Specials – Hammôck

End-of-Year Review

A graphic image of orange-toned sunrise and sea with a quote on the bottom left side.

… I just checked my published posts, and it’s been a year since I’ve posted anything.

Time flies!

A lot has happened that I’ve not shared, but I’ve been writing, as always and scribbling down my ideas for business, for my life, for my home and of course, my soul.

The energy to create is always around me. From the child who wrote and coloured in the pages of her poems, to the frantic adulter who races through life from one task on the to-do list to next. However, the flurry of ideas leads to decision fatigue, and inevitably procrastination sets in.

I know this is true for many of my friends and family whose primary jobs are in the creative industry or the arts. The weight of these ideas and bringing them to fruition feels so heavy. Where do I start? Which resonates most deeply with me? Will people think it’s dumb? This cycle of wanting to do, getting ideas for actions, making lists and never completing them led me to therapy.

“To what extent are you a third wheel in your life?”
My Therapist

I was so sick of being stuck. I wanted to push through, but I felt so lonely. Everything feels overwhelming, when you don’t want to sit in feelings of pity, or worrying if you’re good enough. You want rainbows and sunshine, but you feel sad about life and how little you’ve achieved, so I switched on my screen and answered the question “What brings you to Therapy?”.

Within a few sessions of listening, he asked me a question I was taken aback by. “To what extent are you a third wheel in your life”. I instantly thought ‘I beg your pardon, me – a third wheel!’. I shuddered at the thought, and then I paused.

This comment was said in Spring and it has stayed with me ever since. The truth of his evaluation resounded in my head and the reverberations led to me to reflect on myself, my dreams, and my place in the world. If I’m honest I think it woke me up. Parts of me that felt too painful, too numb, too harsh to welcome, I now accept wholeheartedly.

It’s only through this acceptance that I was able to see the unhealed parts of me. I thought I was healed, I thought I had burned all the mouldy leftovers from relationships and unlived dreams. Haha! Aren’t we human beings funny. Honestly, I don’t believe we are ever fully healed, and I’d like to speak to whoever started that rumour.

What I’ve learnt is that healing is a process, and each day I try to understand myself better. I show myself grace and offer compassion to those around me. Minus the annoying people in the queue in Lidl, and my parent’s clutter. Sorry, I’m not perfect and I don’t care to be. I’m making mistakes, getting stuff wrong, and even hurting people’s feelings – not on purpose, of course. But ‘Ah so it go sometimes’, it is life. I’m growing and I’m doing the stuff that feeds my soul.

Trying and failing to take a picture of a butterfly. Posting the reel that I think is too long. Buying the top I really want, that’s 20 quid over budget. Scribbling my latest idea for bra design down at 3AM. Why, you may ask, are these things meaningful? I have no idea, I’m no guru. However, I will say since doing the little ideas that once seemed insignificant, since starting therapy and having a few tough love convos, I’m much lighter. I’m travelling, I’m writing, I’m a London Passista and I have a sewing plan. It pains me with cringe to say this, but …

Watch this space!

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What if I saw women who looked like me growing up?

￡12.50 was my weekly pocket money, and with that was my first independent steps toward Womanhood – my magazines.

I would buy the monthly editions of ‘Elle’, ’Vogue’, and ‘Sugar’ (which changed to ‘Cosmopolitan‘, as I grew older). These editorials felt like my lifeline. A cry away from the drab shrubbery of suburbia, a catapult into a world filled with Manolo Blahnik, Versace and Van Cleef. This intensely glamorous oasis was full of colour and creativity. It was an escape for pre-teen me. However, other than the occasional person of colour, usually from Naomi Campbell or Liya Kebede, no one looked like me, especially not with my body type.

In the early 2000s, you would be lucky to see a fuller lip in an advert, let alone a fuller bust or body. I felt so outside the sphere of beauty. There was no schema for a young black girl in London with big thighs and bigger boobs. The biggest store in my school was Tammy Girl, and I remember harassing my mum to take me there to get a pair of jeans. I was so excited! Already being named called for being the “fat”, “big boobed” girl, I was bursting at the seams to blend in with peers, at least in the arena of clothing. Well, “bursting at the seams’ was the correct phrase, coz that was my experience. At the time, I was a UK size 12 waist… but not on this high street, and not with my thighs!

Jesus and I wept that day. After being held in the changing room with my mum whilst the sales assistant ran back and forth, attempting to discover a jean that would mircaculously fit my evidently “out of this world” sized legs. This was sad and depressing time before stretch jeans. That day I went from Age 14 Tammy Girl to an Adult size 22! The size 22 was the only size that fit my thigh, but of course, it was then dropping off my size 12 waist. I was devasted! To be fair to my mum, so was she. Her face embodied all the sadness I tried to hide as she said, “We’ll try again next weekend’.

I’d like to say this was a one-off experience, but trust and believe it was the common thread of my body journey and my experience with high street shopping until I lost weight at 16. Even at my smallest (an all-over UK size 12)in the early 2010s, there was H&M with their old horrendous grading which had me buy a UK 20, and my friend (a UK 8) buy a UK 14.

So much of my worth came from how my body matched the status quo. How tall should a woman be? Should I relax my hair? What size should a black girl be to be desired by her male counterparts? Why can I find jeans easily in America? How small are your feet supposed to be? All these notions were fuelled by my own experiences, but also, what I had seen in fashion and lifestyle magazines.

They were filled with white women, barely an UK8, with Gisele Bündchen and Hedi Klum revered as the hallmark for “curvy”. The options for a size 12-14 girl being seen as beautiful seemed an impossible feat. Even in popular culture, the Pop Singers Cassie and Britney were seen as hot girls in high school, and neither of them looked like me.

Now flash forward to today, the drive and rise of plus-size models, the campaigns against eating disorders, and the wave of fuller-bodied influencers have all led to vast changes in editorials and fashion. I was blown away by the latest British Vogue cover entitled, “The New Supers“. This April edition sees not one but three Supermodels representing a range of ethnicities and sizes beyond a UK8. They are being called the new supermodels!

Paloma Elsesser, Precious Lee and Jill Kortleve appear on this April's British Vogue Cover, with a colourful scarf dangled over the right bottom corner. — Paloma Elsesser, Precious Lee and Jill Kortleve appear on this April’s British Vogue Cover.

My inner child cries for joy but, also for the pain I felt growing up. That time of my life was so much about my protection. I was bullied at school, so I cared a lot about what others thought of me, although I tried my best to hide it. Intelligence and wit were my armour, but I would go home and cry most days after school. I spent a lot of my time listening to music, and envisioning what my company would look like. I’d buy the fashion editorials and dream of my spreads being on the pages, cutting out the interesting bits. But how different would my teenage years have been if I got to see confident, strong, sexy women who looked like me?

I cannot fathom. The amount of time I spent looking in the mirror trying to eradicate the parts of me that now people train hard for in the gym or get surgery to achieve. I cannot begin to imagine what a childhood would have looked like without me trying to hide my breasts, or finding a pair of jeans that fit my waist and thighs.

So now I sit writing this, glimpsing across at the magazine cover after reading the article, and I smile. I smile for the little girl who felt so different from her peers, for all the girls who now get to see curvy women in media, and for the baby girls that will grow with broader ideas of what beautiful can be. This is the time when a 13-year girl can have a curvy figure, and find her jeans on ASOS or Pretty Little Thing or Fashion Nova. She can open a magazine and see people who look like her, and if she searches on Google or Tiktok for a size 12 she won’t just see weight loss images.

I feel the variety of images in mainstream media are not as far-reaching as they could be. There’s still a way to go to keep these images of women in the media frequently, but I am so pleased to be in a world where people are celebrating differences, not as aspirational, but just as being. We are glorious in all shapes, sizes, curves, and busts. Here’s to hoping many more years of inclusive fashion and beauty are to come.

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This Valentines, I’m the gift!

In the spirit of loving my damn self, I walk into Valentine’s Day with an open heart, a winning smile and a dashing date.

Oh yes, I’m sooo excited for vday this year! To be honest I’m excited every year… hello a whole day in celebration of L-O-V-E. It’s a hopeful romantics kryptonite.

And it’s not only Eros that fuels my passion for this day. It’s the kindness, compassionate and acceptance that comes from your mother, good friends, and even sometimes unplanned company.

Maybe it’s because my sister brought me ‘Love in Colour’ by Bolu Babalola this Christmas, or because of a new beau in my life. But this Valentines, I really feel empowered by all the celebration of love.

Whether it’s people unashamedly claiming their bodies and painful experiences on instagram, or the new layer of softness in my friends who between them, seem be running a production line of babies. I’m really seeing the depth of self-love, and personal growth that comes from understanding who you are.

See, I’ve often found loving myself hard, what with my awkwardness, big boobs, bigger tummy, short Afro hair, and more recently bunions! But coming into my thirties I’ve let so much of my obsession with physicality go, and it’s left room for so much more.

Not to say I was ever vacuous, nor lacking emotional depth. But I was so concerned with the measuring up of my womanhood to others, I had no chance to acknowledge my gifts.

My ability to talk the pants off an elephant, my loyalty in friendship, my support to those ones I love. My ability to see a glass half full, and my never ending ideas for new ventures through creative springs has led me to this blog, which I’m eternally grateful for.

This strive inwards, hasn’t been easy. There’s been therapy, advice from aunties, reading, mediation, and big hugs (virtually and IRL). But taking time to nurture each of these gifts has made me more and more in love with myself.

Naysayers would say “Ha! Another commercially filled excuse to guilt us into spending money”. But you don’t have to spend money. Sharing the love is free and infinite.

It starts with taking those moments to just be you. Maybe your a free spirit dying to break free from the shackles of your job. Maybe there’s an idea you’ve had for ages but scared to try. A person you love/like, but your too scared to tell them how you feel. A lost friend you miss, but want to reconnect. A special place that brings you joy, or asking a professional for help when you feel stuck.

All of these things are love, and if any of the above resonates with you, listening to your desires, and taking thoughtful steps to bring them into fruition, could be the first steps toward the greatest love of all, thanks Whitney.

Sending you all a little light, and lots of love wherever you are this valentines 💗

Wise Woman

Halloween for everyone else is a time to dress up, to party, to put on a mask, or to honour their passed loved ones.

For me, and my paternal family, it’s the day of my grandmothers birth. So every year I go and visit her, share some food, drink, and hear lots of her fabulous stories.

To honour her, and celebrate her gift of storytelling. I thought I’d share the story of my first bra, of which she played a part.

To tell you this, I must first give you the background. My grandmother was born in a small parish named St Thomas not far from a place called Hector’s River. And much like the river my grandma has always run deep, unwavering and following her own rhythm.

One of my oldest memories of her, was of her doing just that. Defying the conventional grandmother role, following her gut, and the wisdom learnt from her own experiences.

On this occasion, it’s was the Christmas of ‘97, and my extended family was gathered for the after-dinner present opening session – a time I treasured. I can’t lie, as a child I was spoilt, and most of my mum and dads friends either hadn’t had children yet, or their children were big teenagers, so I got extra gifts/money, and I delighted in all the fuss they made of me.

So imagine the living room carpet, floods of sparkly and shiny paper, whimsical glee of children (my cousins and sisters), laughter, and stereo blaring whatever Christmas special was on at the time. Everyone was getting Barbies, toys, clothes, books, videos etc. I had my routine polished for receiving presents.

It would start with “oh, thank you Aunty such and such”, grab the gift, shake a little and squeeze to guess what it was, open it delicately to show my gracious nature, smile back and thank them again, followed by a prompt dismissal of the gift on to present pile – so I could open more. And boy oh boy did I love this. The adults thought I was well ‘mannersable’, which ensured more gifts in the future. Such a great routine!

Anyway, I’m handed a present from my Nanny. So, of course, I start my routine, but as I catch her smile, it looks a little different. I think for a second hmmm, but who cares – another present for me, hehe. I continue opening it and great, I see 101 Dalmatians. As I continue opening, I spot the themed knickers with matching vests. Great! I thought … until I saw it.

There, hidden underneath, is a black cotton bra, embroidered with a black heart and x and an o. Before I could even react, my uncle was stood up big belly laughing. “What the hell, does she need that for”? I’d never been so embarrassed. I look at my nanny with a lofty stare, “ I like the knickers” and smiled. Then she looked at my uncle cut her eye, and kissed her teeth, pulling me close. She could see the annoyance in my face, but she grinned saying “Don’t worry you’ll soon see why”.

Later that evening, putting away all my new toys and clothes, I stared at that loathsome thing. Best believe I shoved it right to the back of my draw, deep in the right corner. “I’m never wearing that”, I thought.

Flash forward a few months, to a primary school hall, and it was time for me to do PE, and I had forgotten my kit. So my teacher told me I had to do it in my undies. This was a terrible practice of punishment through ridicule that was common in England decades ago, now thank God it’s not.

But to be honest, I didn’t feel the ridicule. I was a body-positive naive innocent child. I was all too glad to show off my 101 Dalmatians vest and knickers. I expected everyone to tell me how fabulous they were. Instead… it became the first time people gawked at my chest. Everyone kept asking what was on my chest until one boy said “titties”, and well – I’m sure you can guess the rest.

I was mortified, and so angry that I hadn’t noticed them. Where did these things come from, maybe it was last night? I got home from school humiliated, and I definitely didn’t want to talk about it. Then I remembered, that’s why nanny brought me that bra, she must have known they were coming.

The next time I saw her, I couldn’t wait to tell her what I was now wearing. I was so proud of my new bra, and the fact she had prepared me. Somehow the bra made the embarrassment alright. It became the coat of arms that would protect for a few more years of being one of only two girls with boobs.

The little life preparations, and wisdom from the women in our lives are endless. This Halloween my grandmother turns 90, she probably won’t read this, but I wanted to share a little bit of the love she gave to me through a story, just as she’s done year after year.

Happy Birthday Nanny Ivy, Love you lots x

Loving Yourself

The journey to self-love and body confidence has been long and arduous.

Love is not just the number of likes for a beautiful picture, a perfectly ‘slayed’ face, or a transient state of happiness.

There are peaks and troughs, and some days despite my love for myself, I still get caught on my hang-ups. The side of my belly that overhangs, my bunions, and the annoying hairs that always reappear on my chin. These are the not so good days. But I wouldn’t say bad, not anymore.

There was a time when how I felt, or how others felt about my physical appearance, would make me lie in my bed for hours. I would cry on the floor and then pray for forgiveness for being so ungrateful & vacuous. But now, the bad days are never about my physical appearance. And I’m so proud!

There was once a time I couldn’t look in the mirror. I was terrified of an image that didn’t reassemble the idea of beauty I thought I needed to fit into. That didn’t include my nose, my skin, my blemishes, my unperky boobs, scars, bunions, and a messy silhouette. I looked at the images on ‘The Gram’, or the happy girls in the bars and restaurants I frequented and felt they represented everything I did not have.

The perfectionist in me would like to tell you that my journey to loving myself originated with some good books and therapy, but that would be a lie. Books and therapy definitely helped, but my journey back to me started with a beau, (the feminist in me just departed).

But I wanted to be truthful so that I could share a real journey, and say not all beautiful flowers start in a wonderful garden, some are found in a field of weeds and nettles.

That was me a mess, a lost soul, unheard and unseen by the most important person, myself. But I met a guy from my past, who just got me. I didn’t need to have makeup on for him to say I was beautiful, and I didn’t need to dress up to be sexy. Bumping into him on my way it to work, and seeing his smile made my day.

And those kind eyes, those words of comfort when I was so self-deprecating, was how I started to be kind to myself, and be present. When I’d say I look like a tramp, or talk about how fat I was getting. He would roll his eyes.

On one of my particularly self-loathing days, he asked me “why do you say these things about yourself”. “You are who you are, you’re not fat, you are you”… and some other stuff I can’t remember now, but my point was, he challenged me. I had to push aside my negative thoughts about myself and appraise these new positive ones. And this forced me to make new opinions about myself.

You see by being negative about your body, you are often not grounded in your present reality. You’re upset with yourself for not having the body you had then, or the body you dream about having. Both of these notions are fantasies. You are who you are, now, at this moment, and that is always going to change. Yes, always.

So imagine, us thinking about our 18-year-old bodies at 30 and wishing we had that body now. Think about all the things we’ve learnt about our bodies now, physically, emotionally, psychologically, in ill and good health, but most importantly how differently we dress and understand our shape. It’s laughable to think we could ever really go back, but also impossible! So why bother, when here, at this moment, you are gorgeous.

Around that time, I started reading this book by Marianne Williamson, which asks “who are we to be beautiful”, and it got me thinking about my body image. The book goes on to discuss the constant comparisons we make as human beings. I thought what if I didn’t care about this woman’s perfect ‘hip to waist ratio’, or this girl’s plump natural breasts? What if I just only looked at myself, and accepted me, not as separate from my personality or character, but as one whole being.

This helped me look at myself too! Even though I didn’t like my reflection. I could stand me as a person. I had friends and family who loved me. I thought about all the things I brought to the world, my humour, my love, my imagination. All these gifts and talents I had. And somehow, I wasn’t intolerable, I just was.

Seems so simple, but reconnecting my physical self to my emotional and spiritual self was so freeing. To finally see and be seen by me, and more importantly valued. And although the man didn’t last, the lessons I learnt I’ll treasure for a lifetime. It’s so easy to love a pretty face, but true love is to accept and be present in who you are now.

I hope this helps anyone starting, on this self-love journey. Here’s the book details: A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of a Course in Miracles, Marianne Williamson

The Bedroom and Underwear

The Bedroom and Underwear is such a fascinating subject for me. I guess this is because the patriarchy teaches that ‘we women’ wear lingerie to allure the opposite sex. But we wear it, whenever, wherever, with whomever we want.

Nonetheless, it forms an interesting part of the conversations we have with ourselves, and our friends before we are intimate. Mines always ask me what’s sexy in the bedroom? (I find this particularly hilarious as I’ve not had sex, or a man in a hot minute, still)…

But let’s unpick this question, and ask what do they really want to know? Do they desire to be sexy for their partners, or just for themselves? Either way, I’m forced to return these questions with; what is sexiness? Is it our femininity, our style, our bodies? Or is it a measure of our proximity to the conventional beauty standards of our time, set by the ‘Media’, social networks and society itself?

When looking at our sensuality, and how we may be attractive to others, I say absolutely none of the above applies! We have to look to ourselves. Yes, you! That face in the mirror, and how it aligns with your personality, preferences and identity.

We are all at our sexiest when we are true to us. The things we like, and what makes us feel comfortable, confident and open. I say ‘open’ because every woman who is sexy is a little bit vulnerable. She is consciously or unconsciously being her truest self in that moment, and that can be such a scary place.

Rejection is real! I think this is why people are sometimes nervous to wear what they want in the bedroom. They believe if they try, or show something new they’ll be dismissed. But herein lies the problem, as we humans are complex beings. We change our minds, we develop new passions, likes and dislikes. So why would we only display one version of ourselves in the bedroom? Being authentic to your thoughts, feelings and physical sensations will always bring about more meaningful intimacy.

Thus, accepting yourself is key to sexiness. This doesn’t mean that you love or like every part of you, but you do know who you are, and you don’t dim your light for others. We are all imperfect, and beautiful!

Once we are true with ourselves we radiate on ‘our frequency’, and if someone doesn’t resonate with you being sexy in that way, then they’re just not on your wave. And they should probably stay where they are – at a distance from you!

For me the prospect of meeting someone new, makes me feel incredibly sexy. Mainly because I’m vain, but also cause I love telling all my adventures to someone who knows nothing about me. And in feeling this, my dual desire to exhibit my mysterious self rears its head.

And the lingerie comes out! It’s the perfect combination for how I feel. Because I can reveal as little as I want, depending on my mood… or the weather. This doesn’t mean my date is “getting lucky”, but there’s something so powerful that comes from wearing lingerie.

My grandmother used to say: ‘Make sure you put on good underwear because you never know when there might be an emergency!’

As a teenager, I used to laugh thinking I’m sure the paramedics will not care, but as an adult, this idea of underwear preparation has not left me.

So here are my tips for how you could prepare for The Bedroom:

Be yourself! Just in case you’ve not read above, this is the cardinal rule.
Wear something that makes you feels sensual! This could be a vest and panties (so underrated), or a lacy Basque, or a velvet bra. Whatever, makes you want to ‘sleep’ with yourself!
Think about the textures and how it feels on your body, if it feels good on you, chances are they’ll like it too.
Senses, there are 5, and ideally, you’d like to stimulate as much of them as you can. So spray your favourite fragrance, drink or eat an aphrodisiac, wear a colour you like. This can work for virtual too!
It doesn’t have to fit perfectly! As a fuller cup gal, I can often become disheartened that the set doesn’t come in my size, but as long as you’re comfortable, and the garment isn’t falling apart, wear it, buy it, have fun.
Indulge your fantasies. What’s the point of imagination if we never do what we dream of? It’s still you, after all, it was your idea!

For those of you, who’d like more details on what I like to wear, please keep an eye out for my next post on how a fuller cup gal can dress for the bedroom.

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He loves me, He loves me not…

Kicking off this love season with Eros!

This is romantic love. The idea of wanting a connection or physical touch is definitely not lost on me. As a single gal, I feel the yearning for love and, I desire love returned. Who wouldn’t desire a hug and kiss from someone they find sexy, especially now when its lockdown?

However, as a sapiosexual, this type of intense passion, always leaves me wondering if this love will last forever, and it got me thinking of the childhood game, “He loves me, he loves me not”. Even though we don’t play this game anymore, we still ask this question.

But how valid is this as a question to ask ourselves. Let say they do love you, like the Eros love. They’re so attracted to you, just the sight, or memory of you arouses them. They want to touch you, feel you, and make love to you. What does that even mean? How does that actually qualify them as a love you want or need?

I think a better question is not asking if they love you? But rather, are they a love you’re looking for?

I would like to think, the antiquated notion of does he love me, fell off like the resurgence of bell-bottoms in the late 90’s. But I’d be wrong, cause this ambiguity still exists. In the run-up to Valentine’s Day, and as the stir craziness sets in, and you are tempted by the “Hey big head” text… I’d like to wake women up everywhere with the reminder, that you already know who “loves you”, and who “loves you not”.

And it’s not in his kiss, honestly Cher, why did you lead us down that path! It’s absolutely in their actions. If you are confused, or unsure about how that special person feels about you then:

Ask yourself what love is for you. Write it down, or voice record it, so you can refer back to it.
Ask them what their feelings are about you, and voice your insecurities if you have them. Then pay attention, don’t interrupt, let them explain to you. If anything is unclear, ask them to elaborate. If they still haven’t given you a coherent answer, remember confused about their love for you, is also an option. Très annoying!
Take time and reflect on what they’ve said. Think about how it relates to their behaviour and their interactions with you. Do their words and their actions match, and how does that make you feel. Don’t feel pressured to respond, if you haven’t fully understood what they’ve said. Sleep on it and process it when you’re ready to.
Go back think about what love looks and feels like to you. Does their love fit with how you’d like to be loved? Make a decision based on that compatibility, about how that person can share love with you. Is that person prepared to show you compassion and compromise in the relationship you have?

Because it really isn’t about whether he loves you or not. It’s about whether you know what a healthy relationship is for you, and whether or not you’re in one.

So this Valentine’s Day, if anyone has left you wondering, even after you’ve asked, it’s probably an indication that they don’t. So do not be fooled by Eros, as passionate as it feels it’s usually short-lived, if it doesn’t have another firmer foundation.