DECEMBER
The End of Another Year
The last few weeks of the year always seems to force us into reflection, whether we want to or not. It forces a collective pause as we slide through December with all its glittering Christmas decorations. We are encouraged to look over our shoulder, to look back. We measure the progress we’ve made for the year, examine our failures and make ambitious plans and resolutions for a year yet to arrive. It is ritualistic, and a little exhausting, but also necessary.
The end of another year is peculiar in a way. It’s almost a no-man’s-land between the beginning and end of the year you are living in. It is in this gap that we find ourselves asking questions. “What did this year mean? What did I do with it?” The answers to those questions will offer up comfort for some as they recall, trips taken, challenges faced or maybe a promotion won. Others may feel a sense of regret at plans that weren’t met, things that they could not control. If we’re looking at this honestly, we probably all fall somewhere in the middle.
The Pressure of Resolutions
There is, of course, the unavoidable conversation about resolutions. Every December, society dusts off the same tired checklist: lose weight, quit smoking, save money, travel more, work less, eat better, exercise often. The very fact that the list never changes is evidence enough that most of us don’t keep these promises. Still, we cling to the ritual. Resolutions give us the illusion of control over a future that is, by definition, uncontrollable.
I reject the resolution game altogether. Instead, I choose to do something creative in my year. Continue my writing. Read a certain number of books. Read outside of my comfort zone. Maybe do a course and learn something new.
Looking Back with Honesty
The end of the year also brings the temptation to edit our memories. Social media of course hands out the glossy memories. But we don’t post about the losses. We don’t post of days that we barely made it out of bed. We don’t post of days where the loss of family members hit hard. We don’t post of the days that we remembered to pay a bill just in time.
Looking back in and with honesty does not mean that we dwell in negative thoughts. It just shows that we examine all memories, the daily survival, alongside the grand moments. A year is not only measured in milestones. It is measured in the ordinary hours that make up the bulk of our existence.
The Weight of Time
What makes the end of the year so heavy is the awareness of time itself. Each December feels like both an ending and a reminder that endings keep coming. The years pile up quietly, stealthily, until you suddenly realise how many you have already lived. There is a bittersweetness in that awareness. For me, my thirties were okay. I detested my forties. I embraced my fifties.
For the young, the end of the year is just a marker, another chapter in an endless book. For those further along, it can feel like the pages are turning faster than they used to. The difference is not the clock—it’s our perception of it. There is a saying that time feels quicker as we age because each year becomes a smaller fraction of our lived experience. A year to a ten-year-old is a tenth of their life. To a fifty-year-old, it’s one-fiftieth. No wonder December feels like it comes around more quickly each time. This year, 2025, it most definitely has moved fast. Moreso than others.
Gratitude and Grief
The final weeks of the year also magnify gratitude and grief. Gratitude, because we can count the people and moments that gave the year its brightness. Grief, because the end of the year also highlights the absences—the loved ones no longer here to celebrate with us, the opportunities we missed, the relationships that ended. I have lost many people, none more painful than my husband and my mum. Those losses, while they can be compartmentalised and “managed,” never lose their pain. Little things trigger memories.
Holidays sharpen these emotions. For some, December is the most joyful season. For others, it is the loneliest. The lights on the tree might sparkle, but they can also cast shadows. It is important to remember that duality is essential. We should make space for both joy and sorrow, for both thankfulness and ache. The end of the year is big enough to hold them all.
What Do We Carry Forward?
So, what do we do with the closing of another year? Some people make elaborate plans, charting goals and drawing up vision boards. Others keep it simple. Me? Mine is to stay alive and keep breathing.
The best approach is to carry forward not the pressure of perfection but the practice of presence. Instead of deciding to reinvent ourselves every January, we might decide simply to notice life more fully as it happens. It is important that we realise the important things in life. Important things are not homes, cars, and holidays. Important things are holding hands with your partner. Important things are cooking together, making memories. Important things are watching a movie together. Big things are remembering the sound of your loved one’s voice. If the end of the year teaches us anything, it is that life is made of memories. Some may be big, some small. They may not be headline-worthy, but they are what sustain us.
A Collective Pause
The end of another year is also one of the rare times when the world seems to pause together. It is as if humanity takes a deep breath at the same time before stepping into the unknown again. We may not all celebrate the same holidays, but we share the experience of marking time, acknowledging its passage, and preparing to begin again. There is something profoundly unifying in that ritual.
Closing Thoughts
As the calendar runs out of days, we find ourselves at that familiar threshold once again. The end of another year is both ordinary—it happens every twelve months—and extraordinary, because no two years are the same. This one may have brought triumph, or tragedy, or simply the steady hum of routine. Whatever it held, it is now complete.
We cannot change the past, nor can we predict the future. What we can do is stand in this moment—the strange, suspended time between ending and beginning—and take stock. To honour what has been, to release what must go, and to step forward with as much courage and hope as we can gather.
The end of another year is not really an ending at all. It is a reminder: that life continues, that time moves forward, and that we have the chance, once again, to begin.
NOVEMBER
Addiction: A Silent War
Addiction is not a concept. It’s not a TV storyline, something that we tune into each week. It is not a headline buried in the newspaper. Addiction is real. It is walking beside you at work. It is behind closed doors of houses. It is in the open on the streets of your city. It may even be sitting across the dinner table from you. Addiction is a silent war. Addiction does not discriminate.
We look on addiction as a choice. ‘He chose to drink.’ ‘He took the drugs.’ But it is more than that. It is an illness. More than that, it is one that thrives on shame and secrecy as well as society’s reluctance to confront it.
Staying Quiet about Addiction
One of the cruellest aspects of addiction is that not only does it convince the sufferer that they need to hide; it tells them that there is shame in it. It’s a whisper in the dark to the addicted that says, “be ashamed, don’t tell anyone. You are alone. No one will understand. They will judge you.” The trouble is that society echoes that sentiment. We shake our head if we feel a person is drinking too much. We might express concern at a family member who is gambling. We see someone we love taking medications just to get through the day. They get labelled. The one-word label. Addict.
But does an addict wake up and think, ‘today I’ll drink a bit and ruin my life’ or ‘today I’ll gamble away the kid’s college fund;’ no, of course they don’t. There is usually a trigger but by the time that addiction has tightened its hold, the line is blurred. Is it choice or a compulsion?
A Disease with Different Faces
If I mentioned addiction, most would think drugs or alcohol. But there is so much more to it than that. Gambling. Pornography. Social media. Food. Prescription medication. Shopping. Even exercise, when pushed to the extreme. Addiction is not defined by the substance or behaviour, but by the relationship to it, by the way it takes control and reshapes a life.
And if we’re honest, many of us have danced at the edges of addiction without realising it. That second glass of wine that becomes a nightly habit. The endless scrolling that devours hours of our day. The urge to buy something, anything, just to feel better for a while. Addiction is not “out there;” it is much closer to home.
The Human Face of Addiction
We can throw statistics around to our hearts content, but statistics never capture raw reality. Numbers don’t show a mother in tears because her son has relapsed. They do not show a man in a pawn shop giving away his wedding ring for betting money. They do not show the teenager who feels worthless due to the endless social media she consumes, unable to stop scrolling. They do not show the young adult unable to stop taking prescribed pain pills after a surgical procedure. That is the reality of addiction.
Addiction breaks families. It drains the bank. Careers are destroyed. But more than anything else, it erodes a person from the inside out. It strips away dignity and hope. Their sense of who they are is destroyed. One of the greatest issues is societal reaction to addiction. When society responds with punishment and criticism as opposed to compassion and sourcing the root of the issue, the addictive cycle deepens.
Why We Get It Wrong
Why and how do we get it so wrong? We arrest and lock people up for drug offences. Here’s a crazy concept. Let’s treat the underlying illness. Ask yourself this question. Is drug addiction a medical problem or is it an arrestable offence. We cut funding for rehabilitation programs, yet we pour money into law enforcement. We preach about the ‘personal responsibility’ of those addicted to drugs but refuse to address the social factors—poverty, trauma, mental illness—that create fertile ground for addiction in the first place.
And then we wonder why nothing changes.
The war on drugs, with its promises of victory, has done little more than fill prisons and stigmatise those already suffering. Addiction does not respond to punishment. Addiction responds to understanding, treatment, and long-term support. Yet, politically, compassion does not make for good soundbites. “Lock them up” is a lot easier to sell than “let’s invest in counselling, housing, and harm reduction.”
Breaking the Cycle
What would it look like if we truly took addiction seriously? First, we would need to shift our language. Words matter. Calling someone an “addict” reduces them to their illness. It labels them rather than treating them as the individual they are. They are a person with an addiction, not an addiction personified.
Second, we would need to invest in treatment and rehabilitation. Not six-week programs that send people back into the same environment without support, but holistic, long-term care that addresses the root causes. Trauma therapy. Job training. Community connection.
Third, we would embrace harm reduction. Needle exchange programs, safe consumption spaces, medication-assisted treatment—these are not “encouraging” drug use. They are acknowledging reality and keeping people alive long enough to have a chance at recovery.
And finally, we would educate. Start education early. From schools to workplaces to communities, we would teach people not just the dangers of substances but the mechanics of addiction itself. Knowledge dismantles stigma.
A Personal Reckoning
Here is the part no one wants to admit addiction terrifies us because it exposes how fragile we are. It shows us how easily comfort can turn into dependence, how quickly control can slip through our fingers. We want to believe that we are stronger than that. When we see someone struggling, we push them away, convince ourselves they are “weaker.”
But they’re not. They are us.
Every single one of us is vulnerable, given the right mix of circumstances and pressures. Some of us simply have better buffers—more support, more privilege, more resources. Addiction is not a reflection of someone’s character; it reflects their pain.
The Hope That Often Gets Forgotten
The bleakest misconception about addiction is that recovery is impossible. That once someone has fallen into it, they are lost forever. That is not true. Recovery is hard—sometimes brutally so—but it happens. People rebuild. They learn new ways of coping, they repair relationships, they reclaim their lives.
But recovery is not a straight line. It is full of setbacks and relapses. If we want people to succeed, we need to stop treating relapse as failure and start seeing it as part of the process. No one beats addiction alone, and no one should have to.
Where We Go from Here
Addiction will never going away. If anything, modern life—with its stresses, its easy access to substances and online temptations, its culture of instant gratification—creates more fertile ground than ever. Ignoring it is not an option.
So, the question is: do we keep waging a war that criminalises and condemns, or should we build a system that heals and supports? Will we keep pretending that addiction is someone else’s problem, or will we acknowledge that it is everyone’s?
Because until we do, the silent war will rage on—in hospitals, in homes, in hearts—and we will all be poorer for it.
OCTOBER
2 become 1: Losing a Husband Means Losing More Than a Partner — It Means Losing Your Place in the World
When my husband died, I didn’t just lose him. I lost my place in the world, my centre of gravity. My entire world shifted violently on its axis to a place that was unrecognisable to me. At the start of the day, I had been part of a pair, a double act. Just a couple of hours later, I was standing alone, unanchored and feeling very isolated. People think widowhood is only about grief, but it is also about dislocation—suddenly finding yourself misplaced in a life you no longer recognise.
For almost thirty years, my husband was the anchor of my life. He kept me sane and grounded. He was the man who loved to surprise me. He remembered details I forgot, and laughed at my jokes. He stood beside me in the rituals of life, those mundane things that we do without thinking. He made me feel loved and protected with his strength. Then he was gone. I now had a new life, an unfamiliar one. It felt as though the entire map of my existence had been redrawn without me. Everyone else seemed to know where they belonged. I didn’t. I was wandering aimlessly.
Unless you have walked the widowhood path, it’s difficult, impossible really, to understand. When a husband dies, his wife doesn’t just lose a person. She loses an identity. I was a wife. It’s a label, yes, but one I was incredibly proud to wear. The role of wife shaped me down to the smallest gestures and routines we built together. Without him, those parts of me evaporated. What remained was silence—and a word, “widow,” that felt far too small for the enormity of the loss that I was navigating through.
The reminders of loss hit you in the cruellest ways. Seeing his toothbrush in the bathroom, his clothes hanging up. Hearing his favourite song on the car radio. Cooking a meal for one and setting the table for one. Speaking without thinking, before remembering he is not there. These weren’t just habits; they were proof that my place in the world had once been beside him. And now, there was no “beside.”
What compounded the loss was the way others began to see me—or stopped seeing me. Couples are neat packages. Remove one half, and the other becomes socially awkward. Invitations slowed. Some friends, especially those in pairs, retreated as if widowhood were contagious. My husband’s death didn’t just take him; it took pieces of the community I thought I belonged to. People I considered close friends disappeared from my life, unable to understand that grief doesn’t allow you to flick a switch and be the person you were before. Grief changes you forever. I ended up mourning the dead and the living.
Of course, there is also the bureaucracy that comes with it. It almost cheapens the loss, making it feel even colder. Endless forms. Monotone voices on the phone as you repeat the brutal line, “my husband has died.” Bureaucracy has no tenderness. It’s a process with no compassion. It’s ticked boxes and confirmation of what I already knew. He’s gone and I was a changed woman.
After everything I had and was going through, the world carried on spinning. Kids laughed and played in the street. The sun rose and set. Neighbours argued over trivialities. The normality of life was almost offensive in a way. My world had disintegrated and yet everyone else’s kept going as if nothing happened.
But here’s the strange thing. Widowhood dismantles your life and changes your world, but it leaves you something you haven’t had before. It gives you space. That space is unbearable for a while, but once you settle into it, you start to wonder what life will now be like? The question I asked myself was “What do I want from my life?”
The answers to that question are slow in coming. I am now shaping a life that belongs to me alone. I’ve rediscovered passions I had shelved. I’ve built friendships that are mine, not ours. And though grief remains, like a scar that aches in the cold, scars are also proof of survival. I am slowly finding a new place in the world. Not the one I wanted, but one that exists, nonetheless. Perhaps it is lonelier, but it is also stronger. Widowhood has forced me to stand alone, to speak my name without an echo beside it. And that is no small thing.
This is why we need to change how society sees widows. Too often, we are treated as diminished—broken halves who no longer fit. But widowhood does not make a woman less. We need to understand that widows are not the same people they were before their loss. Grief changes us, permanently and profoundly. When a widow declines an invitation, it is not rejection—it is survival. It is not about you; it is about enduring a day that weighs too heavily.
So, what can we do? We can show up. Not once, but again and again. Keep extending the invitation, keep turning up with food, company, or simply a willingness to sit in silence. Don’t wait for widows to reach out—their world has already collapsed. It is on us, their community, to step closer rather than step away.
Because widows don’t need grand gestures. They need consistency, presence, and the reminder that even in the deepest loss, they are not invisible.
SEPTEMBER
The Days of the Self Checkout
Remember the days when you went to the supermarket and joined the end of the queue to pay? Remember unloading the items onto the conveyer belt and repacking them at the other end after the cashier had scanned them? Remember having had a great catch up with your favourite cashier by the time you were done? Yes, me too. Those days are long gone.
Welcome to the self-checkout. Allegedly faster. Allegedly futuristic. Allegedly so much better. So, why oh why, do they feel so damn soulless. And let’s be honest, do we ever walk away from a self check out feeling like a winner? No, we don’t. We step away traumatised and sometimes completely defeated, physically and mentally.
The concept of the self checkout is simple. You are the cashier but without the wages! You scan your items, bag them, pay for them and leave. Of course, you and I know it is never ever that simple. Somewhere between the first beep of the till and the paying for the goods, life can go spectacularly pear shaped.
“Unexpected item in bagging area.” Have you had that little gem pop up while doing your self checkout? The unexpected item is usually the last item you have scanned and bagged. Now, you have to wait for the one person who is there to help you out. They come towards you with a raised eye look that screams, ‘here we go again.’ They check out your machine and see that “unexpected item” is the issue. Now the supermarket worker looks at you again in the same way a judge may look at a thief wondering if you have tried to sneak something into your shopping.
Now, when you’re ‘working’ on the self checkout at the supermarket (working for free as a consumer,) you must remember that every item must beep before packing. You use your limbs in a way that only a contortionist would, twisting and turning the package to get that infernal beep. The person in the queue behind you starts sighing which only adds to your frustration. Now, after your dramatic attempts to scan the item, you realise you have actually scanned it five times. Now you need the staff member again. You try to remain calm as they say, “I can fix your error, I’ve got the code.” Of course, they stress that it’s your error and not the machines.
It is not just the self-scanning. It is the voice that you hear. It’s so judgemental. It’s monotone but it’s smug. “Please place your item in the bagging area.” The items been scanned and bagged. “Please place your item in the bagging area.” Now all you want to do is yell at the screen that your item is scanned and bagged. “Approval needed,” says the machine. Now the disembodied voice is judging you. So is the worker that comes towards you.
It not just supermarkets that are using self checkouts now. They are in every shop you enter. Bunnings DIY store has them. Target has them. Kmart has them. Big W has them. Aldi has them as do other stores. Let me walk you through what happens in some of these stores. You find your purchase. You go to the self checkout. You scan, bag, and pay for your items. You head towards the exit, where you are often stopped by a worker with a demand to see your receipt. It’s become a routine part of the checkout process, a final checkpoint to ensure everything matches up. You now find yourself rummaging through your bag to prove you have paid for every item. Yes, self checkouts can have an element of convenience, but this last stage makes you feel inferior, as if you were not trusted!
But look at this whole self checkout issue another way. Are we robbing ourselves of human connection for the sake of speed and convenience? Are we heading into an artificial intelligence/robot driven dystopia? Who knows what’s coming, but when you just have a pint of milk (and maybe a rogue bar of Dairy Milk) to pay for, self checkout seems like the perfect solution.
Life is moving forwards but sometimes a little too fast! We are all just trying to make it through the supermarket gauntlet with our dignity intact, our produce scanned, and our sanity unshaken. Self-checkouts promised a smoother future—but so did hoverboards. When all is said and done, remember that we are all in this together.
AUGUST
Fat Shaming Is Not a Public Service — It’s a Public Disgrace
This piece was inspired after watching the internet tear apart Jennifer Love Hewitt recently. She appeared at a film premiere and let’s be honest here, she looked amazing.
Yet, the keyboard warriors that hide in their parent’s basements ripped her apart and fat shamed her for not looking like she did at the age of nineteen. Bear in mind that Ms Love Hewitt is now in her forties, will be heading into perimenopause and has three children. I mean, come on, no one looks like they did at nineteen. If they do, I want their secret!
Now I want to get one thing straight before I launch into my rant. Fat shaming is not motivational. It doesn’t help anyone. It is not any form of concern or tough love that aims to improve health. It is cruelty. It is plain and simple cruelty dressed up as “advice” or “I’m just trying to help.” But behind the mask of alleged advice and help, lies a disease more insidious than any scale can measure.
We live in a society driven by social media, a place where those who are overweight are routinely ridiculed and treated as if they have morally failed in life. In every inch of society, schools, workplaces, dating apps, social media, the message is clear. Thin is worthy. Fat is flawed. It is such a normalised prejudice, such a normalised reaction, that many people don’t even realise they are partaking in it, let alone realising the consequences of their words.
Even “body positive” movements have been co-opted. Social media influencers push a filtered, carefully curated version of acceptance that still tends to center smaller, hourglass-shaped bodies. Meanwhile, clothing brands boast about “inclusive sizing” that only goes up to a UK size 18 — ignoring the millions of people who live, love, and deserve dignity in bigger bodies.
Those who partake in fat-shaming under the ‘myth of being concerned’ often will say, “I’m worried about their health.” But is that really the truth? After all, if health were the concern, wouldn’t we be seeing outrage about those who binge drink, smoke, or even those who get less sleep than they should? The answer to that is no, it’s not the truth. It is nothing to with health and more to do with societal norms.
Medical professionals have long since acknowledged that weight is not a sole indicator of a healthy human. Thin people can have heart disease, high blood pressure or high cholesterol. Larger people can be fit and active. Larger people can be metabolically healthy with no underlying illness. But these nuances rarely fit into today’s social media driven, black and white thinking. Today’s social media promotes ‘thin=good’ and ‘fat=lazy, unfit and worthy of being judged.’
Judgement that is given under the guise of “concern” can do real harm. Fat shaming increases stress, anxiety, and depression. Change the narrative and look at asthma. Would you tell an asthmatic that their breathing issues are their fault and mock them for No, you wouldn’t. Judgement is also dished out from family members. These jabs hurt the most as they are coming from those we trust.
Move on to the healthcare system. How many times have you read a story about larger patents being dismissed as every symptom is attributed to their weight. How many times have you read that a patient has delayed seeking treatment for fear of judgement? That is not prejudicial. That is downright dangerous.
Fat shaming has a brand of misogyny tied to it. Women’s bodies are noticed from puberty and judged not only for size but also for how well they conform to standards of beauty. Those standards have ever changing goal posts making it impossible to keep up with! Young women following celebrities on social media feel that they must be seen the same way. Losing weight quickly or looking amazing, when of course we know all celebrities have a “glam team.”
The media has a role in fat shaming. Television, advertising, and film will use the larger woman as comedic relief while the romantic lead is someone of a certain archetype.
Fat shaming has become an institutional norm, not a personal dig. Airlines and larger passengers. Chairs in public spaces too small or lacking in arm room. A job applicant judged by appearance rather than ability. This world is built for an expectation rather than an actuality.
We need to change. We do. Shifting the mindset is step one. Health is not a moral obligation. Body size does not suggest your worth. “Fat” is not a public issue to be fixed; we need to acknowledge those that are bigger. After all, there are many valid reasons. We need to hold people accountable. Whether that is questioning the narrative or being an advocate for the larger person, it is a step we can take. Health professionals need training on weight neutral care. Schools need to teach body acceptance. I could go on. Most of all, checking our own biases. Have you ever made an offhand comment, a silent judgement? These comments add up.
Let me be clear. I am not asking you to glorify obesity. I am asking you to dismantle and remove the cruelty and ignorance that surrounds body image. I am asking you to look deeper and understand there may be something more beneath the surface. What do I mean?
Steroids – one of the main side effects for long term steroid use is weight gain.
Genetics – genetics can contribute for 25-80% of body weight.
Menopause – every woman goes through it with weight gain being a common side effect.
There are many more I could name but at the crux of it all, there is one thing to remember. Fat shaming is not a solution, it’s the problem.
Oh and by the way Jennifer Love Hewitt, you looked damn good!
“Why Are We Still Terrible at Talking About Grief?”
We live in a culture that treats grief like a malfunction. We look at grief as something that needs to be fixed; after all, who wants to see someone sad. It’s just human nature to want to ‘fix’ someone. Over the years, we have even looked at grief as something to be hidden away. Something to be dressed in black and shielded from prying eyes. But why does it seem this way? Well, let’s be honest. We expect a period of mourning – but not for too long. We expect tears- but not too much or too loudly. We most certainly do not like it if it makes us uncomfortable. These attitudes and feelings must change.
Grief is an uninvited guest in our lives. It is going to come to us all, and some sooner rather than later. Grief doesn’t knock. It doesn’t send you an RSVP to say it’s coming. Grief barges in and refuses to leave – for the rest of your days. It shifts its shape and sneaks into different corners of life from time to time, but it never leaves. Why should it? Grief is an echo of love lingering. Yet, we are still absolutely hopeless at talking and dealing with it. It is time that we all got better at ‘grief.’
Allow me to put some context here. I spoke to a widowed friend who said, “When my husband died, my mind was full of every emotion of course. Angry that he left me. Sad that we did not get more time together. I am thankful that I had some close friends that were there for me. I am thankful that I had some close family there for me. But there was also a silence that I had to navigate.”
I asked her to explain what she meant by silence. She continued, “The silence came from various people. People who had no idea what to say, so instead said nothing. Friends who decided for me (instead of asking me), that I would want my own space. People who loaded on the platitudes, you know the ones I mean. “He’s in a better place.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “You’re so strong.” And my personal favourite, “he wouldn’t want you to be sad like this. I realised that many people either couldn’t handle their grief for my husband or had just decided the weight of helping me through my grief journey was too much. These people disappeared. It was like grieving the dead and the living.”
So, my question is, how do we get better at grief? The answer is, stop trying to fix it.
Part of the issue here is the language of grief. We quite often say ‘someone has lost their husband/wife’ when in fact losing them sounds like they were lost in a park or down a supermarket aisle. We call people “strong” when they don’t cry in public, as if tears are a sign of weakness and not the most human expression of love. We describe grieving people as “brave,” for simply continuing to exist, as though surviving heartbreak is heroic rather than ordinary—and necessary.
But newsflash. Skip the bravery and let’s haul out another emotion. Let’s throw honesty into the mix. We need to stop packaging grief as bunches of flowers and cards and up the stakes. Grief is a real conversation. Grief is messy emotions at awkward times. Grief is awkward silences. Grief is going to make us uncomfortable. It’s going to make us feel strange. It’s going to make us unsure of what to say. That is the human side of grief
How do we change? Ask your bereaved friend “‘do you want to talk about them?” Assuming that they don’t for fear of hurt, is almost insulting. Just turn up. Make a cup of tea and just be there. If you don’t know what to say, say that! “I don’t know what to say to you, but I am here for you.”
Remember that grief is not something to be solved. It is not a fixable problem. It is something you witness and are part of. Until we learn as humans to sit with pain, not just our own but others too, we will fail those who need us the most.
Grief is not contagious. Loneliness is.
When did Common Sense become Controversial?
I am going to tell you a story. Once upon a time, common sense was, just that… common! Not an academic degree. Not a niche or rare philosophy. Just the good old reliable, everyday logic that helped us navigate life without needing a manual. You know what I mean. Don’t drink from a bleach bottle. Don’t touch a hot stove. Look both ways before crossing the road. If you drop your toast, it will always land butter-side down. somewhere between hashtags, social media, and the rise of experts on absolutely everything, common sense quietly slipped out the back door—and no one noticed, well, some of us did.
We now live in a world where, as my grandad would have said, “stating the bleeding obvious” is seen as provocative and aggressive. It is seen as insulting by some who deem the sharing of information as ‘being told what to do.’ Things such as suggesting that children might need sleep more than screen time is labelled judgmental. To even consider that grown adults take responsibility for their actions risks a social media backlash from the keyboard warriors hiding in their mother’s basement. And heaven help you if you point out that just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.
It’s baffling when you think about it.
We have somehow turned personal accountability into a radical concept, almost as if it is something we’ve never heard of or considered. We outsource decision-making to social media influencers, rely on comment sections for moral direction, and treat basic logic as if it’s a conspiracy. We don’t want common sense—we want validation. Especially if it lets us off the hook.
Take, for example, the rise of “life hacks.” There are now thousands of online tutorials explaining how to do things we used to just… know. Boil an egg. Fold a fitted sheet. Write a sentence without using AI.
And don’t even get me started on disclaimers. “Do not eat the silica packet.” “Coffee may be hot.” “Warning: Cape does not enable user to fly.” At this point, the only thing shocking about warning labels is that they’re necessary. What happened? When did we become a society that needs to be told not to stick metal forks in power sockets? What happened to humanity?
It’s not just the trivial things either. We have managed to overcomplicate the obvious on a grand scale. Want better health? Move more and eat a vegetable occasionally. Want to save money? Stop buying things you don’t need. Want meaningful connection? Try looking up from your phone. These aren’t secrets passed down from generations before us. They are common sense. Yet they’re often met with scepticism or branded as unrealistic.
It’s as if we’ve confused convenience with intelligence. But quick doesn’t always mean clever and loud doesn’t always mean right. The truth is that common sense isn’t flashy. It won’t go viral. It rarely wins arguments online. But it will quietly get you through the day with your dignity (and your eyebrows) intact.
Now, I’m not against innovation, nuance, or healthy debate. The world is complex, and one-size-fits-all rarely applies. But complexity shouldn’t be a replacement for clarity. Somewhere in our race to intellectualise everything, we forgot the value of gut instinct and good old-fashioned reasoning.
We need a revival. A common sense renaissance. One where people are encouraged to think critically and practically. Where personal choices come with personal consequences. Where saying “I don’t know” is more noble than pretending to be right. And where we remember that if something seems too good to be true—it probably is. In a world drowning in opinions, outrage, and expert advice, common sense is our life raft. It has a track record.
So, let’s bring it back. Quietly. Confidently. One eye-roll at a time. Let’s have common sense. If someone sends you a message and you are busy, have the common sense and politeness to reply with “busy, get back to you asap.” Let the person feel heard. If you are out at dinner with friends or family, talk to each other, learn about their day, don’t scroll down your social feeds. If you don’t know something, ask someone in your family who may know. Note to my readers: I ask my dad because if my dad doesn’t know who will!! Here’s a couple more. Let people out of the elevator before you fight your way in. Look where you’re walking. These examples show that common sense and basic manners quite literally walk hand in hand.
Because at the end of the day, and to be honest—if we need a tutorial on how to peel a banana, we’re in more trouble than we thought.
