PSA: There’s a lot of vomit chat, in case you hate that sort of thing. But I promise you it’s all in context

(kind of).

When I was around ten years old, I was on a swimming lesson excursion with my primary school.

Remember those?
Where for one glorious term a year you would skip class, go to the local pool and learn to not only swim, but also survival instincts.
Where you were to be rescued in the water by your BFF whilst wearing your flanalette Miffy pyjamas, in case at any moment you were thrown into a titanic-esc situation.

About ten minutes into the lesson, I started feeling unwell, so, they told me to get out of the water and get changed, letting the other kids finish so we could all catch the bus home together.
I was disappointed that my pool session had been cut short, but my friends saw this as an absolute goldmine.

For any ten-year-old navigating niche social hierarchies, whether it was sprinting to the canteen for the rare bubblegum Zooper Dooper, which sports house you were in, or whether you wore the hoodie or the bomber jacket, we, the grade fours, had fully grasped the mature understanding that the back row of any school bus was the highest possible place on the transport food chain.
A throne for our teeny tiny egos.

Since I’d already gotten changed, I was first in line.
And much like I imagine Jesus felt selecting seating for the Last Supper, I chose my four best friends and, of course, my crush to join me.
Bestowing upon them such honour that they would surely owe me for decades.

Victorious, perched up in the middle seat of the back row, with an unobstructed view, I sat on my chariot as we looked down upon the tiny streets of East Melbourne.
Unfortunately, the power didn’t cure what had already made me feel so ill.
So there I was, my stomach doing its own swimming lesson, and like many women who rise to fame, I lost it all, so quickly and for no good reason.

I vomited in the bus aisle.

My crush kindly asked if I was alright (what a king, I hope he’s well), while others shrieked in horror as if it were some kind of invasion.
In an attempt to resolve the situation quickly, my teacher calmly and professionally led me down the aisle, and I just about made it off the bus in time.
No harm, no foul.

I’m joking.
I vomited all the way down the aisle, as the teacher dragged me out like some alien dripping acid rapidly and contagiously.
My classmates screamed as if the acid would burn through the bus floor and they’d fall through to another dimension, never to see their families again.
The very aisle the other 44 children still had to use to get off the bus.

And to top it off, as soon as I stepped off the bus, I immediately vomited at the front of the school, my crush’s super cool older sister watching me. She ran over and asked if I was okay and helped me to the sick bay while the teacher returned to a bus full of children making noises you’d expect on a rollercoaster, squealing and shrieking in a full state of panic.

I was mortified.
Not only had the entire line of my potential future family seen me at my worst, but the whole year level would likely associate me with that moment for the rest of my school years.

The replay in my mind was vicious, like watching a Specky Magee moment, when the opposition sneaks up on a player to mark the ball when they’re about to score a goal and snatches it at the 50. (I’m not totally sure what I just said, but I hope you get it.)

Edit: An Explination of what I’m trying to say below featuring Eliza:

The heaving steps of living each day, stuck in the discomfort of not being able to control what others say about you, while sick at home on the couch, annoyed but still watching the BBC Pride and Prejudice your mum put on.
The real tragedy being, you’re too young to understand the masterpiece that it is.

Luckily, because we were kids, we liked it when the day got interesting.
So I became somewhat of a hero.

Still, I feared this was the most embarrassing thing that would ever happen to me.
I was wrong.

In fact, something strange happened.
Embarrassment started to hide itself in little flakes of anxiety.
Instead of volcanic eruptions of vomit, it became more like burps and bad breath.
Uncomfortable indigestion, like tremors of an earthquake, borderline concerning, but you can still carry on with your day.

Even though the situations felt smaller, the consequences started to feel bigger.
When I was a teenager, flirting with someone you fancied felt desperate.
In my early twenties, networking felt like I could ruin my career overnight.
Now that I’m an adult making my own decisions, my choices affect not only my reputation and ego, but also my finances.

I wouldn’t say I have horrible self-esteem, but when I finally get something I’ve worked hard for, or meet someone I’ve admired for ages, my nervous system takes over and turns me into a wannabe ‘chill girl’ who blurts out her intrusive thoughts from over-stimulation.
More specifically, I tend to say things I think will make me more appealing to the person I’m speaking to.

My main issue with embarrassment is that it’s the most vulnerable and human we can be, and yet it’s often the thing that either others struggle most to accept or puts us off someone altogether.
And in the end, don’t we all just want to be accepted by the people we love, admire, or secretly have a crush on?

Not everyone can be the kind of friend who’s there at all times holding your hair back and says to the party, “This normally doesn’t happen, she’s just overstimulated.”, whilst you’re throwing up verbal chunks.

Personally, I find I become the most “embarrassing” version of myself when I don’t know who I am.
When I’m trying identities on for size and wriggling out of them because they’re too tight, suffocating and coughing as I tear them off in a hurry.
The person I’m speaking to watching me, as I instantly regret the words coming out of my mouth, alarm bells that I’m not authentic.
I may as well have vomited on their shoes.

When I was 21, I was in a room full of established radio people and was given the chance, for the second time, to ask a question to Jade Thirlwall (then a member of Little Mix), someone I had been absolutely obsessed with in high school.
The first time I’d asked her a question a few months earlier had gone surprisingly well, so the pressure the second time was immense.

At the time, both Perrie and Leigh-Anne (the other band members, in case you’ve been living under a rock) were pregnant.
I felt pressure to record a clever, professional question, something less ‘fangirl’, more ‘radio big dog producer’ (there were a lot of men in that room), something the hosts could actually use.

Pressed for time, I panicked, walked up to the mic and pre-recorded a blarghhh (retching sounds) of a question about having children in the industry. I ended it with (and I misquote because I refuse to listen to it),
“...and when you obviously choose to have kids Jade”.

When they played the question, she let out a heavy, and, I will say, polite sigh. My interpretation of it being:
’Here we go again with the motherhood comments.’

I cried for hours that night.

Lucky the energy of the interview continued to flow with the hosts.

Note: Jade, if you ever, for some reason, read this, I’m so sorry.

Now, I’ve no idea what she was actually thinking. But I was mortified.
I never intended the question to come across that way. Not in a million years.

So I made a vow: to be more of myself.
To ask questions that felt right, based on what I actually knew.
To take a deep breath when meeting someone new and be the most authentic version of myself.

Swinging from zero to one hundred. Giving them all of me.

But I found there was an issue with that.
When I am my most authentic self, especially in networking or dating (which, to me, are essentially the same thing), getting my foot in the door feels like the start of a very slippery slope.

It became increasingly apparent that the more I was myself, the more I seemed to freak people out.

Eventually, the queasiness creeps back in and I morph into a small shadow of who I think people want me to be.

On a good day, even I don’t fully believe that now.
I know it should be more than enough just to be myself.

Since my radio days, I’ve approached the media industry with caution.
I don’t push to meet influential people in case I embarrass my more connected friends or the company.
(I’m, of course, completely professional around clients, but I don’t push.)

How do you explain that without sounding desperate or completely unhinged?
My brain looks like a company’s table tennis tournament, the brackets going on for a bit too many rounds, and doesn’t completely fit on the whiteboard.
Paired with ideas that didn’t even know they signed up for the tournament, Jason did as a joke.

As I’ve grown older, I feel less sick, less worried about how I come across on an off day, because I have gained more trust in my skills as a human.
But I felt compelled to write this because lately, so many themes around embarrassment and authenticity have resurfaced, especially as I look ahead to the next chapter of my creative career.

It feels breaking up from a long term relationship and then suddenly asking yourself, “Shit... how do I do this again?”
Even though you’ve had experience being romantically involved, it still feels brand new.

Recently, I made the choice to step down from a full-time role because it no longer felt like me.
It created too many what ifs, instead of here and nows.
I often describe it to friends as “moving out of home”, which, in many ways, this company has been for the last three years.
A place where I’ve met new loves of my life, formed strange sibling-like bonds, and allowed my anxiety to experiment with professional identity.

(Not to mention I’m still basically there all the time, soaking up whatever creative juice I can until the next project.
And plus, I’m grateful to still be working.)

I feel like I’m at a strange point in life where, because I feel more like myself than ever, because I’ve been vocal about being ready to show the world who I really am I can’t help feeling like that young girl, throwing up in front of a bus of my peers, being my version of a human self and seeing if they’ll let me stick around.

And maybe there’s a small part of me that’s scared the same thing will happen to the things I make.
That people will be drawn in by the authenticity and weirdness, only for me to then pressure myself to deliver the kind of work I think they expect.

“It’s not an exact science but having to struggle is the only way to build a real vibe. If you’ve just coasted through life’s handouts... I fear you could be vibeless.”

Alexander Mae

I currently feel like Circe (the Madeline Miller version), daughter of the Titans.

For context:
The novel is set during the Greek Heroic Age, a retelling of various Greek myths, most notably The Odyssey, from the perspective of the witch Circe.
The beauty of this book is that it’s written by a woman, so this story finally feels more aligned with the truth missing from traditional “heroic” narratives.
Also, a great fucking read.

I’ve built my own island, experimented with herbs in the garden, learnt spells and the ways of the earth that I stand on.
I care for those who respect my space and send away those who do not.
My home is filled with trinkets and chosen scents to create an energy that is a haven for my sanity.
Heroes and foes come and go, telling stories of their worlds, a living library of experience.

Even as I write this, there’s a burning anxiety in my chest.
That fear of backing myself.
“What if I can’t recover if the world hates the purest version of me?”
“What if it all goes wrong?”
“What if this doesn’t make sense?”
“What if my worth can’t contribute to a community?”

Again, I know I’m more than that, but isn’t that human nature?
To want to be accepted?

However, I want to leave the island.
The stories are no longer enough.
But who am I out at sea?

All I need to know is: I’m confident in swimming.
Especially in flannelette Miffy pyjamas.

Author’s Note:
I want to take a page out of Circe’s book and ground myself to the island that is me.

Tonight, I’ve decided to refresh my vision board, crete something that feels more aligned with the person I want to be, rather than a copy of the ones I see on Pinterest or an episode of Such Brave Girls (S1 finale).
To make a list of things I love, and things I’ve always been curious about.

And to turn off my phone, disconnect, and forget that I’ve written such an embarrassing piece.

Music playing while writing: Bonobo (Artist)