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Twas the night before Christmas at the North Pole, The elves were busy, each with a role. The presents were wrapped, the sleigh was in sight, Ready for Santa’s big trip that night.   The toy machines beeped as the last doll was made, The candy cane factory was neatly displayed. The snowflakes outside sparkled soft in the glow, While Santa prepared for his long trip to go.   When out in the yard, there came such a sound, The reindeer were prancing and ready to bound! The sleigh was now loaded, the time was so near, Santa appeared with a jolly, “I’m here!”   “Ho ho!” he laughed, as he gave a big cheer, “It’s time to spread magic to children this year! For all of your work, my hardworking crew, You’ve earned a surprise or maybe a few!”   He pulled out chocolates, some glittery treats, Warm woolly hats, and peppermint sweets. Even the toy machines got a little prize— Some shiny new ribbons to brighten their guise!   With a wave of his hand, Santa climbed in his sleigh, And the elves waved him off as he flew on his way. “Remember,” he called, “the joy isn’t the toys, It’s the love and the laughter that bring true joys!”   And as the sleigh soared into the night, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

I remember the stories my parents told me. In 1980s Ireland, having a child out of wedlock wasn’t just frowned upon—it was a logistical nightmare. Landlords turned them away, people whispered, and societal judgment loomed over them like a storm cloud. Yet, somehow, they found one landlord who looked beyond the outdated rules and saw two people simply trying to build a life together. That little rented home became the backdrop of my earliest memories—playing in the front garden with all the neighborhood kids gathered at the gate while my mom baked an oven-sized loaf of bread so absurdly large that we still laugh about it today. Fast forward to now, and my parents have done more than just survive those early struggles—they’ve thrived. Both of them are successful university teachers, respected and loved by their students, despite not even holding PhDs. They built businesses, broke barriers, and proved that success isn’t about the titles you hold, but the impact you make. When I say they came from tough backgrounds, I mean it. My mom grew up in segregated South Africa, witnessing firsthand the injustices that shaped society. My dad, on the other hand, was raised in a strict, über-Catholic environment where expectations were sky-high, and stepping outside the norm wasn’t exactly encouraged. Then, in a plot twist the universe didn’t see coming, these two people from vastly different worlds found each other, fell in love, and started a family. Except, of course, society wasn’t quite as caught up to modern thinking as they were. Ireland in the 80s wasn’t kind to unmarried parents. Beyond the judgment, there were legal and financial obstacles. Single mothers struggled to access housing, fathers had no automatic guardianship rights, and the weight of societal expectations pressed down hard. My parents could have caved to that pressure. They could have followed the so-called "respectable" path. Instead, they doubled down on what mattered: love, commitment, and creating a stable, happy home—labels be damned. And they didn’t just raise me. They gave me the best life possible. I’ll be honest—I have no recollection of my formative years (ages 1-4). It’s like my brain just decided, “Nah, we don’t need to save this data.” But I do know that during that time, my parents were grinding. They weren’t just working regular jobs; they were finishing their degrees while juggling work, parenthood, and societal judgment. And despite all of that, they made sure I had a childhood filled with love, magic, and a deep-rooted sense of security. But their work wasn’t just about building a life for themselves. My dad took jobs teaching English to immigrants, helping people find their footing in a new country. My mom dedicated her time to mentoring at-risk young women, showing them that their circumstances didn’t have to define their future. They weren’t just working for their own success—they were actively giving back, proving that true success is about lifting others up, too. Looking back, I realize now just how much effort it must have taken. I mean, I struggle to balance work, personal projects, and remembering to drink enough water. And yet, they managed to raise two children, hold down jobs, pursue higher education, volunteer, and build a home—all at the same time. Absolute legends. Here’s a little detail that might surprise some people: despite having a great relationship with my dad, his name isn’t on my birth certificate. Bureaucratic nonsense, outdated rules—call it what you want. It’s one of those things that stings. Because for someone who has always been a daddy’s girl, that missing name feels like an erasure of something that was very real. But here’s the thing: a piece of paper doesn’t define the bond we have. My dad has been present, involved, and everything a father should be. And honestly, I’d take that over a legally recognized name any day. If there’s one thing my parents drilled into me and my younger sister, it’s the importance of hard work and self-sufficiency. They didn’t just tell us to work hard—they showed us. They led by example. They didn’t rely on handouts or shortcuts; they built everything they had from the ground up. And they made it clear that while the world might not always be fair, you still have to show up, put in the effort, and carve out your own success. More than that, they raised us to be kind. To accept people for who they are, regardless of background, beliefs, or circumstances. They didn’t just preach tolerance—they lived it. And coming from two people who both faced their own share of discrimination and societal expectations, that lesson carried a lot of weight. When people talk about leaving a legacy, they usually think of wealth, property, or something tangible. But my parents’ legacy isn’t measured in bank accounts or real estate. It’s measured in the values they instilled in us—the kind of people they raised us to be. They made sure we didn’t take life for granted. That we understood the importance of gratitude. That we knew success wasn’t just about climbing the career ladder, but about making a positive impact on the people around us. They also made sure we knew that life doesn’t owe you anything. If you want something, you go after it. You put in the work. You don’t expect things to be handed to you. And you definitely don’t wait around for someone else to save you. And they didn’t just tell us that—we saw it every day. My dad teaching immigrants, my mom mentoring young women—those weren’t just jobs or side projects. They were proof that success isn’t just about personal achievement; it’s about helping others along the way. So, if I haven’t said it enough (or loud enough), here it is: no artist, no celebrity, no historical figure could have done a better job shaping me than my own parents. They weren’t perfect—no one is. But they were the best parents I could have asked for. They built something from nothing, gave us the best life they could, and made damn sure we grew up knowing our worth, our responsibilities, and our ability to shape the world around us. And yeah, maybe this is a little corny. Maybe this is the kind of thing that should be written in a greeting card instead of a long-winded essay. But some things just need to be said. So, here it is: Thank you, Mom and Dad. You’re the real MVPs.

I stand before you, not just as a woman of Irish descent, but as a fellow human navigating the complexities of a world still scarred by the remnants of racism. Today, I want to engage in a conversation about the realities of racism in our society—a topic that often feels uncomfortable yet is essential to address. As we look around, it's clear that the ghost of racism isn't just a relic of the past; it breathes life into our present, shaping the experiences of many. Growing up, I was fortunate to be raised in a family that emphasized the value of equality. My grandparents often spoke of their struggles in Ireland—how they faced prejudice as they sought a better life in Africa of all places. My parents instilled in me the importance of empathy, urging me to see beyond the colour of one’s skin. Yet, as I matured and ventured into the wider world, I began to see that the fight against racism is far more complex than I had imagined. Racism has deep historical roots in Western societies, dating back to colonialism and the transatlantic slave trade. This history isn't merely a footnote in our collective memory; it's the foundation upon which many of our institutions are built. The ideology of white supremacy, which once justified horrific acts against Indigenous peoples and enslaved Africans, has evolved but not disappeared. It seeps into our education systems, healthcare, and even our justice systems, perpetuating a cycle of disadvantage that disproportionately affects people of colour. Consider, for example, the disparities in educational opportunities. In many areas, children from minority backgrounds are funnelled into underfunded schools, with fewer resources and less experienced teachers. The consequences are devastating—lower graduation rates, reduced career prospects, and a sense of hopelessness that is not merely personal but systemic. I remember speaking with a young Black student who shared how he often felt like he was fighting an uphill battle, just to achieve what his white peers took for granted. This is the insidious nature of systemic racism—it thrives in silence, often unacknowledged, while lives are altered forever. Moving from education to broader societal concerns, we cannot overlook the recent tragic events that have reignited discussions about race and policing. The murder of George Floyd in 2020 wasn't just a singular incident; it was a stark reminder of the ongoing violence faced by Black individuals at the hands of law enforcement. I remember watching the footage, my heart heavy with grief and anger. This is not merely an issue for marginalized communities; it’s a societal cancer that demands our attention and action. Racial profiling remains a rampant issue, creating an atmosphere of distrust between law enforcement and the communities they are meant to protect. Yet, amid the darkness, we see glimmers of hope through social movements like Black Lives Matter. This movement has emerged as a powerful force for change, pushing us to confront uncomfortable truths about our society. Through protests and community engagement, activists are demanding accountability, justice, and an end to the systemic injustices that persist. It’s essential for us—especially those of us in positions of privilege—to listen and amplify these voices, recognizing that our silence can be complicit in perpetuating the status quo. The path toward a more equitable society is paved with both grassroots activism and policy reform. A contentious area of this reform is affirmative action. While some view affirmative action policies as essential in addressing the legacy of discrimination, others argue that such measures can be unfair or divisive. The debate centers on how to balance the need for redress with the principle of equality. However, we must recognize that these policies have helped countless individuals who have historically faced barriers to education and employment. The goal of affirmative action is not to disadvantage one group in favor of another but to level the playing field and provide opportunities that have long been denied to marginalized communities. Similarly, discussions around the call to "defund the police" have sparked intense debate. The idea behind this movement is not to abolish law enforcement entirely, but to reallocate resources to community-based services that address the root causes of crime, such as education, mental health support, and job training. By investing in these areas, we can reduce the need for policing in the first place and foster safer communities. While the phrase "defund the police" can sound extreme, it’s a challenge to rethink how we allocate public funds and prioritize community well-being over punitive measures. However, these discussions are not without their challenges. Anti-racism movements can evoke strong emotions, and accusations of divisiveness can arise. Some may even argue that current anti-racism efforts risk alienating those who hold different views. But isn’t that the point? Growth often requires discomfort. It’s in these tough conversations that we challenge our assumptions and learn from one another. The debate around reparations for historical injustices also demands our attention. While many see it as a necessary step toward justice, others question its feasibility or how to implement such measures fairly. This is a conversation we must have, even if it feels daunting. The legacy of racism is not just historical; it shapes economic disparities and social dynamics today. Engaging in these discussions requires us to confront uncomfortable truths about our society and our roles within it. As we conclude this conversation, I urge each of you to recognize that racism is not an abstract concept; it’s a lived reality for many. It demands our engagement, our voices, and our actions. We must hold ourselves accountable to challenge the structures that perpetuate inequality. Together, we can advocate for meaningful change and strive for a world where everyone—regardless of their race—can live with dignity and respect. Let’s continue this dialogue beyond today, not just as peers but as allies in the fight for justice. Our collective efforts can make a difference, paving the way for a brighter, more inclusive future. Thank you.

Ah, separatists and supremacists—those historical figures who remind us that humanity can be divided into charming little categories! One group wants to cozy up in their own corner of the world, while the other insists they’re the crème de la crème. It’s almost like they’re competing in a reality show: “Who Can Be More Exclusive?” Spoiler alert: they both win. While I'm not cheering for either team, I do think it’s important to take a closer look at how these ideologies function and why they continue to have such a toxic grip on society. Let’s start with separatists. When they push for independence, don’t expect them to host a neighborhood potluck where everyone brings a dish to share. No, it’s often more about building walls—literal or metaphorical—to keep out the "others." It’s not necessarily about thinking they’re better; it’s just that their way of life is so special it needs protection from the “unwashed masses.” After all, who could blame them for wanting to preserve their “pure” culture? But, of course, the truth is that when you segregate, it's less about protection and more about power dynamics. Take a walk through history. The American South during the Civil War is a prime example. The Confederacy liked to see itself as the noble underdog, fighting against the overbearing central government. But their "fight" also included a deep commitment to enslaving people based on skin color. Sure, it was all about "states' rights," they claimed, but those rights had a funny way of being tied to the right to treat an entire race of people as property. If we’re not careful, these whitewashed narratives can make us forget what was really at stake. The “dream” of the Confederacy was built on someone else’s nightmare. Then there’s apartheid in South Africa, the gold medalist in “separation strategies.” Apartheid was essentially about making sure people lived in separate areas—separate buses, separate hospitals, separate schools—because why not make life more conveniently unequal? Of course, this wasn’t about superiority, no! It was all about the idea that some groups just needed their own space to "develop" in peace. Funny how one group "developing" into an elite class always seemed to follow this logic. And then, of course, we have Nazi Germany. The Nazis didn’t just build walls, they built whole systems of exclusion. Segregating Jews, Romani, and others wasn’t framed as a supremacy issue—it was all about “protecting” the purity of the master race. Creating ghettos was, in their minds, just a logical step up from creating gated communities. But this was far from just a “we’ll keep to ourselves” attitude—it was about creating a world where some lives didn’t matter at all. Fast forward to today, and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is another modern-day example of separatism at play. Both sides claim the land, each with its own history and grievances. Palestinians want their own state, and Israelis assert their historical and religious rights. While it’s easy to point fingers at extremists who fuel the violence, it’s important to recognize that the conflict is about more than just land; it's also about how the “others” are perceived. It’s a case study in the dangerous dance of “us vs. them.” And who could forget the breakup of Yugoslavia? Ethnic separatist movements were practically the rage, with Croats, Serbs, and Bosniaks all angling for their own ethnically homogeneous territories. What started as political struggles quickly escalated into brutal ethnic cleansing campaigns. This wasn’t about superiority, oh no—it was all about making borders "neater." Just a little territorial spring cleaning, with a dash of ethnic erasure thrown in for good measure. Now, let’s pause for a moment and examine what all of this has in common. Separatism, in its most basic form, is about carving out space for one group at the expense of others. The danger comes when groups start glorifying their identity, their culture, their “right” to dominate a piece of land. Because, once you start talking about preserving a group’s purity, you’re only a few steps away from saying that maybe your group is superior. It’s a slippery slope, and history has shown us where it leads. In conclusion, separatists and supremacists are not as different as they’d like to believe. The separatist says, “We deserve our own space!” while the supremacist chimes in, “And we’re better than you!” Both are working from the same playbook, one just wears a friendlier mask. The truth is, once you start drawing lines—whether in geography or in identity—it’s often not long before the “us vs. them” mentality creeps in, and suddenly, the idea of peaceful coexistence goes out the window. Now, don’t get me wrong—there are certainly instances where separatism is about self-determination and a desire for autonomy without the ugly undercurrent of superiority. The peaceful independence movements of Catalonia in Spain or Scotland in the United Kingdom are examples where groups sought autonomy without explicitly promoting the idea that they were “better” than others. In these cases, the desire for self-rule is driven by cultural preservation and political expression, not by the belief that one group is inherently superior. But, if we’re being honest, history shows that these movements rarely stay "pure" for long. When you start elevating your group as “unique” or “special,” it’s not long before someone else is deemed inferior, and before you know it, the game has shifted from self-determination to domination. So let’s be clear: whether wrapped in the warm embrace of “self-determination” or the cold, hard logic of “superiority,” the outcome is often the same—division, exclusion, and a stubborn belief that some people just don’t belong. Separatism may not always come with the label “supremacist,” but it often ends up tasting the same in the end. And, in the most ironic twist, the separatist manages to rebrand exclusion into a more palatable package, saying, “I just need my space,” while still making it perfectly clear they aren’t interested in mixing with the rest of humanity.

Rich or poor—that’s the debate, right? The one that keeps coming back like a bad STI. It’s always been the same story: capitalism is the golden goose, and if you’re not on board, well, you must just love misery. But lately, even that narrative is starting to crack. Thanks to a new breed of non-populist politicians, we’re all getting a front-row seat to the awkward realization that maybe, just maybe, this whole system isn’t as flawless as we were told. Let’s be honest here—capitalism was sold to us like it was the ultimate utopia. The Western world swore by it, pushing it on everyone like a late-night infomercial. "Act now, and you too can live the dream!" Well, fast forward to today, and it turns out that dream was more like a fever dream. Because, surprise, life doesn’t work like that. The last twenty years have shown us that utopia might just be a place where you never have to check your bank account balance before ordering takeout. And even that’s not guaranteed. But here’s the rub: The evidence isn’t hard to find. According to the Economic Policy Institute, wage stagnation has been a persistent issue in the United States for decades. From 1979 to 2019, the bottom 90% of earners saw a mere 26% growth in their wages, while the top 1% enjoyed a staggering 160% increase. That’s right—the very system that’s supposed to reward hard work and innovation has, in practice, been rewarding those who already had a head start. So much for the American dream, huh? If you're still not convinced that this system is broken, consider the economic policies of countries outside the Western capitalist model. For example, China has lifted over 850 million people out of poverty in the last few decades—a feat that no capitalist country has come close to achieving. The key? A blend of state-led capitalism and socialism, not the unfettered free market we’ve been led to believe is the only path to prosperity. This doesn’t mean China’s model is flawless—it has its own host of issues, including human rights concerns and government control. But it does challenge the notion that capitalism is the only way to achieve significant economic progress. In fact, some countries in Latin America, Africa, and Asia are challenging the very structure of capitalism. In places like Rwanda, for example, the government has actively invested in infrastructure, education, and health services, without fully embracing Western-style capitalism. These examples show that there are alternatives to the capitalist model, and they don’t come with the same promises or pitfalls. The world hasn’t ended in these countries, and in many ways, they’re thriving. Let’s take a trip down memory lane to a simpler time—the mid-'80s, when big hair and even bigger economic promises were in vogue. That’s when I was born, smack in the middle of the era of excess. By the time I graduated high school in the early 2000s, the world was full of possibilities, or so I was told. My parents, bless their optimistic hearts, believed in the “You can be whatever you want to be” dream. A sweet sentiment, but also wildly misleading. Because here’s the truth: We are not all born equal. I know, shocking, right? But the world isn’t a level playing field. Some people are born on third base and think they hit a triple, while others are still trying to find the entrance to the stadium. And that whole idea that you’ll be judged by your character, your values, or your diplomas? Yeah, that’s a fairy tale. In reality, you’re judged by how others perceive you, and that perception is often as accurate as a blindfolded dart throw. Research backs this up. Studies from Princeton University and Harvard University have shown that factors like race, gender, and socioeconomic background play a significant role in determining life outcomes. A study by Raj Chetty and his colleagues found that children born to low-income families in the U.S. have drastically fewer opportunities to climb the economic ladder compared to those from wealthier backgrounds. This study clearly shows that access to opportunities is not a level playing field, and factors outside of hard work and education are often what determine success. So much for the idea of meritocracy. Take my own career, for example. I have no illusions about why I landed most of my early jobs. Was it because I was the most qualified? Ha! No, it was because I happened to tick the right boxes: white, female, and, let’s face it, decent at charming my way through interviews. I might have flirted my way into a few positions, but hey, when in Rome, right? And sure, that might sound cynical, but it’s the truth. We all play the game with the cards we’re dealt. And I’m not the only one. Research shows that unconscious bias in hiring is a real and persistent issue. A study by the National Bureau of Economic Research found that job applicants with "white-sounding" names were 50% more likely to receive callbacks for interviews compared to those with "Black-sounding" names, even when their qualifications were identical. It’s almost like the world doesn’t care about your diploma as much as it cares about how you look and sound. In more recent years, I’ve worked mostly under female bosses, and it’s been an interesting shift. But even that doesn’t erase the uncomfortable reality that the world my parents raised me to believe in—a world where hard work and integrity are enough—doesn’t really exist. At least, not for everyone. So here we are, stuck in a debate that never seems to end. Rich or poor, capitalism or whatever else is on the menu this week. The politicians will keep talking, the systems will keep grinding away, and the rest of us will keep trying to make sense of it all. It’s a messy, flawed world, and sometimes it feels like we’re all just stumbling through it. But maybe that’s the point—if it were all perfect, what would we have left to argue about? In the end, the debate isn’t really about rich or poor. It’s about figuring out how to live in a world that doesn’t always play fair. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real challenge. Because as much as we might want a utopia, the best we can do is keep pushing for something better—one sarcastic comment at a time.

In ancient times, when nights grew long, And leaves danced to a mournful song, The Celts would gather ‘round the fire, For Samhain’s eve, when spirits retire.   A harvest end, the year would fade, The veil between worlds thinly laid, The living and dead would intertwine, As shadows stretched ‘neath oak and pine.   Bonfires blazed to keep them near, But also to guard from what they’d fear, For restless souls would roam the night, Seeking warmth, or perhaps a fright.   The Romans came, they merged the lore, With Pomona’s fruits, traditions swore, A festival of light and dark, Where ancient rites would leave their mark.   Through centuries, the church took claim, And All Hallows’ Eve it came to name, A time to honour saints now past, Yet Samhain’s spirit held steadfast.   Turnips carved with ghastly faces, Lanterns lit in eerie places, To ward off ghosts from wandering by, Or guide lost souls beneath the sky.   Now costumes, sweets, and tales of fright, Have made it a playful, haunting night, Yet hidden deep in autumn’s chill, The ancient whispers echo still.   So when you don your mask and cape, Remember the roots that took their shape, From Celtic lands to modern scene, The many layers of Halloween.

Ah, anger and resentment—a classic duo, right? Like peanut butter and jelly, except, you know, less tasty and more soul-crushing. Imagine them as two scruffy gremlins gnawing away at your insides. But unlike gremlins, you can’t drown them in water or starve them after midnight. Oh no, they feast 24/7, turning you into a delightful cocktail of cynicism with a twist of bitterness. How do I know all this, you ask? Well, let’s just say I’m your friendly neighborhood cynic, fully certified in the field of “People are Terrible.” I’ve got the degree, the scars, and a lifetime subscription to emotional baggage. If resentment were an Olympic sport, I’d have a trophy shelf full of gold medals. But here’s the thing—I don’t wear my cynicism like some badge of honor. It’s more like an invisible cloak, tucked neatly under layers of “I’m fine” and “No, really, everything’s okay.” Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You bottle it up, slap on a smile, and hope no one notices you’re one bad day away from screaming into a pillow until you lose your voice. If I had to pinpoint where all this started, it’d probably be with my childhood—a real “Lifetime drama” rather than a “Hallmark movie.” Take my parents, for example. Their divorce wasn’t just a chapter in my life; it was the whole damn book. Picture me at 16, stuck in the middle of their legal battles, collecting judgments (in French, no less) and translating legal documents. I was too young to fully grasp what was happening but old enough to feel it tearing me apart. And my mom? She was busy building her career, which left me stepping into the role of caregiver for my younger sister. I was still figuring out my own life, yet there I was, making sure she was okay, doing her homework, and keeping things afloat. Just when I started to think I could handle it, she was taken away—on my 18th birthday, no less. By 19, I was alone in a country that barely felt like home, with nothing but a gaping void where my family used to be. Life didn’t slow down after that. People moved on, built their lives, found their distractions. Meanwhile, I stayed behind, carrying the emotional fallout. Over the years, I’ve become the “strong one,” the shoulder everyone leans on. And sure, being dependable has its moments, but when it’s my turn? When I need someone to lean on? The silence is deafening. That silence gets heavy. And while I’m good at hiding it, sometimes the cracks show. When they do, I’m met with judgment. “You’re overreacting.” “You’re being negative.” It’s as if, after years of holding everyone else together, I’m not allowed to feel overwhelmed or bitter. But let’s be honest—what’s my alternative? Self-medication has been my go-to for 20 years. Booze and weed have been my coping mechanisms, but even I know they’re not solutions. The real problem is that I don’t know how to let go of the role I’ve played for so long. How do you stop being the strong one when it’s all you’ve ever been? And here’s the kicker: I grew up with a mother studying psychology, which means I’ve seen behind the curtain. Therapy? Been there, done that. I know the tricks, the strategies, the magic words that are supposed to make everything better. But knowing the mechanics doesn’t make the process easier. If anything, it makes it harder to trust. So here I am, staring down 40, wondering how to untangle years of unresolved pain. I want to let go of the anger, the resentment, the feeling that I’m invisible in my own life. But where do I start? How do I balance being there for others with showing up for myself? Maybe the answer isn’t as dramatic as a “Lifetime” finale. Maybe it’s about taking small steps—saying no when I need to, carving out moments just for me, and learning that being vulnerable doesn’t make me weak. Maybe it’s about realizing that asking for help doesn’t erase the strength I’ve shown all these years. To my family and friends who might be reading this—yes, I know you’re worried. And no, I don’t have all the answers yet. But I’m working on it. For once, I’m trying to be the strong one for myself. Because after all these years, I think I owe myself that much. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some reflecting to do—and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let myself believe that life isn’t all resentment and trust issues. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

You’re probably wondering why I’m still single. If I had a euro for every time someone’s asked that, I’d be lounging in the Mediterranean sun instead of recounting my romantic misadventures to you. But here we are. Let’s rewind to when I was 14 and hopelessly in love with a guy six years my senior. I was young, naïve, and blissfully unaware that I’d fallen for someone whose emotional maturity rivaled a vintage cheese—so aged it crumbled under any pressure. Years later, when I asked why he’d treated me so poorly, his response was a shrug and “We were young!” Newsflash: If you're 20 and I'm 14, “young” is not an excuse—it's a crime. That heartbreak became my invitation to dive headfirst into the wild, weird, and occasionally disastrous world of dating. My next stop was a tall, handsome basketball player who’d survived a civil war and lost his entire family. I thought, I can handle this.  Spoiler alert: I could not. Emotional baggage on that scale doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and at barely 20, I was in no position to write one. Loving someone with that much trauma left me drained and questioning if I’d ever be enough. When that relationship unraveled, I threw myself into work. Surely, a career was immune to emotional chaos, right? Wrong. Work didn’t provide an escape; it just gave me more responsibilities I wasn’t ready for—paperclips included. Then came bus guy. We met on public transport, and I thought, This is destiny!  Turns out, destiny had a twisted sense of humor. He was a widower, raising a daughter while still grieving his wife. I was, of course, at the back of the line: the deceased wife came first, then the daughter, and I was somewhere behind the family dog. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fill the void, nor should I have tried. Next, there was the man with views so “unconventionally bigoted” they bordered on surreal. Imagine a Black man who held deeply racist beliefs about other Black people—it was a tragic comedy written by someone who’d clearly lost touch with logic. Suffice it to say, that relationship didn’t last long. And then there was the recovering alcoholic who seemed harmless until he turned into a stalker. His storyline ended with a jail sentence, leaving me wondering if my love life was being scripted by the writers of a bad soap opera. As I watched my friends settle down, post filtered photos of their kids, and curate their “perfect” lives, I started to feel like a lost tourist in the dating world. The men I met ranged from one who asked me for €600 on the first date (gambling addiction, of course) to another who passionately described making yogurt in his desk drawer for two hours. Adding to the mix, my parents never missed an opportunity to sprinkle their “supportive” charm. My father, in a moment of drunken honesty, once said, “You’re too fat for the good-looking guys but too pretty for the ugly ones.” Subtle, right? My parents have always viewed me as “fat,” which does wonders for the self-esteem. Then there’s the sage advice I’ve received over the years: “You’re intimidating. Maybe play dumb so men won’t feel threatened.” Imagine being told your intelligence is the problem, as if shrinking yourself is the key to love. Spoiler: it’s not. So, why am I single? Because I’ve seen what settling looks like, and I refuse to play a supporting role in a poorly written drama. My dating history may read like a collection of comedic errors, but it’s also been an education. I’ve learned to value myself—not as a consolation prize, but as the lead in my own story. And until the right co-star comes along, I’m happy waiting. After all, the best love stories take time to write.

I turn 40 next year. That’s four decades on this increasingly perplexing planet, 38 of which I've spent as an immigrant. And yet, despite my substantial tenure, I find myself repeatedly dumbfounded by the same recycled drivel masquerading as social discourse. Is it just me, or has the world somehow missed the memo on progress? For the love of all things holy, why are we still stuck in the same rut of xenophobic rhetoric and social stagnation? When I was younger, barely out of my teens, people would brush off my idealism with a patronizing pat on the head, saying, "You'll understand when you're older." Older came and went. I'm almost middle-aged now, that supposedly enlightened stage where you're neither too young to be naive nor too old to be jaded. Yet, I still hear the same worn-out complaints about immigrants stealing jobs as I did when I was barely old enough to comprehend the concept of employment. Here's a fun fact: I've been an immigrant nearly all my life. That's right. For almost four decades, I’ve been the subject of the very accusations that are still being hurled around like confetti at a particularly tacky party. "Immigrant" has somehow become a dirty word, dripping with more disdain than a toddler’s bib after spaghetti night. And I can't help but wonder, why? Let's dissect this, shall we? Picture it: early 2000s, the dawn of the new millennium. There I was, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, convinced the world was on the cusp of a grand societal evolution. We had the internet! Information was at our fingertips, connections could be made across continents, and surely, surely, we were on the brink of a new era of understanding and inclusivity. Fast forward to today, and what do we have? The same old, tired grievances. "They’re taking our jobs!" Really, Gary? Are "they" really taking your job, or did you just fail to secure employment because you didn’t realize that your CV in Comic Sans and your propensity to insult the interviewer’s tie weren’t the winning combination you thought they were? Newsflash: blaming immigrants for your personal shortcomings is like blaming gravity for making you fall after tripping over your own feet. Oh, but it gets better. Nowadays, the word "immigrant" is often whispered as if it's Voldemort’s real name. People hesitate, stutter, and look around nervously before dropping the i-bomb, like they're afraid they'll summon an angry mob armed with pitchforks and flaming torches. How did we get here? How did a term that simply describes someone who moved from one place to another become so loaded? I blame the media, partially. Somewhere along the line, "immigrant" got tangled up with "criminal," "terrorist," and "job thief" in a web of sensationalist headlines and political fearmongering. If I had a nickel for every time a news anchor conflated immigration with crime, I’d be lounging on a private island, sipping a margarita, rather than ranting about societal inertia. But it's not just the media. Politicians, those paragons of integrity, have milked the immigration issue dry. They promise walls, they vow to "take back control," and they fan the flames of xenophobia to distract from their own ineptitude. It’s like watching a magician distract an audience with one hand while picking their pockets with the other. Only, in this case, the magician is a sweaty, orange-faced demagogue, and the audience is a confused electorate wondering why their wallets feel lighter. And don’t get me started on the internet trolls. Oh, the internet trolls! The ones who crawl out from under their digital bridges to spew vitriol at anyone who dares to suggest that maybe, just maybe, immigrants are people too. "Go back to where you came from!" they type furiously from their parents’ basements, the irony lost on them as they scarf down takeout pizza from the immigrant-owned joint down the street. But here’s the kicker: I get it from both sides. As an immigrant, I’m perpetually in this strange limbo where I’m too foreign for the natives and too native for the foreigners. It’s like being stuck in a perpetual identity crisis, only with more paperwork and fewer support groups. And the constant rhetoric doesn’t help. It’s like trying to swim upstream in a river of molasses, with every stroke met by a new barrage of outdated stereotypes and misplaced blame. So, here I am, 40 years old and still trying to wrap my head around the fact that despite all our technological advances, despite our so-called enlightenment, we’re still grappling with the same basic issues. We can send rovers to Mars, but we can’t seem to grasp that people moving from one country to another isn’t a threat to our way of life. Maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe I’m expecting too much from a species that still can’t figure out how to merge lanes properly. But is it really too much to ask for a little progress? For a bit of common sense and decency? For the realization that diversity enriches us rather than diminishes us? In the end, perhaps the joke’s on me. Maybe expecting rational discourse from a society that gave us reality TV and viral conspiracy theories is the real folly. It’s like asking a squirrel to solve a Rubik’s Cube—an exercise in frustration more than anything. But as absurd as it might seem, I refuse to let cynicism win. So, I’ll keep my eyes open, my voice loud, and my hopes high, even if the world feels like it’s stuck on repeat. After all, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that progress often comes in fits and starts, and sometimes, the loudest rants are the ones that spark the most change.

Ah, riots. They’re the sudden, chaotic burst of collective energy that can transform a peaceful neighbourhood into a whirlwind of shattered windows, burning cars, and the occasional looted flat-screen TV. It’s like an unscheduled block party, but with more Molotov cocktails and fewer snacks. For centuries, riots have been the ultimate outlet for the frustrations of the downtrodden. But let’s not kid ourselves—riots are as much a tradition as they are a tragedy. The history of riots is as long and convoluted as the line outside an Apple store on the day a new iPhone drops. Since the dawn of civilization, humans have had a penchant for riots—a time-honoured tradition where chaos takes centre stage and common sense takes a vacation. The ancient Romans were particularly enthusiastic about this form of entertainment. Their version of fun? The Circus Maximus riots, where chariot races sometimes turned into fiery demolition derbies. Forget Formula 1; these guys knew how to mix sports with arson, all without the luxury of social media to amplify the outrage. As time progressed, so did the scale of these disturbances. Enter the French Revolution, an upgrade from mere riots to full-blown revolution. Frustrated with the monarchy’s excesses, the French decided that guillotines were the new black. Louis XVI might have preferred to send a “We’re sorry, our country is out of order” memo, but instead, heads rolled and history was made. This set a new standard for civil unrest, elevating the riot to revolutionary status. But not all riots enjoy the spotlight of history. Many are simply expressions of collective anger, where a legitimate grievance ignites a firestorm that often consumes more than just the original target. From the Rodney King riots in L.A. to the London riots of 2011 and countless food riots throughout history, these events typically start with a cry for justice and end with a smouldering Starbucks. So, why do people riot? At its core, a riot is about power—or, more accurately, the lack of it. When people feel unheard and marginalized, they sometimes resort to the most visible and destructive means of communication. It’s a desperate shout of “We’re still here!” by tossing a brick against the shield of authority. When voices go unheard, there’s no scheduling a meeting—instead, people start a bonfire. It’s like sending an angry email, but with more fire and fewer grammar mistakes. Is it overkill? Sure. Does it get attention? Absolutely. Then there's the mob mentality, where otherwise reasonable people suddenly decide that flipping a car is an excellent way to spend a Tuesday night. If you’ve ever found yourself swept up in a concert crowd, you’ve experienced a mild version of this collective energy. It’s all fun and games until that energy turns destructive with tragic results. The tragic irony is that most riots end up torching the very neighbourhoods they’re trying to defend. It’s like protesting poor living conditions by making them even worse. But why target your own backyard? For starters, that’s where people live. Additionally, when anger boils over, the nearest target tends to be the one that gets hit. Take the Watts Riots of 1965. Sparked by police brutality, the African-American community in Los Angeles erupted in a six-day uprising. Buildings burned, businesses were looted, and when the flames finally died down, the community was left with even more poverty and devastation. It’s the cruel joke of rioting: the people who suffer the most are often those who had the least to begin with. A similar grim pattern emerged during the 1992 Rodney King Riots. After the acquittal of the officers involved in King’s beating, L.A. went up in flames. The hardest-hit areas? The poorer neighbourhoods, of course. The anger and frustration were justified, but the aftermath only deepened the suffering of those already struggling. By the time the National Guard arrived, billions in damage had been done—mostly to the very people protesting their mistreatment. So, are there any upsides to rioting? If you squint really hard and twist logic into a pretzel, you might argue that riots bring attention to issues that might otherwise be ignored. They often do so at a devastating cost. After all, it’s hard to overlook a city on fire. It’s like setting off fireworks to say, “Hey, notice me!” but with far more property damage. However, the downsides far outweigh the benefits. Riots destroy businesses, erase jobs, and leave communities in ruins. They also tend to shift the narrative from the original issue to the violence itself, turning public sympathy into public outrage. And let’s not forget the crackdown that follows—increased police presence, curfews, and harsher laws. It’s like asking for a raise and getting fired instead. Riots are a complex, often tragic phenomenon. They’re born out of frustration, powerlessness, and a desperate need for change. But too often, they end up causing more harm than good, especially to the very communities that need the most help. Here’s a radical thought: before you grab your pitchforks and flaming torches, consider some alternatives that are just as effective (and bonus: they don’t come with a criminal record). Instead of smashing that ATM, why not try civil disobedience by sitting on it until someone important notices you? If making the wealthy uncomfortable is your goal, you could organize a boycott, hitting them where it hurts—in their designer wallets. It might not have the instant gratification of watching something go up in flames, but at least you’ll still be able to post about it on social media without worrying about the cops showing up at your door. If you’re looking to channel your inner revolutionary without the collateral damage, why not use artistic expression? Nothing says "down with the system" quite like a flash mob in a corporate plaza—bonus points if it’s interpretive dance. Or, go digital with an online campaign, flooding the internet with memes so sharp they make the establishment bleed. And if you’re really itching for some interaction, organize a peaceful march where the only thing you throw is shade. Who knew you could dismantle the system one cleverly worded sign at a time? Peace out! ✌️

You know what’s the worst idea ever? Parents trying to be their kid’s best friend. Trust me, I would know. I spent over 20 years as my father’s consigliere—his right-hand person, like in the mob, but with way more emotional baggage and way less intrigue. You’d think being privy to all your parents’ deepest secrets would make you wise beyond your years. It doesn’t. It just makes you a teenager who knows too much about adult problems, and wonders why you’re not getting paid like an actual therapist. Let’s be real: this “best-friend parenting” thing is an epic fail. Parents are supposed to raise kids, not make them their unpaid emotional support. You know what it actually does? It gives you a front-row seat to the chaos without even the courtesy of popcorn. And the view? Not pretty. I figured out my parents were just regular, flawed humans at a very young age. That’s a hard pill to swallow when you’re still a kid who thinks people on TV are actually magic. Don’t get me wrong, I had awesome parents. Compared to the dark stories my friends shared, my childhood was a fairy tale. No violence, no creepy approaches—just your standard suburban neuroses and dysfunctional communication. But the dynamics were always crystal clear. My parents had my sister when they were “mature,” but when they had me, they were basically kids themselves—fumbling through life and making it up as they went along. I was their test baby (which is the role of all first borns)—the prototype, the one they tried all their parenting theories on. Lucky me. It wasn’t until I turned sixteen that things really started to fall apart. My parents’ marriage had been held together with duct tape and the occasional date night for years, but then the whole thing just… collapsed. I didn’t see it coming; I was too busy trying to keep the peace. The divorce was “not amicable,” which translates to: “We can’t stand each other, but we’ll try not to traumatize the kids even more.” By then, I was practically begging for them to just end their “Operation Happy Family.” I’d spent years refereeing their fights and pretending not to hear them whispering about separation. When the divorce finally came, I should’ve felt relieved. But instead, it felt like being left in a burning building while my parents calmly walked out the back door. I was just sixteen, suddenly holding the emotional meltdown of two grown-ups, and trying to look after my eight-year-younger sister, who was blissfully unaware of the chaos. Here’s the thing: I have no memory of the day my dad left. None. It’s a total blank. You’d think a moment like that would be seared into my brain, but it’s like my mind decided to skip it altogether. Maybe I just hit the mental delete button because my emotional hard drive was full. I’ve tried talking to my parents about it, but any conversation about the past becomes an emotional landmine. It’s like they compete in the Misery Olympics. "Well, I had to listen to complaints and babysit whenever my career was on the line!” “Oh yeah? I had to learn to cook for myself!” And I’m just standing there, thinking, “Anyone remember the kid in the middle of all this? No? Just me? Cool.” It’s not that I’m resentful. Okay, maybe I am. But mostly, I’m tired. Tired of being the emotional dumping ground for two people who should know better. I mean, I’m nearly 40 now. I can barely summon the energy to argue about it anymore. At some point, I just accepted they’d never acknowledge the role I played. I was their rock, their unpaid emotional caretaker. But as long as they could offload their baggage onto me, they didn’t notice the cost. That’s why I don’t trust easily. I’ve been a therapist since childhood, and I’ve learned that most people don’t want help—they just want someone to listen while they vent. Then they walk away feeling better while I’m left holding the bag of their problems. So I keep people at arm’s length—not because I’m cynical (well, maybe a little), but because I’ve seen how quickly people can dump their issues without a second thought. As for coping mechanisms… yeah, I’ve got a few. Weed helps. And yes, I know that sounds stereotypical, but it’s either that or meditation—and trust me, it’s hard to clear your mind when it’s running at 200 miles an hour. And sure, I’m carrying some extra pounds, but who isn’t? At least I’m not drowning my sorrows in tequila shots every night. So there’s that. My parents know I smoke, but the only one who’s ever brought it up is my dad—the “recovering alcoholic.” It’s easier for him to assume I’m “just going through a phase” than to face the reasons why I smoke in the first place. After all, I’ve been “going through a phase” for about 25 years, so I’m sure it’ll pass any day now. So, where does that leave me? I’d like to think I’m better off for the insight I’ve gained. But maybe I’m just cynical. Sometimes I envy my younger sister. She got the more stable version of our parents—the ones who had learned from all their mistakes with me. She’s blissfully unaware of the emotional chaos that came before her time. She gets to see our parents as “epic” and “loving,” while I remember them as human—flawed, selfish, but trying their best. It’s not a bad thing, just a different reality. We grew up in the same house but in entirely different worlds. That’s why, even now, I’m still the mediator. When my parents argue, or my sister’s upset because Dad forgot her birthday (again), I’m the one smoothing things over. It’s second nature at this point. Maybe I was never meant to be a “normal” kid. Maybe I was always meant to be the accidental confidant, the secret-keeper, the one who knows all the stories no one else talks about. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a strange comfort in that. At the end of the day, I’ve seen it all. I know the truth about my family—not the fairy tale version they tell themselves, but the real one. The one with all the messy details and unspoken tensions. And you know what? Knowing the truth, as unflattering as it is, is better than believing in the story they tell each other. So yeah, I don’t trust easily. I smoke too much weed, and I carry some extra weight. But I’ve made my peace with it. After all, if I could survive being my parents’ secret-keeper for two decades, I can handle a little baggage.

Trust issues. Just the phrase can make you bristle, can’t it? It’s that uneasy feeling you get when someone says, “Trust me,” and you’re tempted to respond with a snort and a sceptical, “Yeah, sure.” Trust is supposed to be about loyalty, honesty, and reliability, but let’s face it—those are high bars to clear. If you find yourself struggling with trust, you’re not alone. This guide is for anyone who’s found themselves in the weeds of scepticism and doubt, navigating relationships with a wary eye. Family is where most of us learn our first lessons about trust. It’s supposed to be unconditional, but let’s be honest—families can be a breeding ground for mistrust. Growing up, I was told that swallowing gum would make it stay in my stomach for seven years. Really? Was that to protect me from the dangers of gum, or just to save my parents from dealing with sticky messes? This kind of myth-busting was my first clue that things weren't always as they seemed. And then there were those well-intentioned, but often misleading, pieces of parental advice. “We’ll see” usually meant “no,” and “It’s for your own good” often translated to “We’re not ready to explain the complexities of life.” These small betrayals might seem insignificant, but they laid the groundwork for a deeper scepticism about trust. By the time I hit my teenage years, the issue of trust only became more complicated. Teenage love is often romanticized as a grand, sweeping experience, but in reality, it’s more like a sitcom that gets cancelled after one season. My first serious relationship ended in heartbreak when my boyfriend cheated on me. That betrayal was a wake-up call that trust wasn’t just a nice idea—it was a fragile, explosive element that could shatter with the slightest misstep. Teenage relationships are often turbulent and filled with drama, but they also provide critical insights into how trust operates in romantic contexts. When someone who claims to love you acts with deceit, it’s hard not to let those experiences taint future relationships. As I moved from romantic relationships into friendships, I began to see how trust issues weren't confined to romance alone. Friendships are supposed to be a sanctuary from the trials of life, but they can also become a minefield of trust issues. How many times have you had a friend who seemed like a confidant only to vanish when you needed them most? It’s not just romantic relationships that can be fraught with betrayal. Friendships can also test our ability to trust. I grew up analysing people’s behaviours more than is probably healthy, thanks to having a parent in the mental health field. This skill has helped me spot trouble before it hits, but it also means I’m constantly on alert for potential betrayals. It’s exhausting to always be questioning motives, and this wariness often makes forming deeper connections challenging. Navigating trust issues becomes even more challenging when mental health struggles are thrown into the mix. I’ve experienced bursts of productivity where everything seems clear and achievable, only to be followed by periods of intense procrastination and self-doubt. This cycle of highs and lows can make it hard to maintain trust in myself, but I've come to see it as part of the process of understanding my own limits and resilience. During my low periods, well-meaning people often point out my unhappiness without offering support. It’s as if they’re giving a weather report, highlighting the storm without providing an umbrella. While this has reinforced my scepticism about the reliability of others, it’s also taught me to seek out the right kind of support—people who don’t just observe but actively engage with what I’m going through. When I’ve tried to open up, I’ve faced dismissiveness or discomfort, but each experience teaches me more about the importance of setting boundaries and being selective about where I place my trust. Through it all, I've learned that trust starts with being kind to myself, even when I’m not at my best. It's a constant work in progress, but I'm beginning to understand that it’s not just about trusting others—it’s about trusting myself through the ups and downs. More recently, I’ve been experimenting with raw honesty, sharing my true feelings instead of putting on a brave face. Spoiler alert: it hasn’t gone as planned. People often don’t want the unvarnished truth; they prefer a more palatable version of reality. When I’ve been upfront about how others’ actions have affected me, the reaction is often one of shock or avoidance. It’s clear that many people would rather keep things light and avoid the discomfort of confronting deeper issues. This pursuit of authenticity can feel isolating. It’s as if being open about one’s struggles is too much for others to handle, leaving me feeling stranded with my emotions while everyone else sails smoothly by. The reality is, facing my own issues often requires confronting uncomfortable truths about others, something many people are unprepared to do. So, how do we move forward when trust issues seem to dominate our lives? The first step is acknowledging that trust is not an all-or-nothing proposition. It’s a spectrum, and it’s okay to start with small steps. Building trust takes time and requires patience, both with oneself and with others. One approach is to practice setting boundaries and communicating clearly. By articulating what you need from others and being honest about your own limits, you create a framework where trust can gradually build. It’s also important to seek out relationships where trust is nurtured rather than taken for granted. Therapy or counselling can also be a valuable tool in navigating trust issues. Working with a mental health professional can help you unpack past experiences, develop healthier relationship patterns, and build resilience against future betrayals. Trust issues are not just a quirky personal trait—they’re a significant part of how we navigate our relationships and understand ourselves. Whether dealing with family dynamics, romantic relationships, friendships, or personal mental health, trust is a multifaceted challenge that requires continuous effort and self-awareness. By embracing honesty, setting clear boundaries, and seeking support, we can work towards a more trusting and fulfilling life. So, if you’re grappling with trust issues, know that you’re not alone. It’s a journey with ups and downs, but every step towards understanding and building trust is a step towards a more authentic and connected life. At least, that’s the story I’m sticking to.