Be The Plot Twist

Hey guys, it’s been a while, right? 

And I know you’re wondering where I’ve been.
Short answer: not thriving.
Long answer: absolutely not thriving.

I didn’t get swept off my feet by a handsome prince or tatted biker and end up married on a beach in the Maldives.  

I burned out.  

Not the cute kind where you take a weekend off and buy a new candle.
No. I went full scorched‑earth.
Years of pushing and pretending and “I’m fine”-ing until I basically evaporated into a human crisp.

I kept saying I wanted to live like the heroine in a romance novel, but honestly? I just wanted pizza, ice cream, and fictional men who don’t need me to “communicate my feelings.” They just brood, smoulder, and occasionally take their shirts off. Perfect.

So that’s what I did.
Bridgerton.
Then 911. (Oliver Stark… sir…)
Then Stranger Things. (Eddie and Steve? On a sandwich? Please. I’d simply ascend.)

Somewhere between binge‑watching and aggressively avoiding my own life, something in my brain went ping.
If I couldn’t make magic happen in real life, I could at least write it.
And suddenly I was writing like a woman possessed.

Not blog posts.
Stories.
Lovers.
Women who take up space like they invented it. Women who are basically me, but with more confidence.
But most importantly, stories I now have every intention of people reading. 

I wanted to go to a music festival with friends I didn’t have, and lose myself in the music. But I couldn’t, so I wrote about Daisy and Will.

I wanted to meet a sexy firefighter in small-town America, but I couldn’t, so I wrote about Ella and Luke.

I wanted a man to chase me through the woods (IICYIFY vibes) but I couldn’t do that, so I wrote about Trix and her men.

Each of these FMCs holds a part of myself that I know is buried deep, in that person who makes herself smaller, and this was my way of setting her free again. And honestly, it was like therapy. I researched so much for these stories — their backstories, their trauma, their chaos — and in doing so, accidentally unpacked my own. (But if my search history ever leaks, there will be questions asked.)

All of those changes I wanted to make didn’t matter unless I changed the rocky foundations my self-belief was built on.  

Last year I had a fridge full of self-doubt and self-loathing. If emotional baggage were groceries, I could have opened my own Tesco and still have enough left over for a BOGOF Clubcard deal. I could change my hair, my clothes, my entire personality – but if I woke up every morning determined to be invisible, what was the point?

I lost friends I thought I could trust. That cracked something in me.

After that, shrinking felt safer.

Shrinking looked like keeping my blog anonymous because attaching my name to my own words felt too exposed. Like standing under a spotlight I didn’t ask for.
Shrinking looked like refusing to post photos because someone might decide I wasn’t enough.
Shrinking looked like filing compliments under “lies people tell to be polite.”
Shrinking looked like staying quiet in rooms where I had something to say.
Shrinking looked like staying in a job that no longer fits because reaching for something better feels louder than I’m comfortable with.

Ella would embrace her verbal diarrhoea without apology. I swallow mine down like they’re grenades.
Daisy would dance in the rain and ruin her mascara without a second thought. I run for cover because I’m worried about my frizz, or what the neighbours might think.
Trix would not only call someone out, she’d sharpen her blade while doing it. I don’t need to be Trix. But I do need to stop shrugging and start speaking up for myself.

And that leads me to now.  

I’m not going to pretend I wake up every day wanting to be seen. I don’t.
But I am ready to be heard.
I’m ready to stop sugar‑coating my life like it’s a Bake Off entry and start telling the truth, even when it’s messy.

Have I been on any dates? Yes.
Was it good? Shockingly, yes.
Am I ready to settle down? Absolutely not.
Why? Because even though he made me feel safe, I’m still figuring out who I am when I’m not trying to take up as little space as possible.

I’m still learning how to stop apologising for existing.
I’ve spent so long worrying about being too much or not enough that I forgot I’m allowed to just… be.

I’m tired of choosing invisibility because it feels safer than judgment.
Safety is a cold comfort when you’re suffocating in it.

So no, this isn’t a polished comeback or a “new me” reveal.
This is just me, sitting here with a cold cup of tea and a screen that’s seen more of my soul than my mirror lately, choosing — for once — to stand in my own light.

I’m claiming my own space now – even if it’s just a corner of the internet. 
I’m not sure what the rest of the story looks like yet.
But I know I’m the one holding the pen. 

To hold myself accountable, I’m making one small choice this week:
I’m going to do something just for me. Something that takes up space. Something that doesn’t need a reason or permission. Maybe it’s a walk I’ve been avoiding. Maybe it’s finishing a chapter I’ve been dragging my feet on. Maybe it’s buying myself flowers like the dramatic queen I am.

Maybe I’ll even buy the expensive ones. Growth.

It’s time to stop waiting for the story to happen to me.

Come join me over on my instagram to see updates throughout the week!

So as always, I’m going to switch up the narrative, rewrite the script and start being the plot twist myself. 

Much love,  

Katie x