups online, I also remember that I’ve never really felt safe in those dynamics. Too much unspoken competition, “who likes who more,” or “why wasn’t I invited” energy. I’ve always thrived more in one-on-one friendships - the kind where it’s just me and my friend, no politics, no triangles.

That’s one of the most underrated perks of individual friendships: freedom. I have the space to love my people deeply, without being bound by group dynamics. If something goes wrong, it’sjust between two people - no ripple effect, no alliances, no silent group chats dissecting the fallout.

Interestingly, a lot of my friends do have thriving friend groups, and they love it. I’m genuinely happy for them. It just reminds me that there isn’t one right way to do friendship.

So maybe the real takeaway is this: it’s less about whether you have a big circle or a web of solo connections - and more about whether your friendships actually fit who you are. Whether they allow you to show up as your full, multi-layered self.

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Recently I’ve found myself thinking about the idea of blackness - how the concept was presented to me as a child and whether spending my formative years in the suburbs has made my blackness invisible. I grew up on the outskirts of Birmingham, in a pretty rural village. I went to an all-white primary, junior and secondary school. When I think back, one of my first realisations that I was different from those around me was in primary school when a classmate described me as a “Chocolate Button” to highlight that my complexion was darker than his. It didn’t rock me to my core, but it was one of the first moments I became aware of how people notice difference.

My differences quickly became the butt of jokes - the texture of my hair, the fullness of my lips, and more. Eventually, I relaxed my hair and dreamt of the day someone would invent a lip reduction, praying for a nose job. It would be an understatement to say I struggled with my identity between the ages of five and sixteen. Alas, a sob story isn’t the outcome I’m after in writing this.

I was inspired by a video by a creator named Kristabel. In it, she shared her experience growing up Black in suburbia and the difficulties she faced trying to assimilate and build long-lasting Black friendships. My initial reaction was delight -how refreshing it was to see someone speak openly from this perspective and explore it on a large platform.

Naturally, I scrolled through the comments, and to my surprise, the reaction wasn’t filled with sympathy or praise. Instead, it was a mixed bag - some in support, others critical of the effort she put into seeking out people who looked like her as she got older. The irony, of course, was that many of those comments came from people who had representation on their doorstep. Very little effort goes into opening your front door. It would have been more helpful to listen from a subjective standpoint - no one who grew up in a predominantly Black area should be telling someone from the opposite environment how they would have navigated things.

This led to two conversations - my “research” wasn’t extensive (apologies). The first was with a friend who grew up in a predominantly Black area in London. She was empathetic but maintained that more could have been done to ensure Kristabel connected with Black women in adulthood. My second conversation was with a friend who grew up in a small town near Newcastle. We related heavily - both of us moved away to study before settling in London to build our careers. We compared notes on how we were perceived as Black girls from “out of town.”

When I say perceived, I mean the small interactions that compound - the subtle ways people reach conclusions about you. If you happen to be the kind of Black woman who doesn’t fit the popularised archetypes online, you might struggle to find your crowd. I’ve been fortunate. I’ve lived in all-Black house shares and worked for a Black-owned business - neither of which I pursued intentionally. It meant I was able to create connections seamlessly and learn more about our culture outside of what I was taught at home. I recognise this isn’t everyone’s experience; not everyone finds themselves surrounded by community. I have sympathy for that. I also recognise that I’ve been lucky. I’m not very outgoing and have struggled with social anxiety in the past, so I can only imagine how much harder this might feel for others.

There are, of course, nuances to the Kristabel conversation. I know some people criticised her for liking certain comments or for giving white people too much grace because she maintained friendships despite negative experiences. Others took issue with her response to The Receipts Podcast. The video was posted so long ago that I’d be misinformed to dissect it further - but it opened up something that felt worth exploring.

Let’s return to those perceptions I mentioned earlier, and to why I titled this piece “You’re Like a White Girl.”

Since moving to London, it’s been interesting to hear how people perceive me. A few years ago, a (white) housemate told me, “If I spoke to you on the phone and didn’t know what you looked like, I’d think you were white.” I brushed it off - she was consistently tone-deaf, and arguing would’ve been a lost cause. More recently, a guy I was dating said the same thing: “You’re like a white girl.” I don’t think I really knew what to say. I remember responding, “I just don’t think you’re used to Black women like me.” He replied that he was used to “ghetto” women. Ignorant, to say the least -and, honestly, it was a low year dating-wise for me, which might explain why I tolerated that conversation at all. Still, it affirmed something I’d suspected: that people were perceiving me through a very narrow lens.

I often think about how homogeneous blackness can feel - or rather, how it’s made to feel. There are default, pre-arranged ideas of what blackness should look and sound like. And if you stray from that, you need to be prepared for an exclusionary experience.

When I think back to how ideas of blackness were first presented to me, it started with the women in my family. I have five aunts, each one completely different. One had locs, sang in a punk band, and wore tartan skirts with steel-toe boots. Another makes jewellery and sings along to her music as she walks down the street. Another loved the latest styles, kept her hair laid, and never missed a night out. I absorbed all of that - how they were raised the same way yet created their own identities. From them, I learned that blackness could hold multitudes, that it could be whatever we wanted it to be. I was never made to feel that I was doing anything wrong by exploring my own.

So when someone says, “You’re like a white girl,” I no longer hear an insult. I hear confusion - a reflection of how narrow our collective idea of blackness can be. But blackness has always been fluid; it’s jazz and punk, prayer and protest, softness and steel. I exist somewhere in that spectrum, fully black, even when someone else’s imagination can’t stretch far enough to see it.

Maybe blackness isn’t something to be proven or performed, but something lived in - shaped by where you grow up, who you love, what you listen to, and how you see yourself. I’m still figuring out what mine looks like, but I know now it doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s.