Perfectly Unfinished Me

Tag: life

  • It’s Just a Dorito. And Yet.

    There is a sound that can ruin my entire day. Yours probably wouldn’t even register it.

    I have misophonia.

    Which sounds dramatic until you realise it just means that certain sounds — specifically other people eating, clanging, repetitive tapping, or basically existing loudly near me — make me want to quietly leave my own life for a moment.

    It’s not a mood. It’s not me being difficult. It is, apparently, an actual neurological thing, which is both validating and completely useless when someone sits next to you with a bag of crisps.

    Now, I should clarify — I am not naturally a patient person. Patience is one of those fruits of the Holy Spirit that God is very much still working on in me. It is a process. A long one. And situations like these are not helping.

    ⸻

    Everything can be completely calm.

    Peaceful, even.

    The kind of quiet where nothing feels rushed and everything just… settles.

    You’re watching something nice.

    Or sitting somewhere quiet.

    Or just existing without any particular issue.

    And then someone starts eating.

    ⸻

    It’s not gradual.

    There’s no gentle build-up.

    It’s like something in your brain just switches.

    Suddenly, you can’t concentrate on anything else.

    Not the film.

    Not the conversation.

    Not even your own thoughts.

    Not Just… crunching, lips smacking or like your food is doing the world tour in your mouth before swallowing. My Dad does that and at these times, our relationship level is at best, questionable! In fact every relationship is.

    ⸻

    And it’s not just “a bit annoying.”

    That would be manageable.

    This is the kind of irritation that feels completely disproportionate and yet — at the exact same time — entirely justified.

    You become hyper-aware.

    Why is it so loud?

    Why is it that loud?

    Has it always sounded like that?

    Surely it hasn’t always sounded like that.

    ⸻

    And the worst part?

    You know it’s irrational.

    You are fully aware that this is a completely normal human activity.

    People eat.

    They’re allowed to eat.

    They’re not doing anything wrong.

    And yet internally, you have transformed into something that could only be described as a mildly restrained rage monster.

    ⸻

    I don’t say anything. Usually.

    Out loud, I remain civil — right up until the point where my nervous system decides that civility is no longer a viable option.

    At which point, all bets are off.

    (See: the Doritos incident.)

    But internally, even on the quieter days, there is a whole negotiation happening between

    “be a reasonable person”

    and

    “please, for the love of all that is good, stop chewing like that.”

    ⸻

    The worst example of this happened in a library.

    A library. The internationally recognised sanctuary of silence. The operating theatre of academic thought.

    I was studying for my dissertation. This required, at minimum, the kind of quiet usually reserved for lunar surfaces and very serious doctors.

    And then the man next to me opened a bag of Doritos.

    Doritos.

    I turned and looked at him. If you have misophonia, you will know exactly what that look is. It is not aggressive. It is not rude. It is simply a look that communicates, without any words at all, the complete and total collapse of your inner world.

    He saw the look. He acknowledged the look.

    And then he continued eating.

    So I leaned over and said — very calmly —

    “Doritos?!”

    And then: “What is this, a picnic?!”

    He stopped eating.

    ⸻

    What makes it even more ridiculous is this:

    If I am eating at the same time… it’s absolutely fine.

    No issue at all.

    Apparently, the solution to the problem is simply that I must also be involved in the eating.

    Which, as Blod once pointed out, feels somewhat unfair.

    “So it’s fine if you eat, but not if I do?”

    Correct.

    That is, unfortunately, exactly how it works.

    I didn’t design it. I just live with it.

    You know who can eat without triggering my internal meltdown though?

    My dog Zeb

    Zeb, who eats like he’s in a competition and the prize is making as much noise as humanly-

    or should I say, caninely-possible.

    Completely fine. Not a flicker of rage. Not a single twitch.

    I have no explanation for this. My nervous system apparently has a “dog clause” built in somewhere that nobody told me about.

    Blod finds this fascinating. I on the other hand would find it deeply personally offensive.

    ⸻

    Blod made a quiet and life-altering decision early on in our relationship — that eating crisps during a film was perhaps not worth the consequences.

    This was during the dating phase.

    The fact that he still married me after witnessing the look in its natural habitat is something I find both touching and mildly surprising.

    Occasionally, he forgets.

    Hunger, I suppose, does something to a person’s memory.

    And then he remembers again — usually around the time I’ve gone very quiet, or started pressing Blu-tack into my ears with the focused calm of someone who is absolutely not calm.

    That is love, actually. Documented and real.

    ⸻

    It’s not limited to eating, either.

    Clanging. Repetitive tapping. Someone doing the same small sound over and over in a place that’s supposed to be quiet.

    It all qualifies.

    Which is why I cannot attend church connect groups when food is involved.

    I have tried.

    I become a version of myself that I don’t particularly enjoy. Internally unravelling while outwardly attempting to look like someone who is fine and engaged and not at all being destroyed by the sound of someone’s wrap.

    It is exhausting.

    ⸻

    And then there are the people who don’t quite understand it.

    “It’s only crisps.”

    Yes.

    I know.

    Logically, I am aware that it is only crisps.

    Unfortunately, my nervous system appears to have interpreted it as something far more serious.

    ⸻

    The strangest part is how instant it is.

    One moment: a calm, relaxed, reasonable human being.

    Next moment: internally calculating how quickly you can leave the situation without drawing attention to yourself.

    ⸻

    It’s not a personality flaw.

    It’s not even really a preference.

    It’s more like a very specific, slightly inconvenient wiring issue that occasionally turns something completely normal into something… not quite so manageable.

    ⸻

    So if you ever notice someone go very quiet the moment you open a snack…

    Or reach for earplugs — or Blu-tack, we’re not fussy — with the quiet focus of someone defusing a bomb…

    Or suddenly remember they urgently need to be in a different room…

    Be kind to them or run. Either works.

    Maybe even offer them some of your food.

    We realise this is not exactly preferable.

    Especially if it’s soup.

    But we didn’t choose this. We are doing our best to avoid incarceration.

  • ✨ When Delay Becomes Direction ✨

    It was a Friday afternoon.

    Nothing dramatic.

    Nothing unusual.

    Just the clock ticking while my mind tried to hold too many things at once.

    I was halfway through client calls, trying to hold work in one hand and the rest of my life in the other. My brain was busy, stretched, already carrying more than it should. My husband had tried earlier to squeeze in a quick conversation about our property plans — not because he was being pushy, but because we were both juggling so much that neither of us quite knew where the right space was anymore.

    Working from home makes me more “reachable,” and sometimes that blurs the lines. I wasn’t unavailable because I didn’t care; I was simply in work mode, mid-responsibility, mid-pressure. And he wasn’t being demanding — he was trying to find a moment where we could connect about the dreams we both share.

    Two people with big visions.

    Both stretched.

    Both trying.

    Meanwhile, Zeb was staring at us like, “Cool story. Is my dinner happening or not?”

    And then something simple cut through the noise.

    It wasn’t dramatic.

    It wasn’t angry.

    Just honest.

    It wasn’t the message itself that shifted me — it was what it exposed.

    He shared that he didn’t feel fully connected to the journey. That he needed to know we were walking it together.

    And I understood it.

    But beneath that moment was something deeper that had already been stirring.

    For weeks, I’d been trying to move something forward — a project that had come to me so easily at first. The name had flowed. The idea had felt clear, almost effortless. That felt like God.

    But the momentum since then?

    That felt different.

    Every step forward felt heavier than it should.

    Not locked. Not slammed shut.

    Just… unmoving.

    And that frustrated me more than I wanted to admit.

    I wrestled with it quietly.

    Was this resistance because I was meant to push through?

    Or was it resistance because I was pushing something that wasn’t meant for now?

    There’s a difference — but in the moment, it’s hard to tell.

    Part of me wondered if I was being tested.

    Part of me wondered if I was being redirected.

    Part of me feared I was falling behind.

    And if I’m honest, I felt a little alone in it too — trying to manufacture momentum in my own strength because I thought that’s what progress was supposed to look like.

    But as I sat there, instead of defending my position, I paused.

    Not emotionally.

    Not reactively.

    But intentionally.

    What was actually happening here?

    The truth was simple:

    It wasn’t moving.

    And faith doesn’t ignore reality.

    It weighs it.

    If God was breathing on this right now, would it feel like I was dragging it uphill alone?

    I didn’t need to quit the dream.

    But maybe I did need to stop dragging it forward before its time.

    Because sometimes delay isn’t denial.

    Sometimes it’s direction.

    So I made a decision.

    A clear one.

    A grounded one.

    I chose to stop forcing something that wasn’t moving.

    And I chose something else too.

    I chose us.

    Not because one of us was doing more than the other — we’ve both been building, both investing, both stretching in different ways. But because I wanted to demonstrate, in a tangible way, that we are a team. That I am for him. That what we’re building is something we’re building together.

    Not separate visions competing for oxygen.

    But shared direction, aligned.

    Not by sacrificing a dream.

    But by recognising the season.

    And that shift changed everything.

    At our deal packaging training, the coach shared her “why” — showing the house she bought because of property. Her stepping stone. And something inside me lit up.

    A country home.

    My country home.

    A dream I hadn’t abandoned — just quietly shelved somewhere along the way. Somewhere between striving and trying to prove I could build something on my own timeline.

    And I realised something gently but deeply:

    When I stopped obsessing over the door that wasn’t opening, I could see the direction right in front of me.

    This doesn’t mean the other dream has vanished. It hasn’t. It came in flow for a reason. But the timing isn’t mine to force.

    I can still nurture it quietly.

    I can still hold it loosely.

    I just don’t need to push it.

    Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do

    is pause long enough to recognise the difference

    between resistance that requires faith

    and delay that requires wisdom.

    This wasn’t the end of a dream.

    It was simply the moment delay clarified the direction.

    We became aligned again.

    The tension eased.

    The pressure lifted.

    And peace replaced striving.

    For now,

    I’m choosing clarity.

    I’m choosing unity.

    I’m choosing what’s moving — not what I’m trying to move.

    And honestly?

    It feels right.

  • Confirmation Bias, Steam Rooms & A Pair of Goggles

    This is one of those stories where you think you’re in the right… then realise you’ve just followed man in Speedos through a leisure centre… convinced he’s a swimming accessory thief.

    This was about a couple of years ago in a swimming pool — and it still perfectly sums me up.

    I’m at the pool, about to get in after what was supposed to be a relaxing steam and shower.

    Now, I’ll be honest — I didn’t even really want to come swimming. I debated it for ages.

    But I knew I needed it — because if I don’t get my exercise, I don’t get calm… I get ratty.

    So I’d already had a whole internal negotiation just to be there.

    I reach for my goggles.

    They’re not on the hook with my cap.

    Annoyance kicks in instantly. Not panic. Not fear. Pure, simmering irritation.

    Because I NEED this swim.

    I retrace my steps. Scan the pool. Check the benches. The floor. My bag. They are nowhere.

    And I KNOW they were here.

    And then I spot him.

    A man walking away from the shower… wearing goggles that look exactly like mine.

    So, I do the polite British thing.

    “Excuse me… you haven’t seen any goggles lying around anywhere near here, have you? They look identical to yours.”

    “Er… no, sorry.”

    (He looks a bit sheepish. In my opinion. And once my brain decides that, it starts building a case.)

    I walk away thinking: That’s weird. Because I KNOW they were here. And I’m pretty sure those are mine.

    Now I’m annoyed AND suspicious. Dangerous combination.

    So I follow him up the stairs.

    “I’m really sorry to bother you, but are you SURE you haven’t seen any goggles that look like yours?”

    “No, I really can’t say I have.”

    He heads towards the male changing rooms…

    And I stop in the hallway like a confused Roomba. (Which I believe is a robot hoover. Either way —lost.)

    Because now the inner argument begins.

    One voice: Go on. He’s nicked your goggles. Stand up for yourself. Other voice: Do NOT be that woman. You’ll become a leisure-centre urban legend.

    This is where my husband would usually say,

    “I’ll just let you carry on between you and you.”

    So I pace. I circle. I mutter internally.

    Then the ratty, exercise-deprived voice joins in:

    You didn’t even want to come swimming and now this has hacked you right off. Go on. Knock.

    So I knock.

    He comes out looking genuinely concerned that he’s being stalked over aquatic eyewear.

    “I know this is probably getting annoying, and I’m really sorry, but I KNOW I left my goggles downstairs. Are you sure one of your friends didn’t pick them up by accident?”

    “No, I really haven’t seen them. And my friends just sit in the steam room. They don’t even use goggles. But I hope you find them.”

    “Right… okay… that’s just really weird. Sorry again. Enjoy your shower.”

    At this point I resign myself to:

    1. He is a committed criminal

    2. Someone else took them to lost property

    Either way, I’m too annoyed to swim now.

    So I go to steam off instead.

    I walk to the steam room door…

    and in the reflection of the glass I see them.

    My goggles.

    Around.

    My.

    Neck.

    Poor man.

    If there’s a lesson in this, I suspect it’s this:

    I don’t actually need to fix this part of myself.

    The overthinking.

    The apologising.

    The internal debates conducted entirely in public spaces.

    Because without it, I’d never have this story.

    And that poor man would never have spent ten minutes wondering whether he’d accidentally stolen a woman’s goggles — while she was wearing them like a necklace.

    That said…Once your brain decides it’s right, it will happily gather evidence, ignore reality, and emotionally prosecute an innocent man in Speedos…

    While the actual problem is literally hanging off your own body.

    Which is to say — sometimes the issue isn’t them.

    It’s you.

    And your goggles.

  • Five Hours Later: It’s a Tech Thing

     I started a reel ad on Canva.

    (Not an advert for Canva. Me and tech are currently in a trial separation.)

    I mean — how hard can it be?

    Image. Music. Words. Colours.

    This is not brain surgery. Though if it was, I’d still appreciate a manual.

    Five and a half hours later I’ve lost audio, lost synchronisation, watched one page delete the next, and discovered that my AI assistant needs more assistance than I thought I needed.

    I am now questioning my life choices, my calling, and whether I should live off-grid with no Wi-Fi and a typewriter.

    I remember during my degree saying,

    “Is it just me, or is no one else completely panicking about this?”

    Tabitha smiled and said,

    “No, Samantha. We’re all panicking.”

    “You just… do a very good job of expressing it for us.”

    I feel like Rose in Titanic:

    “It’s been 85 years… and I can still see the cog spinning.”

    This is the mess in the middle.

    The bit no one posts. The bit where you’re trying very hard to be a grown adult while also internally bracing yourself and wondering how something so small has taken over your entire day.

    I remember why I’m doing this — which is the only reason I’m still here, pressing on to the promise that I will become all He created me to be.

    So what if the current version of me looks like a sleep-deprived raccoon with a thousand-yard stare, waiting for the computer to respond? I’ll just blend in. Perfectly normal behaviour.

    There’s a gap between who I’m called to be and who I am when technology stops cooperating.

    I do the things I don’t want to do and don’t do the things I know I should, like remaining calm, emotionally regulated, or particularly dignified.

    I didn’t avoid tech because I couldn’t learn it.

    I avoided it because it reveals things about me I’d rather not meet unsupervised.

    Zeb now has that look that says, “I love you… but I’m not getting involved.”

    It’s a fight between “what if I’m not good enough?”

    and “get a grip — you cannot let fear win over a reel.”

    I keep going anyway.

    Not because I’m calm —

    but because I remember why I started.

    I started this because I wanted to create moments — space for others to pause, reflect, and be present. A small, intentional place for a meaningful moment, wherever that happens to be.

    I created the blog to let the creativity in me breathe, and to connect — honestly — with others along the way.

    I created it without needing to define exactly what it will become, trusting it to grow into whatever it’s meant to be, in obedience to the calling placed on my life.

    Of course, the flesh had opinions.

    So, in perfect obtuseness, I did it anyway — my inner critic can remain unelected.

    The journal that came out of this season is here, if you’d like to take a look: here

  • So Let’s Talk About Christmas

    So, let’s talk about Christmas — seeing as it’s very much on everyone’s mind at the moment.

    We can’t move for it can we. Conversations, adverts, countdowns, opinions. Everyone’s either “so excited” or “completely done already”, and somehow both at the same time which probably tells you where I’m going with this.

    I absolutely don’t hate Christmas.

    I just don’t understand the pressure we put on it.

    We talk about it for weeks like it’s a thing we have to get right.

    People say things like:

    “Are you ready for Christmas?”

    Ready for what?

    It’s a Tuesday with a roast and administrative stress.

    Or:

    “Ooo, are you excited?”

    Am I excited to spend a lot of money, see everyone at once, and feel vaguely responsible for everyone else’s emotions?

    Not especially.

    Then there’s always someone who says:

    “You just have to get into the Christmas spirit.”

    Do I?

    Is that something I order online, or does it arrive naturally once I’ve queued in a supermarket listening to Wham?

    Because I’m not against joy.

    I just don’t think it comes on a schedule.

    I used to cope with it by getting drunk.

    That worked. Temporarily.

    Everything feels more festive when you’re slightly numbed and making questionable decisions.

    I don’t drink anymore — and I’m genuinely thankful for that.

    Being permanently set free from waking up thinking,“Oh no… who did I text last night and what painfully intense truth did I unleash?”

    is not something I miss.

    At all.

    Now I experience Christmas fully sober, which means I feel everything.

    I’ve noticed Christmas has this strange ability to turn the volume up on whatever you’re already carrying.

    If you’re happy, you’re very happy.

    If you’re lonely, it’s louder.

    If you’re grieving, it’s sharper.

    If you’re anxious — congratulations, it’s now a feature presentation.

    And don’t even get me started on New Year’s Eve.

    Same speeches.

    Same countdown.

    “Next year will be better!”

    Will it though?

    I mean, statistically speaking, parts of it will be.

    Other parts will be an absolute mess.

    Humans fail something by default every year — it’s kind of our thing.

    But we also overcome a lot every year too, which never seems to make the highlight reel.

    However, buried underneath the sequins and shouting is the idea that we’re allowed another go.

    A second chance. Or a tenth. Or, realistically, a fiftieth.

    That part I like.

    What I don’t love is the way it’s shouted at midnight like a legally binding contract.

    As if you’re not allowed to quietly hope.

    I’ve always been the one at New Year’s parties hiding in the kitchen doing the washing up.

    Not because I hate people enjoying themselves —

    but because that’s where people stop pretending for five minutes.

    I don’t begrudge anyone who genuinely loves Christmas or New Year.

    If it lights you up, if it feels true to you — honestly, carry on I’m not here to burst bubbles.

    What I don’t love is the way these seasons can accidentally exclude people who want to be real.

    The ones who want to hope quietly.

    The introverts. The reflective ones. The ones just trying to get through.

    There are bits of Christmas I genuinely love.

    The pretty lights.

    The tree.

    The cosiness.

    Even the fake niceness, if I’m honest.

    Yes, I know that makes me a bit of a hypocrite. I’ve complained about Christmas for years and still put a tree up and bought presents.

    This year feels different though.

    This year will be the most free Christmas I’ve had.

    No festive debt built up.

    No January regret.

    No standing there on Boxing Day holding a jacket I paid £85 for,

    watching it appear online for £20,

    and telling myself,

    “Well… it was worth it for Christmas Day.”

    It wasn’t.

    It was a jacket.

    I wasn’t intending to donate money to retail optimism,

    but here we are.

    Tomorrow I’ll spend it with my husband.

    No Christmas film marathon.

    We’ll probably end up “having a quick chat” about future creative business ideas,

    which will somehow turn into a full strategic discussion with imaginary whiteboards,

    big dreams, and at least one moment where we say,

    “Right. Let’s stop. It’s Christmas.”

    And, inevitably, watching Zeb scrape frantically under the sofa,

    convinced the remaining two-inch scrap of bone or his tug toy has definitely, absolutely, 100% reappeared where it has not.

    What I actually miss about presents isn’t the stuff.

    It’s what they represent.

    That someone thought of you.

    That someone chose something for you.

    That brief moment where your face lights up — or you convincingly pretend it does.

    Because if I’m honest, it really is more of a blessing to give than to receive.

    And that’s the heart of the Christian message too.

    That life itself was given as a gift.

    Not earned. Not performed for. Not dependent on how well you’ve done this year.

    Just given.

    Maybe that’s part of the point of Christmas too.

    Maybe all the pretending, the effort, the dressing things up for one day

    isn’t always denial — sometimes it’s survival.

    For some people, that one day is a break from a year that’s been overwhelming.

    A chance to step into a different space.

    To let things be okay, just for a moment, even if they’re not the rest of the time.

    And I get that.

    The only problem is that not everyone can pretend.

    Not everyone gets a pause.

    Not everyone can switch things off for a day and feel festive.

    For those people — genuinely — I hope you find some corner of peace,

    some quiet moment, some place where you can breathe,

    even if it doesn’t look like Christmas is supposed to.

    And for those who do find it joyful —

    who love it, who feel lifted by it, who look forward to it all year —

    please enjoy it. Fully. Without guilt.

    Those moments matter too.

    And even for the Grinches —

    the ones like me, hovering somewhere in between —

    I hope there’s laughter, or rest, or something unexpectedly good. However it looks for you.