For a long time, coffee was the first thing I reached for when I woke up. Before messages, before the news, before I had to decide how I felt about the day,β¦
Depression can make ordinary life feel strangely distant. A morning shower becomes a task, the kettle seems too loud, and the familiar pleasures that onceβ¦
Writing about sexuality can feel like placing a private part of my life under a bright light. The words may be carefully chosen, but I cannot control everyβ¦
Letting go rarely happens in one dramatic moment. More often, an old pattern loses its grip through a series of small recognitions: noticing the same argument,β¦
When the thoughts start tangling into knots, I find myself standing in my Melbourne kitchen holding a fistful of fresh hay, slowly remembering that I am aβ¦
There's a particular kind of character who has taken up residence in our screens for decades, and lately she has been joined by several cousins. She is dreamy,β¦
Sitting in a Brunswick cafΓ© last autumn, nursing a flat white I barely tasted, I felt the familiar knot in my stomach. My therapist had just used the wordβ¦
When I sent the first edition of my weekly newsletter, I typed the subject line three times, deleted it twice, and then hit publish before I could talk myselfβ¦
I was halfway through recording an episode in a Brunswick cafΓ© last winter, latte going cold beside my microphone, when I realised I had not taken a single dayβ¦
I am writing this from a small table in a Brunswick cafe, where the coffee comes in thick ceramic cups and the playlist drifts between The Cure and Sade. Myβ¦