Michelle Wollaston DWC Weekly Issue 46

Thank you for joining us for another issue. As our audience and community of contributors continues to grow, I've begun to notice a common thread in my conversations with women. More and more are saying the same thing — they've had enough. Enough of the “you should be like this” and “you should do it like that”. They're tired of the expectations, the moulds, and the silent rules. They're ready to do things their way.

And I think. It's time.

For far too long, women have been measured against a mould they never agreed to. A silent, suffocating blueprint of how to look, how to speak, how to behave — and most dangerously, how to belong. But something is shifting. There's a quiet waking up echoing across coffee shops, online communities, therapy rooms and dinner tables. Women are slowly, powerfully, and finally realising: they do not have to fit in to be worthy. They can — and must — be unapologetically themselves.

This awakening didn't happen overnight. It was born out of generations of resistance, exhaustion, and the deep longing to be seen for who we truly are — not who we were taught to be.

From the moment we're born, the world begins shaping us. Pink bows, soft voices, the unspoken message that we must be “nice” before we are anything else. Be gentle. Be pretty. Be small. Don't speak too loud. Don't take up too much space. Don't question. Don't dream too big.

By the 1950s, advertising was in full swing with picture-perfect housewives smiling while scrubbing floors, cooking casseroles, and ironing their husband's shirts. The message was clear: a woman's power lies in her ability to serve. And if she wasn't happy in that role? She just needed a new vacuum or a better shade of lipstick.

Even into the ’90s and early 2000s, the expectations evolved but didn't disappear. Magazines told us to “lose ten pounds fast”, to “keep your man interested”, to “have it all” — but never all at once. Women were expected to be successful but not intimidating. Sexy but not promiscuous. Ambitious but never bossy.

We were trained to shrink ourselves emotionally, physically, and mentally — to become a version of ourselves that was easier for the world to accept.

Something powerful is happening across this generation of women. There is a realisation dawning: We do not exist to make others comfortable. We do not need to apologise for being bold, sensitive, ambitious, angry, healing, loud, soft, messy, whole.

More and more women are burning the mould down.

We are rewriting the rules, not because we are angry (though some of us are), but because we are freeing ourselves from the illusion that we ever had to play a part to be valuable.

Being unapologetically yourself doesn't mean never feeling fear or doubt — it means choosing to honour yourself despite it. It means saying:

“I can wear red lipstick at 70 if I want to.”

“I can be child-free and still be fulfilled.”

“I can be a CEO, a stay-at-home mum, a pole dancer, a pastor — or all of the above — and not owe anyone an explanation.”

Unapologetically being you means releasing the need for external validation. It means showing up with your full heart, even when it trembles. It means becoming more of yourself — not less.

This movement is about collective healing. When one woman stands in her truth, she creates space for others to do the same. And so, the domino effect begins.

Sisters are cheering each other on instead of competing. Mothers are raising daughters with voices that echo. Women are choosing rest over burnout, boundaries over people-pleasing, authenticity over perfection.

We are no longer asking for permission.

We are no longer shrinking.

We are no longer sorry.

Because I am not “too much”. I am not “too loud”. I am not broken, or lost, or late.

I am not who the advertisements told me to be.

I am not the mould. I am not your expectation.

I am unapologetically me. And I am just getting started.

For a long time, I disappeared inside a life that looked functional. A 27-year relationship. Three small children. A business to run. Side jobs to make ends meet. From the outside, I was doing what needed to be done.

On the inside, I was fading.

I don't think it happened all at once. It was slow, the kind of disappearing that looks like devotion. You don't realise you're vanishing when you're so focused on keeping a family intact.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what I needed. I just accepted the harsh words, the moody silences, even the slaps. I didn't pretend it was normal; I knew it wasn't. But I didn't have the space, the support, or the energy to unravel it.

So I just functioned.

Someone once suggested that people like me were “high-functioning depressives”. I wasn't curled up in a dark room. I was making lunches, running a business, juggling side work, keeping things afloat. And there were moments, sharp, emotional ones, where the darkness felt so big I could have easily driven my car into a tree.

But I was far too responsible for that. Too responsible to fall apart. Too responsible to leave.

Then came a moment I couldn't ignore. I won't go into the details here, but something cracked open. And in the quiet after, I saw it clearly: I had not been honouring myself. Not in my choices, my silence, or the way I kept betraying my truth to keep the peace.

That moment led me back to something I'd buried decades earlier: my spiritual practice.

It wasn't new. It had always been there, planted early by my father, who was a healer. I grew up around energy work, intuition, and the quiet kind of knowing you don't always have language for. But like many women, I tucked it away in favour of being useful, practical, and selfless.

Coming back to that practice saved me. It gave me clarity, purpose, and permission to feel again. It reminded me who I was and what I was here for.

Now, I support other women who are where I once was — still showing up, still functioning, still disappearing. I help them reconnect with their spiritual strengths, rediscover their voice, and find their way back to themselves.

Because disappearing might feel like survival, but coming home to yourself is where real life begins.

And for the women reading this and silently recognising this story in their bones, I see you. I hear you. I was you. There is nothing wrong with you. There is only a version of you waiting to come home.

On 13 July 2012, Hanifa Safi was driving through Mehtarlam, the capital of Laghman province in eastern Afghanistan, when a bomb fixed to her car exploded. She was killed, and so was her husband. Eleven other people were injured, among them her son, her daughter and their driver.

She was the province's director of women's affairs, and the second woman in that role, in any of Afghanistan's 34 provinces, to be assassinated.

This column is about the job she chose, and why she kept doing it.

A post created after the Taliban

When the Taliban government fell in 2001, Afghanistan created a Ministry of Women's Affairs in Kabul. Each of the country's 34 provinces was given its own women's affairs department, reporting to the ministry. For the first time in years, a woman in a provincial town had a government office she could walk into with a complaint.

The work of those departments sat at the sharpest edge of Afghan life: domestic violence, forced and child marriage, girls' access to school, and women's claims to property and inheritance. The women who ran them were visible, and in Afghanistan visibility carried risk.

In September 2006, Safia Amajan, head of the department in Kandahar, was shot dead outside her home. Every woman who took on the role after her understood exactly what it could cost.

Laghman, 2008 to 2012

Hanifa Safi became director of women's affairs in Laghman in 2008. Little of her early life is on the public record. Her year of birth is rarely reported, and most of what is known about her comes from her four years in office and from the tributes paid after her death.

That record shows a woman who spoke openly about domestic violence, forced marriage and girls' education in a conservative province, and whose daily work centred on cases of violence against women: hearing women who had been dismissed all their lives, and supporting them through what had happened to them.

Work of that kind rarely makes the news while it is being done. It happens one family, one case and one hearing at a time.

13 July 2012

Provincial officials blamed the Taliban, who denied involvement. Nobody claimed the attack.

The United Nations called it an outrage and said she had “worked tirelessly” to promote and protect the rights of Afghan women. Amnesty International said she was clearly a target of people determined to undermine the fragile gains women had made, and called for urgent justice. Its researcher warned that killings like hers were too often left uninvestigated, with the people responsible never brought to court.

The attack came days after a video emerged of a young woman being publicly executed for alleged adultery, about an hour's drive from Kabul. Together, the two stories marked a brutal summer for Afghan women.

What happened next

Nine years later, in August 2021, the Taliban returned to power. Within weeks the Ministry of Women's Affairs was closed and its Kabul building given to the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice. Girls are now barred from secondary school and from university. The provincial women's affairs departments that Hanifa Safi and Safia Amajan led have gone with the ministry.

Why she belongs here

Hanifa Safi took a job that had already cost one woman her life, in a province where speaking about violence against women made her a target, and she did it for four years. The scar belongs to every Afghan woman who has lost the office she could once walk into. What shines is the record of a woman who chose to sit in that office anyway, and the reminder that women's rights in Afghanistan were defended, case by case, by women like her.

The record, in sequence, drawn from reporting by Reuters, the Associated Press, RFE/RL and UPI, and from statements by the United Nations and Amnesty International.

The sweet moments of summer aren't reserved for fancy holidays or the rare times we feel we can finally escape the pace of life. If we let it, summer can whisper a savoury embrace like a warm sunset — seemingly in the distance, yet close enough to touch in the heart. Carving out time to savour the stretch of sunlight that only comes once a year isn't just for piña coladas on a faraway beach. The sultry magic of lingering a little longer can be found right in front of us.

After racing through days and trying to cram in as much as possible, I began to ponder — what if the small moments were to feel big? Could my relationship with time really shift if I made my life a daily ceremony? I realised that celebrating the one precious life I have wouldn't come from someone telling me to live differently. I had to choose it. I had to decide that summer gets to feel sacred and artful — because I said so.

At first, it didn't arrive with fanfare. It came in the mornings, inhaling fresh pine air on the deck. In the clink of ice against glass in my iced latte — soft percussion in the rhythm of my day, a quiet promise of both refreshment and presence. It came in letting the night air kiss my cheeks through an open window. In honouring my tears as deeply as my laughter.

It showed up in the summer blackberries that decorated my salads — flavour explosions against the contrast of greens and goat's cheese. In the coolness of a shower on sun-warmed skin after a long day at the lake. Slowly, the days I thought I didn't have time for became chapters filled with sensory memory, steeped in meaning.

It was in the intention of lighting a candle while I cooked. In blasting Stevie Nicks and letting my hips sway while unloading dishes. I started to see: the big moments were the small moments. Woven into my days like threads of beauty and reverence, they formed a tapestry far richer than I could have imagined. This sacredness wasn't loud. It wasn't grand. It was cultivated slowly, with care.

And the more of these soft, subtle moments I allowed myself to feel, the more expansive time began to feel. I no longer needed the clock to look different. I learnt to dance with time in a new way — to embrace the quiet unfolding of moments I used to miss. I didn't have to abandon my responsibilities. The spaciousness I created actually became the fuel for all of life's other moments. Time hadn't changed. I had. My perception of time had.

Brewing sun tea on the porch brought me back to the childlike delight of running through sprinklers. Arranging charcuterie as art for a dinner party reconnected me — with myself and with the laughter circling around me. A thoughtful wine pairing opened the door to storytelling and depth. The more I said yes to these simple pleasures, the more I discovered a deep well of bigger yeses I had once shied away from. My body became the temple. My life, an act of worship.

Mornings infused with jasmine body oil reminded me of the magic in simply being alive — nourished, awake, and present. The everyday moments I once rushed through became a living canvas of play. I realised that as sweet as exotic getaways were — and I still loved them — I could create that same warmth anywhere. I was weaving cool, delicious elixirs of joy found in the here and now. Like someone dear once told me: don't create a life you need a holiday from. I finally understood. It didn't have to be the cherry on top of a drink by the sea. The moments I was creating each day were the main event.

The more I became present to my life, the less I needed to run from anything. Life could unfold in its own time — if I allowed it, if I trusted it. If I trusted myself. I didn't have to wait for anyone else to create the magic. Life was already dancing with me. All I had to do was say yes. Even a small yes was enough to unlock the magic quietly waiting inside me.

And maybe that's what summer had been whispering all along —
that the sacred isn't somewhere far away. It lives here, in the golden sunrise of now.

Mightier Than the Sword is the fifth of the seven novels in Jeffrey Archer's Clifton Chronicles, first published in 2015. It opens in the aftermath of an IRA bomb aboard the Buckingham, the Barrington Shipping liner, and from there it does something the earlier books only hinted at. It takes a family saga about boardrooms, inheritance and loyalty and carries it into the Cold War, where ideology, diplomacy and the quiet power of words decide what happens next.

Where the story goes

Emma Clifton is now chairman of Barrington Shipping, and the bombing hands her opponents on the board their opening. Some want her gone. Lady Virginia Fenwick, as calculating and relentless as ever, keeps up her campaign to destabilise the company and Emma with it, so the corporate tension stays as sharp as in the earlier books.

Harry Clifton, elected president of English PEN, takes up the cause of Anatoly Babakov, a Soviet writer sent to a Siberian Gulag for writing Uncle Joe, an account of working for Stalin. It is the most overtly political storyline in the series so far, a thread about censorship, freedom of expression and the risks faced by people who challenge authority. Harry, a writer who becomes an advocate, gives it a personal conviction that keeps it grounded.

Sebastian Clifton, newly on the board and making his way in the City, grows into a confident and strategic player, with a professional rival and a romance that both test him. Giles Barrington, a minister on the rise, finds his career knocked off balance by a trip to East Germany and by the return of his old opponent, Major Alex Fisher. Through Giles, Archer looks at the pull between personal integrity and public responsibility.

Why it works

Archer keeps four storylines across two continents moving without losing any of them. Each thread advances the whole, and none crowds out the others. The chapters are short and usually end on a turn, which is why these books are so hard to put down at bedtime. That structure has become a hallmark of the series, and it is used here with real precision.

Emma is the strongest presence in the book. She holds her position as chairman in rooms full of men who would rather she did not, and she does it with determination and composure. Harry remains the moral centre, driven by principle over ambition. Sebastian is where the family's future is heading. Lady Virginia is the villain the series needs: strategic, patient and unwavering in her pursuit of power, which makes her far more dangerous than a louder antagonist would be.

The title carries the theme. In this book, power sits with whoever controls the story: a banned manuscript, a libel case, a speech in an election. Family is still at the heart of it, set now against Cold War politics, and the book shows how far a private life can be shaped by events a long way from home. The historical setting supports the plot without overwhelming it.

Where it slips

This is book five, and it reads like one. It assumes you know the Cliftons and the Barringtons and the history between them, and a reader starting here will spend the first chapters catching up. It also ends on a deliberate cliffhanger, with two trials under way and several threads unresolved, setting up the next instalment, Cometh the Hour. That is good for momentum and less satisfying for anyone who likes a book to finish.

The verdict

For readers who have followed the two families this far, Mightier Than the Sword is a strong continuation that deepens the saga while widening its scope, with political intrigue, well-drawn characters and high stakes. It remains a compelling entry in a series about ambition, legacy and the complexity of family. New to the Cliftons? Start with book one, Only Time Will Tell, and arrive here ready to go straight on to Cometh the Hour.

On 9 September 1843, the United States Patent Office granted patent number 3,254 to Nancy M. Johnson of Philadelphia. She called her invention an “Artificial Freezer”. Everyone else would come to call it an ice cream maker.

Ice cream was already well known by then. What Nancy Johnson changed was who could make it, and how easily.

The old way

Before her invention, ice cream was made by the pot freezer method. A metal pot of sweetened cream sat inside a larger container packed with ice and salt, and someone stirred and scraped the mixture by hand as it froze, for as long as it took. It was cold, slow, tiring work, and the result was often coarse and icy. Ice cream belonged to confectioners, wealthy households and the people who worked in their kitchens.

The Artificial Freezer

Her patent drawing shows a tall wooden tub to be filled with ice and salt, a slender metal cylinder inside it to hold the ice cream mixture, and a dasher, a paddle running through the cylinder, turned by a crank on the lid. Turning the crank kept the mixture moving and scraped the freezing cream from the cold walls of the cylinder, so it froze evenly and smoothly. The ice and salt supplied the cold. The crank supplied the stirring.

It used less ice and less effort than the old method, and it made smoother ice cream in far less time. For the first time, a household with a tub, a supply of ice and a little patience could make ice cream at home, in its own flavours, with no confectioner involved.

Who she was

Nancy Maria Johnson was born on 28 December 1794 and died on 22 April 1890. She married Walter Rogers Johnson in 1823, and they had two children. Beyond that, her life is thinly recorded. Even the story of her patent is told in different ways: accounts disagree on where she lived and on how much she was paid for it.

What is clear is that she did not manufacture the freezer herself. She sold the rights, most often reported for $200, to a wholesaler named William G. Young. In 1848, Young patented an improved version and sold it as the Johnson Patent Ice-Cream Freezer, keeping her name on the product. The success of her simple, sturdy design brought many other inventors in behind her.

A woman with a patent in 1843

American women could legally hold patents from the start; the Patent Act of 1790 made no distinction by sex. In practice, very few did. The first patent granted to a woman in the United States went to Mary Kies in 1809, for a method of weaving straw with silk. A patent took money, legal help and confidence, and married women in most states had limited control over their own property and earnings. Pennsylvania passed its Married Women's Property Act only in 1848, five years after Nancy Johnson's patent was granted.

Against that background, a married woman in Philadelphia putting her name to a mechanical invention, and having it granted, was rare. That she sold it for a modest sum while others built businesses on it is a story women inventors would recognise for generations afterwards.

Why she is on this list

Nancy Johnson took a slow, cold job done by servants and confectioners and turned it into something a family could do together on a summer afternoon. Hand-cranked freezers built on her design are still sold today, and the electric ice cream maker on a modern kitchen counter works on the same idea: keep the mixture moving while it freezes.

She was an ordinary woman with an extraordinary idea, and she put her own name on it. The next time you stand over a churn, or buy a scoop on a hot afternoon, there is a woman from 1843 to thank.

From a pot in a bucket of ice to the machine on the kitchen counter.

I should have known it would all go pear-shaped the moment The Great Bake-Off of Little Hogsbottom announced its surprise twist: contestants may not bake alone.

It was all rather suspicious. One minute it was your average village baking competition — paper doilies, spongy Victoria cakes, the scent of scones wafting into the parish hall rafters — and the next it was all partners, flair, and audience votes.

I was not even in the competition. I was merely Oliver Witherspoon, local freelance librarian and casual hat enthusiast. But I had a crush — a rather serious, utterly unreciprocated, borderline ridiculous crush — on Hazel Blythe, the reigning cinnamon roll queen of the West Midlands.

Hazel was the sort of woman who smelled like nutmeg and looked as though she could conquer France with a spatula and a well-timed wink. She wore a cherry-print apron and once gave me a biscotti when I sneezed near her stall. I was in deep.

Naturally, I volunteered as her surprise partner. “Partner” being generous — I mostly stirred things, weighed sugar, and occasionally dropped eggs. Still, she smiled at me as though I were vaguely tolerable, which was enough to keep me coming back.

That is, until Claude turned up.

Claude

Claude. His name sounded like the thump of an over-whipped meringue hitting the floor.

He was everything I was not: French-ish, confident, suspiciously tan for February, and prone to wearing scarves indoors. Also, he was in the competition, partnered with Hazel's main rival, Fiona Simms, whose gingerbread people looked like they had just paid off their mortgages.

The trouble started when Hazel's mixer exploded mid-whisk. Flour everywhere. Butter in her fringe. Our sourdough starter gave up the ghost.

“Sabotage,” I whispered dramatically. Hazel thought it was just faulty wiring. But I knew. Claude had smirked. Smirked. That was all the proof I needed.

Which is why, in a moment of romantic desperation and poor decision-making, I did the only logical thing: I visited my Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia

Now, Aunt Petunia is not your average aunt. She runs a teashop-cum-apothecary that smells like peppermint and mild regret. She also happens to be a witch — semi-retired, but still potent enough to turn a Tesco bag into a family of argumentative toads.

“A baking competition?” she said when I explained the whole ordeal. “Darling, magic and sponge cake do not mix. You will end up with sentient scones.”

“I just need something subtle,” I insisted. “Just to give Hazel a little… advantage. Or rather, to protect her from sabotage. A sort of anti-Claudium spell.”

Petunia pursed her lips, reached into a drawer, and produced a tiny vial of something blue and shimmery. “One drop. Only one. Stir clockwise. No more than a spoonful of emotion.”

“What happens if I stir counter-clockwise?”

“The cake may develop sentience and join the chess club. Or it will explode. Hard to say.”

As I reached the door, she caught my sleeve. “One more thing, Oliver. Magic takes its cue from whoever is holding the spoon. Go in calm, and you will get a calm cake. Go in with your heart on your sleeve, and the sponge will know.”

“And if my heart is already on my sleeve?”

She looked at me over her spectacles, the way she once looked at the vicar when he asked whether her elderflower cordial was strictly legal. “Then heaven help the judges.”

I took the vial, promised I would not misuse it, and jogged back to the village hall with all the confidence of a man carrying a bottle of illegal enchantment next to some organic flour.

The final

The final was held on a Saturday in the parish hall, which had been dressed for the occasion with bunting, two trestle tables per team and a borrowed oven the Scouts swore had been serviced. The judges sat at the front like a tribunal: Mrs Ainsworth-Blunt, chair of the Women's Institute and a woman who could detect a soggy bottom from the car park; the Reverend Pike, who judged everything on whether it went with tea; and a retired pastry chef from Leamington Spa called Gerald, who had once made a croquembouche for a minor royal and had not stopped mentioning it since.

The final round was a “Signature Showstopper”: one dessert, four hours, must reflect your essence. Hazel chose a Black Forest gâteau because, as she put it, “I'm dark, sweet, and a little boozy.”

For the first two hours, all was well. Hazel worked like a conductor. She whipped, folded, tasted and adjusted, and directed me with small flicks of her spatula. I weighed things. I fetched things. At one point I was trusted to grate chocolate, and I did it with such devotion that Gerald, wandering past, nodded at me as though I had achieved something. Across the hall, Fiona and Claude were building a lemon tart with the cold precision of people defusing a bomb. Claude piped his meringue in neat little peaks, then stepped back and admired each one as though it had paid him a compliment.

I, being helpful, prepped the cherry liqueur while subtly pouring in the magical liquid. Stirring clockwise. Only one drop. Definitely not two. Probably.

“Smells… zingy,” Hazel said, inhaling. “Like ambition and regret.”

“Must be the Kirsch,” I muttered.

Things were going swimmingly. Until Claude dropped by.

“Oh là là,” he said, because of course he did. “That cake looks… unstable. You should be careful, Hazel. Too much Kirsch, and poof!”

He made a poofing gesture. I do not know if I have ever hated a man more.

“Why are you even here?” I asked.

“Just checking on the competition. We would not want any… accidents.”

Hazel rolled her eyes. I, on the other hand, saw red. Metaphorically. Literally, I saw cherries.

The cake

And then things got… weird.

Our cake began to hum. Not audibly, mind you. Emotionally. There was a tangible presence emanating from the sponge layers. It began to rise… and rise… and then shuddered as though it were enjoying itself a bit too much.

Hazel noticed. “Is it supposed to… pulse?”

“No idea,” I said, heart pounding. “It is just very fresh.”

The top layer rotated ever so slightly. The cherries arranged themselves into a smile.

I had stirred with too much emotion. Possibly panic. Definitely longing.

The cake was alive.

Not Frankenstein alive. But it had presence. And, apparently, strong opinions.

When the judges came round, the gâteau gave off a gentle aura of vanilla confidence and maternal disappointment. One judge teared up. Another proposed. The third started singing Ave Maria.

Hazel won by unanimous vote. Claude's lemon tart deflated in embarrassment.

It should have ended there.

The car park

But of course, Claude confronted me in the car park.

“I know what you did,” he said, still wearing that bloody scarf.

“You… sabotaged us?”

He scoffed. “Sabotage? Please. I merely loosened a wire and encouraged an air current. But you… you used magic.”

I tried to play dumb. It was not difficult.

“I saw the shimmer. I felt the vibration. That cake was not yours — it was something else. Something… old.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “You think you have won? That cake is bonded now. It knows. It remembers.”

“What does it remember?”

Claude shook his head. “Some doors, once buttered, cannot be unbuttered.”

He vanished into the mist. Or possibly just walked behind a Volvo. Either way, he was gone.

That night

That night, the cake refused to be cut.

Hazel tried everything — knives, spoons, a stern talking-to — but it merely vibrated and jiggled like a smug flan. Finally, it floated out of the window and disappeared over the village green.

“I swear it winked,” Hazel said.

We stood in stunned silence.

“I might have… added something,” I admitted.

She turned to me, hands on hips. “Oliver Witherspoon. Did you enchant my gâteau?”

“I thought it would help.”

“You could have told me.”

“You would not have believed me.”

“I probably would have. I mean, I live next to your aunt. She once turned my cat into a dustpan.”

“Oh. Right.”

She sighed, then smiled, and took my hand. “You are an idiot.”

“But a helpful one?”

“The jury is out.”

We sat on the bench and watched as the magical cake floated across the moon, trailing Kirsch-scented stardust like some drunken confectionery UFO.

Afterwards

By the next morning, the whole village had a theory. Mrs Ainsworth-Blunt said it was a weather balloon. The Reverend Pike said it was a sign, though he would not say of what. Gerald from Leamington Spa said he had once seen a soufflé do something similar in 1987, and declined to elaborate. Aunt Petunia said nothing at all, which was how I knew she was proud of me.

To this day, the cake occasionally returns for village meetings, floats above the bell tower during holidays, and once ran for Parish Council.

Hazel and I now run a small café together — Whisked Away — with enchanted pastries and strictly regulated mixing procedures. She does the baking. I do the talking. And sometimes the stirring. Clockwise only.

As for Claude, he opened a rival shop across town. His éclairs taste like failure.

And every so often, the cake sends him postcards.

Unbuttered, of course.

The cake is a figment. These are not.

When I look back on the first chapter of my adult life, I can see just how hard I was trying to prove myself.

I failed my first year of university — GPA of 1.8, one of those wake-up calls that leaves you questioning everything. From there, I pivoted and became an accountant. It was practical. Respectable. A way to show I could turn things around. But deep down, I knew it wasn't what I truly wanted.

I had dreamt of becoming a doctor since I was young. That dream felt impossible after my failure, and my family continued to convince me that “people like us don't become doctors”. That dream became even more impossible once I became a mum. But the pull never left me.

When my daughter was one, I was made redundant from my accounting job. That was the moment I had to ask myself: Why not? Why not become a doctor? Why can't I invest in what I truly want? Are the excuses I keep making really serving me — or just keeping me small?

So I applied to get my science degree at the age of 26 and later got into medicine. This ‘why not’ moment kicked off the hardest, most transformational chapter of my life — with two young children in tow.

Running on empty

For years, I was running on sheer willpower. Medical school, parenting, proving I could “do it all”. I carried so much guilt — about missing school concerts, not having enough energy for bedtime stories, about being “selfish” for chasing my dream.

People questioned my choices. Teachers told me I was putting my education ahead of my children's future. A family member asked why I wasn't fulfilled just being a mother. Internally, I was wrestling with the belief that I had to do everything perfectly — motherhood, marriage, medicine — or I was failing.

And so I kept pushing. Until I burned out.

The first wave of burnout hit in med school. I ignored it, pushed through. The second wave came later as a practising physician, juggling my career, my family, my patients — while trying to be everything to everyone. This time, I couldn't ignore it. My body shut me down; I hit a wall physically. My nervous system was fried from being on constant overload. I felt hollow inside.

Discovering codependency

Through therapy and deep reflection, I realised that underneath the perfectionism, underneath the endless guilt, was something deeper: codependency.

I had spent most of my life outsourcing my worth — trying to earn approval, avoid disappointing others, and manage their emotions at the expense of my own well-being. If someone needed me, I showed up — even if it meant abandoning myself. If someone was upset, I took it on as my responsibility. If someone complimented me, it gave me a fleeting sense of value — but left me craving more.

I had been living my life trying to be “enough” in everyone else's eyes — without ever asking what I truly wanted or needed.

The shift

What changed everything for me was what I now call The Authenticity Shift. At first, it wasn't some grand epiphany. It was learning to pause. To listen to my body — especially my stomach, where I tend to feel tension. I started to notice when I was about to say yes out of guilt or obligation, not genuine desire.

In those moments, I began asking:

Is this choice aligned with my values and who I want to be?

Am I saying yes to stay liked, or because this is truly right for me?

What would it feel like to choose based on trust, not fear?

This small practice changed my life. I stopped giving automatic yeses. I stopped over-explaining my boundaries. I began trusting myself to disappoint others when needed — without sacrificing my own well-being. The shift wasn't about becoming selfish. It was about honouring myself. About living from my own truth, not a need to prove or perform.

Today, I'm a family doctor, and I help others untangle from guilt, perfectionism, and self-abandonment. I still get it wrong sometimes. The pull towards proving my worth runs deep. But now, I have tools — and, more importantly, I have trust in myself.

If I could offer one thing to women reading this, it would be this: your body knows. Pay attention to the cues — tightness, exhaustion, that pit in your stomach. These are invitations to pause and realign with your truth.

You are allowed to want more. You are allowed to set boundaries. You are allowed to be imperfect and still enough.

The world doesn't need more women setting themselves on fire to keep others warm. It needs more women rooted in authenticity — who know they are worthy, not because of what they do, but because of who they are.

That is the shift I'm still making. And it's the shift I hope more of us will embrace — one choice, one pause, one breath at a time.

Food is a necessity, and then along comes an idiot and starts making rules.

Not “Make sure it's thoroughly cooked”, but rules someone made up that are now actual rules everyone is expected to follow. They are dumb and must be ridiculed.

Don't eat that after a certain time

Are we a Mogwai called Gizmo? I think not. But there is some sort of truth to it, in so far as an immensely heavy dinner moments before falling asleep probably isn't the greatest of ideas. But do you know when that does happen a lot to millions upon millions of people? Yes, Christmas. It's practically expected of you because “I didn't slave for hours for you not to doze off, Daniel.”

Cheese gives you nightmares

Take your nonsense somewhere else, and don't tell me what to do.

Don't break spaghetti before cooking

Why? Because it's more fun watching those at the table struggling with pasta that's half a mile long? This is just a purist thing, and, besides, not all bought spaghetti is the same length. Your spaghetti won't scream if you do break it — and even if it did, that just proves it deserved snapping in two.

If your pan is small or your spaghetti too long, break it in half. If anyone asks, tell them it was that length when you bought it, and then never invite them again.

Sear your meat

Touched on this before, and it is pure, unadulterated nonsense. Searing doesn't seal juices in (the opposite, in fact); it simply adds flavour. That's it.

Two cloves of garlic

I do not care who wrote it, or how much experience they have — there is only one rule if you see garlic in a recipe: add as much as you want.

Do not cook with wine you would not normally drink

My, my, that Cabernet Sauvignon is a positive delight to the senses, so yes, I will pour half of it into this pasta sauce I'm making, despite it costing me the Earth. No. Just no.

Grab a cheaper bottle and taste it. Is it drinkable? Good — use some of that, then. If it tastes awful, don't cook with it because you won't like your food either. Oh, and cooking wine is terrible. It should be banned.

Avoid fats, avoid carbs, avoid salt

Unless you are under strict medical instruction, your body needs all of these — so get them eaten. The problem starts when you eat nothing but these, and copious amounts of them, too.

Wine must be a certain temperature

Does it, though? Does it really? Maybe if you've spent a couple of hundred on a bottle — but you more than likely haven't. In which case, drink it at the temperature you like. Some reds taste better a little cooler anyway.

I mean, don't drink white wine that's 45°C, but it really doesn't need to be 5°C either. Same for any alcohol, in fact — I put my bourbon in the freezer and will happily drink a beer I forgot to refrigerate, even when it's at room temperature. You paid for it. Drink it how you like.

Add oil to water when cooking pasta

The two don't mix. It's hydrophobic. Just stop it. If you're worried about it foaming up and bubbling over, put a wooden spoon across the top or turn the heat down.

The five-second rule

One moment it was in your hand, the next it's on the floor. One… two… three… four… saved it!

Are you genuinely so confident that the floor is that clean — and that bacteria have a thorough understanding of the concept of time?

Good for you. I am now serving all your food straight onto the floor.

Because you just don't

Lastly is this ‘rule’. It is a rule as old as time itself — so old, in fact, it began before the food in question was invented — and has been passed down through the centuries and millennia. But now nobody actually knows why the rule was created. It just is.

Either that, or there is no reason and the person saying it knows this but doesn't want to admit it.

Basically, “because you just don't” is the sole remit of parents to their five-year-old when they don't want to get into it — or are just making it up for some peace and quiet.

Mike has the opinions. Here is what the research says about six of them.

Photo by Kitti Kahotong

In the hills of Betong district, in Thailand's southernmost province of Yala, there is a viewpoint locals call the sea of mist. Before sunrise, cloud fills the valleys below the ridge so completely that the forest disappears, and the hilltops stand up out of it like islands. The Talay Mok Aiyoeweng Skywalk lets you walk out over it.

The skywalk

The walkway runs 61 metres out from a viewing tower on a hilltop around 620 metres above sea level. Thailand's government describes it as the longest glass walkway of its kind in Southeast Asia. At the end, glass panels look straight down into the forest canopy far below, and on a clear morning the view runs across the Hala-Bala forest and over the border into Malaysia.

Stepping onto the glass brings a moment of hesitation, then a strange weightlessness, as though you are standing on the cloud itself. It is just enough of a thrill to remember, and the structure feels solid underfoot.

When to go

Arrive before dawn. The mist is usually at its thickest between 5:30 and 8:30 in the morning, while the valleys are still cool, and the skywalk opens at 5:30. As the sun comes up, the light turns the cloud gold and silver, and the mist rolls and shifts below you like a slow tide.

The cooler months from November to February tend to bring the most reliable mist and the most comfortable early starts. Outside them, the trip is still worth making, with forested hills and distant rivers in place of cloud.

Bring patience as well as a camera. The mist keeps no timetable: some mornings the valley fills completely, and on others it lifts within minutes of sunrise. If your first dawn disappoints, a second one often delivers, which is a good reason to stay two nights in Betong rather than one.

Getting there

The skywalk is roughly 30 kilometres from Betong town, along a road that winds through rubber plantations, hillsides and rainforest. A hired car gives you the freedom to stop along the way; local tours run from Betong if you would rather be driven. The road is good but full of bends, so allow extra time, particularly in the dark before sunrise.

From the car park it is a 500-metre walk up a concrete path to the skywalk, or a short motorbike-taxi ride if you would rather save your legs.

Where to stay and what to eat

Stay the night in Betong. The town has everything from small guesthouses to boutique hotels, with a warm, small-town welcome, and being a short drive from the skywalk makes a 5am start far easier.

Betong's food reflects its Thai-Chinese heritage: bowls of noodles, fragrant stir-fries and street snacks. After a morning above the clouds, a simple local café, a pot of hot tea and a bowl of noodles is the right way to let it sink in.

If you have more time

The historic Piyamit Tunnel offers a glimpse into the region's past, and the hot springs nearby make a welcome contrast to the cool mountain air. In the evening, the town's clock tower is lit up and becomes the centre of local life.

Before you book

Betong sits in one of the provinces near the Malaysian border where the UK government advises against all but essential travel, because of a long-running insurgency. Check your own government's advice and your travel insurance before you plan a visit. The details are in the second tab.

If you go, set the alarm early, bring a light jacket, and give yourself a few minutes on the glass before you reach for your phone. The view is the reason to make the trip, and it changes by the minute.

The practical details for a dawn visit. Hours and prices can change, so check locally before you set out.

A post by the creator Elyse Myers ended with a line that stops you mid-scroll: “I'm a person. Not a marketing opportunity.” It lands because it is true, and because almost everyone online has felt it.

A marketplace that used to be a conversation

Social media began as an extension of community and conversation. Over time it has turned into a noisy, transactional marketplace where everyone, and their nan, is selling something. There is nothing wrong with building a business online. How you do it matters more than ever.

Even the accounts that preach authenticity and connection are often buried in message threads they cannot keep up with, unable to remember who they have already contacted. The result is hollow conversations and mixed intentions, and it is exhausting for both sides.

Say what you are doing

Most people are tired: emotionally, mentally and digitally. If you are reaching out to sell something, say so. Skip the vague “quick chat” that turns into a pitch three messages later. People spot a disguised sales message a mile off, and they trust the sender less for it.

The stronger position is to be known as an expert: someone people seek out for what they know, rather than someone who appears only to push a product, or who treats every new connection as the top of a sales funnel.

The free download has stopped working

When DWC first tested social channels, we tried the well-worn path: offer something free and hope people convert. It worked, to a point. Now that approach is everywhere, and a free download in exchange for an email address has become background noise. When everyone does the same thing, nobody stands out.

What the research says

This is more than a gut feeling. Edelman's 2024 Trust Barometer found social media to be the least trusted source of information, trusted by around 44 per cent of people, even though it is one of the most used. When Sprout Social asked consumers why they unfollow brands, 43 per cent said too many adverts and 35 per cent said too many promotional posts. Poor customer service topped the list, at 56 per cent.

Email follows the same rule. Sending the same offer twice a day wears people down far faster than it sells. Every send that offers nothing new teaches your list to ignore you, and the unsubscribes follow.

Marketing works best when it is useful enough that people are glad to receive it. That is a long way from tactics designed to wear down resistance.

Groups are not a free noticeboard

Social media groups make the problem plain. When DWC posts a call for contributors or collaborators, the replies often fill within minutes with links, offers and sales blurbs, and very few thoughtful pitches or ideas.

Free space to promote a product that earns you money is a gift from whoever runs the group. Treat it like one, and offer something of value back to the person or platform providing it.

Bring back the early internet

In the early 2000s, when blogging was raw and social platforms were new, people connected because they wanted to. What would happen if we brought some of that spirit back? Comment on a post because you loved it. Tell someone their holiday photo made you smile. Talk to a human as a human, with no funnel attached.

As Seth Godin has put it, “People do not buy goods and services. They buy relations, stories and magic.” That kind of connection builds trust, and trust is what turns into customers who stay.

Connect or convert?

Stop viewing every person as a prospect. Show up the way you would at a friend's dinner party: curious, kind, with something worth sharing, and with no expectation of walking out with a sale.

Before you next message someone, ask yourself two questions. Am I here to connect or to convert? Would I still be having this conversation if there were no sale at the end?

People follow people they trust, and people who make them feel seen: the ones who ask “How are you?” with no upsell waiting on the other side.

The first part of my life, or at least the conscious portion of it, was spent seeking out labels that could give me a sense of belonging.

What could I become? What place in the world was mine? I tried all sorts of things to find out. I tried to fit in with people who did not make me feel worthy, reinforcing limiting beliefs that had been instilled in me at a young age. I worked hard to become a well-trained musician and was accepted into a prestigious music business programme, but then gave it all up when a man told me he wanted to marry me and that it was not a suitable career if I wished to be a good wife. Over and over, I found myself almost finishing what I had so intentionally and thoughtfully started. I knew I was capable and a hard worker.

Sometimes I even admitted to myself that I was smart. I showed up every day and every night for anything I set my sights on achieving.

I cared for others tirelessly, and I thought deeply about the impact of my actions. I was a model citizen to everyone but myself. Because in the eleventh hour, my well-hidden insecurities would creep out from the dark corners of my mind. Just before the finish line of a long race, the belief that I was not good enough to truly achieve the thing I had worked so hard for, for so long — and had genuinely done well at — would seem to grab me at the ankle and stop me from reaching the end. Even when I did make it to the end of the race, I was a non-celebrator. Ever unceremonious, I never felt I deserved a reward for anything I accomplished. It was a given that I should contribute, and really, was I not falling short of what I could achieve? Was I truly doing enough?

Was I enough?

This is the hazard of focusing our energy outward on labels. On becoming something you are not, rather than accepting who you are.

There is a risk in searching to fit in amongst crowds of people while abandoning your responsibility to respect your own needs, wants, dreams and possibilities. The longer you move through the darkness searching for yourself, the further the journey back home becomes. The more time you spend abandoning yourself, the more effort it takes to become reacquainted. All of those versions of you that you tried on leave their mark. The ill-fitting roles clutter your mind like old clothes lining a wardrobe, taking up space until there is no room for what truly reflects and fits you. The person in the mirror becomes a stranger, no matter what they wrap around their shoulders or paint on their cheeks.

The search for oneself can feel long and endless when we are looking in the wrong place.

I realised, thanks to the caring and loving words of a friend years ago, that I was looking for approval from people who did not want to approve of me. I was seeking permission to be myself from those who benefited from me remaining a shell of who I was, moulding myself around their goals, wants and desires.

I needed to stop apologising for falling short in the eyes of those who were committed to me falling short so they could appear taller.

I needed to finally apologise to myself.

To apologise to myself for all the times when I knew my answer was no, and I said yes because I felt it was expected of me. This was true, in part: it was expected of me. That expectation existed because I had taught people to expect it. I had shown them that I would sacrifice myself for whatever they asked. Through my behaviour, I had revealed that my self-esteem was so low that their approval mattered more than my own needs. Because I was so focused on the constant effort to earn my worthiness from external sources — through service, titles, success, endlessly — I was distracted from what truly mattered. I was wasting my energy, investing in everything and everyone but myself. And it showed.

One friend recognising that I had wilted, that I had become almost completely drained of the liveliness that once emanated from me, was enough to bring me back to an awareness of myself. An awareness that as much as everyone else mattered, so did I. That if I abandoned myself completely, I would no longer be there to care for those I loved. That if I only focused on meeting the goals and desires of others, my own dreams would remain unrealised.

That my life would go unlived.

That one person saved my life simply by loving me, without any labels. I do not think I had ever truly been seen before that day as simply myself. I had never understood that being me was not only enough, but extraordinary. That we are all searching for ourselves everywhere but within. That being me was everything.

Once I shed external expectations and released my need to earn approval, I began, bit by bit, to find my way back to myself. Along that journey, I found peace. In that peace, I found purpose. I found a determination to pursue my goals and to live a life of intention, connection and growth through storytelling.

I had handed over the pen of my life for far too long. The consequences of that choice could have been the bitter end of my story, or they could become the circumstances that led me to become the hero of my own life.

I chose to start writing my own story. I chose to bear witness to the beautiful and, at times, achingly painful stories of others as well. To be brave. To face my own pain and to learn how to sit with someone else in their sorrow. Not to add to it or take away from it, but to acknowledge their struggle and love them through it. There is no greater gift than being present with someone in their authenticity as they turn life's pages, allowing you to witness their victories and their losses, both small and large.

Because one person can save a life simply by loving you — without any labels.

On 20 January 2021, a twenty-two-year-old in a yellow coat and a red headband stepped up to the podium at the inauguration of President Joe Biden and read a poem called The Hill We Climb. Amanda Gorman became the youngest inaugural poet in American history, and within a day her two forthcoming books had climbed to the top of Amazon's bestseller list.

That moment made her famous. The years before it explain why she was ready for it.

Los Angeles

Amanda Gorman was born in Los Angeles on 7 March 1998 and raised there with her twin sister, Gabrielle, by their mother, Joan Wicks, a sixth-grade English teacher. As a child she was diagnosed with an auditory processing disorder, and she had a speech impediment; for years she struggled to pronounce the letter R.

Writing came first, because the page let her say exactly what she meant. Speaking came later, through practice. She has described rehearsing “Aaron Burr, Sir” from Hamilton over and over to train her mouth around the letter she found hardest. Her deliberate, measured delivery, now one of the most recognisable things about her, grew out of that work.

The first National Youth Poet Laureate

At sixteen she was named Youth Poet Laureate of Los Angeles. In 2015 she published her first collection, The One for Whom Food Is Not Enough, exploring identity, race and resilience. In 2016 she founded One Pen One Page, a non-profit supporting young people's writing, literacy and self-expression, and in 2017 she became the first National Youth Poet Laureate of the United States.

She studied sociology at Harvard and graduated cum laude in 2020. That grounding shows in her work: poems about race, identity, injustice and belonging, written with an eye on how societies work as well as how they feel.

The hill, and after

She was still finishing The Hill We Climb when supporters of the outgoing president stormed the US Capitol on 6 January 2021, and she completed it that night. Two weeks later she read it to the world. In February she recited Chorus of the Captains before Super Bowl LV, the first poet ever to perform at a Super Bowl.

Her books followed quickly. The Hill We Climb was published as a standalone volume in March 2021, and the picture book Change Sings that September. In December came her collection Call Us What We Carry, first announced as The Hill We Climb and Other Poems, which went straight to number one on the New York Times list.

The restriction in Florida

In 2023, a school in Miami-Dade County moved The Hill We Climb to its middle-school section after a complaint from a single parent, whose objection named the wrong author, crediting the poem to Oprah Winfrey. Gorman spoke out against the decision, and used the moment to draw attention to the wider wave of book restrictions in American schools, and to the writers of colour so many of them target.

Why she is on this list

Amanda Gorman was a child who struggled to be understood, and she became a woman a country stopped to listen to. Her activism lives in the poems, in the work of One Pen One Page and in her insistence that young people, and young women of colour in particular, deserve room to find and use their own voices.

She has shown that a quiet, disciplined craft carries real force, and that the measured delivery of a single line can hold a nation's attention. The girl who rehearsed one letter until she could say it now writes the words other people learn by heart.

At twenty-seven, Amanda Gorman is still writing, still publishing for children and adults, and still speaking about the right to read.

For something that happens to half the population, periods are still wrapped in mystery, discomfort and far more awkwardness than they deserve. Knowledge helps. Whether your flow is light or heavy enough to make you question your life choices, there is no one-size-fits-all answer, and that is fine. Here is a plain guide to the products, what helps on heavy days, and when to get it checked.

Pads: the familiar friend

Pads are often the first product people use. They come in every size, shape and absorbency, sit in your underwear, and are especially useful overnight or for anyone who would rather not insert anything. There are organic cotton pads and washable cloth pads too. Some are scented or infused with herbs such as lavender or mint; if you have sensitive skin, try these carefully, as fragrance can irritate.

Tampons: the discreet go-to

Tampons are inserted into the vagina and absorb blood before it leaves the body. They suit active days, swimming, and the hours when you would like to forget you are on your period. They come with or without applicators, and in organic and fragrance-free versions. Use the lowest absorbency you need, and change them every four to eight hours to reduce the risk of toxic shock syndrome, a rare but serious condition.

Menstrual cups: the eco-conscious choice

Reusable cups have grown hugely popular, and for good reason. Made of medical-grade silicone or rubber, they are inserted like a tampon but collect blood rather than absorbing it. Depending on your flow and the brand's instructions, you empty, rinse and reinsert one every few hours, up to about twelve. They take practice, and many people find them freeing once they do. One cup can last years, which means far less waste.

Period pants: the comfortable game-changer

Period pants look and feel like ordinary knickers, with absorbent layers built in. Heavy-flow styles can hold the equivalent of several tampons, though capacity varies by brand. They are good overnight, on gym days, or as back-up to another product.

Menstrual discs: the hidden gem

Discs are similar to cups but sit higher, tucked behind the pubic bone, and collect blood without suction. Many people find them more comfortable than cups, and some can be worn during penetrative sex. They are not a contraceptive. Some are disposable, others reusable, and many hold a good amount, which makes them a strong option on heavy days.

Getting through heavy days

Heavy periods, which doctors call heavy menstrual bleeding or menorrhagia, can leave you drained physically and emotionally. They are common, and they are treatable. Alongside medical help, a few simple things make the heavy days easier.

Look after your iron. Heavy bleeding lowers your iron stores, which can leave you tired and short of breath. Iron-rich foods such as lentils, beans, tofu, spinach, red meat if you eat it, pumpkin seeds and fortified cereals help, especially eaten with vitamin C from oranges, peppers or strawberries to improve absorption. If you are often exhausted, ask your GP for a blood test for anaemia before taking supplements.

Use heat and rest. A hot water bottle relaxes the muscles of the womb and eases cramps. Resting on your heaviest days, if your schedule allows, gives your body a chance to recover.

Keep gently moving. Walking, yoga and stretching can ease bloating and pelvic tension. Poses such as child's pose or reclining bound angle are especially calming.

Ease the stress. Chronic stress can make period symptoms feel worse. Small steps help: journalling, slow breathing, or simply getting outside for some fresh air.

Go carefully with herbs. Raspberry leaf tea, yarrow and shepherd's purse have long been used in traditional remedies for period problems, but the evidence that they reduce bleeding is limited. Some herbal supplements can affect hormones or interact with medicines. Speak to a GP or pharmacist first, particularly if you are pregnant, trying to conceive or taking other medication.

When to see a GP

Heavy periods do not have to be something you simply live with. Treatments from a GP range from medicines taken only on period days to hormonal options such as the intrauterine system, and a GP can check for causes such as fibroids, endometriosis or a thyroid problem. The signs that mean it is time to book an appointment are in the second tab.

No two bodies are the same, and how we manage our periods should reflect that. Some of us love a cup and a cup of tea; others prefer pads and a bit of chocolate. There is no perfect way, only the way that works for you. You deserve comfort, dignity and care during your period, and the right to rest without guilt.

Based on NHS guidance. Heavy for one woman can be normal for another; these are the signs worth getting checked.

We have covered many sportswomen in our magazine: some were trailblazers breaking social norms, some were the best in their fields, some won multiple gold medals. These women, sometimes with little support, began at an early age with nothing but grit and determination, pushing through barriers to emerge as the elite.

But what if life has passed you by? What if any potential you may have had now sits in the years in the past?

Betty Brussel would like you to hold her beer.

The canals of Holland

Born in 1924, she learned to swim in a canal at a young age in the Netherlands. At the age of fifteen the whole country fell under the rule of the Nazis. Swimming gave her a sense of freedom, and that feeling never left her.

She was born on 28 July 1924 in Zaandam, just north of Amsterdam, the second of twelve children. During the war she left school to help look after her younger brothers and sisters, which tells you most of what you need to know about where the toughness comes from.

Canada, and the pool

In 1959 she emigrated to Canada with her husband, Gerrit, settling outside Grand Forks in British Columbia, where they raised three children and she worked as a seamstress. At the age of sixty-eight Betty returned to the water, this time the local pool. That sense of freedom returned, and not even a heart attack, and the pacemaker that followed it, has stopped her.

For more than thirty years since, she has competed in masters swimming across Canada and beyond, collecting medals by the hundred. She still lives independently, still drives herself to the pool, and trains twice a week. She takes no prescription medication at all, which is more than most of us can say at fifty.

She has raced at meets all over Canada and at the Huntsman World Senior Games in St George, Utah, and swims masters for the White Rock Wave. Ask her why, and she keeps it simple: “The pool is my happy place.”

Ninety-nine, and three world records

On 20 January 2024, at the Commonwealth Pool in Saanich, British Columbia, Betty swam five races in an afternoon and broke three world records in the 100–104 age group. Masters swimming sorts its age groups by year of birth, so at ninety-nine she was already racing the centenarians. Her 400-metre freestyle, in 12 minutes 50.3 seconds, knocked nearly four minutes off the previous record. The 50-metre backstroke and 50-metre breaststroke records fell the same day.

She did not stop there. A few months later she swam the 800-metre freestyle at the British Columbia provincial championships in 26 minutes 17 seconds, another world record, and by the time she turned 100 she held ten. Asked how she approaches a race that long, she says she just counts the laps.

Her coach, Linda Stanley Wilson, has said that Betty sets a world, Canadian or British Columbia record more or less every time she swims, and also that the records are not what matters to her. The filmmakers Hannah Walsh and Emma Puchniak thought her story was big enough to follow with cameras, and spent 2024 making a documentary about her.

She is now 100 years old, she still swims, and she holds a string of world records in her age group, three of which she set in a single afternoon when she was ninety-nine. Professional swimmers and the Olympic elite do not do what she does.

But she genuinely isn't concerned with the awards — she has many — it is simply the joy of being in the water, and she has no intention of stopping.

So the next time you think the moment has gone, that you are too old to start, remember that Betty Brussel took up competitive swimming at sixty-eight and was still breaking world records at ninety-nine. The pool is still open.

A life in the water, in order. Drawn from reporting by the Associated Press, the Times Colonist, CTV News and Swimming World.

If you have ever caught your cat licking, chewing or munching on something suspicious, you probably know the cold wash of panic that follows. One moment they are sniffing a plant; the next, you are searching symptoms of toxicity and wondering whether you have a feline emergency on your hands.

Cats are naturally curious, and that curiosity can get them into trouble. When mild poisoning is suspected, many well-meaning owners turn to kitchen remedies like coconut water or raw egg. The question is whether these household fixes genuinely help or quietly make things worse.

Here is an honest, steady look at what works, what does not, and how to support your cat if they have got into something they shouldn't have.

What mild poisoning looks like

Mild poisoning in cats is relatively common. It can happen when a cat swallows a small amount of something toxic: essential oils, cleaning sprays, human medicines, or foods like chocolate, garlic or onions. Symptoms depend on what was eaten and how much, but you may notice vomiting, diarrhoea, drooling, lethargy or a sudden loss of appetite. These signs show your cat's body is trying to process and get rid of a toxin. Even if it does not look life-threatening, it still needs prompt attention.

Some exposures are never mild. Lilies are the clearest example. True lilies and daylilies can cause kidney failure in cats, and a nibbled petal or leaf, pollen licked off the fur, or a drink from a vase of lilies is enough. Paracetamol and dog flea treatments containing permethrin are also extremely dangerous to cats. Any of these is an emergency: go straight to a vet.

Is coconut water a safe remedy?

Coconut water has a reputation as a natural rehydration drink. It contains electrolytes such as potassium and magnesium, and people use it to replace fluids after illness or exercise. Cats, however, are not small humans, and their bodies respond differently.

A tiny amount may offer a little hydration, but it carries risk. Cats are particularly sensitive to potassium levels, and too much can upset their electrolyte balance. The natural sugars in coconut water can also aggravate an unsettled stomach, especially in a cat that is vomiting or has diarrhoea. It is not toxic in itself, and it is not a reliable or recommended response to poisoning.

What about an egg?

Raw egg is often suggested to bind toxins or coat the stomach. Veterinary evidence does not support it.

Raw eggs carry a risk of bacteria, including salmonella, which can complicate an already delicate situation. Egg whites also contain avidin, a protein that blocks the absorption of biotin, a B vitamin linked to skin and coat health; over time, this can lead to deficiency.

Plain cooked egg, in small amounts, is generally safe and can be a useful source of protein during recovery, once your cat has been seen by a vet. During an active poisoning episode, egg of any kind does nothing to counteract toxins and may put more strain on the digestive system.

What actually helps

The most important step is to contact a vet or an animal poison helpline as soon as possible. Advice depends on what your cat swallowed, how much and how long ago, and guesswork can delay the right care. If you can, keep the packet, plant or label to show them.

While you wait for advice, keep supportive care simple. Encourage your cat to drink fresh, clean water; hydration helps the body flush out unwanted substances and supports the organs. Some cats prefer moving water, so a fountain can help.

Activated charcoal is sometimes used to bind toxins, but only under veterinary instruction. It is unsuitable for some substances and can cause harm if used wrongly. If your cat refuses water but is not vomiting, a vet may advise giving small amounts of water or a pet-safe electrolyte solution by syringe. Do this only with clear guidance, because liquid that goes down the wrong way can be inhaled into the lungs.

What you should never do

Several outdated and dangerous home remedies are still doing the rounds. Milk is often offered to soothe the stomach, but most adult cats are lactose intolerant, and it can make diarrhoea and vomiting worse. Olive or castor oil, given to “move things along”, can add to dehydration and abdominal pain.

Never try to make a cat vomit at home. Salt water is ineffective and can cause salt poisoning. Hydrogen peroxide, which vets sometimes use for dogs, can seriously damage a cat's stomach and oesophagus. Vets can induce vomiting safely in the clinic, with medicines approved for cats. Essential oils and herbal tinctures, even those labelled natural or pet-safe, should be avoided unless your vet approves them; cats process many compounds differently, and their bodies are far less tolerant than ours.

The most dangerous response of all is to do nothing and hope it passes. Cats are skilled at hiding discomfort, and by the time symptoms are obvious, the problem may already have progressed.

Does your cat still need a vet if they seem fine?

Yes. Some toxins have delayed effects, or cause damage that builds up without showing. A return to normal behaviour does not always mean the body has recovered, and your vet may suggest blood tests or monitoring to check that the organs are working as they should.

Coconut water and eggs are suggested with the best intentions, but they are not treatments. Give your cat a quiet, reassuring presence, watch closely for any changes, and trust your instincts when something feels off. In moments like these, your attention and a quick call to the vet matter far more than anything in the kitchen cupboard.

When Mission: Impossible arrived in 1996, it was a bold reimagining of a much-loved 1960s television series, directed by Brian De Palma and led by Tom Cruise at the height of his fame. With its sleek style, a memorable score and espionage in every frame, it helped redefine the modern spy film. Nearly three decades and seven sequels later, with The Final Reckoning in cinemas since May, it is worth asking how well the original holds up.

The setup

Cruise plays Ethan Hunt, an agent with the Impossible Missions Force, whose team is ambushed and killed during a mission in Prague. Branded a traitor and left to fend for himself, Hunt goes rogue to find the mole inside the agency, clear his name and recover a stolen list that could expose every undercover agent in the field. What follows is a globe-trotting game of cat and mouse, full of double-crosses and uneasy alliances, built around the famous break-in at CIA headquarters in Langley.

De Palma's film

Brian De Palma's fingerprints are everywhere. A director known for voyeurism and slow-burn suspense, he brings a Hitchcockian flair to the genre. Canted angles and tight close-ups ramp up the paranoia as the tension rises. He chose to build the film around deception and psychological chess rather than wall-to-wall action, and that choice gives it a tone quite different from its louder sequels.

Cinematographer Stephen H. Burum gives it a moody, atmospheric look, from the foggy streets of Prague to the high-tech sterility of the CIA building. And Danny Elfman's pulse-quickening take on Lalo Schifrin's original theme deserves a salute of its own: instantly recognisable, and permanently lodged in action-film history.

Trust, masks and isolation

Underneath the spy-thriller surface, the film is about trust, betrayal and identity. Hunt's journey from team player to lone wolf mirrors his struggle to trust anyone at all, because every ally could be a traitor and every truth a façade.

Masks run through the whole thing, literally in the gadgets and figuratively in how people behave. Who someone pretends to be, against who they really are, becomes the film's central motif. Even the Langley heist, with Hunt hanging silently above the floor of a sterile white vault, works as a picture of his isolation: suspended, vulnerable and alone inside a system that has thrown him out.

The cast

Cruise gives a solid performance, balancing steely resolve with enough vulnerability to make Hunt relatable. He is not yet the unstoppable hero of the later films; here he is resourceful, scared and a touch reckless. In the vault scene, his head kept touching the floor because he could not hold his balance in the harness, take after take. His solution was to fill his shoes with one-pound coins to weigh his feet down.

The most controversial casting choice was making Jim Phelps, the hero of the original series, the villain, played by Jon Voight. Voight is convincing as a disillusioned spy who feels betrayed by the system. Emmanuelle Béart's Claire Phelps is mysterious and, arguably, underused. Ving Rhames makes a memorable debut as Luther Stickell, the laid-back hacker who would become a fixture of the franchise.

Box office and behind the scenes

It was never an awards film, but it was a box-office powerhouse, taking more than $450 million worldwide and confirming Cruise as both a critical and commercial force. It also launched a franchise whose stunts grew more audacious with every sequel.

The production had its bumps. The script was still being rewritten during the shoot, and the plot drew complaints that it was too complicated for a mainstream audience. Some scenes do still need a second watch to work out who is betraying whom. The decision to turn Phelps into the villain angered fans of the series and its original cast. Peter Graves, who played Phelps on television, turned down the chance to return once he learned what the film had planned for the character, and Greg Morris, the series' Barney Collier, is reported to have walked out of a screening.

Where it slips

Audiences loved the slick style and the suspense. The Langley vault break-in became an instant classic, and the exploding fish tank in the Prague restaurant is pure cinematic flair. The middle act, though, drags, and the film leans heavily on exposition to explain its twists, which can feel clunky. Once you spot the formula — set-up, mask reveal, double-cross, repeat — parts of it become predictable.

For a film laying the groundwork for an entire franchise, it holds up remarkably well.

The story of Lucy Letby resists easy telling. It is a crime story and a legal one, and it sits somewhere more uncomfortable too: where trust, medicine, institutional power and the limits of certainty meet. What happened inside a neonatal unit in Chester between 2015 and 2016 still reverberates far beyond the courtroom, nearly two years after the verdicts.

An ordinary nurse

Lucy Letby was born in Hereford on 4 January 1990. She trained as a nurse and went to work on the neonatal unit at the Countess of Chester Hospital. Colleagues described her as conscientious, reliable and willing to take on extra shifts. Nothing in her background hinted at what was to come, and that ordinariness is part of why the allegations were so hard for people to take in.

What staff noticed

From June 2015, staff on the unit began to notice something that unsettled them. Neonatal units care for babies who arrive too early, too small or too unwell, and loss, while devastating, is part of that work. This felt different. Babies who had been stable deteriorated suddenly and without clear explanation, some with unusual skin discolouration or unexplained readings.

Consultants noticed that Letby had been on duty during the incidents that troubled them, and raised concerns with hospital management. What followed has since come under intense scrutiny: hesitation, internal disagreement and a reluctance to escalate. Letby was moved off the unit in the summer of 2016.

The investigation and the trial

Cheshire Police opened an investigation in May 2017. Detectives worked through thousands of pages of medical records, cross-referenced staffing rotas and consulted independent medical experts. The trial at Manchester Crown Court began in October 2022. The case rested on an accumulation of incidents, each troubling on its own, that the prosecution argued together formed a pattern too consistent to be coincidence.

The prosecution described methods that left little immediate trace: air injected into the bloodstream or stomach, overfeeding, and insulin given without medical reason. The defence described a unit under strain, where very sick babies and system failures could explain tragic outcomes without anyone intending harm.

In August 2023, the jury found Letby guilty of murdering seven babies and attempting to murder six others, one of them twice. She was given fourteen whole-life orders, meaning she will never be released. In May 2024, the Court of Appeal refused her permission to appeal. In July 2024, after a retrial on one count the first jury could not decide, she was convicted of the attempted murder of a baby girl and given a fifteenth whole-life order. She has always maintained her innocence.

Questions that have not gone away

The verdicts did not bring a clean sense of closure. Some doctors, statisticians and commentators have questioned how the medical evidence was interpreted, and how much a case built on patterns and expert testimony can prove. In May 2024, a long article in The New Yorker set out those doubts in detail.

On 4 February 2025, an international panel of fourteen medical experts, chaired by the retired Canadian neonatologist Dr Shoo Lee, said it had found no evidence of deliberate harm and attributed the deaths and collapses to natural causes or poor medical care. The day before, Letby's lawyers had made an application to the Criminal Cases Review Commission, which investigates possible miscarriages of justice and can send a case back to the Court of Appeal. The commission's review is under way. The prosecution's case and the convictions stand.

The inquiry

Separately, the Thirlwall Inquiry, a statutory public inquiry chaired by Lady Justice Thirlwall, has examined how the hospital handled the concerns raised by its own consultants, and whether earlier action could have changed what happened. Its hearings ended in March 2025, and its report is still to come. Cheshire Police has also been investigating the hospital itself, opening a corporate manslaughter investigation in October 2023.

The focus has widened from one nurse to a system: how warnings are raised, how they are received, and what happens when they are not acted on quickly enough.

The families

For the families, these debates sit at a distance from what they carry. Their loss is fixed, enduring and deeply personal. Their names and their children's names are protected by court order, and their voices, heard in court, remain the most grounding part of a case that can otherwise feel consumed by argument.

Whatever the commission decides, and whatever the inquiry reports, that is where this story returns: to the babies, and to the parents who trusted a hospital to keep them safe.

The case in sequence, from reporting by PA Media, ITV, the BBC and court and inquiry records. The children and their families cannot be named, by court order.

For too long, women have been sold a version of success that demands sacrifice. We're told to push harder, hustle longer, and trade our peace for productivity. As a Spiritual Business Mentor and multi-business founder, I believed in that narrative too — until it almost broke me.

In 2019, I lost my husband while I was six months pregnant. That moment shattered everything I thought I knew about strength, success, and survival. And it gifted me the most important revelation of my entrepreneurial journey: real success cannot come at the cost of your nervous system.

I rebuilt my life and my business on new terms — ones that prioritised healing, alignment, and sustainability. What I've learnt along the way has not only transformed how I run my business, but also how I guide hundreds of other women to grow their own — from burnout to consistent $8K+ months while working part-time hours.

Let's get one thing clear: burnout isn't a badge of honour. It's a signal — a call back to alignment. And it's time we, as women, stop normalising exhaustion as a necessary milestone on the path to success.

The myth of hustle culture

Hustle culture feeds on fear… the fear of being behind, of not doing enough, of missing our moment. As women, we carry even more pressure. We're expected to build empires while maintaining our relationships, raising families, and staying emotionally attuned. It's a recipe for burnout that leaves us depleted and disconnected from ourselves.

But here's the truth: when women feel safe, rested, and supported… we create magic. Our creativity flows. Our leadership strengthens. Our businesses thrive.

Healing is a business strategy

This may surprise some people, but healing work is business work. Unprocessed trauma and limiting beliefs show up as overdelivering, undercharging, self-sabotage, and people-pleasing. I've seen it in nearly every client I've coached — and I've lived it myself.

To break free, we must look within. The strategies will always be there, but they only stick when your energy supports them. That's why I teach my clients to weave together mindset work, soul alignment, energetic clearing, and authentic marketing. Because when your business is built from wholeness, it grows with ease.

Redefining productivity as presence

Many women I work with are shocked when I tell them I only work four days a week. They ask, “But how do you get it all done?” My answer? I don't do more — I do the right things, in alignment with my energy.

Presence is the new productivity. When you're fully present in your power — on a coaching call, in a launch, or even resting — you create more with less. It's not about doing it all. It's about doing what matters most, from a place of alignment.

Permission to lead differently

We are the generation rewriting the script. We are the ones who will show the world that businesses can be built with softness, strategy, and soul. That wealth can be created without sacrificing wellness. That leadership looks like authenticity — not performance.

You don't have to choose between peace and profit. You get to have both. And as you build, remember: you don't need to prove your worth through struggle. You already are enough.

You didn't start your business to burn out. You started it for freedom. For fulfilment. For purpose. Don't let the old paradigm of success convince you otherwise. It's safe to grow slow. It's powerful to rest. And it's revolutionary to rise through alignment.