And so here's to you, wardrobe.

Here's to my burlesque basket, full of odd ripped stockings, pieces of costumes for abandoned concepts, stained bras, and lost gemstones. 2018 was the year I began performing, and that was undoubtedly a major player in my year. Joining burlesque and being adopted by my Steel City Sirens family has been transformative, for my relationship with myself and others. To get up on stage, armed with nothing but your own fantasies and imagination and push yourself off the cliff of your comfort is terrifying, and this year terrifying became magical. The odd mix of leaf bras, leather garter belts, and maid aprons made me fall in love with adrenaline, to reprogramme the feelings of anxiety and fear into opportunity.  In these looks, I learned the comfort of character dressing, the feeling of anonymity you can get from simply deciding to be someone else for the day. Within months I was heading out to the pub with my best friend, dressed as Lolita and Madonna because why not, both inamoured with the confidence and power we've gained from taking our kit off.

Here's to my polka dot culottes and pink fluffy jumper. I refused to let myself mope about in PJs, clutching my phone in one hand and tissues in the other, desperate for that boy to call. Instead, I wore trousers that felt like PJs and clutched a glass of rose, letting the wisdom of Samantha Jones and the Sex and the City girls wash over me. I coated myself in pattern and colour when I felt grey just so I could see happiness in the mirror. I draped long coats over the top and enjoyed the wind catching in the shapes when I dragged myself out for seaside visits with my friend and my mum. On the worst days, I managed to get dressed.

And on my best days, what I dressed in changed things. Here's to my bodycon dress, worn with confidence and assurance that I looked damn good, curves and hips and tiny boobs and all. As strange as it is to say, I think 2018 was the first time I saw and confronted my body. And god, nothing is more reassuring than having women cheer you on, nodding along in agreement. This year I talked about having curves, and the struggle to come to terms with them after being raised in a pre-Kardashians society. I talked about the feeling of being the curvey one and the challenge to not re-define that as the chubby one, learning to accept that these birthing hips will always look like this, so I might as well like them. And damn, in that dress, I worshipped them.

To my bikini; the holiday isn't one I care to remember just yet, I've accepted that this porcelain skin will never let me be a beach baby, but you looked good. And you look even better with some wide leg jeans, peaking out from a duster coat, on a November evening in Sheffield. Who knew a black bikini could be a symbol of reclamation?

Here's to my Mum's killer boots, my favourite secret weapon. Stomping my way across a rooftop in Camden, on my way to my dream internship at ASOS, in 2018 I learned to make noise. My very own kinky boots, this year I learned the power of the heel, forcing you to stand up straight and tall, making your footsteps heard, forcing you to walk with certainty when you might feel wobbly.  But mainly, stripping away the metaphors, here's to my Mum, for keeping me stomping on and cheering me on always. And one day I promise to forgive you for not keeping more clothes from the 80s, at least these boots make up for a lot.


Here's to my snake print coat. Not to be too dramatic, but I feel like my summer pivoted when I dug this yellow monstrosity out of the sample sale racks. My summer in London was described best by Dickens;

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I was nervous to walk into a fashion setting at my lowest, terrified that the Devil Wears Prada stereotype would ring true. But instead, I was assured of what I believed deep down, that fashion is good. ASOS wanted me to feel my best, the brand and all the people there are motivated by empowering others, and I felt that each day. I walked in day one in a basic jumpsuit and left on my last day in a sparkly star print dress, white mules and one too many animal print items. The coat sums it up. Before the summer I would have never put that on, and my sadness sure didn't match the happy yellow, but it felt right. Stomping round Camden in heeled boots, flare jeans, and yellow snake print felt right. When I couldn't feel my pride yet to celebrate myself, I could wear it through a one-of-a-kind loud jacket. And since, that piece has become me. The summer built me up until I could be that confident character, and now when I'm heading out to Tesco, oh I'll just throw on that bright yellow mac, just casual.



Here's to my pink and red clash, stood next to my best friend's animal print dress. Here's to living, drinking cheap wine in a mansion in Hampstead, winning free drinks in a dance-off, applying glitter eyeliner outside the tube stop, and crying on rooftops in pink denim.  Here's to Natasha, my partner in character dressing. Meeting a woman that loves fashion as much as I do was a blessing this year, but meeting a woman that also encourages me to wear my stupidest clothes for a simple pub trip, shout about my achievements, treat myself like a girl boss was an absolute miracle. We got through it all, and we looked fabulous while doing it. I feel like my year started in Summer, crawling out of heartbreak in a full face beat, animal print, and stupidly impractical shoes. Turns out if you dress like your Absolutely Fabulous heroes, you can adopt some of their spirits. Escapism becomes realism.


Here's to my fur coat, surviving into its third winter, still holding me like home. I didn't need new clothes to play a new role. My trusty fur coat feels like comfort and looks like a rich bitch at Christmas, and I wear it well, moving back to Sheffield still recovering but strong. And I end the year in that, my favourite coat, holding all the potential for any character I need to play to get me through the day. With leopard and red lips, or a jumper and jeans, all or nothing, screaming or quiet; I can dress for what I need, wearing soft fur as armour.

On the precipice of a New Year, I feel assured. When I put on my day, stepping into its spirit, I don't feel like I'm forcing it anymore. The snakeskin isn't hiding me as I've come to accept the multiplicity of the person I am, enjoying getting to know each side of me and the power of my sensitivity. I've got through a lot, but I've achieved even more. I finished my second year of uni with a 2:1, I put on six killer performances, I moved to London solo, I smashed my dream internship, I made some of the best friends with the best people I've ever know, and I carried myself through it all in some 10/10 looks.

Here's to the new year and the new people I'll be.

In Summer I looked to this flat as a goal, a light at the end of a dark tunnel. I desperately wanted to be well enough to thrive here, to make it a home and feel it so, for the first time in this city.

After a timeline of heartbreaks and tough times, Sheffield felt like a ghost town for me. I love this city, I'd be the first to advocate for its spirit and life, the creative blood that runs through it, and the communities its built through art and music. There is so much life here, but it felt dead for me. I thought I was done with it. And some places I am, I don't go to certain bars or parts of town, far too haunted to enjoy my pint. But this flat, I remind myself daily, is mine, it's new, reborn with me.

While living alone was daunting, coming into this flat with no one but my own company feels so right. I said in summer I wanted to live happily and radically alone, actively working on myself, and being selective of the energy I allowed through my door. And so far I think radical is the way to describe it, fluctuating from extreme highs to extreme lows, forcing me to confront and comfort myself far more than I knew I could.

At first, I filled it; I had friends round constantly, always the hostess, always busy. It took me about two weeks to realise that I was delaying the inevitable. I needed to freak out a little, it had to hit me that I was alone so I could start to learn to love it. Also, having friends round a lot just means you go through coffee and milk at an alarming rate.

My freak out came at around week three. In the excitement of freshers week and reunions, I hadn't even finished unpacking and settling in, my decoration still wasn't how I wanted it, it still didn't feel quite like a home. I turned down a night out and cried, home alone, for the first time. Being alone is terrifying, I don't know if we ever grow out of that feeling, flinching when you hear an unknown sound and always being a little bit scared of the dark. I definitely have days where I freak out a bit walking into my dark flat alone, or when I literally speak to no one else and go a bit stir-crazy.

It's not the kind of alone I imagined. I don't feel isolated at all, my best friend lives around the corner, and I go out more than I have any other year. I feel more involved and active than ever, and it's nice to have the space to offer up to others for meals, or pre-drinks, or even sleepovers when friends come to visit. We can lounge about on my sofas and not have to be sitting on top of each other when we watch a film or all sit around an actual table to have a meal, rare situations at university let me tell you. It's more of an internal sadness, the lingering insecurity that I'm 'doing uni wrong' by opting for solo living, or for sometimes turning down a night out to tidy my flat and do a facemask instead.
I have nights were I'm here alone, talking to no one, texting no one, bored out of my mind because I have no one else to rely on for entertainment, or to make me happy. That's the biggest thing. No one else is here to make me happy, no one is at my beck and call, I have no choice but to get on with myself.


My flat is now exactly how I want it. It's the haven of pink and feminism and pom-poms that I imagined it would be in summer. I've learned exactly what things and surroundings make me feel calm; each night I light my candles, turn on my fairy nights, and cuddle up to a hot water bottle with some tea, and each morning I open my curtains and put music on my speaker while I make my coffee. But the internal things take time. I'm slowly working on my issues with reliance, finally confronting them and learning to love my own company. I'm starting to feel it. I get giddy at the thought of my evenings, having complete freedom to pamper myself, do whatever I want, listen to whatever I want. No one can interrupt my flow, or dictate any of my choices, I can be completely and unapologetically selfish with no worries. Each time I take a 20-minute shower and perform a flawless one-woman show of Hamilton, I realise that I'm living in bliss.

It's all ups and downs. If I'm already low, it can be hell. Living alone in a creaky old flat and having anxiety is a challenge, and if my depression is playing up, the temptation to isolate myself from everyone and everything is tricky, but that's the point! It was always going to be difficult, I hoped it would be. I wanted these walls to test me, force me to work on issues that are too easily ignored or forgotten with company. I've had to step up for myself, learn how to calm myself, take my security and safety into my own hands completely, look after myself fully. My self-care has had to step up to full self-protection, preservation, love. I know myself now better than I ever have. Me and my mind spend a lot of time together, and I'm starting to think she's pretty great, she cracks me up daily at least.

They say you're all you'll ever have, you have to love yourself first blah blah, well living alone is a crash course in that, and I'm finally feeling like I can keep up.

I have always been fascinated by Andy Warhol and his entourage. The factory and its eccentric circle of artists, models, musicians etc, there is so much confusion and contradiction within its beauty. And then there's Edie, Andy's muse, the woman remembered as simple a muse.  I fell in love with her face and her style, then after watching Factory Girl, Sienna Miller's tragic portrayal made me fall in love with her story. The duo remains two of my favourite reference points, for the extremely minimal, to boundless maximalism.

'I love uniforms! ... It's better to always wear the same thing and know that people are liking you for the real you and not the you your clothes make.'

Andy Warhol is a symbol of simplism. His art cuts corners, and he didn't hide it. His most famous portraits are simply prints of photos with paint layered over the top, duplications made as a team with minimal artistic technique. Some may say he was false, obsessed with consumption and clinging onto pop culture, but that's the point. He knew that, he would be the first to say it. And that's why I love it. Everything about him was minimal, often doing entire interviews saying little more than a few words. And so I think of him on my minimal days, when I wear my blue jeans and leather jacket. I think of Andy in his breton tops and classic suits. Each time I pull on my black polo neck, I pay homage. He's my minimalist icon for when I want to wear a t-shirt and jeans and admire all the more extravagant things, I'll say 'oh yeah, that's great'.

'She was the first person to wear ballet tights as a complete outfit, with big earrings to dress it up. She was an innovator-out of necessity as well as fun... She was pretty incredible.'

Edie Sedgwick is quite the opposite; over the top in look and persona. I love the photos of her dancing in her tights and leotard, chandelier earrings swinging from her earrings; her bleached blond hair and iconic graphic black cut-crease makeup symbolise it perfectly. Edie was the ultimate it-girl, but also Andy's it-girl. While she was always maximalist in fur and jewels with a full beat, there's definitely a nonchalant effortlessness about it all as she is photographed smoking in a basic bra and pants, or a thrown on fur coat and baker boy hat. She always looks like she's going to or coming from a party, always an element of dressing-up. I love it, so so much. I wish I could just wear tights and big earrings, walk around with the same easy sex appeal. In it all, I see the joy of dressing. Andy summarises it himself, necessity and fun. While Edie was suffering massively from mental health issues, in her clothes I see a kind of power dressing, following her whims and shaking off the expectations on her from her high-class family. She defined her own glamorous, merging the high end maximalist with Andy's perfected casual. I aspire to do the same every day. Want to wear a t-shirt? I will. Want to wear a hot pink tasseled dress? I will.

Andy and Edie seem like the strangest and best friendship ever known, you can't have one without the other, inextricably linked and mutually inspiring. Somedays I'll be Andy casual, then the next I'll draw black onto my eyes and posing in my leopard print. And somedays, I'll be both, an ode to the perfect mess of their friendship.

Journal entry from 7th October

'Celebrate every tiny victory', I see it on pastel pink backgrounds daily, I've said it to others, I just can't do it.

I've lost track of how many times I've joked even just this week that I'm a has-been, or half-laughed through the phrase 'I peaked at 18'. And I really do believe these things, using them to both bully myself into action and doubt myself, vocalising the voice in my head that says no one care about what I do or don't do, so why bother. I tried to tackle this a couple of years ago by speaking success into existence and becoming what I wanted to be, I started calling myself a writer. It's a stupid little thing really, changing my instagram to a business account and calling myself a writer before I call myself a student, I signed off my emails with 'writer and editor, Lucy Harbron', I tried to be more forthcoming about what I was working on and what I had achieved. I say I am a writer, I am an editor, I am i am i am, but I haven't done any of these things in quite a while.

Despite having things published recently, I struggle to think of when I last wrote something that I would consider 'significant', shaming the rest of my work, shrugging it off. I beat myself up daily for not releasing an issue of Kiloran since February, voiding all the other work I've done in that gap. I count the years and months, since the release of my book, 1 year 5 months, considering each day I'm not releasing another to be a day further into insignificance and failure, ignoring the fact that I know my writing has improved since.

And in all of this, I give no value to the fact that I've survived all this time, that I've managed to keep up any productivity at all, pass uni, do an internship, recover from various things, and maintain relationships. Whatever I do is never enough.

In the worlds of fashion and writing, and I guess young creatives in general, that might be considered a good thing. Work hard play hard, grind until you own it, never stop, build your dream, always chase what's next. But I'm tired, where there is no finish line, I can't find a medal to give myself.

This isn't the first time I've written about this. I wrote about it at 19, and here I am at 20 unable to throw the feeling off, instead it gripping tighter and tighter with each passing month. The best way to put it is that I feel like I'm on a conveyor belt pushing me towards the end of the cliff. The cliff is the end of my degree, or maybe even my youth. The conveyor belt is time. And the only way I think I can stop it, or build a net, or make it at all easier or less scary, is to build things or make things or just do something so at least the belt isn't empty.

I think I never quite shook off the childhood idea that I'd be a star or a princess by now. I'm still wondering where all the success and satisfaction is. Slowly realising that it's in front of me, behind a sheet of glass I built.

It's hit a peak. I'm struggling, and each day of struggling makes me struggle more, bully myself louder for not managing to do something. Uni work, laundry, painting my nails, writing, painting, interviews, Kiloran prep. It stacks up into a microphone stand for the voice in my head, 'Lucy your past successes and all the ones coming in the future are now void, because you haven't written the blog post you said you would today, you are a failure.'

Somedays I manage to take my medication, shower and go for coffee. And I wish I could see that as enough, see my survival, my recovery, my self care as enough for that day. I wish I didn't have to always be more for myself. I wish I could find myself worthy as I am.

The stupidest thing is that I would place this on no one else. I tell my best friends to rest, to treat themselves kindly and remember that they are no their productivity and sometimes we all need a day. I just don't allow that to myself, too caught up in the pressure to maintain the pace of past achievements, do more, make more, stay active or else. I have no doubt in this world that my best friends will do incredible things, become important people and achieve amazing things, regardless of whether they spend today in bed or only manage to get coffee. But my depressed days sound like a death knell, today's sadness always seems to affect forever.

Even stupider, I still do it all. Here I am writing a blog post, I will release an issue of Kiloran this year, I'm up-to-date with uni work. I'm balancing things, still. My productivity is maintained and largely constant, but I treat myself, still, like a failure. I don't know what it will take to please myself. I pray one day I'll be enough.

Deep down I can recognise that I'm doing well. I know logically that I've done a lot, I do a lot and I do it well. But I don't feel it, always jumping straight to love for others but critique for myself. I hate the phrase 'you have to love yourself before you love someone else', because I love deeply, care deeply, believe so deeply in everyone else, and I seeing my friends give me that back. I don't think it's uncommon, I give my voice to the success of my friends and they voice mine back to me, blind to our own beauty and power, slowly letting each others words sink in.

We are trying our best. I am trying to believe in myself, to speak softly to my reflection, whether she's stuck in bed, or starting to write again.

Location : Bowes Museum @ the Catwalking: Fashion Through The Lens Of Chris Moore exhibition

Gone are the days when a love of aesthetics meant a lack of intellect. Our fashion bibles tackle social and political questions, we like our clothes with a touch of art history and our garments made with ethics. It's amazing, living in a time when fashion comes hand in hand with thought. But I think we still only see that from the inside, while others doubt the ability to do both looks and books.

Within the circle, we see it all. Tabloid art history giving us our references, Manrepeller telling it to us straight, Dazed celebrating queer culture. Our favourite bloggers refuse to bullshit us with faux perfect lives and refuse to accept any falsities calling out over-editing, exploitation and inequality as and when we see it.  We see fashion living and breathing and thinking, intersecting history and sociology and psychology and politics and art and literature and more, whispering secrets from present and past to learn about humanity. But from the outside, it's easy to just see pretty pictures of the Hadid's and Kardashian's without seeing their (somewhat questionable) advocacy and charity work.

The world still treats fashion as dumb. Fashion degrees are still considered as 'easy' options in comparison to academia, and fashion jobs are still seen as positions won through socialising and being pretty, rather than careers hard fought for and worked hard for. While I know I put in work to get my internship and all throughout my time there, I still feel the friction of eyeballs rolling each time I talk about social media as a job. It's not taken seriously, and I'm not either as a result. The intellects raise eyebrows at my fashion path, and the fashion kids are all too often shocked at my academic path.

Me? I feel more than comfortable doing both. Together and separate.

Let me talk you through a day in the life: Wake up. Spend 2 hours getting ready, sitting in front of my mirror singing along to musical theatre soundtracks, tracing hands over clothes till I pull together a look with full character reference and development. Go to uni and debate literature, feminism and theory. Get a coffee with friends and debate pop culture. Write an article, a blog post, work on my book. Watch youtubers show me the clothes they bought.

This isn't me switching between two different sides of me; I don't turn off one part when I start talking about books or leopard print boots. And my leopard print boots shouldn’t come into question when I start talking theory or feminism, or anything. A good outfit neither defines nor undermines intelligence. I serve looks and books, I use books to think up my looks, and I use the looks described in books in my analysis. Did you get that?



For me, I’ve always loved fashion for the thought in it, the lineage and legacies hidden accidentally in outfits. As a writer, I love character building, spending time picking out clothes and considering the historical and cultural references behind my choices. I like spending time researching time periods, the rights of women and the things they wore as protest or submission, then walking into a room with just a little bit of their power folded into my turtleneck. I like paying homage to people, places, periods. And I can do that through my clothes and the thought I put into it, or the person I step into when I slip on my shoes. I like dressing up to go to museums, and I like what I learn when I’m there. Looks and books, together.

Those that argue that fashion is shallow and thoughtless don't think about it enough, don't look close enough. They don't give us the credit we deserve, sending models down runways wearing history lessons, art lessons, political agendas, using both sides of our brain just to dress in the morning.

Fashion always has been intellectual, it's the world's favourite form of social and cultural signalling, protest, and empowerment. Each thing in your wardrobe is born from knowledge and history, your Topshop jeans are the youngest of a long family history if you think and listen closely. Within the circle, we're considering this. Treating all our purchases as sources to say who we are and what we stand for, to consider cultural significance, using our money as our vote to support or not support what a brand or a garment represents. We're academics, really. Our specialism is just what we put on our bodies, our cited texts the newest Guardian fashion article, Madonna music videos, biblical Madonna's and Instagram.

Maybe those still considering fashion stupid just aren't quite clever enough to get the references??

I talk a lot about self-care and healing, but I realised I've never talked frankly about mental health. And while no one ever needs to divulge their struggles in order to justify their need for self-care, and I strongly strongly believe that self-care should be practice regardless of the presence or luck lack-off mental health issues, I'm also more than aware of the multitude of self-care posts, in contrast to the clear lack of open, honest discussions about experiences with mental health services and treatments. My friend recently asked me about antidepressants, struggling to find any experiences online that were simply lists of side-effects or horror stories, and I was more than happy to talk about it. But I've never spoken about it online, strangely considering my verging on TMI openness on my platforms. It's weird, and I can't help but worry that even I've fallen into stigmatism, feeling the pressure to stay silent on the particular conversation of medication. And in the interest of rejecting that, let's discuss.

Here is a brief history of my brain...

I'd say I've struggled with my mental health since I was around 13/14, moving in and out of phases of deep lows and bouts of self-harm, probably symptomatic of my over-active imagination causing me to overthink and overthink and overthink. All attempts to get any support were shot down. When I spoke to a doctor, my self-harm and depression worsening, I was deemed 'fine' and refused any counselling or support; a story far far too common.

This continued on and off. I always considered myself recovered, carrying that label of 'fine' as a shield, staying quiet out of fear of bringing back the conversations about attention-seeking or faking it. Looking back, it wasn't healthy at all, but definitely, a reaction to over-run mental health services, always reactionary or crisis support rather than on-going help or preventative measures.

Alongside this, my emetophobia was gradually becoming more and more consuming. Emetophobia is the phobia of being sick, with symptoms including...feeling sick, mine specifically sparked by anxiety. It got to the point where I lost a lot of weight when I first moved to uni, so anxious that anything I ate made me feel sick, sending me into a panic. The weight loss from anxiety brought up some issues with body dysmorphia and disordered eating, so add that to the roster. I ended up isolating myself a lot, as alcohol became a big trigger and I felt extremely insecure making me not want to go out. I also was in a very isolating relationship, and struggled a lot to be around friends as I dealt all these things along with trauma from being sexually assaulted, while all my uni friends seemed to be having the time of their life. At this point I sought out some support and got counselling which was actually a really bad and unhelpful experience, making me a bit scared of any form of therapy.

And for the final chapter. October 2017 - At the start of my 2nd year of uni there was a  noticeable change, everything started to feel a bit more out of control with more mania. The best way I can think to explain it is that my blues became the mean reds, and for the first time I ceased to be high-functioning, and in all honesty, I felt that life was unlivable feeling like I was being carried away by my mind.

I went to the doctors after friends assured me that the university health service didn't turn people away, and I was lucky enough to have an amazing doctor that refused to let me scapegoat my pill for my mental health worsening, and calmly explained that the pill was actually putting a cap on the worse of it, and I had depression and anxiety. She talked me through my options, listened to me when I said I didn't want to do any kind of group therapy, assured me that I was worthy of treatment and support, and did everything she could help me when waitlists for mental health services can be months long.

The waitlist was the reason that she decided that medication might be the best option for me. 4 months wait for CBT, 2 months wait for eating disorder therapy, and they're lower than average wait times. At the place I was in, I was scared to wait that long, so after giving me a week to think about it, I was prescribed sertraline, a Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI), starting on a dose of 50mg.

The main reason why I wanted to write about antidepressants is because my experience has been totally and utterly average, neither amazing or awful. I think it's important to have people's experiences out there beyond fear-mongering articles or miracle testimonials. Anti-depressants remain a very taboo topic, causing casual conversations on the topic to be few and far between, and making it hard for people to find any advice when they're considering it as an option. And for that reason, I'm going to talk this through as fully as possible, which may be boring but I wish I could've found things like this during the week I was trying to make my decision.

Short-term

The doctors warn that the worse side-effects will come within the first couple of weeks, so it's important to have another appointment about a week after going on the medication in case there are any serious effects. I was lucky. While I had some really minor side-effects like a metallic taste in my mouth, slight drowsiness, tummy aches, I escaped any nausea which was my main fear, scared of triggering my phobia.

In the first week, I did struggle with drowsiness. I'm normally really energetic; up-early, no-napping. So when I was suddenly feeling the need to snooze in the middle of the day, that really got to me as I felt unproductive and lazy and awful. But my doctor assured me that this does stop and is just your body working harder to process the extra hormones etc, and eventually it did.

A lesson I quickly learnt; don't drink when you first go on medication. My doctor had said that I could still drink on sertraline but warned me that my tolerance might have gone down and it might make me drowsy. On Halloween, about 3 weeks in, I had a couple of glasses of wine and lost my mind. A really minor trigger majorly upset me and all the mania came back both mentally and physically as I felt nauseous and kept shivering. I realised that I was probably going to have to rebuild my tolerance and take it slow for a little while.

Struggling with alcohol really upset me as I worried it would leave me feeling isolated at uni again as I was suddenly back to either not going out or feeling the need to go home halfway through the night. I think something important to remember is that going on anti-depressants isn't like taking a paracetamol. It will have an effect on your body, and it is going to take a while to get used to it so you have to allow yourself that time. Once I accepted that and started going at my own pace, it got easier.

About 4/5 weeks in, I noticed a drop. I suddenly felt like all the effect had disappeared and the blues were getting deeper. After weeks of being more functioning, I was back to struggling to concentrate on work or go into uni, so I went back to the doctors and my dosage was raised to 100mg. Apparently, this is really common, some people just need the extra boost if those mean reds are stubborn, sometimes your body can get used to 50mg too quickly and easily, and the effects fade to zero.  I stayed on 100mg until about April/May 2018.

All in all, the short term was A-Okay. I didn't have any major side-effects and I quickly felt better. I think a couple of my blips came from refusing to accept that I needed to slow down a little and let my body chill. Listening to your body is so important, and I'm glad I've learnt that now.

Long-term

As the months went on I got used to alcohol again. I'm still a sleepy drunk, but I can easily last a full night out without becoming overwhelmingly upset or tired. I'd actually say that I can drink better than ever, with less anxiety as the symptoms of phobia dulled and became way easier to handle.

I'd say that's the main outcome, all the symptoms have dulled. I don't get as many physical anxiety symptoms anymore when I used to get bad headaches and nausea, panic attacks have pretty much stopped, and my sadness doesn't spiral into uncontrollable fits of mania anymore. In general, I feel stable and my doctor agrees. I was really worried about this dulling, with so many articles dubbing anti-depressants the enemy of creativity if it's muting your emotions. I didn't feel this, but I never could write during the mean reds. But my medication definitely hasn't muted my emotions, I remain my over-effected, over-emotional self without the sharp edges. It hasn't eradicated all the sadness, I've still had some really bad depression lows but they're definitely more handleable. I think that's the main thing, one pill isn't going to rid you of all negative emotions or anxious feelings, I think you remain depressed and/or anxious but life is liveable, you can function, and everything is lighter.

I think it has to come hand in hand with other treatment. I eventually got therapy, seeing an eating disorder specialist that does CBT. I really think without going on medication, therapy would have been lost on me. I think I needed to be stable before being forced to confront my issues, otherwise, it wouldn't have been productive. Now, I feel like I've made progress and I'm in the right place to be able to confront issues logically and actually processing them rather than spiralling.

Almost a year on I'm ready to start weaning off the medication, having already dropped down to 50mg again. I'm kinda scared, but days when I forget to take it (stupid mistake) I manage to get through the day just as easy, sometimes with a headache and the shakes. And again, I'm so lucky with my doctor who always keeps in contact with me, and assures me that there's support in place during and after I come off the medication.

To conclude my experience has been uneventful and average, but life-saving. I'm now functioning and happy. I get little to no physical symptoms, my low points aren't as crippling, my high points feel cosy and warm without burning or leaving me anxious, and my phobia has become manageable and no longer has a daily effect on my life. Definitely a success story, not without issues, however. But the medication can't take all the credit, and I don't think it ever should, my therapist and doctor deserve praise after praise for teaching me that depressed and anxious thoughts can be processed and passed over simply by pausing to think logically, who knew?!

I still have depression and anxiety, I still suffer from both of those things. But sertraline has helped me become stable and feel like life is liveable, and more than that, it's exciting. And I think experiences like mine, not instantly fixing or horrifically terrible, should be shared more, and we should talk about these little pills that so many of us are popping every morning, helping us live the day.

PS. If anyone wants to talk to me more about any of the issues raised in this post, feel free to DM me on Twitter or Instagram x

Shoes: ASOS (here)

It's hard to imagine the girl that got on the train and moved to London just over two months ago, the girl that wholeheartedly believed she couldn't do it and cried way more than she smiled. I don't know her anymore.

When I moved I was the saddest I've probably ever been. I felt shattered, reeling from unexpected, brutal heartbreak, and trying to process and prepare for a huge life event in the eye of a hurricane. I felt overwhelmed and all I could do was cry while everything was spiraling around me. My mum asked the question again and again in the days before I moved; 'are you actually going to be able to do this?' Well, I did.

In the midst of the pain, I didn't want to hear peoples words of encouragement. I shut my ears each time someone told me London would help or said I would come back changed so much for the better. And if I have one regret about my time in London, it would be spending so much of it so sad. I lingered in the loss for several weeks, going through all the motions, mourning, crying a lot, working through it all. And while I know it was necessary and healthy, and I know I still managed to experience so much and live fully in that time, it's annoying that I spent so long with tight lungs and a knot in my stomach.



But everyone was right. London did help me, and one of the things I'm most proud of is managing to adopt the city into my self-care routines. I allowed myself to shrug off the pressure to always go out and be busy, and let myself have down days. And London made it so easy for me, there's always something to do, but at the same time there are always places to hide. Hackney Wick became my favourite haven. So much quieter, people walking slowly, it was a rare area of calm not too far out of central. Taking my laptop, walking until I found a coffee shop and just sitting, quietly and alone, for hours gave me the space I needed to process things without isolation. Once I started to adopt the city, I stopped feeling like I was drowning. Once I stopped saying I was lonely each time I was alone, I stopped feeling it.

Top: ASOS (here) Bag: ASOS (here)

I was never alone anyway. I can say now that I'm so thankful for that heartbreak. Without that pre-move panic and pain, and my vulnerability forcing me to make connections, I wouldn't have met so many amazing people and I don't think I would've been as emotionally available to them. It's weird, I have best friends that I had never met 10 weeks ago.

To name one, Natasha. What would I have done without Natasha? When I was thrown into the deep end, Tasha was a lifeboat, forcing me to come out for a drink to celebrate my arrival, and forcing celebration on me my entire trip. Having a friendship that was instantly so accepting and open, was an absolute savior. Without becoming too cringe, I'll never be able to thank Natasha enough for being by my side, and I'll always remember the summer of kinship as we were both figuring it all out as we went along.

The women I met saved me, they reminded me that I was doing well, took me out, stayed in with me, and made me have fun when I still left so smothered. I was the most social I've ever been and I'm so in love with everyone I met, and so inspired by them.  Alice, Char, Holly, Emily, Amy, Tina, Ellie, Evie, Rufaro, all the girls at work, my fellow interns, and all my friends that came to visit. I was never alone, and I feel more loved and supported than ever. Cities can be daunting, you suddenly become so small in comparison and it's easy to feel alone in the crowd, but when you see it as an opportunity, it becomes one.


As unrealistic as it seems at the time and no matter how much you hate people for saying it, you have to wait out for healing and you'll wake up okay one day. I don't remember exactly when it was, but by mid-august, I was waking up happy. I was aware that I was having fun, able to celebrate myself, breathe easy. When my best friend Sophie came to visit, I felt changed and she noticed it. I was excited about life and the future, I wanted to go out and do everything and see everything, I desperately wanted to make up for lost time. I realised when I was showing her around that I felt assured, I knew my way around, I could navigate the tube without a second of worry, the word anxiety didn't cross my mind. But even more than that, I felt confident in myself. Obviously working in fashion is such an echo-chamber, you see the most out-there outfits day today so nothing is too much or shocking. But now, I'll go out in whatever I want without a second thought. My favourite things to wear have become some of my boldest pieces; my snake print coat, my pink and red clash top, my denim boilersuit etc. My outfits of black and navy have ended up further and further back in my wardrobe, my trainers have been swapped out for mules and heeled boots. I stopped caring about overdressing, and starting indulging in my love for dressing and curating a look and a character. I bought bigger earrings, colourful eyeshadows, each thing getting louder and louder. Natasha pointed out last week that my wardrobe has become a testament to my growth, I'm 10x the person I was when I arrived and I've got outfits to prove it.

The anonymity of London does so much good. You can wear what you want, go to a club and dance as ridiculously as you want, singing with your friends walking down the street at 2pm, sit alone in a cafe, mess about on the tube, no one cares. The city is so busy and so shocking that the freedom is endless, no judgment and hardly even a second look. I loved that, and it's an attitude and a confidence I'm excited to carry forward, even if I'm leaving behind my dance partners.

And the city lets you have fun, like so much fun. There's always something to do and I tried to do it all. Shows, gigs, clubs, parks, museums, galleries, shops, parties, press events, cool neighborhoods, restaurants, bars. I tried to do as much as I could, and I only missed two things off my list; bikes in Hyde Park and seeing a show at The Globe. But I have no regrets, it's just an excuse to go back. And I'm going to work so hard to go back.

After however many DMS and questions, I’m finally going to talk about it; how I got my internship at ASOS. Let's dive straight in shall we…

Obviously, internships are hugely helpful when it comes to getting a job, so a while back I signed up to a bunch of internship newsletters, so monthly I get an email with a list of internships up for grabs. One of those was run by The Tab, and almost a year ago now, an ASOS content and engagement internship was advertised. Honestly, I kind of laughed when I apply, like come on, it’s ASOS. But I thought what’s the harm in trying. The process was split into 3 parts; CV, video interview, assessment centre.

CV

So obviously the first part was to upload a CV and cover letter to their database. So here’s tip number 1; make your CV look nice. If you’re applying for anything in a creative industry, you have no excuse to have an ugly CV or an uninspiring cover letter. They don’t care about the cookie-cutter letter content, so I laid myself bare. In my letter, I wrote about body confidence, and the power of fashion to make people feel good and how I believe that ASOS is pioneering this belief. I put any and all experience into my CV; any site I’ve written for, any day/week of work experience I’ve done, Saturday jobs. Like my CV was bulky, and obviously, I included this blog, my magazine and my book. ‘Unofficial’, self-made things definitely look good, they show drive and passion, and they actually remember me at work from some of the things on my CV.

If your CV is weak, time to get pro-active. I’ve always been an exceptionally keen bean when it comes to experience within the circles I want to move in. My best advice would be to just send out email after email, and DM after DM to any local business or creative that you admire, or reach out to anyone that works in your area of interest. Even a days experience or a coffee can be super super useful, contacts are always good, and I promise you it’ll give you a fresh burst of motivation.
This is the slowest part of the process, sometimes taking months to get any response. So don’t get your hopes up, but equally, don’t be disheartened if it’s been two weeks and you still haven’t heard anything. I think it took almost a month to hear back from ASOS, but I did, and I was offered a video interview.

Video interview

The scariest part of the entire process. For big companies, video interviews are becoming more and more popular, using apps like Hirevue, which basically give you your question then film your response and send it off.

I won’t lie, this was terrifying. I had no idea what to expect or to prepare, so I just learnt the skeleton of the company; it’s origin, names of CEOs, names of insiders and people they’ve worked with recently. I looked over all the social channels and tried to mention things they’d done. In general, the questions are pretty vague, the typical ‘what makes you right for the position’ kind of questions. But the format, with the app automatically recording you and giving you limited time to think, is daunting. I think the main thing is just trying to be as calm as possible and be yourself, try and get as much enthusiasm and personality across as possible, and don’t worry if you fumble on your words and don’t say the exact right thing, they understand it’s stressful.

At this stage, I regretted not doing more research into the company’s competition so you can learn from my mistake.

I thought it went absolutely awfully. Afterwards I'd resigned myself to not getting it, but then 2 weeks later I got an email inviting me down to London to the assessment centre. I got the invite on the same day that I signed for my flat in Sheffield, so I had champagne to celebrate.

Assessment centre

I’ve only ever done one of these, so I can only talk about my experience with ASOS, but I imagine it’s pretty typical. An assessment centre is basically an interview with a task involved, that they normally give you to prepare for in advance.

My assessment centre was in 3 parts; a group task, a presentation, and a personal interview. For the interview, they gave us a particular structure to study called the STAR method, which is a specific way to answer interview questions that covers your experience and what you learnt from it. For this I prepared by knowing my experience and how to talk about it, thinking of particular tasks or jobs that were difficult and how I dealt with it etc. The normal interview stuff.

For the presentation, they gave me my task about two weeks in advance; plan a campaign for denim to cover all social channels, the homepage and style feed. And I. went. In.

For mine, I decided to focus on denim that wasn’t blue or black and to avoid jeans. Instead, I went for colourful or patterned denim, co-ords, denim tops, denim suits etc. My vibe was to image the spice girls, then style them all in denim. There were 15 other people in my assessment, all with the same brief, so I think picking something different is important. Also going that extra mile goes a long, long way. We were told that they wouldn’t be screens so to print out our presentations. And while others had printed powerpoint slides or vision board, I played on my strengths and made a zine. I printed 3, one for each assessor to keep, and put time into making it look brand appropriate and high quality. Honestly, I think this is what put my foot in the door. Effort pays off.

Presentations are not in my comfort zone. I hate them. I always end up stuttering, speaking way to fast, and then hating myself for forgetting things. So I tried to prepare enough that I knew my plan like the back of my hand, but I avoided rehearsing, so I didn’t stress myself out or make myself panic if I did happen to forget something. I put everything in my hand out, so if I did happen to forget something, it was there and they knew I’d thought about it. And on the day, I just tried to take my time and move through it logically. The atmosphere was amazing, from the minute we arrived everyone was so lovely and made us feel so comfortable and welcome. They chatted with us and provided food and drinks, and really just did everything to make us the least stressed we could be. So going into the presentation, I felt as calm as I possibly could at my dream job interview. I stumbled a couple of times, but I did my best. And that’s all you can do. Put in effort, try your hardest, get your point and your personality across.

The group interview was fun, like actually fun and stress-free. In groups of three, we had 40 minutes to plan a Valentine's campaign. The trick here is t be assertive and organised, without speaking over anyone. It’s all about balance, getting yourself noticed in a good way rather than coming across too dominating. I made sure to not speak over anyone, but then spoke up and communicated my ideas. I think what won them over on me at this stage, was me prompting the team towards finalising plans when we had 15 minutes left. Time management is a big deal, and being organised, especially when working in a team, is a must. So be that person. Have all the good ideas, communicate them calmly, listen well, and then drive the team towards finalisation. Don’t worry too much, people will be there and will notice all the good ideas you have and all the things you do, so if you’re shy like me, don’t be down on yourself. People will notice if you’re doing good, even if you’re not the loudest one in the room.

At the end of the day, I thought I’d done well on 2/3 activities; my interview and my group task. My presentation went well, but it’s hard to feel confident when something isn’t your strong point. But all in all, I felt good.

At this point, it’s important to realise how well you’ve already done. To get invited down to HQ, or get an interview, you’ve already beat out thousands and thousands of people. So they see potential, and that’s a big deal. So on my way home, I tried to remind myself that even if I didn’t get it, they know my name and they saw something in me. I’d already done 100% better than I thought I would when I half-jokingly applied.

When they called a week later and offered me the position, I cried on the phone. I’d done it.

So my top tips;

1) Apply even if you don’t think you’ll get it, or even if you don’t have exactly what they’re looking for. If you’re passionate, they’ll notice. And you have 100% more chance of getting it if you actually apply.

2) Don’t worry too much. They know it’s stressful and scary, they expect slip-ups and stumbles, it’s fine. Just worry about being yourself and showing your enthusiasm and personality. Also, I think getting your ethics across is super important, for me body positivity and representation are things I advocate massively and I know ASOS does too, so I made sure to talk about this whenever I could.

3) Effort. Effort. Effort. Effort. Go the extra mile, always.

4) Remember you’ve already done so well, and trust in your skills.

5) You don’t have to be extroverted, or the loudest one in the room. They’ll notice you if you do good.

Any other questions let me know, and if you’re in dire need of a CV boost, contributor to kiloran magazine has a nice ring to it.

Read Natasha's blog HERE

I've always been drawn to the extravagant, just ask my mum and she'll tell you the struggle to get me out of a princess dress and plastic heels when I was younger. My childhood photos are full of silly hats, bright colours, and costumes, all picked out by me. And it continued, my favourite character in any show has always been the most extravagant with my love for Ab Fab and Sex and the City proving it.  I feel my eyes move towards the vibrant, and my heart towards the bold.

But you definitely couldn't see that in my outfits, or really my personality. While I've gone through my fair few of phases (don't scroll far back on this blog) I've always gone with convention, floating along in the waves of trends coming and going, scared off from items I loved by the fear of looking stupid. However, the fear seems to have swiftly left.



Maybe it's working in fashion and having access to sample sales that let me test the water with more out-there items without breaking the bank. Maybe it's the anonymity of London. Maybe it's the incredible women I'm surrounded by, who all dress like superstars and support me like I'm one too. Maybe it's my total and utter love for burlesque and sadness that I can't live in my costumes every day. Maybe it's watching AbFab for the 1000th time. We'll never know, but over the last month, I've been stomping out of my comfort zone and into the fun zone in my vintage leather boots.

I like clothes that make me laugh or gasp, completely ridiculous, man-repelling or 100% trashy. My Mum dispairs each time I pick up a red vinyl skirt, or some leopard print flares and laugh, 'these are amazing'. And at a trying time, I need things to make me laugh more than ever, so I'm going to buy all the ridiculous, ugly-beautiful clothes I can get my hands on. There's humour and joy and magic in inventing a character that would wear pieces like that, I like to try them on for the day/night. When I wore my snake print skirt with my boots and a pinafore, I was a 1960s Dagenham girl. When I wore my pink and red silk top, I was Alabama from True Romance. When I wear my cherry print flares, I'm a 70s babe going to a gig. The storyteller in me creates a full backstory, and my inner child gets to play pretend. And I, the real 20-year-old Lucy heading to work, gets a giggle each day when I pull things out of my wardrobe or walk out of a sample sale with new costumes in my hand to try on.

It's my favourite form of escapism. My shy soul draped in vibrancy and bravery. And even on my worst days, I can't help but smile to myself when I'm walking down Hampstead high street at 5 pm in pink and animal print with hearts drawn onto my cheeks, projecting a personality that couldn't be further from how I feel, but I'm infatuated with the image of her.

I don’t remember when I first fell in love with Frida Kahlo, although admittedly (and embarrassingly) it wasn’t long ago. However, I do remember the first painting of hers that caught me; Self-portrait with Cropped Hair. Frida sat, dressed in a suit, surrounded by her hair, and the words, in Mexican;

‘Look, if I loved you it was because of your hair. Now that you are without hair, I don’t love you anymore.”

I remember thinking of her as I stood in my bathroom in first year, scissors in hand and hair on the floor, desperate to rid myself of something, someone.

I remember walking away from someone, going home and watching the film Frida through tear-filled eyes and sometime in the duration, realising I was crying for her and not me.

I remember unwrapping an illustrated book of her life, a gift from someone I loved. And then clinging to it when they broke my heart.

If you don’t know Frida Kahlo beyond her signature look of unibrow and flower crown, educate yourself. Here is a brief history; Born in Mexico, Frida grew up around her photographer father and got into art at a young age as a result. She contracted Polio as a young child and then was in a serious accident at 18 causing her lifelong pain and medical problems. During her recovery was when she started creating art consistently and decided to become an artist. She was also a communist and met her husband Diego Rivera when she joined the Mexican Communist Party. After one of Diego’s murals was taken down, due to his depiction of Lenin offending Americans, Frida began to dress in traditional Mexican clothes and really drawing on her culture in her art. She suffered, a lot. Pain, miscarriages, an unfaithful husband, deaths. And this pain is translated so beautifully, yet literally, into her art. Until the 1970s she was really only known as Diego’s wife, but in recent years her art has been recognised fully, and Frida has become an icon.

To me, Frida’s art is characterised by strength and defiance. Although you can see the pain so clearly and fully, she never dulled her colours and always painted herself as strong, beautiful, goddess-like. Even in her most heart-breaking works, created during her hardest moments, she pained herself in duality, always with a stronger version of herself protecting her. I love it. She was such a complex and fascinating woman, she suffered far far more than most but yet had a solid sense of self and assurance in her own strength and capability. When her health left her bed-bound, she had a mirror installed in her canopy so she could continue to pain. When she suffered a life-threatening miscarriage, she reclaimed her trauma, painting it onto her corset under a communist sign. When Diego cheated on her, she held tight to her sexuality and cheated on him right back, forever known as one of history’s most enticing women.

The V&A exhibition; Frida Kahlo: Making Herself Up, was built out of her wardrobe. After her death, Kahlo’s bathroom remained locked, and upon unlocking only a couple of years back, it was found to be full of jewellery, make-up, clothes, medical records, artwork, letter, all personal items giving a deeper insight into her life. And what a life.

I could’ve cried, standing and looking at her prosthetic leg complete with embroidered red leather boots and medical corsets painted by her hands during recovery. Seeing these things, empty medicine bottles, half used nail varnishes, it made it all so real. She was a real person, she lived just like I do, she got by and fought. Seeing these simple things, next to her art and iconic outfits, full of life and colour and culture, I felt like I knew her better, like I could see her coping mechanism.
When I feel my worst, I force myself to dress my best. I get up, do my make-up the best and boldest I can, pick out an outfit that covers over every inch of my sadness and insecurity and go out into the world, confident that I look good so I can feel good too. I think she did the same. The bright, traditionally Mexican outfits she’s famous for, covered with embroidery and dripping in big necklaces, earrings and rings, it was like she was drawing attention away from her weakness. Her outfits purposefully made to cover her leg ravished by polio, and big enough to go over her corset painted with the memory of her lost child. She hid it all under the one thing she was certain of, her Mexican heritage and its matriarchal history of strong women.


I’m a huge believer in the positive power of fashion. I’ve written about it many times and given the chance I’ll always rant on about it. But the clothes you were can be an armour, it’s so easy to invent yourself and re-invent the next day. You can wake up and pick a shield out of your wardrobe if you just need something to hide behind for a day. You can paint colour and joy onto yourself when you can quite make it. There’s so so much power and potential in it, Frida knew that. An incredibly strong woman, made stronger by the clothes she picked, purposefully chosen for that reason. She invented herself when her outer and inner didn’t match up, the might of her brain versus the body battling illness and pain her whole life.

The exhibition was exceptionally curated. Moving through her life, to her belongings, then ending in a wide-open room full of her art, jewellery, and clothes combined. It allowed you to know her inside and get some context before putting it together with the final image of her armour. Paired with dark lighting and nature sounds, it was hard to not get emotional. The whole crowd felt the same, silently taking it in, wanting to see everything and read everything, as each annotation and caption gave away a little more, another clue about her enigmatic life.

I could’ve stayed there forever, staring at tiny details. But I sighed, unable yet to articulate all the feelings, bought a postcard and left, smiling to myself at all the young girls dressed up as her, their idol. I clung tighter to the patch on my denim jacket, Frida my saint of strength, perseverance and power.