Once upon a time, we were all little adventurers, wide-eyed, full of wonder, constantly asking why. Why is the sky blue? Why do trees lose their leaves? Why does thunder rumble? Why? Why? Why?

Back then, our questions weren't seen as challenges or rebellion. They were the songs of our growing minds. We didn't accept the world at face value because, instinctively, we knew there was always more beneath the surface. And in many ways, that unfiltered, boundless wonder was one of the purest forms of intelligence.

But somewhere along the way, many of us grew quiet. We stopped asking. We started following.

Not because we lost our ability to question, but because the world whispered to us: it's easier not to.

Today, more than ever, we are surrounded by noise: headlines, opinions, “facts” that swirl around us at dizzying speed. In a world where information is instant, it's so tempting to simply accept instead of investigate. It's faster, it's convenient, and honestly, it can feel comfortable to go with the flow.

But here's the sacred truth: we were never meant to stop asking why.

Curiosity is not childish, it is one of the highest forms of wisdom. When we ask why, we invite deeper understanding. When we ask why, we protect ourselves from being misled. When we ask why, we honour the intelligence, the soul, and the spirit within us that longs for more than shallow answers.

Every time you pause and ask, why is this being said? Why do I believe this? Why does this matter? You reclaim a piece of your power. You step out of the shadows of blind acceptance and into the brilliant light of truth, compassion, and freedom.

We were made to think. We were made to feel. We were made to seek.

Asking why doesn't make you difficult. It doesn't make you a troublemaker. It makes you awake. It makes you wise. It makes you whole.

Remember the child you once were, the one who wondered about the stars, who marvelled at rainbows, who looked up at the sky and dared to dream big, impossible dreams. That child is still inside you. That curiosity is not gone, it is waiting for you to listen again.

So ask why. Ask it boldly. Ask it gently. Ask it when you're reading, when you're scrolling, when you're living. Stay rooted in wonder. Stay fiercely thoughtful.

In a world that often rushes to answer, be the one to question.

Because sometimes, the most beautiful truths are waiting just behind one small, why.

Curiosity isn't a personality trait you either have or don't. It's closer to a muscle, and it responds to small, repeated use.

Ask One Real Question a Day

Not a rhetorical one. Pick something you've taken for granted, how a traffic light actually decides its timing, why a recipe calls for resting the dough, and find out properly. Five minutes of genuine answer beats an hour of scrolling past things you'll never look into.

Follow the Why Past the First Answer

Children rarely stop at one why. The second and third why are usually where the interesting part lives. If a headline says something happened, ask why it happened, and then why that reason is true, before deciding what you think.

Read One Thing That Disagrees With You

Not to be talked out of your view, but to know exactly why you still hold it once you've heard the other side properly. Certainty that's never been tested isn't curiosity's friend.

Sit With "I Don't Know"

Most adults rush to fill that gap with a guess dressed up as fact. Practise leaving it open for a moment. Not knowing yet is the actual starting point of finding out, not a failure to skip past.

Talk to Someone Whose Life Looks Nothing Like Yours

Ask them genuine questions about how their world works, not to debate, just to understand. Curiosity about people is the same muscle as curiosity about ideas, and it tends to be the one that atrophies fastest.

Notice When You're Nodding Along

If you catch yourself agreeing with something purely because everyone around you seems to, that's the exact moment to quietly ask yourself why. You don't have to say it out loud. Just notice it.

There's a moment most people don't see. It doesn't happen in meetings or on social media. It happens late at night, when everything's quiet, I'm sitting on the floor in my lounge room, still working. My back hurts. My brain hurts from banging it against all the regulations and rules that forget people's lives are at stake. It's like an itch I can't scratch.

Is this worth it?

When you're building a business in regional Australia, it isn't romantic or glamorous. I don't have a cool or exciting product. I work with children and families that almost everyone else puts in the too-hard basket. Even though I can see the problems, it takes more time than I realise and more energy than I'm sure I have. It asks more and more of me every day.

There are the long days that roll into longer nights. The weight of decisions that don't sit comfortably. The constant tension of leading a team, holding families, and working inside systems that often feel disconnected from the reality on the ground. You learn quickly that effort doesn't always equal progress, and that doing the right thing isn't always the easiest or the most rewarding path.

My doubt isn't because I don't love the work. I do. Love doesn't make it light or give you time to lie on a beach in Bali.

Some days, this work takes everything. It takes the late nights when everyone else has gone to bed and I'm still answering messages, thinking through staffing, or replaying a family meeting in my head. It takes the part of me that wants to switch off, binge-watch some mindless telly, but I can't, because the people I support don't get to clock out of their lives.

It takes my faith, if I'm honest. My faith in systems, in fairness, and the idea that if something matters enough, surely it should be easier to do well.

But it isn't.

There are moments I think about how much simpler life would be if I walked away. I could go back to teaching. I could earn more. I could have a wage that made sense on paper. I could stop pouring myself into something that doesn't always give back in any tidy or measurable way. When I'm tired enough, that thought can feel enticingly reasonable.

I could step back into teaching tomorrow and earn significantly more. I'd have predictable hours, clear boundaries, and a system I already understand. There's a version of life where things are simpler. That thought crosses my mind more often than people might expect. But when it lurks around the shadows of my mind, even though it is tempting, I flick it away. The work I do is personal.

I think about the mums who've sat across from me with tears running down their face, not because everything is fixed, but because for the first time someone stayed long enough to understand. I think about the grandparents raising grandchildren, carrying trauma that isn't theirs but loving those kids fiercely anyway. I think about the children who've spent years being called difficult, naughty, defiant, when really they're overwhelmed, frightened, dysregulated, and trying to survive in environments not made for who they are.

I think about what happens when no one stays. That's the part I can't shake.

Because in regional and rural communities, when support disappears, there often isn't something else waiting around the corner. There isn't another clinic down the road. There isn't a long list of specialists to choose from. There is just a family, already stretched thin, being asked to hold even more.

There are days I question what kind of person keeps choosing the hard road when the easier one is right there.

But then a child says something they've never said before. A parent exhales for the first time in months. A carer stops apologising and starts feeling capable again. And I'm reminded that impact doesn't always arrive with applause. Sometimes it arrives quietly, in the look on someone's face when they realise they are no longer doing it alone.

I know I won't beat every system. I know there'll always be policies written by people far removed from the lives they affect. I know there'll be days when the numbers don't stack up, when the work feels too heavy, when I question whether grit is enough. Mamma said there'd be days like these.

I also know this. What me and my team does matters deeply to the people we do it for. In places where families have learned not to expect much, being the one who stays, the one who keeps showing up, the one who says, we're here, and we're not walking away, means more than most people will ever understand.

Maybe that's why I keep going.

Not because it's easy, it pays well, or the system has said “hey, Channy, how can we make the system fairer? Let's do it.” In those moments, in the middle of all that weight, someone's life becomes a little better, a little less lonely, and a little more hopeful. Maybe that's enough to keep choosing the hard thing.

Spear & Arrow is the organisation behind the work Channy writes about above.

At Spear & Arrow, every child and family is treated as unique. The team provides practical, compassionate, and individualised support to children, adolescents, and families across Western NSW, specialising in autism, trauma, and developmental needs. The organisation is proudly Indigenous-led, guided by co-founder Max Ryan from the Wiradjuri Nation of the Tubba-Gah people, with culture, community, and connection built into everything it does.

Its paediatric occupational therapists support children under 17, behaviour support services are available for all ages, and its Key Worker programme focuses on children aged nine and under.

Spear & Arrow understands that navigating therapies, schooling, and everyday challenges can feel overwhelming — which is why the team walks alongside families step by step, offering evidence-informed guidance, strategies that work in real-life situations, and support tailored to each child's strengths, needs, and family context.

There's no magic wand. What Spear & Arrow brings instead is perseverance, expertise, and a deep commitment to supporting families, helping them make meaningful progress one step at a time. By breaking complex challenges into manageable steps, the team helps families see growth in daily routines, emotional regulation, social participation, and independence.

Mission, Vision & Values in Action

At Spear & Arrow, these values are lived every day, guiding how the team supports children and families throughout their journey.

Mission: improve quality of life and help the community achieve brighter, more secure futures.

Vision: to be Australia's first paediatric clinic that reaches the hearts and souls of humanity — staying true to a holistic, compassionate, person-centred connection to community.

Values: every step taken with a family is guided by a commitment to be a leader in providing care, offering meaningful education that equips children and families, and helping them feel truly empowered to face challenges. The team takes bold steps to support each family's personalised journey, remains steadfast with perseverance when progress is gradual, and approaches every child and family with respect, honouring their individuality, strengths, and story.

Spear & Arrow walks alongside families, celebrating progress, navigating challenges together, and making daily life calmer, more manageable, and more meaningful.

Henrietta Lacks is one of the most influential figures in the history of modern medicine, despite never intending to become part of scientific history. Her story sits at the intersection of scientific discovery, race, ethics, consent and medical justice.

Born as Loretta Pleasant on 1 August 1920 in Roanoke, Virginia, she was later known as Henrietta Lacks. After her mother died, she grew up in Clover, where she lived with relatives and worked on a tobacco farm. Like many African Americans in the segregated South, she had limited educational opportunities and faced systemic racial discrimination throughout her life.

Henrietta married her cousin, David Lacks, and the couple eventually settled near Baltimore. They had five children while Henrietta balanced raising a family with caring for relatives and managing household responsibilities.

In early 1951, Henrietta began experiencing severe vaginal bleeding and pain. She sought treatment at Johns Hopkins Hospital, one of the few hospitals at the time that treated Black patients. Doctors diagnosed her with an aggressive form of cervical cancer.

During her treatment, physicians removed small samples of both cancerous and healthy cervical tissue. At the time, it was common practice for tissue samples to be collected for research without informing patients or obtaining their consent. Henrietta was never told that her cells would be used in scientific experiments.

What happened next changed medicine forever.

Unlike every previous human cell scientists had attempted to grow in the laboratory, Henrietta's cancer cells did not die after a few days. Instead, they continued dividing rapidly and indefinitely. Researchers named the cell line “HeLa”, using the first two letters of her first and last names.

The HeLa cell line became the first immortal human cell line ever successfully cultured.

Its impact on science has been extraordinary. HeLa cells have contributed to thousands of medical discoveries, including:

Development of the polio vaccine.

Advances in cancer research.

Studies of viruses, including HIV/AIDS and COVID-19.

Research into genetics and gene mapping.

Development of in vitro fertilisation techniques.

Improvements in chemotherapy and radiation treatments.

Studies on the effects of radiation and toxins.

Drug testing and vaccine development.

Research conducted in space to understand how human cells behave in microgravity.

Scientists estimate that trillions of HeLa cells have been grown since 1951. More than 110,000 scientific papers have referenced HeLa cells, making them one of the most widely used tools in biomedical research.

Henrietta herself, however, never benefited from these breakthroughs. She died on 4 October 1951 at just 31 years old, only months after her diagnosis. She was buried in an unmarked grave on the family plot in Clover, Virginia, where she remained for almost six decades. It wasn't until 2010 that a headstone finally marked her resting place, donated by a Morehouse School of Medicine physician who had worked with the original researcher and was moved to act after reading her story.

For decades, her family knew almost nothing about the global use of her cells. In the 1970s, researchers contacted members of the Lacks family seeking blood samples to help distinguish HeLa cells from other cell lines. The family initially misunderstood why scientists wanted their blood, believing they were being tested for cancer. Many also learned for the first time that Henrietta's cells were still alive in laboratories around the world.

Her story sparked worldwide debate over informed consent, patient privacy, ownership of biological materials and racial inequities in medical research. Although current ethical standards are much stricter than those that existed in 1951, many of the legal questions surrounding ownership of donated tissues remain complex.

Public awareness of Henrietta Lacks grew significantly following the publication of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. The bestselling book combined biography, investigative journalism and science writing, bringing Henrietta's life and legacy to an international audience. It was later adapted into a film, with Oprah Winfrey starring as Deborah Lacks, Henrietta's daughter, who spent years searching for the truth about her mother.

In recent years, several institutions have formally recognised Henrietta's contribution to science. The National Institutes of Health established an agreement with members of the Lacks family giving them a voice in decisions about access to the complete HeLa genome sequence. In 2023, the family also reached a confidential settlement with the biotechnology company Thermo Fisher Scientific, after alleging that it had commercially profited from HeLa cells without permission. Further legal claims against other companies that have used the cell line remain unresolved.

Today, Henrietta Lacks is remembered not only for the extraordinary scientific legacy of the HeLa cell line but also for the ethical questions her story continues to raise. Her life has become a powerful reminder that medical progress must be accompanied by respect for the dignity, rights and informed consent of every patient. Although she never lived to witness the impact of her cells, countless advances in medicine, public health and biomedical research trace back to the tissue taken from her during treatment in 1951. Her legacy endures in laboratories across the world and in ongoing efforts to make medical research more ethical, transparent and equitable.

Recognition came slowly, and mostly after others had already profited. A rough timeline of how long it took the world to catch up with what Henrietta Lacks had given it.

1951 — The Cells, Without Her Knowledge

Cervical tissue samples taken during her cancer treatment become the HeLa cell line. Henrietta is never told. She dies the same year, aged 31, and is buried in an unmarked family grave.

1970s — The Family Finds Out

Researchers contact the Lacks family for blood samples, decades after Henrietta's death. It is the first time most of them learn her cells are still alive in laboratories worldwide.

2010 — A Headstone, Finally

Nearly sixty years after her burial, a Morehouse School of Medicine physician donates a headstone for Henrietta's previously unmarked grave, prompted by Rebecca Skloot's newly published book.

2013 — A Seat at the Table

The National Institutes of Health agrees to give the Lacks family a formal voice in decisions about access to the HeLa genome sequence, the first time the family has any institutional say over use of her cells.

2017 — The Film

HBO's adaptation of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks brings the story to a global television audience, with Oprah Winfrey portraying Henrietta's daughter Deborah.

2023 — A Settlement

The Lacks family reaches a confidential settlement with Thermo Fisher Scientific over commercial use of the HeLa cell line, more than seventy years after the cells were first taken.

Seventy-two years passed between the tissue being taken and a company being held to account for profiting from it. The science moved in years. The recognition moved in decades.

I audited my entire financial position before I decided to leave. I was 55, I had been earning money for 42 years, and before I made any decision about the relationship, I needed to ensure I was fully informed about my financial position, currently and moving forward. I found all the documentation regarding mortgages and superannuation, I researched the value of combined assets and how they are treated when separation occurs, and then I took it all to a lawyer and said, tell me. Not until then did I say anything or make any firm decision.

As a Life Directionist, I work with women at the moments when their lives demand a course correction, when something has become unsustainable or intolerable or has simply run its course. In those moments, one of the most critical dimensions of her direction is financial, because sovereignty means nothing without the capacity to be independent, without the agency to make choices that serve her life rather than serve someone else's comfort or security. A woman cannot claim her own direction if she does not know her own numbers, cannot make an informed decision about her future if that future is held hostage by her lack of knowledge. Financial autonomy is not a luxury. It is the foundation upon which all other autonomy stands.

In conversations I am having right now with women 50 and beyond, I hear the same thing over and over, across every circumstance. They describe a situation that has become urgent — whether a relationship has ended, or a partner has died, or a husband has been diagnosed with dementia and placed into a nursing home, or they are managing care costs they never anticipated — and then they pause and say the thing they cannot say out loud without shame: I don't know if I can support myself. I don't know what I have.

Some of them do not know their passwords. Do not know whether the house is mortgaged. Cannot tell me the balance of the mortgage, or the superannuation, or the investment accounts, because they have never looked, and they pay the bills automatically, or someone else pays them entirely. She is facing decisions about care costs and asset protection and financial planning she never imagined she would need to make, or holding statements she has never seen, facing decisions she has never made, trying to understand systems she was never taught — or still in the relationship, but realising suddenly that something has shifted, and she has no idea what she actually owns or what she owes.

They have arranged their entire financial life around not knowing, which is another way of saying they have arranged it around not having agency, not having choice, not having the information required to make a life decision from an informed position when the situation demands it.

They cannot make a choice because choice requires information, and they have arranged never to have it.

In Australia, thirty-four per cent of women are classed as having low financial literacy, compared with sixteen per cent of men, and the gender gap in financial literacy widened between 2016 and 2020. Australia sits at thirty-six per cent of adults overall lacking financial literacy — higher than Germany at thirty-four per cent, the UK at thirty-three per cent, and Norway at twenty-nine per cent.

The statistics sit behind every woman who has not looked at her own financial position because she is afraid to, because the very thought of opening those statements triggers an anxiety she cannot name, because she has arranged her entire life around the belief that not knowing is safer than knowing, that delegating this responsibility is a mercy rather than an abdication. Some of these women are brilliant, capable, successful in every other domain, making high incomes and managing complex careers and holding entire households together, and somehow, in the architecture of their lives, they have decided that this one domain belongs to someone else, is someone else's responsibility, is something they cannot possibly manage.

The gap between what she thinks she knows and what she actually knows lives in the difference between being able to respond when crisis arrives and being completely unmoored, between having options and having none, between understanding her position and discovering it only when the situation has already forced her hand.

This is where most women stay stuck, caught between knowing their life has changed and being unable to make a move because they do not know their own numbers, unable to make decisions about care or assets or their future because the future depends on numbers they have never looked at, never learned, never owned as their own information.

The question is not whether you will need this information, because you will, eventually, whether the relationship ends, or whether you become widowed, or whether illness or circumstance demands that you suddenly understand your own financial position. The only real question is whether you will learn it while you still have choices, while you can still plan, while you still have the agency to make decisions, or whether you will learn it in crisis, when your options have already collapsed and the only path forward is the one circumstance has forced you to take.

That is what financial autonomy means at midlife. It means knowing your own numbers before you have to — understanding your superannuation, your mortgage, your investments, your debt, your costs of living — because these are not luxuries of knowledge. They are the foundations of choice. And choice is what determines whether your life remains in someone else's hands, or whether it becomes, finally, entirely your own.

What do you do when someone you love has died, and your days consist of moving aimlessly through life without them, and you long for their arms about you and the normality you had grown used to?

You look for miracles. The miracle you really wanted didn't happen; he died. But even in that time before, you could find miracles if you looked for them: brownies together in a café, transport that ran on time from the hospital, places which had wheelchair access.

Ella reckons she had always been good at finding miracles, but she had become a prodigy as she watched her partner slowly dying. “Everything that wasn't death was life, and everything that was life was miraculous, bright as a dropped penny among all the tubes and wires.” She learns that you don't wait for miracles in this life, you make them; you choose to find them from what you have. She loves to cook, and her philosophy on life and miracles comes from her cooking experience: “You start with the scraps; you start with what you have.”

When she has to leave her flat, her friend Jo suggests they move in together. Ella likes cooking, Jo likes eating, and is happy to do the clearing up afterwards. So starts a new chapter for them both, and as we move through the year, starting at January, we have insights into this new life interspersed with mouthwatering recipes and wonderful illustrations by Elisa Cunningham. I had intended copying out some of the recipes, but they turned into so many that I decided to buy the book (this one was from the library) and now have my own copy.

I love the way she can throw a picnic together at the drop of a hat, or spend hours preparing a dinner, or just look in the fridge and make something out of what she finds.

The Year of Miracles consists not just of finding joy amidst the sadness, but of slowly finding love again with an old friend; the changing of an easy friendship into something deeper. Her descriptions of how grief strikes out of the blue even after a few years — she wrote this during and just after Covid, and by then had been without Jim for five years — will resonate with anyone who has been through a similar experience. Grief doesn't have a time limit, and can still break through a new-found happiness at unexpected moments.

As someone who finds miracles in what other people may think mundane things, I really get Ella's philosophy of life; like her, I am blessed with many friends. When my daughter came to the hospital to pick me up after my second mastectomy last year, I said I'd been getting messages of support all day, and the nurse said how nice it was to have so many people who love me. “Yes,” said my daughter, “she does”, and I wondered how people go through these things without that support.

But to get back to Ella; her year begins, as it does, in January, and the determination to find her miracles as she heals. It ends in December, with all the ghosts of Christmases past emerging as she unpacks the decorations and the memories surge. Her Jewish friend Zelda frequently comes out with the phrase “Next year in Jerusalem”, and it becomes a mantra for the friends, that they can look ahead to better things. It is an uplifting book, one which can be dipped into often once you have read it through. I defy you to read it without feeling hungry.

For many people, winning a national beauty pageant represents the pinnacle of success. It is a title built on glamour, poise and public admiration. For Daniella Álvarez, however, becoming Miss Colombia was only the opening chapter of a story that would ultimately become far more meaningful than any crown.

Today, Álvarez is recognised not simply as one of Colombia's most celebrated beauty queens, but as a television presenter, motivational speaker and advocate whose remarkable journey has inspired millions around the world. Her story is no longer defined by pageantry. Instead, it has become one of extraordinary resilience, courage and the willingness to embrace a life forever changed.

Born on 24 May 1988 in Barranquilla, Colombia, Daniella Álvarez grew up with a passion for communication and public speaking. Alongside her academic studies in communications and journalism, she developed an interest in modelling and public presentation, qualities that naturally led her towards the world of beauty pageants.

Her breakthrough came in 2011 when she represented the department of Atlántico in the Miss Colombia competition. Her intelligence, confidence and elegance impressed both judges and audiences, earning her the coveted national title. The following year, she represented Colombia at Miss Universe, introducing herself to an international audience and laying the foundation for a successful career in television.

Rather than relying solely on her pageant success, Álvarez carved out a respected career as a presenter. She became a familiar face on Colombian television, hosting entertainment programmes, reality competitions and lifestyle shows. Her warmth on screen and natural ability to connect with audiences quickly made her one of the country's most recognisable personalities.

Life appeared to be unfolding exactly as she had imagined.

Then everything changed.

In June 2020, what initially seemed to be a routine medical concern quickly developed into a devastating health crisis. Doctors discovered a small, coin-sized abdominal mass that required surgery. During the operation, the mass was found to have wrapped around her main aorta, and complications affected the blood supply to her left leg. Despite multiple procedures and grafts to restore circulation, the damage became irreversible.

Faced with an impossible decision, Álvarez chose to undergo a below-the-knee amputation of her left leg in order to save her life.

For many, such news would have marked the end of a career built largely in front of cameras. Instead, it became the beginning of a completely different journey.

Rather than hiding from the public, Álvarez chose transparency. She openly documented her rehabilitation, sharing both the victories and the frustrations of adapting to life with a prosthetic leg. Her honesty resonated deeply with people far beyond Colombia.

“I love my body the same as before. I'm happy to be in this world to tackle all of the challenges that will come in my new life.” — Daniella Álvarez, quoting Frida Kahlo: “What do I need feet for when I have wings to fly?”

One of the defining moments came only weeks after her surgery when she posted a joyful video dancing with her brother. The clip quickly spread across social media, not because it ignored her reality, but because it celebrated it. She demonstrated that happiness and hope could coexist with pain and uncertainty.

As she learned to walk again, rebuilt her strength and returned to work, millions watched her transform from beauty queen to symbol of perseverance.

Álvarez has often spoken candidly about the emotional challenges that accompanied her physical recovery. Losing a limb required her to redefine how she viewed herself, her future and even the meaning of beauty. Rather than focusing on what she had lost, she gradually shifted her attention towards everything she still possessed: her family, her career, her purpose and her ability to inspire others.

Her outlook has become one of gratitude rather than limitation.

She frequently speaks about resilience, self-acceptance and faith, encouraging others to see adversity not as the end of their story but as the beginning of a different one. Through motivational speaking engagements and charitable initiatives, she has become an advocate for people living with disabilities and those facing major health challenges.

Her message resonates because it is rooted in lived experience rather than theory.

Despite everything she endured, she has consistently refused to define herself through tragedy.

Her return to television, public appearances and everyday life demonstrated that disability does not diminish ambition, beauty or capability. Wearing elegant gowns with a visible prosthetic leg, she challenged long-held assumptions about physical perfection and encouraged broader conversations about inclusion and representation.

In doing so, she became a role model for countless people who had never before seen disability represented so confidently in mainstream media.

Beyond her professional work, Álvarez maintains a strong connection with her supporters through social media, where millions follow her journey. She shares moments from her rehabilitation, travel, work, fitness routines and personal life with refreshing authenticity, allowing followers to witness both ordinary days and extraordinary achievements.

Her influence extends well beyond Colombia. Around the world, people who have experienced illness, disability or profound personal loss have found comfort in her story. She has become living proof that life's most defining moments are not always the ones we choose, but the way we choose to respond to them.

Beauty pageants often celebrate outward perfection. Daniella Álvarez's legacy demonstrates that true beauty is measured very differently.

It is found in resilience when circumstances seem impossible. It is found in vulnerability without surrender. It is found in the courage to begin again.

Her crown may have introduced her to the world, but it is her remarkable strength, unwavering optimism and determination to live life without limits that have made her unforgettable.

A few of the chapters Álvarez has written since the amputation.

The Daniela Álvarez Foundation

Established to improve the quality of life and happiness of people with reduced mobility, the foundation channels her platform into practical support for others adjusting to life with limb loss or disability.

Learning to Ski Again, on Her Own Terms

Having discovered skiing for the first time only months before her amputation, Álvarez assumed that chapter was closed. An invitation from the adaptive sports organisation Challenge Aspen brought her to Aspen Snowmass, Colorado, where she learned to ski again using a bi-ski, a sit-ski with two skis offering greater stability.

Walking the Paris Runway

Álvarez made history as the first Colombian to walk in L'Oréal's Paris Fashion Week show, appearing alongside Kendall Jenner, Eva Longoria and Viola Davis, with a golden prosthetic leg fully visible beneath a white dress.

The Message She Repeats Most

“I think the message is about resilience, optimism, and self-esteem,” she has said. “When you really want something, you can achieve it. I think that message is not only for handicapped people.”

Comic Mystery · Short Story

The first thing you should understand about a writers' retreat is that no one attending one is ever quite as serene as they pretend to be. Writers cultivate an image of thoughtful calm, as though they spend their days gazing peacefully at lakes while waiting for inspiration to drift toward them like a swan. In reality, most writers are quietly competitive, occasionally insecure, and deeply curious about what everyone else is writing. Place eight of them together in an isolated manor house with good coffee and a rumour about a legendary manuscript, and you have the literary equivalent of placing several cats in a room with one extremely interesting cardboard box.

I arrived at Hawthorne House with the modest ambition of finishing the final chapter of my latest romance novel, which involved a baker, a florist, and a misunderstanding about a croissant that had lasted for almost two hundred pages. Hawthorne House itself was exactly the sort of place that appeared in glossy retreat brochures: an enormous stone manor beside a small lake, surrounded by gardens that had clearly been designed for dramatic contemplation. Ivy crept elegantly along the walls, large windows overlooked misty lawns, and the entire building gave the impression that at any moment someone might discover a tragic love letter hidden behind a painting.

There were eight writers in residence that week, which is an unusually large number of people to place in one house if any of them possess strong opinions about semicolons.

Harold Finch was a bestselling thriller author who spoke as though every sentence required a soundtrack and a camera slowly zooming toward his face. Penelope Green was a poet who wore flowing linen garments and frequently used the word “liminal,” sometimes several times within the same sentence. Dr Benedict Hale wrote historical novels and corrected everyone's grammar with the gentle but persistent determination of a man who believed punctuation was the backbone of civilisation. Tasha Monroe was a self-help author whose books promised to align one's creative energy through a series of colour-coded systems that she carried around in a small leather notebook. Leo Park was a young literary novelist who looked as though he had not slept properly since 2014. Claudia Rivers wrote crime fiction and possessed the cheerful composure of someone who had researched at least seven methods of hiding a body in difficult terrain.

Our host was Arthur Whitcombe, an elderly literary icon who had not published a book in several years but whose reputation was so formidable that people still spoke about him in reverent tones. Rumour had it that he had spent the last decade writing a final masterpiece, a novel so extraordinary that it would apparently reshape the literary landscape. The manuscript, we were told during the welcome dinner, was safely locked in his study.

This detail was mentioned with the casualness of someone placing a large diamond in the centre of a room and trusting everyone to behave responsibly.

On the first evening we gathered in the drawing room while Arthur read the opening chapter aloud. The chapter was undeniably brilliant, which created an uncomfortable atmosphere in which several successful writers realised that someone else might have written something better than anything they had ever produced.

Harold applauded in the intense way that suggested he might later attempt to adapt the novel into a television series. Penelope closed her eyes and murmured something about the “haunting resonance of language.” Dr Hale nodded thoughtfully and asked a question about historical accuracy that no one else understood. Tasha declared that the manuscript carried powerful creative energy and that she could feel it vibrating through the room. Leo stared at the pages with the stunned expression of someone who had just discovered the literary equivalent of Mount Everest. Claudia watched everyone else with the quiet amusement of a detective attending a dinner party where someone had already hidden the murder weapon.

I, being a romance novelist whose characters usually fell in love beside artisan bread displays, clapped politely and wondered whether I should rewrite my croissant scene.

The manuscript was returned to Arthur's study that night.

The following morning, everything went slightly wrong.

Arthur entered the dining room during breakfast looking pale and faintly theatrical, which is exactly how one imagines a famous author would look when announcing a crisis involving literature.

“My manuscript,” he said gravely, “has been stolen.”

Someone dropped a spoon.

Penelope gasped in a delicate, poetic way.

Harold leaned forward with the alertness of a man who had spent his career writing about precisely this sort of situation.

“Stolen?” Claudia said with noticeable interest.

Arthur nodded solemnly and explained that the manuscript had been locked in his study the previous evening, but when he opened the door that morning it had vanished entirely.

“I assume,” he added carefully, “that none of you would know anything about this.”

What followed was the fastest and most emphatic display of head-shaking I had ever witnessed.

“No,” said Harold immediately.

“Certainly not,” Penelope added.

“Absolutely impossible,” Dr Hale declared.

Tasha placed a hand on her chest and said, “I would never disrupt someone else's creative path.”

Leo shook his head with such urgency that his hair fell into his eyes.

Claudia simply smiled and sipped her tea.

Arthur sighed with the weary dignity of a man who had just realised he had accidentally placed eight writers inside a locked-room mystery.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we shall continue the retreat as planned and hope the manuscript reappears.”

The room fell into a thoughtful silence that felt less like calm reflection and more like the moment in a film when every suspect realises they are now part of the plot.

The first genuinely suspicious moment occurred later that morning when I went to the library in search of quiet so I could attempt to write my croissant confession scene. While pretending to concentrate on my laptop, I overheard Harold and Penelope whispering in the hallway.

“I'm just saying,” Harold murmured in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a thriller narrator, “if someone had taken it, they would hardly admit it immediately.”

Penelope replied thoughtfully, “The manuscript carries enormous symbolic importance.”

“It's worth millions,” Harold added.

There was a pause.

“Hypothetically,” Penelope said, “someone might simply have wished to read it first.”

“Hypothetically,” Harold agreed.

They both walked away looking extremely philosophical.

That afternoon I encountered Leo in the sunroom, where he was sitting beside the window staring at the lake as though hoping the manuscript might float past on a swan.

“You don't think someone here actually stole it, do you?” he asked nervously.

The question had the tone of someone who had spent the last twelve hours imagining precisely that.

“Arthur seems to think so,” I replied.

Leo frowned deeply and said, with the exhausted honesty of a literary novelist, “Writers can be… competitive.”

Our tea arrived shortly afterwards. It was chamomile, which was the beginning of what would later become an overwhelming quantity of herbal tea in my life.

Over the next two days tea appeared everywhere. There was peppermint tea during writing sessions, lavender tea during mindfulness discussions, and something called “creative harmony infusion” that tasted faintly like grass and optimism. Tasha insisted that tea helped balance the creative spirit, although I suspected it also allowed her to monitor everyone's behaviour with the quiet attentiveness of a motivational detective.

The situation became significantly stranger on the third night when I heard footsteps in the hallway outside my room. Curiosity, unfortunately, is one of the defining traits of writers, which meant I opened my door just enough to investigate.

Leo Park was standing outside Arthur Whitcombe's study looking extremely guilty.

He glanced around nervously before trying the door handle, which did not open.

After a long moment he sighed in disappointment and wandered back down the corridor.

I closed my door and stared at the ceiling while my brain quietly assembled the beginnings of a mystery.

By the fourth day it had become impossible to ignore the fact that every single person at the retreat behaved as though they had something to hide. Harold frequently drifted past Arthur's study with the air of a man conducting reconnaissance. Penelope spent hours examining the library shelves as though the manuscript might have disguised itself as a collection of Victorian poetry. Dr Hale had begun asking unusually detailed questions about the house's locks. Tasha seemed deeply interested in Arthur's personal legacy. Leo avoided eye contact with everyone. Claudia took notes.

During yet another tea session, Claudia leaned toward me and said in a cheerful whisper, “You've noticed it too.”

“Noticed what?” I asked cautiously.

“That everyone here looks guilty.”

I hesitated.

“Yes,” I admitted.

Claudia smiled with the relaxed satisfaction of a crime writer attending her favourite type of social event.

“That's because they are.”

I stared at her.

“Everyone here,” she continued calmly, “has a reason to steal that manuscript.”

She proceeded to explain these reasons with the efficiency of someone outlining suspects in a murder mystery. Harold might want to sell the story rights. Penelope wanted to analyse the manuscript's poetic structure. Dr Hale believed Arthur had borrowed historical details from him years ago. Tasha thought it would help her next book. Leo simply wanted to read it. Claudia herself admitted she had been curious whether Arthur's security system actually worked.

“And you?” she asked suddenly.

“I have been drinking an unreasonable amount of herbal tea,” I said.

Claudia laughed so loudly that several people turned around.

The mystery finally resolved itself on the final evening when Arthur Whitcombe summoned us all to the library.

He stood beside the fireplace holding a familiar stack of pages.

“My manuscript,” he announced, “has been returned.”

Relief washed through the room, followed quickly by embarrassment.

Arthur looked at us all with the thoughtful amusement of a man who had spent decades studying human behaviour.

“I should confess something,” he said. “The manuscript stolen from my study was a decoy.”

There was a stunned silence.

“The real manuscript,” he continued, lifting the pages slightly, “has been hidden in this library all week.”

Claudia began laughing immediately.

Arthur smiled.

“I suspected,” he said gently, “that curiosity might get the better of a few writers.”

Several people shifted uncomfortably.

“Perhaps,” he added, “more than a few.”

One by one, people admitted that they had attempted to borrow the manuscript for entirely respectable literary reasons.

Harold wanted to examine the pacing. Penelope wanted to absorb its emotional resonance. Dr Hale wished to confirm a historical reference. Tasha believed the universe had guided her toward it. Leo had simply wanted to read the second chapter.

Claudia admitted she had tested the lock out of professional curiosity.

Arthur finally looked at me.

“And you, Miss Carter?”

Eight writers turned toward me expectantly.

I cleared my throat.

“I mostly drank tea and accidentally solved the mystery,” I said.

Claudia laughed again.

Arthur nodded approvingly.

“Well,” he said, “perhaps the greatest mystery of all is why writers behave the way they do.”

We all agreed that this question might never truly be solved.

As I packed my bags the following morning, Leo approached me with a faint smile.

“You never tried to steal it?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

I thought about it carefully.

“I prefer happy endings,” I said.

Leo considered this for a moment and nodded.

“That's probably the wisest genre to write.”

Hawthorne House is invented. The temptation to get your hands on someone else's unpublished pages is not — literary history has a surprising number of real manuscript thefts.

Hemingway's Suitcase, Paris, 1922

In December 1922, Ernest Hemingway's first wife, Hadley, packed almost all of his early manuscripts and carbon copies into a single suitcase to bring him in Switzerland, where he was working as a journalist. While the train stood at Paris's Gare de Lyon, she stepped away to buy a bottle of water. When she returned, the suitcase was gone. It contained the only copies of years of stories and a novel in progress, and it has never been recovered. Hemingway later wrote to Ezra Pound that almost nothing remained “all that remains of my complete works are three pencil drafts of a bum poem.” Some scholars have argued the loss pushed him toward the spare, stripped-back style that made him famous — there was simply nothing left to revise.

The Publishing Industry's Phishing Thief, 2016–2022

For six years, someone impersonated editors, literary agents, and translators by email, using look-alike domain names (swapping “rn” for “m” in a publisher's name, for instance) to persuade authors and their teams to send over unpublished manuscripts. Targets included Margaret Atwood, Ian McEwan, Sally Rooney, and a Pulitzer Prize winner who has never been publicly named. In January 2022, the FBI arrested Filippo Bernardini, a junior employee in a major publisher's foreign rights department, as he landed at JFK Airport. He had registered more than 160 fake domains. His motive, baffling industry veterans at the time, was reportedly nothing more than wanting early access — not to sell or leak anything, just to read it first.

Why Publishers Still Treat Hot Manuscripts Like State Secrets

Translators working on certain blockbuster releases have reportedly been required to work in guarded basement rooms, with their trips to the bathroom logged, precisely because of incidents like the one above. Hawthorne House's elderly novelist locking his pages in a study and trusting eight writers to behave themselves was always going to end one way.

In my twenties and most of my thirties, the word luxury felt off-limits. It carried the weight of something unreachable, selfish, taboo — even greedy. Somewhere inside me, I learned to stay away from moments wrapped in luxury. Being “good,” I believed, meant being grateful for what I was given and not wanting more than what life handed me.

There were some perks to this worldview. I could be thrown almost anything and find a way to make peace with it. I learned how to bloom in unlikely places.

And yet, quietly, something in me longed for luxury. The desire would pulse in my heart — soft but persistent — even as I told myself it wasn't something I was supposed to want. I thought I was being virtuous by tempering that longing, when in truth I was letting a vital part of myself dim. I hadn't yet learned that authenticity comes in many forms, including honouring the parts of me that desired beauty, pleasure, and refinement.

I think many of us inherit a set of beliefs — from family, culture, education — and we try them on as if they are our own. Then one day something shifts, and a question arises: does this belief actually feel like me?

I began asking myself: does this thought feel like it is coming toward me, or from a deep place within me? When the answer became clear, I felt myself aligning more closely with how God holds me, and my heart's vision grew sharper. That was the moment I realised my resistance to luxury was a borrowed belief. So I rewrote the story. Not by rejecting the world I lived in, but by listening more closely to where the word itself was born.

The word luxury comes from the Latin root lux, meaning light. From lux came lucere (to shine), illuminare (to illuminate), lucid (clear, radiant, bright), and luminous (glowing from within). The original language pointed not to excess, but to life-force — consciousness, vitality, and divine presence.

Later, lux evolved into luxuria, meaning abundance of life, richness of growth, fertility, overflowing vitality, and the exuberance of nature. It was used to describe fertile land, lush vegetation, and the fullness of life expressing itself.

In Roman philosophy, luxuria described the moment when life became artful, sensory, beautiful, pleasurable, and creative. Only in more recent history, shaped by monetary systems and shifting economies, did luxury become associated with excess, status, or refinement beyond necessity.

When I connected the modern meaning of luxury with its ancient roots, something in me softened. Luxury stopped feeling like overindulgence and started feeling like remembrance — a return to something older, truer, and far more authentic.

Luxury, I realised, is not about denying pleasure. It is about celebrating the fullness of life. And that fullness is only possible through love.

I began to realise, life flourishes because everything is in constant relationship with everything else — the earth, the hands that create, the systems that move, the hearts that receive. All of it is an ongoing exchange of energy, care, and devotion. When I began to see life this way, even the simplest moments felt sacred.

A transaction at the store no longer felt ordinary. Money changing hands became a visible symbol of connection: the farmer, the maker, the driver, the shopkeeper, the countless lives woven together so that something could arrive in my hands. The moment shimmered with meaning. Life revealed itself as a circulation of love.

When I gave and received from that place — with awareness, gratitude, and openness — life felt more vibrant, more intimate. More luxurious. Luxury, in this sense, is not something added onto life; it's what life feels like when it is fully seen. An overflowing heart meets another heart in every relationship. Luxury becomes intimacy with all of life.

I realised I wasn't afraid of luxury. I was afraid of a deep intimacy with life itself. A Course in Miracles says: “Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists. Herein lies the peace of God.” This presence — this remembrance — is what makes life feel full. Luxury is the effect.

This understanding also began to reshape my relationship with boundaries. Loving, honest boundaries allow energy to move in a way rooted in love. When my boundaries honour me, they also honour the other. That, too, is luxury — a clean, generous exchange of life.

I return often to this knowing: luxury is never missing. When I ask God to help me see the abundance of what already is, I stop needing life to be different. Life becomes full simply by being seen with the heart.

Seeing luxury as the fullness of life expressing itself has changed the way I receive. When someone offers me something more beautiful or generous than I would have previously chosen for myself, I allow myself to feel the aliveness of that moment. I no longer make myself small in order to prove I am good.

The architects of the word lux might laugh at our modern attachment to smallness. When a sunset opens the heart, when a mountain feels overwhelmingly beautiful, the idea of being “too much, or not enough” dissolves into this beauty.

God breathes in beauty. God moves in radiance. God delights in fullness. When that fullness is allowed to enter, without apology and without fear, life reveals it has always been waiting there too.

Yes, ladies and uh… ladies, it's time for a sequel to the Spring 2025 sleeper hit, That Dish Doesn't Come From Where You Think It Does; bigger, bolder, more explosions; yes, the big bucks have been spent.

Did we miss out your country last time around? Did we not spend long enough in it? Were there dishes you knew of and hoped we didn't find them? The passport was whipped out, the airport lines were joined, and after several run-ins with security we are back with an even bigger list. Let's get into it.

Crispy Fried Spring Rolls (China, and Vietnam)

Everybody has had these, be they the veggie ones or the chicken, or pork, and a little pot of that sweet chilli sauce; we all know what they are, and we have eaten them in their billions.

Trouble is China (and Vietnam) doesn't actually have a clue what the hell these things are. Spring rolls are soft and are traditionally wrapped in a pancake batter (rice paper is also used).

Why must Westerners insist on deep frying everything? Speaking of which…

Mozzarella Sticks (Italy)

These are no more Italian than the restaurant chains Olive Garden (US) or Prezzo (UK). To Italians, mozzarella is served as is, with fresh tomatoes, basil leaves, seasoning, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar with a good-quality ciabatta.

What you categorically do not do is roll them in egg and breadcrumbs, and then plunge them into hot oil.

Doughnuts (USA)

Baked, fried, filled, glazed, it matters little, we love doughnuts (yes, you can flip and flop how you spell the word — both are correct). They have become synonymous with the USA and we all know the jokes about cops. They ain't American.

The Dutch call them olykoeks, and do you know why? Because they invented the damn things.

Meatloaf (USA)

Another bonafide American dish that is cheap, simple, and hearty. Plenty of variations of it exist and yours truly particularly likes the glazed, slightly sweet and smoky version. But is it American? Is it really?

Of course it isn't. More than 2,000 years ago, when the USA wasn't even a twinkle in Columbus's eye, the Romans were whipping this up on a regular basis, presumably because it could be sliced and served cold to be eaten on the go.

Fried Chicken (USA)

C'mon, guys, do you even have a dish you can genuinely call your own?

This one is actually contentious, as it could be from two distinct and unrelated parts of the world (both not the USA).

In the first corner we have West African nations, whose enslaved descendants brought the dish to North American shores during the transatlantic slave trade, and in the second corner are the Scots.

Both lay claim, and to be fair both are entirely plausible. West Africa, because spiced, deep-fried chicken has deep roots there and was a dish enslaved cooks made their own under brutal circumstances; and Scotland, because they basically deep fry everything.

General Tso's Chicken (China)

Could it? Possibly maybe? Yes! We have an actual American dish. Sort of.

Y'see, Chef Peng Chang-kuei, a Hunanese chef who fled to Taiwan in 1949, created this heavy, sour, hot, and salty dish in the 1950s, and named it after Zuo Zongtang (or Tso Tsung-t'ang), a revered 19th-century military leader from his home province of Hunan (General Tso had no connection to the dish whatsoever, and it isn't served in China today).

Then, New York chef T.T. Wang adapted the recipe in the early 1970s by making it sweeter and giving the chicken a crispier batter, and put it on the menu of his restaurant. So it is kind of American, or at least the version that is regularly served in the States, but it definitely isn't Chinese. Peng himself later opened his own New York restaurant too, serving his original, less sweet version — Henry Kissinger was a regular.

Maybe we will find a proper American one later on in our journey.

Garlic Bread (Italy)

I'm afraid this is another one of those ‘everyone knows what it is, everyone eats it, and no, Italy doesn't know what it is’ things.

That's it really.

Peanut Butter (USA)

Noooo! Say it isn't so! I'm afraid I cannot.

In 1884, Marcellus Gilmore Edson of Montreal patented the process of making peanut butter. It wasn't perfect, but it was definitely peanut butter. Then Dr John Harvey Kellogg (yes, he of cereal and other somewhat strange and weird sexual diagnoses and treatments) adapted it not long after for patients who found it difficult to chew. The manufacturing of it was finally perfected in the US, and also made sweeter.

However, we can't really give Canada a home run here, because the Incan civilisation had been grinding and blending peanuts for ages, so it is they who are up at the bottom of the ninth, and walk away with the championship.

Bacon (Everyone Lays Claim To It)

Bacon is awesome. If you allowed it the time, it would solve the problem of world peace. But where exactly did it come from?

We have Canadian bacon, American bacon, British bacon, Danish bacon, to name just a few who have seemingly been making it for ages. But where did it start?

The Romans first laid claim to it, as they have done with so many other dishes, but the Greeks asked them to hold their flagons.

It wasn't them, but it was them who pointed at the Celts, who spanned a vast area from the British Isles and northern Spain, to as far east as Transylvania, the Black Sea coasts, and Galatia in what is now modern-day Turkey. They'd been around since the Late Bronze Age (1200 BCE), and so knew a few things about bacon.

Case closed.

Mayonnaise (France, Possibly USA Depending Upon Who You Ask)

Both of these countries have a decent shout; France because of their Mother Sauces in the 1700s, and the USA because, well… Hellmann's.

“¡Cállate, ladrón!” shouts the Spanish, somewhat angrily, for it is they who came up with it, in the port of Mahón on Menorca, where French troops are said to have discovered the local sauce in 1756 and taken it home.

Ketchup (USA — And An Apology)

Now in our first article, we made mention of tomato sauce and that it is (probably) Spanish, but we are thorough if nothing else in the DWC Kitchen, and so on our travels we dove into this a little deeper.

We stand by our original statement of the sauce being Spanish, but this is ketchup and therefore a different beast, and that isn't Spanish.

It is true that in 1812 American James Mease published one of the very first ketchup recipes, creating a sweetened, concentrated tomato sauce. But hold onto your horses there, pardner, because we are not done. Not even close.

Early ketchup versions were being created all over England in the 1600s and 1700s, but these were made from mushrooms, walnuts, and anchovies. The principle was exactly the same, but no tomatoes were being used.

Now if we go back to the 1500s and the introduction of tomatoes to the continent by Spanish explorers returning from the Americas — and this is where the confusion starts, if you're not already there yet — because ketchup and tomato are so synonymous. Thing is though, tomatoes come from the group of plants that are in the nightshade family, and as such no-one initially wanted anything to do with them when the explorers brought them back.

Still with me?

But where did the idea of ketchup come from? China, that's where. They had been creating ketchup (kê-chiap) for thousands of years, and it was a fermented fish and soybean sauce. The British took that concept back to Europe, where all this mushroom ketchup came from.

So now you know.

However, if you want to be really pedantic and must score a point, then, yes, tomato ketchup is American, but I never said ‘tomato’ did I, I just said ‘ketchup’.

Bagels (USA. NY If You Want To Be Finicky)

Ah, the steamed dense bread with a hole in it, smothered in cream cheese and smoked salmon. Of course you can put anything you want on a bagel, just ask any NY deli worth their salt. Just don't ask them where they come from.

Ask the Polish, they know, and for good reason, too.

Budweiser (Not Quite Anyone You'd Guess)

A curve ball here, as it isn't food (but to be fair, if I am being honest, some would say it isn't really beer either).

Putting aside the long, ongoing trademark dispute since 1907 with the Czech brewer Budweiser Budvar, “Bud” — as it is known in much of Europe — isn't quite American either, not really.

The company, Anheuser-Busch, was founded in St Louis by German immigrant Adolphus Busch, who, on a trip to Bohemia, fell for the “beer of kings” brewed in the town of Budweis (today České Budějovice, in the Czech Republic), and went home determined to brew something similar. So: an American company, founded by a German, brewing a beer named after, and modelled on, a Czech one. Everyone's a little bit right, and everyone's also a little bit wrong.

You can't call yourself the ‘King of Beers’ in a country that doesn't have a king, can you? Have a Miller instead, at least that is wholly American, and the Canadians are alright really.

Coleslaw (USA)

This one is a double-whammy because of mayonnaise and because of good ol' Southern cooking. If there's a BBQ (itself a Caribbean-derived word, via the Spanish barbacoa), then you can bet your momma's life there's gonna be coleslaw present, and lots of it.

Koolsla means ‘cabbage salad’, and it begins with a K because that word is Dutch.

Manchurian Chicken (China)

Manchurian. It doesn't get much more Chinese than that, there was even that political book and movie. Okay, that was America and Korea, so bad choice, but the point still stands. Manchurian is north-east China, so surely the dish hails from there.

It doesn't. It's from India. Nelson Wang invented it in Mumbai in the 1970s, and wanted a more exotic-sounding name for it.

Chicken Parmesan (Italy)

The Italians are getting a tad upset now, because not only is this thing not Italian, they have never heard of it, and neither does the closest relative of it have chicken in it.

Aubergine/eggplant is what they use, and not whatever this American nonsense is.

Chop Suey (China)

Hi, Italy, China feels your pain. It really does.

There is a Cantonese term, ‘tsap seui’, meaning random leftovers and miscellaneous stuff, this is true, but chop suey it is not.

What this is, is a creation in or nearby San Francisco during the gold rush by Chinese-American cooks. An American dish, we found a proper one!

Mac 'n' Cheese (USA)

We all knew it wasn't Italian, didn't we? And we all knew it was American. Right? Right? It isn't.

It is true that macaroni is a pasta and therefore has Italian roots, but that's where it begins and ends, because we need to travel to another country to find out where it really comes from.

Cor, Gov'nor, it be good ol' Blighty. Yes, it's British, with the earliest known recipe combining pasta and cheese sauce appearing in an English cookery manuscript centuries before the dish was ever popular in the States. Strange one admittedly but there you go.

There ends our sequel, and who knows, we might be back for a threequel at some point (if some countries will allow us back in). Probably not in 3D though.

Eighteen dishes, eighteen actual origins.

Spring Rolls

Not from anywhere that fries them. Traditionally soft, wrapped in pancake batter or rice paper.

Mozzarella Sticks

Not Italian. Italians eat mozzarella fresh, never breaded and deep-fried.

Doughnuts

Dutch (olykoeks).

Meatloaf

Ancient Roman.

Fried Chicken

Contested between West African culinary tradition (carried to America by enslaved cooks) and Scotland's deep-frying tradition.

General Tso's Chicken

Taiwan, 1950s — invented by a Hunanese chef in exile, sweetened for American tastes in 1970s New York.

Garlic Bread

Not a recognised Italian dish.

Peanut Butter

Patented in Canada, but the technique of grinding peanuts is Incan.

Bacon

Earliest documented claim: the Celts, Late Bronze Age.

Mayonnaise

Menorca, Spain (the most widely cited theory), popularised by France.

Ketchup

Fermented fish sauce, ancient China. Mushroom ketchup, England. Tomato ketchup, America (1812).

Bagels

Poland.

Budweiser

American company, German founder, modelled on a Czech beer from Budweis.

Coleslaw

The Netherlands (koolsla).

Manchurian Chicken

India (Mumbai, 1970s).

Chicken Parmesan

Italian-American invention; no such dish in Italy.

Chop Suey

San Francisco, invented by Chinese-American cooks during the gold rush.

Mac & Cheese

England.

There's something almost poetic about boarding a flight with a passport in one hand and dreams of adventure in the other. Whether it's a spontaneous weekend jaunt to the Cotswolds or a two-week dive into Southeast Asia, a well-crafted itinerary is your behind-the-scenes MVP — the difference between wandering aimlessly and wandering intentionally. After years on the road, here's my take on striking that balance between structure and serendipity.

Start with Purpose, Not Just Places

Before diving into Google Maps or Pinterest boards, ask yourself what you actually want from this trip: relaxation, culture, adventure, cuisine, or a bit of everything? For short trips, have a clear focus — you won't have time to “do it all,” and you shouldn't try. For longer escapes, define a theme or feeling you want the trip to evoke, so you're not cramming days with activities that look good on Instagram but don't feed your soul.

Mind Your Time Zones and Transit Realities

You'd be surprised how many travellers overlook transit time. For international trips, factor in jet lag recovery, visa queues, and airport transfers — a seven-day holiday can quickly become a five-day one without those buffers. For short trips, avoid overambitious distances; if you've only got 48 hours, choose destinations that are logistically kind, with direct flights and walkable cities.

Build Around Anchors, Not Every Hour

Your itinerary isn't a military schedule. Build around anchors — one or two major activities that define each day, like a matinee at the Globe in London or sunrise at Fushimi Inari in Kyoto — then let the rest of the day breathe. That flexibility is what makes room for the spontaneous detours that often become the best bits.

Think in Clusters, Not Chaos

Especially abroad, geography is your best friend. Use map clustering to group activities by location — no one wants to zig-zag across Paris because they forgot the Eiffel Tower and Musée d'Orsay are on the same side of the river. Drop pins, look for natural neighbourhood groupings, and remember: less transit means more enjoyment.

Mix the Majestic with the Mundane

Yes, you'll want to see the Colosseum in Rome. But leave room for the everyday joys too — the morning café that becomes your ritual, the sunset you catch by accident. I plan for about 60% structure and leave 40% for serendipity; trust your instincts, and don't be afraid to veer off course.

Prioritise Your Energy, Not Just Your Bucket List

Burnout isn't reserved for office life — travel fatigue is real, and fitting five museums into one day doesn't mean you should. Consider your natural rhythms: morning explorer or night owl, constant movement or stillness? Design your days to suit you, not someone else's blog post.

Always, Always Leave Room for Magic

If I could give one piece of advice: don't plan your way out of the very thing you travelled for, freedom. My favourite memories have come from unscripted moments — dancing with strangers at a Lisbon street festival, an unmarked trail in New Zealand.

Your itinerary should guide you, not chain you. Leave the cracks wide enough for magic to sneak in.

Travel itineraries aren't about ticking boxes; they're about telling a story, with rhythm, surprises, and a bit of heart. Because in the end, it's not the perfect plan you'll remember, it's how the place made you feel. Now go write your next adventure.

A few tools that genuinely earn a place on your phone before a trip.

Google My Maps

Great for creating customised maps and dropping pins by neighbourhood, so you can spot clusters before you book a single thing.

TripIt

Automatically pulls confirmation emails and builds a neat, chronological itinerary — one of the few genuinely time-saving travel apps.

Rome2Rio

Brilliant for working out how to get from A to B almost anywhere in the world, comparing flights, trains, buses, and ferries in one search.

Notion or Evernote

Perfect for trip journals, packing lists, and day-to-day ideas if you're a planner at heart.

The Old-School Backup

Always keep a printed version of your itinerary and accommodation details. Tech fails; paper doesn't.

Bringing a new cat or kitten into your home is an exciting time, but if you already have a resident cat or two, it's not quite as simple as opening the carrier and letting them all mingle. Cats, as charming and cuddly as they are, can be highly territorial. What seems like a lovely new friend to you might feel like an intruder to your current feline. But don't worry — with a bit of patience and planning, you can make this transition smoother and far less stressful for everyone involved.

Cats are creatures of habit. They rely on routine, familiar smells, and safe spaces. When you bring in a new cat, your current one doesn't know whether this new face is a threat or just a temporary disruption. That's why it's crucial to approach introductions gradually. Think of it less like a playdate and more like negotiating a peace treaty — one slow step at a time.

Step One: A Separate Space of Their Own

The very first thing you need to do when bringing home a new cat or kitten is provide them with their own separate space. This can be a spare room, a large bathroom, or a blocked-off section of the house. Ideally, this area should include everything the cat needs: food and water bowls, a litter tray, a scratching post, a few toys, and a cosy spot to sleep.

This isn't just about giving them comfort — it's about allowing them to feel secure as they take in the new surroundings. They'll hear the sounds and smell the scents of your home (and the other cat) without the stress of direct confrontation. Allow the new cat to stay in this private space for several days, depending on how well they're adjusting. Some kittens settle quickly; adult rescues may need more time.

Step Two: Introductions Through Scent

Before either cat even sees the other, the introduction should begin through scent. Cats use scent more than sight to make sense of their world. You can help them start to “meet” each other by exchanging bedding between the rooms. Let each cat sniff the other's blanket or toy. You might also gently rub a cloth on one cat's cheek, where their scent glands are, and leave it near the other cat's food bowl or favourite napping spot.

Sometimes you'll notice both cats sniffing curiously and walking away with little reaction — that's a good sign. If either starts hissing at the smell or marking territory, give them more time apart.

Step Three: Visual Contact, Briefly

Once both cats have had time to adjust to each other's scent, it's time to allow some visual contact. This doesn't mean opening the door and letting them roam freely. Instead, crack the door open just enough for them to see each other, or use a baby gate. Some people use a screen door, or even set up a playpen or crate inside the room so one cat can observe safely.

Keep these first glimpses short and sweet. You're looking for calm or curious behaviour, maybe a bit of cautious sniffing or even ignoring each other entirely. Avoid prolonged staring, growling, or posturing. If things get tense, separate them again and try later.

Step Four: Let Food Do the Work

Food can be a brilliant motivator. Once the cats are relatively comfortable seeing each other, start feeding them on opposite sides of the door. They won't be able to reach each other, but they'll associate the presence of the other with something positive: dinnertime.

Over time, gradually move the food bowls closer to the door. This works especially well if one or both cats are food-motivated, turning the sight, sound, and scent of the other cat into something to look forward to rather than fear.

Step Five: The First Meeting

Eventually, it will be time for them to meet without a barrier, but only when both cats are showing signs of comfort and calmness. Pick a neutral area of the home, not one cat's favourite lounging spot or feeding area. Be present and fully focused during these first few meetings, with treats or toys on hand to create distractions if needed.

Keep first in-person introductions short and supervised. Watch their body language closely. Some hissing or swatting is entirely normal — this is how cats set boundaries. However, if things escalate into a full-on brawl, or one cat is clearly terrified, separate them again and go back a few steps.

It's important to note that some cats may never become best mates, and that's okay. A peaceful coexistence is still a success.

If Things Go Wrong

If the cats do have an altercation, don't panic. Avoid using your hands to break them up; a sudden noise, like a loud clap or a gentle spray from a water bottle used sparingly, is usually enough to distract them. Let both cool off in separate rooms afterwards, and don't punish them — cats don't respond well to scolding, and it only increases stress. Stay calm, and try again once they've both relaxed.

There's No Set Timeline

Some cats click within days, others take months. Kittens are often easier to integrate, especially with a sociable older cat; cats who've been the only pet for a long time can be more resistant. Patience is essential — rushing or forcing interactions can do more harm than good. Let your cats set the pace, and be willing to take a few steps back when needed.

Even after the introductions, keep each cat's own food and water bowls, their own litter tray, and private retreat spaces, and keep giving your existing cat plenty of one-on-one attention. Over time, they may start playing or napping together. And if they don't? That's okay too — a peaceful distance is still a huge achievement in the feline world.

The five-step process, condensed.

1. Separate Space

Own room, own bowls, own litter tray, own bed. Several days minimum.

2. Scent Swap

Exchange bedding and cloths rubbed on cheeks. Watch for calm curiosity, not hissing.

3. Visual Contact

Cracked door or baby gate. Short sessions. Separate at the first sign of tension.

4. Feed on Opposite Sides of the Door

Gradually move bowls closer over days or weeks.

5. Supervised Meeting

Neutral territory. Treats on hand. Short and calm, every time.

No set timeline. Some cats take days, some take months. Let them set the pace.

Periodically a feeling would rise up inside me. I could not attribute it to any one thing in particular. It was there on my first day at boarding school. It was there in the moment I learned our farm was threatened by an out-of-control fire. It was there the day Mum phoned out of the blue to tell me Dad had been airlifted to a regional hospital with concussion and a smashed leg. The willpower to wait until the end of the school term to return home required more than I had endured until now. I was 14.

People around me lived a life oblivious to the turmoil inside my mind. Other than one boarding house tutor who hugged me as she shared the news that my home was under threat and my parents had been evacuated, no one offered any form of emotional comfort to me.

Fearing the worst, I barely slept. Quiet study time became a noisy thought jungle in my 14-year-old brain. It wasn't until I arrived home to the farmhouse to see Dad in his full leg cast, eyes filled with the anguish of being incapacitated, that I realised the full extent of what was going on. This was weeks after the accident that would change Dad's life forever.

Considering how to manage the farm going forward required a whole-family approach. As the only child still at school, I took direction from the other adults in the family when it came to the day-to-day running of the farm. However, Dad had lost exactly four years of recent memory in that accident. To Dad, I was a 10-year-old. To Dad, I was incapable of the skills needed to run the farm to his standards. Little could he recall that he had lovingly taken the time to teach me how to operate the farm machinery, kill and dress livestock for consumption, and shear sheep. I was driven by the emotions of any average teenager — all over the shop.

People took time to talk Dad through the contents of the farm diaries to help him recover from the major head injury he had sustained. The details in those diaries became his resource for forward planning of stock and crop rotations. Mindful of the inevitability of droughts, he would intentionally save extra seed for lean years.

That particular year had seen exceptional yields, yet the majority of the cereal crops had been destroyed in the bushfire. Dad cried often during this period. I didn't know how to comfort him. I couldn't bring back the crops. I couldn't fix his leg any faster. I couldn't restore the four years of memories he had lost in a split second. I could only sit with him and offer my unconditional love.

Teenage years come and go for us all. Mine seemed to end the day Dad had his accident. Almost all my energy was used to fulfil the role of farmhand during that particular school holiday. My tan was impeccable — anyone would have thought I had been holidaying in the Bahamas. My physique was as though a personal trainer had been assigned to me for daily workouts. Unlike my peers, I had neither been at the beach nor taken part in any fun fitness activities. I had been Dad's ears, eyes, and GPS, ensuring the farm remained in full production.

The questionable teenage pastimes of parties and friendship gatherings were off the cards for me. I was adulting before I had had time to consider what that might look like. If any of the other kids from school were going through similar situations, I was none the wiser. None of my peers ever questioned my wellbeing or found a moment to ask whether there was anything they could do. Possibly they had no idea what I was going through.

The most significant shift in the relationship between father and daughter came the day we went into town to run a few errands. Dad was showing signs of fumbling for words, producing incorrect facts, and losing his ability to problem-solve. On that particular day, he and I parked in the shade of the big pine tree outside Birdie's Drapery. We had a list of errands to run and Mum's grocery order to fill.

Dad reached for my hand.

What on earth would the other kids my age think?

What would they say about me walking down the street holding my dad's hand?

What would anyone know about caring for someone so young with a brain injury?

I was embarrassed. Fleetingly, I was a teenager again — but only for a split second.

Dad's gnarled hand clasped mine. I could sense his relief in knowing he was safe with me. Keeping my head high, I pushed out my chest, threw back my shoulders, and walked on proudly. He was my dad, and I loved him more than I had ever been able to show. Emotional conversations were not something my family indulged in.

Together we introduced him to people he had known my whole life.

Together we wrote out cheques to pay for our goods.

Together we went home with everything on the list.

Together we arrived home safely.

My life had changed forever. I was knowledge for Dad. I was carer to Dad. I was his daughter who grew up the day he had his accident — and I was forever his loving daughter, who continued to work on the farm every school and university holiday, and as much as I could whilst working full time as a teacher in a nearby community.

I do not know whether it was the feelings of unrest that plagued me when I started at boarding school, or a sense of inner knowing that my life had a purpose far beyond the confines of any classroom, but I knew there were bigger missions ahead. Rightly or wrongly, my teenage years had to be set aside, for I had taken on adult responsibilities as a carer for a father who had acquired a brain injury and had, without either of us realising it, begun his journey into the confusing abyss of Alzheimer's.

I was no longer a teenager.

I was my father's carer — alongside my mother and brothers.

If this raises anything for you personally: in Australia, Carer Gateway offers free support for carers on 1800 422 737. In the UK, Carers UK runs a helpline on 0808 808 7777. Young carers in particular often go unrecognised by the adults around them — if you suspect a child you know is carrying this kind of weight, it is worth asking directly, rather than waiting for them to say so.

Dear Kindred Keri,

I'm feeling quite unsettled and I'm not sure what to make of it. Recently, I came across a t-shirt in our laundry that I didn't recognise. I must admit, I don't usually do the washing, and I was away for a few days in April, so I initially brushed it off.

However, just last week I found another t-shirt — clearly a woman's — that certainly doesn't belong to me. I asked my husband about it, and he denied knowing anything about it. He insisted that whatever I might be thinking, it simply wasn't true.

I've since asked close friends and my sisters whether the t-shirt could be theirs, but they've all said no.

Now I'm left with questions and a heavy heart. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I also can't ignore what I've found. What do I do?

First of all, let me say how deeply I feel for you. That kind of quiet confusion, the whisper of doubt in a place that should feel safest, it can be a heavy thing to carry. You are not alone in this, and I hope you feel that, even now, as you read these words.

Let's pause together here. You've found something that doesn't quite fit, not just in the laundry basket, but in your sense of peace. And when our peace is unsettled, it's natural to want answers. You've done the right things: you asked, you checked, you kept calm. But now you're standing in that uncomfortable space between logic and intuition, between wanting to believe the best and needing to honour the little voice within.

The truth, darling, is that sometimes it's not about the t-shirt at all, it's about what it stirs inside us. Is this really about trust in your husband, or is it about something deeper that's been waiting to be voiced? Have there been other moments, however small, that made your heart pause?

Now's the time to have a heart-to-heart, not a confrontation, but a conversation rooted in vulnerability. Share how this has made you feel. Not just suspicious or confused, but unsettled, a little fragile perhaps. Tell him you're not accusing, you're just trying to understand and protect the sanctuary that is your home.

And while you seek answers externally, don't forget to listen inwardly. If this situation is opening a door to deeper communication, greater clarity, or even healing, then let it. Don't let fear silence your voice. You deserve to feel secure, seen, and safe in your own home.

If, after all is said, you still feel uncertain, there is no shame in seeking guidance, whether through a counsellor or a trusted confidante who knows both of you. Sometimes we all need someone to help hold the weight of what we're carrying.

You're not foolish, paranoid, or dramatic. You are simply human, and your feelings are valid. Trust that. Trust you.

When people think about technology entrepreneurs, they often picture bustling offices in Silicon Valley, venture capital pitches and billion-dollar valuations. Sara Wahedi's story could not be more different.

Her work was born from a country where uncertainty is part of daily life, where the sound of an explosion can change the course of an ordinary afternoon, and where access to reliable information can mean the difference between safety and danger. Instead of creating technology to entertain or increase convenience, Wahedi set out to build something far more fundamental: a tool that could help save lives.

Born in Kabul, Afghanistan, in 1995, Sara Wahedi experienced the realities of conflict from an early age. Her family fled Afghanistan, settling first in Germany and the United States before resettling in Canada in 2005, when Sara was around ten. While Canada offered stability and opportunity, Afghanistan remained deeply rooted in her identity. It was never simply a country she had left behind. It was home.

By 2018, Wahedi had returned to Kabul to work in the office of the former president. On 9 May that year, she was walking home from work when three explosions went off within yards of her, just steps from her front door. She was unharmed, but the explosions locked down her neighbourhood with no real-time information from authorities about what had happened or where it was safe to go.

“It was like a lightbulb moment for me,” she has said, “that this is exactly the kind of tool that needs to exist in crisis states, in crisis regions.”

That belief became the foundation of Ehtesab, which Wahedi launched in 2018 with $2,500 of her own savings, later attracting a further $40,000 from Netlinks, one of Afghanistan's largest IT companies. Only after founding the platform did she enrol at Columbia University in New York to study urban studies, with a concentration in architecture and a minor in data science, continuing to lead Ehtesab as a full-time student.

Ehtesab is a civic technology platform designed specifically for Afghanistan. The app provides verified, real-time information about road closures, traffic conditions, security incidents, power outages and other events that affect everyday life. In a country where rumours can spread faster than facts, having access to accurate information allows people to make safer decisions about where to travel, whether to leave home or how to navigate rapidly changing situations.

While many technology companies focus on making life easier, Ehtesab focuses on making life safer.

The platform quickly became an essential resource for thousands of Afghans. Its importance became even more evident following the Taliban's return to power in 2021. As uncertainty swept across the country, reliable information became increasingly scarce. Families needed trustworthy updates, humanitarian organisations required accurate situational awareness, and ordinary citizens sought clarity amid confusion.

Throughout this period, Wahedi and her team continued working under extraordinarily difficult circumstances. At its peak, Ehtesab employed around 20 people in Afghanistan, several belonging to ethnic minority groups who faced heightened risk under the new regime. Protecting staff became as important as maintaining the platform itself; within hours of the takeover, Wahedi shut down Ehtesab's physical office and moved the team to remote working.

Wahedi has often spoken about the responsibility that comes with building technology in fragile environments. Unlike many digital platforms, success is not measured purely by downloads or profits. Instead, it is reflected in whether people are able to reach home safely, avoid dangerous situations or access vital services when they need them most.

Her work also highlights a broader conversation about women in technology. Afghanistan is rarely associated with start-up culture, and even less so with female founders leading innovative technology companies. Yet Wahedi has consistently challenged those assumptions, and around sixty per cent of Ehtesab's employees have been women working in software engineering and data analysis, demonstrating that women continue to shape the future of Afghan society despite significant barriers.

International recognition has followed. Wahedi was named a Next Generation Leader by Time magazine in 2021 and one of InStyle's Badass 50, and in 2023 she was named One Young World's Entrepreneur of the Year. While awards have helped bring attention to her achievements, they are not the centre of her story. The real impact lies in the thousands of people who rely on accurate information every day; since its inception, Ehtesab has issued more than a quarter of a million crowdsourced, verified alerts.

Beyond Ehtesab, Wahedi has become an advocate for the role of ethical technology in humanitarian settings. She argues that digital innovation should be designed around the realities of the communities it serves rather than imported solutions that fail to understand local contexts. Her approach prioritises listening, collaboration and trust, recognising that technology is only as valuable as its ability to solve genuine human problems.

She has also remained committed to supporting Afghan women, exploring ways that digital platforms can provide access to education, healthcare and employment opportunities even as restrictions have increased, including a feature in development that would let users report gender apartheid. Her vision extends beyond responding to crises; it is about creating systems that allow people to maintain dignity, independence and hope.

Sara Wahedi's journey reminds us that entrepreneurship is not defined by geography or financial ambition alone. Sometimes the most important innovations emerge not from the pursuit of profit, but from the determination to protect communities and preserve human connection during times of uncertainty.

In an era when technology is often criticised for creating division, distraction and misinformation, Wahedi offers a different model. She demonstrates how digital tools can foster resilience, strengthen communities and provide practical support where it is needed most.

Her story is one of courage, ingenuity and an unwavering belief that even in the most challenging circumstances, technology can become a force for compassion. While Afghanistan continues to face profound challenges, leaders like Sara Wahedi remind the world that hope is often built quietly, one solution, one innovation and one act of service at a time.

The platform, in numbers and plain language.

Founded

2018, with $2,500 of Wahedi's own savings, later joined by $40,000 from Netlinks, one of Afghanistan's largest IT companies.

What It Does

Crowdsources and verifies reports of explosions, shootings, roadblocks, power outages and traffic conditions, then sends real-time alerts across Afghanistan in three languages.

Reach

More than a quarter of a million verified alerts issued since launch.

Team

Around 20 staff in Afghanistan at its peak, roughly sixty per cent of them women working in software engineering and data analysis.

Recognition

Time magazine Next Generation Leader (2021), InStyle Badass 50, One Young World Entrepreneur of the Year (2023).

Wahedi Today

A graduate of Columbia University, she now also leads Civaam, a consultancy advising governments and institutions on civic technology, and continues to advocate internationally for access to information as a fundamental human right.

Let's talk about that little habit many of us have: grabbing our phones the second we hop into bed, telling ourselves, “just five more minutes.” Whether it's scrolling Instagram, catching up on emails, or binging TikTok, those minutes often turn into hours — and what that screen time, especially at night, is doing to your mental health isn't pretty. The good news: small, manageable changes can fix it without feeling like you're giving up your lifeline.

It Messes With Your Sleep Cycle

The blue light emitted by screens tricks your brain into thinking it's still daylight, delaying melatonin production and making it harder to fall and stay asleep. Over time, chronic sleep deprivation can lead to mood swings, increased stress, and even long-term issues like anxiety and depression.

Doom-Scrolling Is Your Worst Enemy

Endlessly scrolling negative or distressing content might feel like staying informed, but it actually feeds your anxiety. Your brain gets stuck in fight-or-flight mode processing all that negativity, amping up stress levels right when you should be winding down.

It Can Worsen Feelings of Loneliness

Ironically, being “connected” online can leave you feeling more disconnected in real life. The constant barrage of curated lives on social media can trigger inadequacy, loneliness, or FOMO — and in your bedroom, a space meant for rest and intimacy, that erodes your sense of safety and peace.

Breaking the Habit

The goal isn't to quit screens entirely; that's unrealistic. Ban screens from the bedroom, charge your phone elsewhere, and invest in an old-school alarm clock. Create a pre-bedtime ritual: unplug 30–60 minutes before bed for reading, journaling, or light stretching instead.

Set app limits using your phone's built-in screen time controls rather than relying on willpower at 11pm. When you catch yourself doom-scrolling, pause and ask: “is this helping me feel better, or worse?” Often, the answer is no. If you must use devices at night, switch to night mode or wear blue light-blocking glasses.

Your bedroom should be a place where your mind and body can recharge, not where you get lost in an endless scroll.

Why Cutting Back Is Worth It

Better sleep, reduced anxiety, sharper mental clarity, and deeper relationships, by prioritising real-world connection over digital distraction. Tonight, leave your phone on the dresser, or better yet, in another room. Small changes lead to big results.

Five changes, none of them dramatic.

1. Charge It Elsewhere

Your phone, out of the bedroom entirely. Buy a real alarm clock if you need one.

2. Build a 30-Minute Buffer

Screens off half an hour before bed. Read, stretch, journal, anything analogue.

3. Set App Limits in the Daytime

Use your phone's built-in screen time tools rather than relying on willpower at 11pm.

4. Ask the Doom-Scroll Question

“Is this helping me feel better, or worse?” Most of the time, you already know.

5. Use Night Mode, Properly

Reduced blue light on every device, every evening, not just occasionally.

So you've picked out your plants, mapped out your dream garden… and now you're staring at the ground wondering, what's going on down there? Welcome to the wonderfully gritty world of soil — the unsung hero of every garden!

Whether you're growing juicy tomatoes, show-stopping sunflowers, or a jungle of houseplants, the right soil is where the magic starts. So let's dig into it (pun absolutely intended).

What Kind of Soil Do I Have?

First up: not all dirt is created equal. Your soil might fall into one (or a mix!) of these three basic types.

Sandy soil feels dry and gritty — it slips through your fingers like a beach day. It drains like a leaky bucket, fast. Good for root veggies like carrots and radishes. The challenge: it doesn't hold nutrients well, so plants might get hungry fast.

Clay soil feels heavy and sticky when wet, clumpy when dry. It drains like a clogged bathtub — sloooow. Good for plants that like consistent moisture, such as roses and asters. The challenge: poor drainage, which can suffocate roots.

Loamy soil — also known as garden gold — feels like the perfect brownie: soft, crumbly, and moist. It drains just right. Good for basically everything; this is the dream soil. The only challenge? Honestly, just keep it happy.

Try This: The Jar Test

Fill a mason jar with soil from your garden, add water and a squirt of dish soap, then shake it like a smoothie. Let it settle for 24 hours. You'll see layers form — sand at the bottom, silt in the middle, and clay on top. The proportions will clue you in to your soil type.

How Do I Test My Soil's pH?

Soil pH is a big deal — it affects how well your plants can absorb nutrients. Most garden plants love a slightly acidic to neutral pH, around 6.0–7.0.

Buy a soil test kit. Found at garden centres or online. Simple, quick, and usually under £15. You just scoop some soil into the kit, add the solution or strip, and match the colour.

Use a digital pH meter. These are reusable and great if you plan to garden long-term.

Try the DIY kitchen test (not super accurate, but fun). Place two tablespoons of soil in two separate containers. Add vinegar to one — if it fizzes, your soil is alkaline. Add water and then bicarbonate of soda to the other — if it fizzes, your soil is acidic.

Pro tip: if your soil is outside the 6.0–7.0 range, don't panic. You can amend it. Too acidic? Add garden lime. Too alkaline? Add sulphur or peat moss.

How Can I Improve My Soil?

Now for the fun part: turning blah dirt into plant paradise.

Add organic matter. Compost is your soil's best friend. Whether it's kitchen scraps, shredded leaves, or well-rotted manure, organic matter improves drainage, nutrient levels, and texture.

Use mulch. A layer of straw, bark, or shredded leaves keeps soil cool, retains moisture, and eventually breaks down to improve the soil.

Don't over-till. Too much digging can damage the helpful microbes and worm communities. Sometimes, less is more.

Try cover crops (green manure). Planting cover crops like clover or rye in the off-season boosts nutrients and keeps weeds in check. Your soil will thank you.

Test and adjust regularly. Your soil is a living, changing thing. Check pH and nutrients once a year, especially if your plants look droopy or sad.

Soil might seem boring, but once you get to know it, it's actually fascinating. It's where all the underground action happens: roots stretching, microbes working, worms doing their wiggly thing.

And hey, you don't need to get it perfect from the start. Gardening is about learning and growing — literally. Your soil will evolve with you.

Now, go grab a trowel and make some dirt magic happen.

The three basic types, side by side.

Sandy Soil

Feels: dry and gritty. Drains: fast, like a leaky bucket. Good for: carrots, radishes, other root veg. Challenge: doesn't hold nutrients well.

Clay Soil

Feels: heavy, sticky when wet, clumpy when dry. Drains: very slowly. Good for: roses, asters, moisture-loving plants. Challenge: poor drainage, can suffocate roots.

Loamy Soil

Feels: soft, crumbly, moist — the dream. Drains: just right. Good for: basically everything. Challenge: none worth mentioning — just keep it happy.

In the last two years we sadly said goodbye to sportswomen the world over. Some were trailblazers, others pioneers, but all will be missed. Here are just a few of those we had to say goodnight to.

Ágnes Keleti (103) — Gymnastics

The oldest living Olympic champion at the time of her passing in January 2025, Hungarian-born Keleti was a Holocaust survivor and five-time Olympic gold medallist, the majority of her ten Olympic medals won when she was over the age of thirty, an almost unheard-of feat in a sport built around teenage bodies.

Expelled from her gymnastics club in 1941 for being Jewish, she survived the war using a false identity and working as a maid in the Hungarian countryside, while her father and other relatives were killed at Auschwitz. She remained in Australia with the rest of the Hungarian delegation after the Soviet invasion of Hungary during the 1956 Melbourne Games, before settling in Israel the following year, where she became the national women's gymnastics coach and helped lay the foundations of the country's gymnastics programme. She later returned to her native Budapest, where she spent her remaining years, dying a week before what would have been her 104th birthday.

Laura Dahlmeier (31) — Biathlon

German biathlete Dahlmeier was a double Olympic champion at the 2018 Pyeongchang Games, the first woman to win both the sprint and pursuit gold at a single Games, and a seven-time world champion. She retired from competition in 2019 to pursue mountaineering, her true passion, becoming a state-certified mountain and ski guide in 2023. In July 2025, she was killed by a rockfall while descending Laila Peak in Pakistan's Karakoram range, having expressly stated in her will that no one should risk their life attempting to recover her body. Her wish was honoured.

Doris Fitschen (56) — Football

Four-time European champion and Olympic bronze medallist as a player, Fitschen was held in high esteem in German football. She went on to become an executive for the German national women's team, helping guide them to Olympic gold at the 2016 Rio Games, before succumbing to bone cancer after a long battle.

Ingamay Bylund (78) — Equestrian

Swedish dressage rider Bylund was a member of Sweden's bronze-winning team at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics, which remains, to date, the country's last Olympic dressage medal.

Mabel Staton (92) — Track and Field

The only woman to represent the United States in the long jump at the 1952 Helsinki Olympics, Staton's achievements and recognition helped pave the way for more Black American athletes to follow. She is remembered for infamously holding the Olympic long jump world record for around thirteen minutes, with a leap of 5.88 metres (19 feet, 3.5 inches), before it was immediately broken by Yvette Williams of New Zealand with a jump of 6.16 metres.

Joye Lee-McNelis (66) — Basketball

A much-loved figure in American collegiate basketball, Lee-McNelis amassed 568 career wins across the University of Memphis and Southern Miss over 21 seasons, continuing to coach even while battling lung cancer for eight years, a fight that ultimately led to her death.

Angela Mortimer Barrett (93) — Tennis

English former world number one Barrett was a three-time Grand Slam singles champion, winning the French Championships in 1955 and the Australian Championships in 1958, before famously taking the Wimbledon title in 1961.

Paige Greco (28) — Para-Cycling

Greco shot to fame at the Tokyo 2020 Paralympics, winning Australia's first gold medal in the C3 3000m individual pursuit. She died suddenly at her home in Adelaide in November, after a mysterious medical episode.

Mariya Shubina (91) — Canoeing

A Soviet-era powerhouse in the world of canoeing, four-time world champion Shubina won Olympic gold in the women's K-2 500 metres kayak doubles in 1960 alongside Antonina Seredina, the first time the event had ever been held at the Olympics.

Georgia O'Connor (25) — Boxing

Cancer took this rising British star shortly after the UK's first-ever all-female boxing card at the O2 Arena. Before taking up boxing, O'Connor was a three-time British national champion and a black belt in Taekwondo, as well as an undefeated kickboxer. She joined the UK's amateur boxing team, winning gold at the 2017 Commonwealth Youth Games and both silver and bronze medals at the Youth World Championships. She turned professional in 2021 and remained undefeated.

Sister Jean Dolores Schmidt (106) — Basketball

Arguably the most famous and influential non-athlete in US college sport, Sister Jean became a global celebrity as chaplain for the Loyola Chicago Ramblers basketball team. During the team's improbable 2018 Final Four run, she became known for giving the players “scouting reports” alongside their pre-game prayers.

While insider reports of that kind are against NCAA rules, hers were built entirely from publicly available data and her own opinions; as such, they were classed as advice rather than insider information, and she received no payment of any kind for her role. She continued as an adviser to the university until shortly before her death in October 2025, just weeks after retiring from her role due to ill health.

Eleven women, eleven different sports, eleven reasons the record books look the way they do. Rest easy, all of you.

A short timeline of how long women had to wait simply to be allowed to compete, in the sports represented above.

1928 — Gymnastics and Track and Field

Women compete in Olympic gymnastics and track and field for the first time, at the Amsterdam Games. Public alarm over the women's 800m, after several runners appeared exhausted at the finish, led to the event being dropped from the programme entirely until 1960.

1948 — Canoeing

Women compete in Olympic canoe events for the first time, decades after the men's programme began.

1952 — Cross-Gender Equestrian Competition

Dressage becomes one of the first Olympic disciplines in which women compete directly against men in the same events, well ahead of most other sports.

1976 — Basketball

Women's basketball makes its Olympic debut at the Montreal Games, nearly four decades after the men's tournament began.

1984 — Women's Marathon

The first Olympic women's marathon is held in Los Angeles, the same Games at which Ingamay Bylund's Swedish dressage team won bronze, having taken 88 years from the first modern Olympics for organisers to trust women with the distance.

1996 — Football

Women's football becomes a full Olympic medal event at the Atlanta Games, more than a century after the men's game was codified.

2012 — Boxing

Women's boxing is added to the Olympic programme at the London Games, the last sport on the schedule to admit women, making 2012 the first Olympics in history where women competed in every sport on the programme.

Taken together: from the first modern Olympics in 1896 to full gender parity across every sport on the programme in 2012 was 116 years. Every woman named above competed, coached, or kept score somewhere inside that very long wait.

Book Club, directed by Bill Holderman in his directorial debut, arrived in 2018 as a charming comedy-drama centred around four lifelong friends whose lives are shaken — in the best way possible — after reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Starring Diane Keaton, Jane Fonda, Candice Bergen, and Mary Steenburgen, it's a film that blends humour, vulnerability, and a quiet rebellion against society's expectations of ageing women. Though marketed as a light-hearted rom-com, Book Club carries sharper edges beneath the laughter, challenging how we view love, desire, and reinvention later in life.

Set primarily in sun-soaked California, the film uses warm palettes and comfortable interiors that mirror the familiarity of long-time friendship. The editing keeps the pace brisk, intertwining each woman's individual storyline while frequently bringing them back to their sacred ritual: the monthly book club. The soundtrack, featuring classics and soft contemporary tunes, subtly underscores their emotional arcs without overpowering scenes.

Holderman's direction leans heavily on chemistry rather than spectacle. There are no grand set pieces, no loud drama — just the humour and sincerity that comes from women who have lived, lost, and learned how to laugh through it.

Four Women, Four Reckonings

At its heart, this is a film about awakening — sexual, emotional, and personal. The provocative novel they read becomes a symbolic catalyst rather than the true source of change. The real transformation stems from each woman confronting what she has quietly accepted: Diane (Diane Keaton) battles her daughters' overprotectiveness and the belief that her life should now be “safe”. Vivian (Jane Fonda) questions whether her fear of vulnerability has cost her a lifelong chance at love. Sharon (Candice Bergen) re-enters the dating world after decades, wrestling with pride and insecurity. Carol (Mary Steenburgen) tries to reignite passion in a long, stable marriage that has slipped into routine.

Themes of ageing, autonomy, friendship, and female desire run throughout. The film sidesteps clichés by allowing humour and honesty to exist in the same breath — age is acknowledged, but never apologised for.

The book club itself symbolises a sanctuary of reinvention. The chosen novel is less about erotica and more about confronting suppressed desire, forgotten ambition, and the refusal to become invisible. Wine glasses clinking over confession becomes a symbol of communion — a secular sacrament celebrating lifelong sisterhood.

Four Decades of Screen History, in One Cast

Each lead brings decades of cinematic history, which deepens their characters beyond the script. Diane Keaton, known for redefining the romantic lead in films like Annie Hall and Something's Gotta Give, continues her signature blend of vulnerable strength. Her character's awkwardness in romance is classic Keaton, both comedic and touching.

Jane Fonda, a two-time Oscar winner (Klute, Coming Home) with a career spanning activism and fitness empires, embodies Vivian with biting humour and tightly armoured elegance. Fonda's real-life refusal to retire gives Vivian's journey extra resonance.

Candice Bergen, once Murphy Brown — the razor-sharp TV icon — brings dry, sardonic wit. She plays Sharon with a weary dignity, hinting at heartbreak behind every quip.

Mary Steenburgen, an Oscar winner for Melvin and Howard, lends warmth and subtle melancholy to Carol, portraying a woman fighting to save desire without losing self-respect.

Their cumulative achievements — spanning theatre, television, activism, awards, and cultural influence — elevate Book Club beyond predictable comedy. This is not a cast chasing relevance; it is one reminding Hollywood what longevity looks like.

The friendship is utterly believable — a lifetime of eye-rolls, encouragement, and unspoken loyalty. No one tries to outshine the others; each has her moments of fragility and bravado. Their honesty with one another, even when masked by humour, becomes the true emotional core. Whether they're mocking each other's romantic disasters or offering quiet comfort, there is a lived-in rhythm that can't be faked.

Box Office and Legacy

While Book Club didn't sweep awards season, it made an impact where it mattered: the box office and audience hearts. Grossing over $104 million worldwide on a $14 million budget, it proved that stories about older women can draw crowds — something Hollywood often doubts. Critics were divided, some calling it fluff, others praising its defiance against ageism. But for many viewers, especially women over 50, it became a rare cinematic mirror. A sequel, Book Club: The Next Chapter, followed in 2023, with the same core cast reuniting for a bachelorette trip through Italy.

Originally sparked by Holderman's own mother's love for Fifty Shades, the film was written specifically with this dream cast in mind. Some actresses reportedly hesitated, worried it would reduce them to clichés. But once reassured it was about empowerment rather than parody, all four agreed — contingent on one non-negotiable: friendship must be the real love story.

Book Club may wrap itself in wine, wit, and romance, but beneath it lies a bold message: life does not slow after sixty unless you let it. It challenges the notion that female desire expires, that reinvention has an age limit, and that friends cannot be soulmates.

It isn't a perfect film — but it is an honest one. And sometimes, that's better.

In a world obsessed with youth, Book Club asks a disarming question: what if the most exciting chapter of your life hasn't even been written yet?

Six cards, six questions. Sit with the one that lands softest, not loudest.

Three of Swords: Is there something you've been carrying sideways instead of naming directly?

Eight of Pentacles: What unglamorous effort are you underestimating right now?

The Star: What small hope have you been talking yourself out of?

Knight of Wands: What have you been rehearsing instead of actually doing?

Four of Cups: Where do you need more time, even if someone else wants an answer now?

The World: What would it feel like to call this chapter finished, rather than unfinished?

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