At the weekend I went to see Ariana Grande. In the weeks leading up to it so many times my excitement was met with laughs, asking why I would bother paying so much and travelling for her. But I knew it was something I had to do, something cyclic to round off an experience, and simply to say thank you to a highly influential artist in my life, if only through giving her the ticket price.

Until last year, I hadn’t really considered Ariana Grande that much. I liked a couple of her songs, I’d done a burlesque routine to greedy and could deeply appreciate the insane voice she has, but I wouldn’t really have called myself a ‘fan’. My interaction with her was too shallow for that. But after the Manchester attacks, after her One Love concert, after Mac Miller died, after everything she went through in such a short space of time and picked herself back up from over and over with patience and grace, there was something different in her music. I think she definitely took on a different place in culture. She could no longer be seen as this pristine pop queen, her trauma broke down the idea of pop stars being untouchable, forever happy and perfect, causing us all to re-evaluate our footing when it came to the genre and the princesses that rule over it. I think globally, she gained so much respect and love, we want her to be okay as we rally round her releases and concerts, but also there’s something uniting in her pain, in the loss of the bubble gum pop-shield as her lyrics touch a darker place allowing us to bring our pain too, to a genre that didn’t want it before. Regardless of the experience and the trauma, there’s solidarity to be found in her music as she creates this space that allows you to be affected while also giving room to joy and healing.

That was my experience with it at least. Sweetener came out when I needed it to. The album is all empowering. Each song, even the sad ones, point upward to healing and growth, never letting them wallow. I clung to it and her when I was at my lowest. Here I had this woman that had been through probably the worst experiences you possibly could and had come back still able to sing these songs with conviction, saying ‘I’m gonna be happy’. I listened to it every day, held up The Light is Coming as an affirmation or a promise that I’d get through it, used Breathin as an anxiety aid, treated God is a Woman as a hymn to worship myself. When things felt too hard to be worth it, I’d look to Ariana Grande. If she can thrive after all that, I can get through this.

Thank u, next was the same. Coming half a year later, I could sing along to the title track with conviction, actually starting to feel the recovery I’d longed for with Sweetener as the soundtrack. She says look what I got, look what you taught me as an instruction for me to pause, for everyone listening to take in how beautifully they’ve grown since. But it’s more than that, thank u next was a call to become self-aware, she takes no prisoners in songs confront reliance and projection and self-destructive habits, all the dirty secrets of recovery that I’d known too well. Somehow listening to someone else sing about negative habits you know you’ve developed too, acts as a kind of intervention. So, I started listening to it in the shower, every night before I journaled, because if she can hold herself accountable so can I. If Ariana can do it, so can I.

As Ghostin starts to play, there is a rare moment of sorrow. She still leaves a place for it, just as she makes room for conversations about the realities of PTSD and grief, she doesn’t deny any of the emotions. There’s a 4-minute window to lay it all down, cry it all out, feel every drop of the pain you’ve been working through. Despite her experience being so extreme and so intense, one that the majority of us (hopefully) cannot and will never truly relate to, her music still lets people in, she still lets you borrow part of her trauma to place your own into. She lets you sing Ghostin and cry for your own loss, and god I did, before she picks you right back up again, returning to upbeat informed pop.

It’s hard to summarise. When people ask me why I love her so much, it’s hard to explain. I love her because her voice is insane, unlike anyone else this generation. I love her because of the sheer effort and dedication she’s put into her career, giving the best at every show for every fan. I love her for her humour. I love her for her honesty. I love her for her strength. She could’ve just stopped. At this point, so much of her work must be so difficult and so painful, most other artists would have given in, retreated back. But she didn’t and doesn’t, standing up against terrorists, people who told her she killed Mac Miller, people who throughout her career have told her she’s too sexual or too dumb. These huge giant enemies and she’s still here twirling for us. And god if she can do that, I can get through a break-up, you can get through whatever you’re dealing with, just put 7 Rings on and borrow a little power.

The show was exactly as I expected; flawless. She’s a true professional, flowing from song to song to song, powering through her multitude of hits with full energy and full choreography each time. Her voice never falters, in fact, it is more powerful and dreamy in real life, full of old-soul character and richness. Despite being in a stadium so big its almost hard to fathom, Ariana still managed to make moments of tenderness and quiet. The crowd hushed as she began, the lights dimmed after the final bars of Mac Miller’s Dang, and she sang Raindrops almost uninterrupted as we stood transfixed, in awe of that! voice! The show was full of those moments, that beautiful kind of soft power as she allowed herself brief moments of vulnerability but mindful to snap back to lights and hair flips quickly, obviously denying herself permission to get upset as she has done before. I wouldn’t have minded, I think we all would’ve cried with her, found a sense of catharsis in such a human display from such a huge figure, her tiny 5ft frame towering over us on giant screens. We would’ve let her cry if she wanted, but she wanted to give us a show and she did that; immediately, throughout and with ease.

Honestly, she could’ve been awful and I would be here gushing. The show didn’t particularly matter to me, I just wanted to be there. A year on from the nights I spent cross-stitching the words ‘the light is coming’, clinging to her words like a life raft and letting them pull me along. They played a big role in getting me here, as cringy as that sounds. The assurance I found in her music, the joy it brought me in bad times, all the singalongs and shower boogies, all the therapeutic cries, all the power, all the softness. Everything. That’s all I can really say, it was everything to me this year and I’m so glad I got to see it live just to see her there, still going.

So many are pulled here, heard the call to arms to sit at the feet of the lost and lonely, to give Sappho their tears are she stays frozen on the brink of her own, whispering; remember whom you leave shackled by love, in a glass frame, on a wall in Manchester. Heartache on display, on tour for the lonely hearts to see. Sitting in front of her and I feel the need to confess my sorrows, show my own in return for hers, given unwillingly. Sitting in front of her and I want to strip myself bare, tear off my clothes for her, place myself under her eyes, my hand on the glass and try to hold the cold paint from which she was made, unknowing. Sitting in front of her and I feel some sense that her soul was left locked in the likelihood, left waiting for love to return for which she will raise her gaze and finally, weep.

Until then I don’t want to speak. I wish for the room to fall silent, for the guide in the corner to stop trying to explain in any words other than her own. While the lovers no longer sing their song, we have no right to sing along, so sit down. Shut up. Only hum the refrain silently in your head for all the goodbyes and unwilling exits made. Remember in secret the cold stones your feet have felt, the waiting on cliffs for a return that never came. Hear the sound of the funeral you made of that love. Don’t taunt her with vocalisation, shh. No chorus here, no choir singing, just silent soloists naturally knowing the words hidden behind painted skin.

Where do your eyes fall? Not to the chest but to the arm. The lean of longevity, still staying stood and patient, respectful to the possibility of reunion and the ceremony it would deserve. To the bare feet of abandon, of rushing out of the house, of chasing her down the street, of pavements and stones and coals you’d step on to bring her home, of how unexpected it was that she left, of how unprepared you were for this. To the eyes, tired and stinging stoney, paused in the moment before the flood and disallowed the relief of it, averted from those that try to meet them, that dare try to relate to this pain, this image of love unknown but certainly gone. She keeps us distant as if her gaze would show some paradise, a memory she must ration for only herself.

Turned to the sea she begs for relief, for permission to cry or die or something, to not be confined to here, this feeling, this place, this wall in Manchester where onlookers try to explain in words other than her own, make a mockery of her pain as they wrap arms around lovers at the foot of her stone. She begs to be left alone.

On my final day in Sheffield I took myself on a date. I walked to the top of one of the (many) hills and had a coffee, I listened to the city’s songs, wrote and sipped a cocktail. I wrote a list of all my favourite parts of the city, all my favourite nights and places to spend them, and realised I could fill pages and pages. After three years Sheffield and I are friends tied together by history, and in the last 12 months, we’ve reconciled all our differences after heartbreaks and homesickness tried to corner off its best bits. I felt sad to leave ad I already miss the city so dearly, feeling lucky to have had three years full of friends and locals showing me all the best spots. I miss my regular haunts, so I’ll pass them onto you, should you ever find yourself there. Here’s the list...

For Pretty Things…

Moonko – The place to go for the sweetest gifts for yourself or others. If my time had to be summarised, It would be by my ‘girls are strong’ pin, an accessory that adorns so many women around the city. Go in for cards that always seem to say what you need them to, or for a bunch of dried lavender that will sit next to your bed and be the scent of your sleep-filled nights. And say hi to the owner, follow her on Instagram to see passion and hard-work and care as she fights to save trees and teaches you exactly how to look after that plant.

Mooch – For all the things you never knew you needed; a fur coat, a leather tassel vest, silk gloves, a white micro-purse with a beaded handle and classic sportswear. This shop, as with all others on Division Street, is a treasure trove, the home of hours of procrastination shopping.

Vulgar – Where I went when I needed anything from a panic night out outfit or a hug from the women that work there as professional spending enablers and affirmation-providers. The biggest thing I got from Sheffield, apart from a degree, was an intense earring addiction fuelled almost entirely by Vulgar and their giant hoops and plastic fruit. Go here to learn to be a maximalist; a move you certainly won't regret (or go just to admire the statue of a naked man.)

Syd & Mallory – The gatekeeper of Division Street and the patron saint of Sheffield custom kookiness. I spent my first year admiring their star-adored sheer tops, my second lusting after tongue-in-cheek slogan tees, and my third craving diamonte hair clips proclaiming ‘boss’. Everything is improved by the sound of a sewing machine, making more and new things for you to want next week.

Antiques Quarter – The exact place to spend a Sunday dreaming about other Sundays in fancy houses. Wander out to Abbeydale and dip in and out of antique shops admiring painted dressing tables and talk yourself out of buying falling apart old magazines. Best enjoyed with a coffee in hand from Forge and very little money in the bank to avoid temptation.

St. Lukes – Uphill in Broomhill there’s the perfect charity shop, accepting only vintage. Ask me where my burlesque costumes are from and 90% of the time I’ll point you here, because where else can you guarantee will have a white silk slip skirt and classic bullet bra? Only St. Lukes. And you’ll probably also leave with a purse and a hair scarf you don’t need but couldn’t not get.

For Caffeine...

Steamyard- Sit outside in the courtyard. If its hot; get a Mexican coke and a salted caramel brownie. If its hot; get an oat milk mocha and a brioche roll with brie, and a salted caramel brownie. Always the brownie.

Five Rivers- The home of many essays and hours of revisions. Exam season of first year passed in a flash in the corner of this Vietnamese café, shaking from one too many coffees dripped down onto condensed milk and mixing into sugary caffeinated heaven. Go at breakfast and get a fry up, go at lunch and get pho, go mid-afternoon for a banoffee cheesecake that will change your life, then in the evening, get a cocktail. Go at any time of day and expect a great playlist and a smile from the owner as he wanders round his passion project born from travel with his love.

Birdhouse- Each mum visit came with the struggle of where to go, going over the options in the week before and normally always settling here. Tucked away behind The Moor, Birdhouse is extremely wholesome and serves the most incredible tea lattes from their home-mixed teas. It's glorious and comforting and that’s all there really is to it. No doubt you’ll leave with a bag full of tea leaves; my fave is either vanilla chai, dressed well or their peak district mix.

Tamper – For serious caffeine and naughty brownies go to one of the two tampers. Spend hours here with a book. Have an oat mocha, and a cappuccino, and a chai latte when the caffeine gets too much. A firm fave for the city's creatives; I love sitting and eavesdropping on the meetings surrounding me as I eat my black forest brownie and inevitably bump into a friend.

Ambulo- A very new addition to the city but an immediate favourite. Branded an all-day café, Ambulo offer the ultimate indulgence of giving into cravings. Have sticky toffee pubbing at 10am, have a cocktail at 11am, have porridge at 5pm. Anything goes. Their filter coffee is amazing, but their negroni is even better so maybe just give into yourself and have a cocktail.

Alyssum – Up the hill in Crookesmoor, Alyssum serves life-saving brunches and cake to us students. You’d find me here each morning before a burlesque show chowing down on my pre-show ritual of halloumi, you’d find me dragged here by friends and fed cheer up cake after a bad night.

Nice Neighbourhood – The ability to move seamlessly from daytime coffee to late afternoon beer? Win from me. Add in a roof terrace and a less than 5 min walk from all uni buildings? Big win from me. Home to co-working spaces and offices housing some of the most exciting creatives in the city, this is the perfect place to work and then clock off.

For Feasts...

Nottingham House – You either want Notty House with your entire being or not at all. The craving hits and it must be respected. Take a morning to prepare for the severe bloat that will inevitably follow, get a group of friends, a big pile of gossip and a Guinness to see you through. Enjoy the comfort food coma that only a pie and mash can give you.

Cutlery Works- A new fancy edition allowing Sheffield to boast one of the biggest food courts in Europe. Upon first entry, there's too much choice for your own good. Poutine, pho, pies, arancini, bao buns, sushi; everything. If you can find a table, plant yourself there and sit for hours trying as much as you can until someone needs to roll you out. My fave combo is a glass of red from Fin and Bone and some arancini, orrrr a martini royale from the bar and the cheese and chili bites from Ma-Ba. Recover from the meal by wandering across the road to Church to play some classic video games.

Lucky Fox- Lucky fox is my saviour and my downfall. Too many times I’ve been sat by the window slowly sipping a ginger beer and praying that these fries will heal my hangover. And guess what, they always do. Despite being famous for their fried chicken, as a veggie, I still love this place, deeply. Always fresh, always on point, always a friend when you need it.

To Go And Do...

Museums- Sheffield museums are ever-changing and always interesting. I couldn’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent looping around Graves Gallery or being conscious of my heels on the floor in Weston Park. Sheffield cares about its museums, there's always events and talks, local artists do so much for the space, and the recent addition of Ambulo in the cafes have boosted it ten-fold.

Creative Mornings- On the last Friday of each month Creative Mornings Sheffield hosts a talk. They always provide local coffee, a room full of local creatives, and a huge wave of inspo from a local entrepreneur or artist or expert. I've learnt so much attending these events and hearing talks on all sorts from sustainable farming to sleep to the height you should hang pictures in a gallery. They quickly became a highlight of my month as I bounced out of bed ready to go at 8am, knowing I'd leave ready for a day of productivity and fresh ideas. Creative Mornings run worldwide, but although biased, I think the Sheffield one may be the best, hosted in one of the friendliest cities in the world.

Tramlines- Do not buy a ticket. Don't go all the way over to Hillsborough, stay in town. Run from bar to bar seeing band after band. The city is filled with musicians and during tramlines, each one gets its turn. Everywhere somehow creates a stage, even chip shops and barbers. To support the local scene, stay central. You'll see far more acts, have way more fun, and get far drunker downing pints before running off to the next set on your list.

Park Hill- A living museum (at the moment). My favourite piece of Sheffield history is this old council estate, currently standing half renovated into fancy colourful flats and half desolate and crumbling. In the middle, a bridge, reading ‘I love you will u marry me’ written for a woman named Clare. It's tragic and beautiful, an inspiration for so much Sheffield art from prints to songs to entire musicals. Wander up there, read up on it as you sit in South Street Kitchen with a cappuccino and a view.

Meersbrook Park- I spent so much time here in love and I can’t imagine a better place for it. Walk 20 mins out of the centre and you find the most idyllic neighbourhood and a park that gives you a panoramic view of the city framed by two rows of trees. Go early in the morning, get a coffee from Create, then wander further uphill and pet a goat at Heeley City Farm. I dare you to not want to move there by the end of the day.

Botanical gardens- The botanical gardens held my heart. I met new friends there, I wander holding hands there, I was broken up with there, photographed my book there, said I love you there. It's beautiful and lively in every season, full of dogs being walked and people doing yoga, old people having tea and students sat reading. I could spend hours on the bench there, by the big window inside the pavilion right by the cacti. Out of all the haunted places covered in cobwebs of heartbreak, this was the one I worked hardest to reclaim, nothing with that much life should ever feel dead. And now it exists as my favourite place, very few places give me the sense of calm and peace as those yellow bricks and those giant leaves.

You should probably also go to the peaks. I’ll be honest, in my entire time in Sheffield I’ve been less than 5 times and I’ve only done a walk twice. But go to Hathersage, walk if you want, but definitely get waffles as the social club. I’m much more of a city walker, I could walk for hours around town to Abbeydale back round to Ecclesall and up to the big houses of Endcliffe. The peaks are beautiful but go to Meersbrook, go to Crookes Valley, go to Graves. Don’t neglect the city for its borders.

For Drinks...

Gatsby- The taste of a Ginny Hendrix (gin, triple sec, apple juice, cucumber, lemon & mint) is the flavour of so many events; my book launch, catch up lunches, dates, third-year freshers week. I think Gatsby is my favourite place for drinks. It’s so central, got anything you could want plus great music and a theme referencing one of my favourite books. Go in the evening and sit on the cool metal table by candlelight, slowly sip a cocktail before going out out.

Shakespeares- For a classic pub with great beer, go here. The range will stress you out but the friendliness of the crowd will ease you again. Best enjoyed on a sunny afternoon so you can lounge in the beer garden, or when there's a gig on so you can cram yourself into that tiny upstairs room.

Picture House Social- My favourite cocktail menu of the city simply because of its pride. With each cocktail representing a local business, Picture House Social is a hub for the city’s scene. Drink your way through the city (my fave is the swallows and damsons floral gin cocktail), while you boogie, play ping pong and grab a pizza. Bonus points if you do all that while waiting for a gig to start.

Kelham Wine Bar- When you want to feel fancy, go here. Looking over the river in Kelham, enjoy the biggest glass of wine possible huddled under the heat lamps surrounded by fairy lights. I love it here in the winter, it's so beautiful on a dark night and feels like such a little luxury sipping wine and having good conversation. This is a firm fave for date nights and small celebrations, take a loved one and take a blanket.

Dev Cat- Call in halfway through the day, unplanned, just to get an espresso martini.

Recipes For Nights...

Get 2-4-1 cocktails at Ambulo, down them because you cut it too fine or actually plan ahead and have a meal. Go to the Crucible theatre and feel cultured while being slightly tipsy. Wander up to Division Street talking about the show, notice noise coming from Bungalows and Bears and go in for their monthly jazz night. Boogie there for a moment as you talk your friend into a big night. Go to The Washington because it never lets you down, sip a gin and cranberry juice or shot some fireball if you’re talked into it. Say fuck it and go to Leadmill on a Thursday because Club Tropicana is maybe the greatest club night in the world and you end up shouting ‘this is my fave song ever!’ during every intro. Stay out still your feet allow, leave Leadmill and wander back to West Street and go into West Street Live if you’re mental. If not, get chips, go home.

Go to Forum 4pm for casual catch up drinks, get talked into buying last minute tickets for an event. Rush home at 6pm, get ready while watching drag race, pre-drink and be out again at 8 wandering down Division Street in your night-out trainers.

Go to Foodhall for a gig. It’s bring-your-own-booze so pack your tote with tinnies or a water bottle full of your best gin that you panic poured in as you rushed out. Watch your new fave band, then inevitably end up at The Washington again, dancing to blondie like your life depends on it.

Or literally just go to The Washington. Go on the first Monday of the month for their acoustic night, arrive at 8 and stumble out in the early hours. Meet all the regulars and learn to love them deeply until you get a discount on all your drinks. Always dance, even during the questionable song choices. End up there way too often to see Sadly Dan and Life Aquatic and I Set The Sea On Fire and Femur and Black Mamba Fever and Dead Slow Hoot and Lio and Children of the State and more and more and more.

On the first weekend of the month, queue up for Peddler. Save your money and your stomach, do a lap before deciding what you want to eat. Get a beer, wear a baker boy hat and stand outside in the cold by the fire, watch bands or DJs or just people. See the whole city there.

Indulge fully in everything. Go to an Endless Love life drawing class. Go see a burlesque show by either Steel City Sirens or Spectre. Go see a play by SUTCO. Go see a film at Showroom, go to Doc Fest if you’re around then. Go to all the gigs you can, all the local DJ sets, all the talks. Do everything and do it all local and independent.

Sheffield is small and full. It has a beautiful tight-knit community of artists and creators and business owners that adopt everyone that wants in. You can see it on social media as words of encouragement and love bounce from one to another. Everyone knows everyone, and for better or worse, it makes the city fun. It lets you feel a part of it simply by being there and showing up and getting to know people too. The city lets you in, you just have to go out and open the door.

Time sped forward too quickly, and in a blur, I had to say goodbye to my flat, the home I’d built myself over the year. I wanted to cry but I didn’t, and I still can’t really decide why. I either packed all my things in a trance of denial or in a state of acceptance, knowing I’d got exactly what I needed from this place. Part of uni life is not really having a home as you’re torn between your hometown and adopted city, the very word takes on an uncertainty as you have to clarify where you mean. But I didn’t feel that this year, my flat was my home. I got to escape the familiar unsettled feeling as I had a full place to call my own, shared with no one, my things unrestricted to one room. And I know that was such a privilege, I definitely see that now. So few people will ever live alone, moving from their hometown to shared uni houses to a home with a friend or partner, and even fewer people get to live alone during such formative and intense years of their life as I did. So few people will ever get to experience the very particular and whole feeling of home when you alone occupy an entire place; no sharing, no need to consider anyone else’s patterns or tastes, all yours. And so many people would consider the thought of all it a nightmare, I had my moments where I did too.

I moved in in September, and in November I was still begging people to come over. I would make frantic plans with half-friends, desperately cling to the frayed edges of relationships I should’ve let die just because I wanted company. I gave so much energy to filling my own space, partly because I thought I should. I live alone so my house should always be full of friends, right? It should be the base, a place for communion, right? I acted as if I was holding space for others, sat in only one seat on the sofa, reserving the rest for imaginary guests that I slowly stopped inviting. If you told me then I’d be sad to move out, I would have laughed, made some joke about missing the décor and that’s about it. Even in the blog post I wrote about it, you can hear it in my words; reluctance. I was dragging my heels for a long time, still refusing the give over my strongest vice, clinging onto reliance as my flat spoke softly, coaxing me into letting go.

And I did, somewhere between December and now. I closed my door and started staying in more. I invested in a salt lamp and a lot of candles and spiced chai tea leaves. I filled the second sofa with blankets and cushions and baked banana bread for myself on Sundays. I stopped inviting people over and started asking people to leave, politely, as my mind longed for space back. I loved living alone, truly. But more so, I learned so much living alone and in the final months, I became so aware of the education I was getting there. Here are the lessons:

Space is so important...

It sounds so ridiculously obvious but I thought I already knew it. I’ve been chatting shit about interiors for years now, about curating a calming space and fairy lights and blah. But it was more than that this year. I felt so defensive of my home, so scared about it becoming tainted. I moved into it so terrified of Sheffield, but also of myself and my memories as I was desperately trying to claw my way out of heartbreak, so scared it would walk its muddy hooves into my new home. So this year curating my space was more an act of self-preservation and defence, I had to build a fortress.

There’s so much power in space and energy that I never knew before. When you live with other people, there’s a big merge of moods and vibes all coming in and out which can be good or bad depending on the day, but it’s always changing. When you live alone, it’s all you. My flat mirrored me, if I was down it felt like the biggest, loneliest place in the world. It really tested me, challenging my ability to comfort myself. I learnt to start manifesting. If I couldn’t treat myself right, I knew I could treat my space right and eventually it would soak through. In this way, my flat felt made for me. If I woke up struggling, the big window forced light into my room, reflecting a pattern of leaves onto my wall. The morning demanded to be seen, it coaxed me out of bed, gently telling me to make some coffee and do some yoga, crossing its fingers that I’d listen that day. I invested in more than just lighting and blankets. I really considered scents and lines of vision, curating moods rather than aesthetics. During the day I burnt candles with orange oil, massaged lemon oil into my wrists and opened the curtains wide in my living room. It felt bright and big and optimistic. In the evening, I turned on my salt lamp, burnt lavender incense, allowed palo santo smoke hug my bedhead as I said to myself; this is my healing space. And I felt that. I learnt to pull myself from mood to mood, learnt how important it was to consider the energy I was filling my flat with, listen out to all the hints telling me to alter it.

It sounds ridiculous I know. But regardless, whether you believe in sacred wood or aromatherapy or any of that, no one can deny the power of a ritual. No one can deny that we find comfort in habit, in having faith in a routine that works. I built my space around those rituals, around lavender at night and coffee in the morning. The fairy lights and pom poms were just accessories.

Give yourself actual time and space...

The best part of my flat was the fact that no one had been there before. Exes, friends, no one but me and my mum had seen it until I invited people in. As a person with a hyperactive memory, leaving places, clothes, songs all dripping with ghosts, this was the biggest blessing. Healing feels so much harder in a marked space, I know. Sheffield felt impossible, and I think if I had to go back to a place that he’d been to, or that I’d known with someone else, I wouldn’t have been able to pull it back. My flat meant I never had to do that, it allowed me time and space without struggling to out ghosts. There were none there, I only had to focus on myself, cleansing me without worrying about external contamination. Being all mine and memory-less, my flat in Sheffield gave me space from the Sheffield I had known. I could grab back some control over the place and my experience there, choosing who I saw and who I avoided, choosing where I went rather than being caught up in a group decision. I could decide everything there, and allow myself time with no interruption or opinion. When I wanted to, sometimes I would go days and speak to no one. I’d take myself for coffee and write, buy ingredients to cook myself a meal, watch the same films over and over, and decide to sleep at 9pm if I wanted. Having total control over myself and my behaviours, being completely unbothered and uninterrupted was heaven for my healing.

With space, Sheffield came back to me. I could retreat to the neutral land of my home then slowly march forward, reclaiming places one by one as the hands of heartbreak loosened, replaced by my own arms around me. A year later, I feel great. I feel so free and in control of myself. I feel ready to move forward and leave behind all the memories, a feeling I know my flat helped cultivate.

I love me...

While self-love is a huge, life-long journey, I feel it stronger than ever. This year, in the silence of solo living, I’ve gotten to know myself. I’ve seen quirks about myself that I’d never noticed, I’ve talked to myself like a friend offering jokes and comfort and confrontation when needed. I’d laugh with myself because why shouldn’t I. I found a friend in myself, and she always wants to sing along to my music and watch the same TV shows. I felt this new sense of sitting with myself, each night as I would journal, forcing myself to really consider what I felt and why. There was no one else to hide behind, no one else to talk to, so I had to get to know myself, I had to welcome myself in.

I think that’s why a lot of people would be so scared to live alone, all that time with no one but yourself. We don’t want to be left alone with our thoughts, having no option but to listen to the voice in our heads and confront it. But that’s why I did it. I’ve been in relationships my entire teenage life, I’ve been distracting myself from myself for so long that I needed to have no choice. I needed to force myself to hang out with myself for longer than the time it takes to do a face mask and go in the bath. I needed more than the stereotypical self-care night, I needed something intense and radical because my reliance was damaging me. It worked. That’s all I can really say. I now look forward to time alone, seeing myself as a best friend who I genuinely love spending time with. By learning to take care of myself, I see so much value in myself, so many great qualities as I treat myself with patience and care and empathy. I love the joy in me, the life. I love the fun in me that I used to only ever see in the face of another, I love that I know need no one to bring it out. By getting to this point of complete contentment with being alone, I now feel like I can better evaluate my interactions with others. When I love hanging out with myself, why would I give time and energy to hanging out with someone else that doesn’t make me feel as good? When I’ve set a standard of treatment within myself, why would I lower it? Turns out what The Slumflower’s book can’t seem to teach you, living alone can.

It’s wild to me that it took this. It took living alone for me to learn that I am truly complete, needing no one. I’m whole; the simplest, most radical lesson. I’ve spent a whole year alone and I haven’t died of loneliness, instead, I feel the most in control and comforted I ever have. It's sad that I had to actively learn it, to force isolation on myself to be able to see that I never needed anyone to hold my hand. Women especially are rarely given space to be alone, our loneliness isn’t valued but is shut down as a holding period, we’re on the shelf until a new companion. We go from parents to partners, we don’t walk home alone, we stick close to friends. If we spend too long silence or alone, people ask if we’re okay. There’s so much expectation to have a partner, to please others and fit into expectations. We’re treated as a half, waiting for the other side to find us and complete the circle. No. I’m everything. I’m all.

On Valentine's day, I spent the day alone. I went to the library and worked, I took myself shopping and bought myself a gift, I cooked myself homemade pasta and brownies. Tell me where I need a companion?  I sat in my flat, surrounded by candles and comforts, I laughed out-loud to a film, I wrote myself a love letter. I looked after myself, wholly and entirely. There was no empty space, there never was in my flat. It was all mine, filled up by me and my moods and my thoughts. Somewhere along the line, I realised I was the same; whole and content belonging entirely to myself.

Move in with yourself if you can. It’ll change things, it’ll force change on you and make you wonder why you were ever scared of it. Looking back, I wonder why I was so resistant to shutting the door and being alone. Why was I ever scared of myself? When I’m the only person that can guarantee myself full and unconditional love and companionship. Move in with yourself and you’ll learn the limitless loyalty of yourself, learn to cut reliance on anyone when you see the strength of relying on yourself. If you can’t, dedicate more time to yourself. Turn down invites, close your door, talk to yourself. Actually talk, out loud, whisper with yourself and share jokes. Write letters to yourself divulging your deepest feelings and enter into a dialogue. Cook yourself a meal, do not share it. Pour yourself a glass of wine, light candles, romance yourself. Nurture every mood and every feeling with no interruption or pressure to suppress it. Feel your own energy, unaffected and all-consuming. Realise that you need no one to survive, live, thrive, bring you joy, bring you comfort. You have everything you need in yourself, you’re the best housemate you could ever find because you’ve always lived together. Make a best friend out of yourself, and love the time you spend alone.

I miss my flat so deeply. I miss the décor and the fireplaces and the feeling I had each morning and each night as I woke myself up and rocked myself to sleep. But it taught me what I needed, and I hope its new occupiers find what they need there too as I wander onto my next house knowing I’m always at home with myself.

I wish I’d seen the magic of Marilyn before, that I hadn’t spent so many years shrugging her off as that pretty face from that picture of her white dress floating. I wasn’t fussed, simply didn’t care, rejecting the mainstream and turning down all the arguments that Marilyn was a real woman, the true image of femininity. I didn’t want to go down that path, the 50s bubble-gum image of aspiration and dizzy ditziness; I wanted my women exciting and real and wild. Give me Edie, give me Audrey, give me Patti or Stevie or Francoise, leave the goddess behind.

The last place I expected to find her was in my dissertation research, reading about 1960s America’s alternative scene. But there she was; undressed and frantic, counting pills in a ripped dress. America’s sweetheart was there in the underbelly playing with death with the junkies and failing to hid it with her signature smile in the mirror held up by none other but her husband, who directed the scene. I came to her defence before I even knew her. How dare he. The man that was supposed to know this woman better than anyone. How dare he create a caricature of her memory, put a woman on stage in a blonde wig and shapewear and get her to play the role of the dumb blonde once again, this time with a death wish that he admits he helped grant. A husband creating entertainment from his wife’s death, cashing in on every possible stereotype and putting it in front of an audience, less than 2 years after her passing. I didn’t know her, didn’t even know how false the stereotypes were, but the lack of care upset me; seeing a talented female character broken down and calling out for his man who was her god, that wouldn’t help her up but said ‘I wish you knew how to take care of yourself’. When she tries to tell him more about her life, he says ‘I know enough’.

I wish I’d known more sooner, that I hadn’t echoed that sentiment along with most others, leaving my knowledge of the star at stardom, at the beauty, at a hollow laugh. I wish I’d attempted to find the human there behind that image, because maybe I’d have seen stars as more attainable, less fictional than the wildly rich and reckless Edie, or the Nazi-fighting Audrey. Because Marilyn was dirt poor but clever. I bet you didn’t know that she was a child of the foster care system, bouncing from home to home from abuse to abuse until she learned how she could control men. She married age 16 to get herself out of the system. She started modeling to earn her own money. She dyed her own hair blonde to cash in on the image of beauty being thrown in her face. And mostly, she created Marilyn. Norma Jean from the back end of nowhere created the greatest character in American history; the goddess, the world’s mistress, to cash in on the expectations the world threw at her. In her private life, she loved to garden and learn about philosophy, she had an extensive home library powering through some of the most difficult books known to man, she wrote poetry and capped off each day with a hot fudge sundae. She craved monogamy and motherhood. She made millions and married for love. The Marilyn we know; the gold-digging baby doll that’s too dumb for her own good, becomes a role of pure comedy the more you learn about her history. In the face of her self-made story and simply wants, her male co-stars become the butt of her jokes as she harnesses the stereotypes the male execs of Hollywood would love to put on her. Behind the scenes, she’d argue with directors for better pay and more representative female characters, refused to diet for roles, fought against her constant typecasting, but then would get in front of the camera, hypersexualise these ridiculous female characters until they were funny, cash in on making men’s tongues roll out of their mouth, then sit and read Ulysses in-between takes. An icon, not because of her curves or her face, but because she played the game and beat them at it because no one ever suspected she was acting all along. It’s a sad kind of amazement, no one gave her credit for her acting but no one cared to consider the actress under it. Arthur Miller’s issue with the marriage was that he wanted to marry Marilyn Monroe but he married Norma Jean; he wrote of the dumb blonde drinking and naively flirting, failing to see the natural brunette being smothered underneath. I think that’s what killed her; method acting with no escape, no one cared for the self. (Or maybe the American government if you’ve read the conspiracy theories, but that’s another story…)

I found my love for her there, in that gap between Marilyn and Norma as all their inside jokes seemed to come out. When you know her history and how clever you have to be to turn society against itself, her characters become hilarious. You start to see how her character always comes out on top, always so self-assured and certain that she’d end up there, never doubting her power. You start to notice all the times she switches in and out of the role, revealing little moments of her wisdom and intelligence as the supposedly dumb, gold-digging Lorelei Lee carries out a fool-proof plan to recover incriminating images of herself, outsmarts a lawyer with her best friend, gets herself a gig in Paris to earn money and still manages to get the man to marry her by point out the double standards in gender expectations; why shouldn’t she seek out a rich man when men are allowed to only seek out beautiful women? As the opening bars of Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend ring out and she appears in that signature pink dress in one of the most expensive scenes ever created in cinematic history, I sing along giggling. It’s hilarious watching her batting her eyelids, harnessing all the stereotypes of the dizzy helpless woman that everyone wanted her to be, the humour comes from knowing that Norma Jean hated diamonds, she much preferred pearls... or pay-checks equal to her male co-stars.

I came to her defence before knowing all that though, partly because I saw myself there, in this breakdown scene as she tries desperately to cling to anyone who will see her and pull her out. In a selfish way, there’s a comfort in seeing the worlds brightest starlet broken down, knowing she struggled with mental health but still achieved such huge things. I read her diaries and found myself there too, as she wrote herself affirmations and comforts; ‘life starts from now’, ‘I will be as sensitive as I am- without being ashamed’, ‘my body is my body, every part of it’. Her thoughts feel so close to me, a feeling I never expected when I started looking into Marilyn Monroe, the world’s dream woman. Nothing in that famed Seven Year Itch picture would’ve suggested I’d find a sense of solidarity there. But I did, peeling away layers as I learned and finding new things to share, noticing new ways that she began to inform my attitude and my performances as I merged more of Marilyn into Sunday Girl. The biggest thing; I noticed a change with my body image. In past shows, I’d wanted to make myself look tall and long and slim. The last show, I wore a suspender belt that hugged my hips and smoothed round the curves, I wore a vintage bra and didn’t try to look small. As I watched more films, I realised I hadn’t really noticed her body, something so rare for someone that struggles with body image. Normally, I stare with envy at the starlet, obsessive over their long legs and slim arms and pixie features, spend the following day wanting to emulate their outfits but feeling locked out because my body simply can’t copy it, these hips won’t let me. But I didn’t with Marilyn, I just knew she looked beautiful, then I realised she looked like me; hips and thighs and arms, her jawline soft, her face round and rosy-cheeked. I could emulate that, feeling good as I pulled on high waisted trousers and sweetheart necklines. I started buying more tight-fitting things, no longer so scared of the curves, no longer feeling so off balance with my tiny top half, excepting that my body was more of a 50s classic than a 60s alternative. When I’d always gravitated towards the latter, wanting the excitement and rejecting the presumed squeaky-clean goodness of the earlier era, learning about Marilyn suddenly made the 50s seem a little bolder. I don’t feel scared of glamour now as I pull on my pencil skirt and heels at every given opportunity and begin carrying out a red lipstick as an essential.

I guess I found a kind of representation here; physically, mentally and spiritually, finding a sister in every part of her that I never would’ve expected to find. America’s sweetheart sat in the underbelly, laughing at everyone with her cards to her chest, only showing you if you take the time to ask.