It's been a year...

Literally and figuratively. Includes a picture of my bedraggled broken thumb (jumpscare warning)

(Before you read – this post is free to all, and I would LOVE if you could share it with even one person you think might like this Substack. Trying to achieve growth right now for me is going as slow as molasses so a share or a recommendation would be a massive help).

It’s rare enough that I’d do this.

‘This’, by the way, means to write, spur of the moment, in the moment, directly into the app instead of doing my usual ‘concept - research - reading - further reading - writing into Google Docs - editing - posting’ cycle.

Another difference is that I’m writing this on my phone, in my car, parked up and with little phone battery left. I’ve no right to be using those last dredges of battery to write a Substack piece, but alas. I owe you. I’m showing up, because I didn’t last week and I’ve been under a constant cloud of guilt since over it.

What I *did* do last week, however, was break my thumb. Which, granted, isn’t an excuse not to write, but it certainly makes the whole endeavour harder. I was playing gaelic football, just during a normal game, and I jumped to catch a falling ball and instead of landing into the breadbasket my arms created, it crashed directly down onto my opposable digit. It was painful, I think I knew straight away that it wasn’t going to be an injury I could just shake off. Well, an x-ray or two later, three fractures identified and I was begloved in a wrist support with Nurofen coursing through my veins.

Who knew thumbs were so vital? Not me. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, etc.

Also, might I add: I’ve been told by MULTIPLE people this week that I should just “give that up”, meaning playing gaelic football. “You can’t be at that at our age” or “that’s the end of that now!”. I’ve had many people comment that playing sport is too risky and that it’s my own fault for ending up with an injury, and more people make me feel guilty for putting my body at risk (and so my ability to work/drive/tend to my family/be domestic) at risk.

Am I right in thinking this is an absolutely BANANAS hot take?

Am I wrong to pursue an outdoor, mental-health-bolstering, active and enjoyable sport just because (a) I’m not ‘young’ enough or (b) because there’s a chance I might pick up an injury? I find it baffling that anyone would advise against doing something that’s objectively good for me and objectively very happiness inducing… And so I’ll be back to the ball as soon as my thumb no longer resembles a badly beaten plum.

Back to the matter at hand (puns emerge from all angles when you find yourself without the use of one of yours).

First thing: I bloody missed the one year anniversary of my being on Substack, didn’t I?

Something that (whispers) Patreon did well was congratulate you on every teeny tiny milestone, and encourage you to share. Substack didn’t, and so I accidentally let the moment pass with no fanfare. So here:

FANFARE! ONE YEAR! WOO!

As magoo as it might seem to celebrate something so trivial in the grand scheme, I saw someone online saying that it’s good to celebrate the ‘small wins’, and I thought that was a lovely idea, so I’m doing just that.

It occurs to me also, here in my car, that I should say this:

I am really, really, really grateful for the continued support here. I honestly don’t take it for granted for a second. I realised the other day that I have been a professional writer for 16 years now, and for the last 12 months, YOU have been the people paying me to write. It’s an honour and a joy and I feel very lucky to have found each of you. Please don’t leave. (Did I cross the line into *too* vulnerable there?)

If you are new here — welcome. The best bits are behind a paywall, alas, but – great news – it’s not expensive. For about €1.50 a week (half the price of a coffee!) you can read everything and comment alongside other lovely readers. Come on in, we’re all very nice. And we hate trolls too. Sales pitch: Over.

Anyway so remember before, when I was talking about the Luteal phase (female menstrual cycle reference for anyone uninitiated) and how I, without fail, feel like a scabby toe throughout? I realised last month that based on my Flo app estimations, I’d be attending a wedding smack bang in the middle of The Lutes. Previously, I’d have prepped to within an inch of my life for the occasion and been nevertheless entirely disappointed on the day. I’d feel like crap, feel like I looked like crap and have a crap day.

But I think I’ve hacked the system. I found a way to circumvent the crap feeling and actually, dare I say it, feel kind of okay?

And here it is: Anticipate – nay – EMBRACE knowing that you’ll feel (and feel you look) like crap. I spent the week before the wedding just accepting my fate, knowing that the day would come and I shouldn’t expect to feel anything but grotesque upon seeing my own reflection, and then… The day came, and I didn’t feel grotesque. Like, I didn’t feel my 10/10 best, but because I’d prepared for the worst, I was pleasantly surprised when I scrubbed up reasonably well. I hope this works for you, because truly gals. There is nothing worse than feeling like a goblin during The Lutes.

Now look, this post is free to all subscribers and indeed to anyone who comes upon the link. It’s far from my best work – hello, it was written in my car on my iPhone with the Hamilton soundtrack playing and only one working thumb – but it might give a taster to those who don’t pay to subscribe what it feels like to get to the end of a piece? (Is it nice? Upgrade!)

I’ll be back tomorrow (no really) with a piece entitled ‘Ten things I’ve learned in ten months since my massive career change (working title)’.

In the meantime – it makes a HUGE difference to me and Substack if you like this post, or comment, or Restack, or share on social media (ALL of which are free to do!) and so I implore you to choose one and help a sister out.

I’ve also upgraded my normal ‘A’ sign-off to a proper signature, and I’m toying with the idea of a redesign, as if I have time for that sort of thing. Until later, cuties.