Perfectly Unfinished Me

Tag: writing

  • 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.