Some songs act like keys. You hear the first three notes and a whole decade cracks open, dust and all. The other night I was making tea on a slow Tuesday,β¦
(Self-care was supposed to soften the edges of daily life, but somewhere between the jade rollers and the Sunday ritual planners, it grew its own to-do list.β¦
I spent most of my twenties carrying a small but stubborn list of regrets, the kind that followed me into new cities and crowded out the good days. It wasn'tβ¦
There is a particular kind of hesitation that arrives before I speak in a feminist meet-up β a small inward flinch, a tightening behind the ribs, the voice inβ¦
There is a particular kind of fear that arrives when a rabbit stops eating, sits unusually still, or turns away from a favourite treat. Their bodies are small,β¦
The phrase "mad woman" has been doing heavy lifting in our collective imagination for centuries. Long before social media turned every emotional outburst intoβ¦
Hosting a podcast can feel intimate, purposeful and surprisingly exposing. A microphone invites honesty, yet the act of speaking publicly about feminism,β¦
Sitting at my kitchen table in Melbourne with a flat white going cold beside me, I tried to write a letter to the girl I was at seventeen. She measured herβ¦
Anxiety doesn't wait for a convenient moment. It crashes through like a southerly buster rolling up the coast of Sydney, rattling windows and scattering calm.β¦
There's a particular kind of quiet that settles in when you realise you don't quite fit the story you were handed. You sit in a cafe in Newtown, or browse aβ¦