Hello. I am Kathy B.

A twenty something tale of being, growing, and becoming. (Frivolity and fuck ups aplenty.)

Monday, 20 June 2016

How to love yourself

(*photo credit to Thomas Shahan*)

Accept that life, humanness, will always be messy. Imperfect. That the routine of living is good days and bad days and mediocre days and days where you wade through the shit, and days where you bask in the sunlight. You are entitled to live and feel and experience all of these days. Be honest with yourself. Be honest with the people around you. Know where you're at.

Permit yourself to be. To show up. To fuck up. To grow up. 

Know that you are allowed to take up space. Allow yourself to take up space. Ask the question. Send the email. Walk into that event wearing your jazziest, sparkliest shoes and talk to the people you feel you're not good enough for. You'll soon find that you are. Book the flight. Say yes. Do all of the things that weave knots of giddy apprehension into your stomach. 

DO ALL OF THE THINGS. Life's too short for anything else.

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Monday, 13 June 2016

About the only person worth being with

(*photo credit to You Me*)

They're not perfect. Far from it. But somehow, their imperfections embellish them. Stars of the night. They're wonderful to you, so wonderful, because of all of their things. All of those annoying, bizarre, infuriatingly endearing things.

The air around you will feel lighter when they're part of it, as if this person: skin, bones, cells, a smile, that smile, can inadvertently lift the weight of the entire world for a moment. And they so often are part of it, the air around you. Because they want to be. You've not laid awake inventing intricate, romantic plot-lines to excuse their absence. You don't know what their absence feels like; they're there beside you, even when they're not. 

They've always been there, from the very first moment your eyes locked

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Tuesday, 7 June 2016

A little list of lifesavers

(*photo credit to Libby Arnold*)

I feel I've learnt something pretty important over these past few years. It's something we all learn as we're growing up: something that comes in the aftermath of struggle, I think: in the aftermath of desperately trying to feel better somehow, but without anything to pin that to. Trying to escape from the inevitable pain that makes its bed beside us all every now again: trying to escape from ourselves. Sometimes, living feels like being on a tiny, rickety, wooden boat in a wild, choppy sea. No anchor. No horizon. It's impossible to keep your head above water all the time, that's just how it is. It's the price we pay for the magic.
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Tuesday, 31 May 2016

A book on a shelf

 (*photo credit to Craig Finlay*)

Sometimes I lay awake at night and imagine it. The book. Filled with the hurried words I scrawled in all manner of places, built from the lessons I learnt from all manner of people: beautiful souls and special moments, and the pain alongside it, immortalised in print on four hundred ivory pages. It was mine, for a long time. But not anymore.

I picture it: the room, lit up by delicate, romantic strings of fairy lights, filled with all of my favourite people. Sparkling drinks. Sparkling eyes. I see their faces light up as they pick up their first hard copy of it. I hear my dad promising to read it, even though he probably won't get past chapter three without wincing at the emotion of it all. I see my mum's look of horror at the sex scene that she just so happens to open it at. My best friends are sprawled across each other on the well-loved brown leather sofa in the corner: the air between them filled with laughter and the smell of free Prosecco. My boyfriend's there too, watching me, quietly, proudly, in that way he does sometimes.
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Friday, 20 May 2016

An ending


I can still picture him now. He was in his fifties, perhaps: grey hair limp against the pillow, creased hands wearing the scars of time, fingertips, those fingertips, never again to feel the warmth of another, never again to dance across the skin of a lover, never again to reach out and point towards a spectacular night sky. His fingertips.
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