I remember watching a video on YouTube a good few years ago by Alexa Losey. It was titled 'A Letter To All The Boys I've Loved', and even though my 17 year old self turned my nose up at that - I had nothing better to do so I decided to watch it.

I had never been in love before, or even had a boyfriend (aside from the boy you'd hold hands with in the playground in year 7), and expected a video depicting all the highs and lows of a relationship. However, this was different. Alexa's video didn't just talk about romantic relationships - she spoke about family, about friends. She did it in an ambiguous way, never specifically saying names - and, whilst I know it'll never be as beautiful and heartfelt as hers, I am attempting to do replicate this today. (If you fancy watching, which I totally recommend you do - here's the link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBP7jJspHuw

Here's my version - 'To All The Boys I've Loved and Lost'.

To the first,
Losing you was, and will always be, the most painful thing I will ever endure. I miss everything about you - your infectious smile, your laugh, the kindness of you heart. I still wake up and hope its all been a horrific dream, but then reality sets into place. I want you back, even just to see your face one last time - but I know that that will never happen. My eyes close at night, and all I see is your face. Your long eyelashes, your smattering of freckles.

I wish with my whole heart you were still here, and I know that's for purely selfish reasons. I want you to give me advice and hug me when it seems like everything in the entire world is going wrong - which happens more than often these days. I want you to resent the boys who break my heart, and promise me that no matter what, you never will. I want you to realise that my insides still scream, wishing it was me who was gone - not you. I want you at my wedding, smiling at the sidelines and comforted by the fact that I'd found someone who loves me just as much as you do. Just as much as you did.

Losing you was the becoming of me, I had to fight harder than any battle not to let my world become clouded with grief and despair. I had to fight for happiness, yet I still don't feel worthy of it. It's as though every good thing is overshadowed with this overwhelming guilt that I can't seem to shake off. Why do I get to experience all these great things - University, having fun with my friends, going on holiday with our family - when all of that was ripped away from you?

All this unfairness, all this anger. I feel it simmering inside of me, and I don't know what to do with it. It's been almost two and a half years, and I'm not quite sure I'll ever stop yearning for your presence. Whether I'll ever stop being so unbearably sad without it.

I love you, and I always will.


To the second,
You were my everything. In times of grief, you'd be the one to pick me up and encourage me that I'm a lot stronger than I think. Making you proud was absolutely everything to me - it still is. We had a special bond, the only way I can describe it is like this;

I doubted myself for years, I still do. You saw something inside of me that no one else seemed to. You saw the intelligence and the potential that was hidden by the insecurities and the crippling self doubt. You made me shine, and I miss your encouragement and approval with every ounce of my being.

I wouldn't be where I am today without you, I know that for a fact. The only reason I'm here is because I started to believe in myself - I started to realise that my talents and dreams didn't have to be the same as everyone else's. The way your eyes would light up when you'd see me gave me a purpose, and losing that hurts me beyond belief.

It all happened so quick, time ran out faster than I could ever begin to comprehend. That's the problem with humanity - we always think we have so much time, when time is the one thing that we don't have.

I miss your grumpy face, and watching the joy in your face when you'd eat dessert. I miss being someone's favourite person.

Thank you for always being the light in my life.


To the third,
It hurts me to write this. Part of me doesn't want to. I don't want to feel the things that I've tried so hard to repress. I don't want to admit that the hurt is still there, and that I feel like it always will be.

I'm angry at you, but more so at myself. For giving someone else the power to hurt me - when I knew I couldn't handle it. It's funny isn't it, how it's the people who you never think will hurt you - always end up hurting you the most.

Because there's a feeling that comes with rejection - and that is inadequacy. I've lay in bed countless times wondering why I wasn't good enough, replaying situations in my head and thinking about what I could've done differently.

I can't bring myself to delete the pictures and the silly videos I have of us on my phone, and whenever I accidentally stumble upon them I feel my heart break a million times over again.

I've tried everything to stop thinking about you - distractions, other people. It all just feels like one big show. I can't pretend not to be hurting, when it's all I'm ever doing. Loving you was the greatest, but also the most painful thing I ever did. I guess you can't keep putting plasters on someone else's scraped knees, when your own legs are broken.

I'm not going to say I wish I'd never met you, because that is so far from the truth. You made me happier than I felt I'd ever been before, and for that I'll always be grateful. Without realising, you filled the void of pain - at least for a little while.

I could never be entirely open with you, and for that I apologise profusely. I'm sorry that I couldn't open up and let you in. I guess that's what pushed you away - and whilst I'll never know the full truth, that's going to remain my educated guess.

The truth is, I know I need to be alone for a while. It's unfair to let someone else in when you know in your heart that you're not ready for it. I thought I was - and maybe that's true - but I wasn't ready for the ending. I've lost people in more horrific circumstances, yet this one affected me more than I was prepared for.

Apparently it takes getting everything you've ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is, and I guess that's the brutal truth. I want to be alone for enough time to feel settled and comfortable in myself, and I can't do that with someone else depending on me.

Maybe our paths will cross again someday, and by then the pain will have disappeared - or, at least, subsided. Thank you for giving me a taste of what true happiness is, even if it was only for a short time.

I will always want the best for you.

Thank you so much for reading, I promise I'll write about something happy one day.

Love,
Grace x

As a sibling, you live with the notion that you'd move mountains for your brother or sister. Due to tragic circumstances, and the impossible nature of a metaphor - I decided to walk them instead. 

I think everyone who has taken part in climbing the Yorkshire Three Peaks will admit that it is most certainly a challenge - and, if not, you must be some sort of superhero. Not only was the 12 hour trek a difficulty in itself, but waking up at 5am was the icing on an already monstrous cake.

5am, the time my sister (Alice) and I are usually returning home from a night on the town, yet this Saturday morning we were awakening in our bunk beds to the harsh shrill of the alarm clock. Whilst I had anticipated that I would be tired and delirious, and - to put it politely - a little on the moody side, this was certainly not the case as I awoke full of nervous energy and excitement for the challenge that lay before us.

My mother, the most organised and excitable person I know, had arranged for us all to wear matching t-shirts and bandanas sporting the Brain Tumour Charity logo. Our team of ten (fabulous) women arrived at the foot of the mountain looking like a rather large girl band - except none of us could sing or dance (especially by the end of the 12 hours!).

I wish I could sit here and write that it started off gently, easing us into the first mountain - yet that was hardly the case. From the get go we were ascending uphill which was made rather difficult due to two key factors - the first one being how early it was in the morning (I can assure you that I don't usually start my day by plummeting up mountains), and the second (and most important) factor being my giddy mother shouting (and expecting a) 'GROUP PHOTO' every five minutes. Or so it seemed, I have been told that I do sometimes have the tendency to exaggerate every so slightly ...

When we arrived at the top of the first mountain, I think I can speak for us all when I say we were thanking our lucky stars that we were still alive. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure it was at the point where we were having to scramble up rocks bigger than ourselves to reach the top of Pen-y-ghent when I realised that perhaps this was going to be a bit more than 'walking up and down a couple of hills'.

The first peak was out of the way, and we were all on a high - with adrenaline cursing through our bodies, we were ready to take on the next. We plodded along, and along - oh, and along! - for what seemed like days, months, years. I was starting to become convinced that I would be finishing this walk sporting grey hair and a walking stick (the latter wasn't too far wrong) - it genuinely seemed like an eternity had passed before we reached the base of Whernside.

When walking, especially uphill, I have the tendency to speed on ahead - wanting to reach the top as quickly as possible, without having time to think about the aching muscles in my legs, or the blisters on my feet. Upon reaching the top of Whernside, I was ready for a sit down - which, due to the steepest plummet downhill I have ever encountered in my life, happened upon descending the mountain.

Much to my mother's concern, which - worryingly - was only directed towards the new jacket I'd purchased especially for the occasion, I managed to survive falling over and sliding down the mountain without breaking any bones, suffering any major injuries or - more importantly - ripping my jacket.

After we all made it to the bottom safe and alive, we began our journey towards Ingleborough. I know I'm right in saying that we were all beginning to have had enough by now. I think we were all expecting to saunter through this challenge laughing and chatting away - which, of course, we did - but there came a point when even Lindsey Upton stopped talking, and that's when I began to worry.

I kept mind setting that there was just one more mountain to go, and then I'd finally have accomplished a challenge that I was so desperate to achieve. It was at this point where I began to summon strength from different places and my mind began to wander to the strongest sense of courage and determination I have ever witnessed - that of my brother, Luke.

I don't want to make this post sad and heart wrenching, because the experience of the Yorkshire Three Peaks was anything but that, yet I can't ignore the reason why I, and the nine other remarkable women I was walking alongside, were putting ourselves through this strenuous task.

Luke was, and will always continue to be, the strongest person I have ever met. The things he was exposed to, and experienced, from such a young age were horrifying - and things that no one should ever have to go through, especially not at fifteen years old. No matter how tough it got, Luke would always fight it with a smile on his face - and in times when I need it most, I think about this and take both strength and inspiration from it.

Despite it being the most horrific couple of years, I know that I have changed in many positive ways. I look at things differently to how I know I would've if none of this had happened, and everything is met with a perspective that an abundance of people are so lucky not to have. In times where I am struggling, I look at the wider picture and almost laugh at myself for how ridiculous I am being - a couple of blisters and muscle pain doesn't even come close to what my beautiful brother went through, and during the walk I kept reminding myself of this. My ultimate goal in life is to make Luke proud, and I truly felt like I was doing that - which spurred me on even more.

With this in mind, I hurtled towards Ingleborough - yet we all stopped in our tracks when we saw what lay before us. Again, like my brother, my sister Alice is of the strong and determined kind - but even she faltered a little upon seeing the steepness of rocks we needed to clamber up in order to reach the top of the third, and final, peak.

Clutching jelly babies in our hands, and determination cursing through our veins, we all began to clamber up the rocks. Grown men were struggling, particularly the ones who had thought they were invincible and chugged countless pints the night before, yet we all managed to succeed in reaching the top.

Powered by adrenaline and sheer delight, I turned around to everyone and (rather smugly) stated that I was having a great time and would definitely do this again. It was typical that I didn't think before I spoke, and it definitely came to bite me in the buttocks later on.

What I had failed to realise was that after reaching the summit, there was a long journey to the finish line. As each step became more and more painful, I began to realise just how tired I truly was. Climbing three mountains isn't something that I am used to, especially not in the space of 12 hours. The journey to the end seemed like it was never ending, and I hold my hands up and admit that I limped and hobbled my way to the finish line - something which I know Luke would've been laughing at from above.

The relief upon finishing was a feeling which I am yet to put into words, but as I looked round at the exhausted but proud faces of our amazing 'Yorkie Three Peak' team, I was met with an overwhelming sense of happiness. We had done it! Despite the blisters which were the size of babies heads, the numb feeling in our legs and the sheer and painful exhaustion, we had set our minds to the challenge - and we had completed it!

I will always look back on that weekend with fondness and happiness, knowing that I have achieved something because I truly set my mind to it. However, I not only owe that to the 'mind over matter' eros, but also to the support from the people walking alongside me. My mum (Lynne), Alice and our friends Ellie, Anna, Clare, Amanda, Lindsey, Frances and Sally are all the most upbeat and encouraging people - who we know we are so lucky to be surrounded by, and who we couldn't have done this without.

Despite their own hardships, they have continued to support us - not only on this trek, but also throughout the past couple of years.

Among us all, we managed to hit our target of raising £2,500 for the Brain Tumour Charity - and I can't even begin to thank the lovely people who donated enough. Knowing that I have done something in order to raise money to fund critical research into a disease which is so horrendous, is an absolute honour - and whilst at the time I swore I'd never do anything like this again, I know I'd do it 1,000 times over if it meant both raising money, and also honouring my beautiful brother Luke.

Now, here's to the next challenge!

Thank you so much for reading.

Love,
Grace x 

Religion. It's a subject which only recently I have found myself becoming vocal about. Whilst there's no doubt that I was brought up in the thick of it; my father's side a strong Irish Catholic, my mother's an opposing Protestant, it never equated to me being particularly passionate about it.

I had the full hog: a Christening; Confirmation; Sunday School and expected to attend the service most Sunday's. Whether it was the words which were spoken, or the fact that it was something I was forced to attend - going to Church became associated with a chore-like task, and something that I most definitely wasn't interested in.

Don't get me wrong, there was always one aspect which I truly adored - and that was the people who attended. I longed for the service to end so that I could chat to the congregation, and answer their questions of how school was going and what I was up to - not because they were making small talk or felt obliged to do so, but because they were genuinely interested in what I had to say.

It was the community feel of the Church which I enjoyed, and still to this day nothing makes my day more than bumping into one of the familiar faces on the street, and catching up on all that has changed since I last attended the 10am service on a Sunday morning.

However, then everything changed. I'm sure most of you will be aware of what I am alluding to here, and for this reason I hope this post isn't viewed as offensive - as it is simply my opinion, and one that I truly believe I have a right to have.

When people go through hard times, some of them tend to cling to God in the hope that He will help them see the light - that he has a big plan as to why what's happened has occurred. They lean on this benevolent figure to guide them through their pain and find a meaning to their suffering.

I'm not going to pretend like I wasn't originally one of those people. When I found out the news that the life of someone who was supposed to lead a long and happy one by my side was about to be cut short, I tried everything to diminish the power of the inevitable.

I prayed for miracles: I prayed for the possibility of a wrong diagnosis; for extra time - I even prayed for time reversal which would involve me being the one who was dying, and not the person who was so utterly undeserving of it. I tried everything I could, and when nothing worked I began to become very angry and bitter at the world. The thought that there was someone controlling this, and making us suffer in this kind of severity that we were, and are, led me to overpowering resentment - one that I still feel to this day.

I have been asked whether I blame God for what has happened, and my answer is simply no. Mainly because I don't believe he exists. I think it would be much more offensive for me to push the blame onto someone, as it is to not believe in them. However, because of this, the blame is pushed onto myself. Trust me, I would completely love to push this soul - crushing guilt onto someone, or something, else in order to not have to feel it anymore - but I can't. I can't pretend to have faith in an ideology when nothing about it seems like the truth, and I don't see why I should have to apologise for, or feel bad about, that.

Yet, then comes the issue of heaven. Whilst I would love nothing more than to believe that all my loved ones are reunited up in the sky, it's something that no matter how hard I attempt to conjure it up, I truly cannot be convinced. I remember sitting in a councillor's office and being asked what I believe happens when we die. Before I even had the chance to think properly, I answered by saying that I believe we live the same life over and over again, in different Universes, and in different instances of time.

Whilst I uttered these words long before any of what was meant to be occurred, it's an ideology that still to this day I take great comfort in, and has helped me so much throughout the grieving process. The thought that somewhere, in an alternate Universe, I am still experiencing the most wonderful childhood with my beautiful brother and sister is one which keeps me going on the hardest of days, and something that I know I will forever cherish.

However, on the other hand I have to address my political conflicts with the idea of God.  In a conversation with my fantastic friend Ella Baxter, I was recommended a film called 'I am Michael' (which is on Netflix, if you are interested in watching ... I completely recommend that you do).

The film follows Michael Glatze, who was one of the most recognised gay activists in America. Upon starting his own magazine for young gay men, campaigning for gay rights and speaking in Universities about normalising gay culture, he began to start experiencing panic attacks so severe that he was convinced he was going to die. As I mentioned before, the hard times are when people seem to turn to God, and this is exactly what Glatze did. As he became more invested in the teachings of the bible, he began to question his own sexuality - concluding that he's been living a lie, proceeding to very publicly announce that he has changed, and that being gay is a sin.

One thing which struck me as particularly important in this story is that Michael couldn't simply be gay and a Christian, instead he had to choose one or the other.

Whilst this occurrence was over a decade ago, and I would love nothing more than to believe that society has significantly improved since then, I am aware that it hasn't completely. Still to this day, there is a stigma surrounding homosexual couples and religion, and the thought of that exasperates me. Churches drill into us from a young age to 'love thy neighbour as thyself', yet is this only to be evokes if 'thy neighbour[s]' are Adam and Eve-esque figures; a white, heterosexual, Christian couple?

I believe what angers, and worries, me the most is that the Bible is interpreted in a way which typically projects Western values, and if impressionable figures are led to believe from a young age that this book is 'The Word of God', then we can never truly amount to social change. How are we expected to reform society when the next generations are being held back by teachings which fail to include and celebrate the minorities?

The truth is, and to put this bluntly, I don't believe in Capitalism, I don't believe in social hierarch, and I don't believe in idolisation, so I most definitely do not believe (or want to believe) that there's a dominant force in the sky dictating and controlling human life. I think a problem with religion is that people believe it provides us with answers when, really, we're asking the wrong kinds of questions.


Thank you for reading,

Love,
Grace x

I haven't written on here for what feels like an eternity, and instead of conjuring up an excuse - I'm just going to be brutally honest ... life got in the way. I'm not going to act like I haven't missed this, in fact it's been soul destroying and there have been many occasions where I've grabbed my laptop and tried to force myself to write something - yet ended up staring at a blank screen for what felt like hours until I admitted defeat and gave up.

On September 17th 2017, I started a new chapter in my life; otherwise known as University. If you remember my previous posts, you will be aware that for the longest time I 'ummed' and 'ahhhd' over whether I wanted to take this direction, or whether I wanted to be thrust into the working world - following my dreams through experience and graft as opposed to the academic route.

However, after much deliberation - which involved tears, stress and finger nail biting (disgusting behaviour, I'm sorry) - I finally decided that this was the option for me. And, on that hideous day in August, I was accepted into a Leeds University - and, truly, I don't think I've ever been happier.

So, fast forward a month or so - and here I was! The day before had been traumatic, we had dropped my sister off (which, if it wasn't bad enough that my best friend of 18 years was being torn apart from me, we were leaving her in HULL *shivers*) (if anyone who is reading this is from Hull, I can only apologise).

My mum and dad came to drop me off, and instead of the emotional goodbye that they were expecting - I practically kicked them out the door. I was finally independent - and boy, was I ready. A large glass of wine later, and I'm knocking on my flatmates doors - ready to suss out the kind of people I was going to be living with.

The first few days were weird, I have to admit. I had high expectations, yet reality didn't seem to fulfil them. Don't get me wrong, I met some absolutely lovely people - and the fresh start was truly what I needed ; yet I completely underestimated how homesick I would actually be. This was the first time I have EVER felt truly alone, and without being all doom and gloom - for the first couple of weeks I didn't know if I was ready to be.

What made it worse was seeing how much fun everyone else seemed to be having - and for this sole reason, alongside many others of course, I believe that social media truly is a curse. Here I was sat in my room, feeling completely lonely and - to put it lightly - down, whilst scrolling through Instagram, Facebook and Snapchat to see everyone else having the time of their lives.

My mum must've been completely sick of me - I would ring her almost every night asking pointless questions such as 'What've you had for tea?', 'What've you done today?' and 'What are you doing tomorrow?', and she was most definitely having a better time than me - gallivanting around Cheshire with my Dad which they referred to as 'Date Nights' yet most definitely was covering up the fact that they were celebrating as they had finally gotten rid of us.

So, like all bad times - things did begin to get better. Once I stopped EXPECTING to be having the time of my life, I finally began to. My course started, and I fell in love with it - further reinforcing that this truly was the decision for me. I began to make new friends, start doing things I truly enjoy and go out ... a lot. And as I got speaking to various different people, I realised that everything I had felt during Freshers Week was completely common and normal - which truly was a great relief to hear.

Throughout this period, if there's one thing I've realised - it's that you can't be friends with everyone you meet. Sure, you can have a good attempt at it - but you're not going to click and find a connection with every person you encounter, and that's just life. Eventually you will meet your kind of people if you're patient and put yourself out of your comfort zone - I promise you.

Things may also surprise you too - you may bump into old friends in the most unlikely of places. One thing that I most certainly never saw coming was being reunited with a group I had met in Magaluf on a girls' holiday (classy, I know) - it truly is such a small world.

The September - December semester was one which I thought was going to feel like a lifetime, yet whizzed by and instead felt like days. However, the mass alcohol consumption, daily list of chores and chronic fatigue meant that I was ready to come home and be treated like a Princess by my family (yet, admittedly, I am still waiting for this to happen.)

But, once I was home - it wasn't how I expected. Don't get me wrong, seeing my family and friends again was everything I had hoped for and more ; but it just felt kind of ... strange? It's amazing how quickly you become accustomed to a certain way of life, a new list of habits - and to have all this flipped upside down was a weird dynamic. When you're at Uni, you're missing your home life and your loved ones - but when you're at Home you're missing your Uni life and friends ... there really is no win-win situation.

So, to sum up the past 4 months or so of my life - there have most definitely been some extreme lows, but many extreme highs. I have learnt so much about myself, things that I hadn't realised prior to this experience - the main one of these being that no matter how much I often feel like I'm not; I am strong, resilient and capable of getting through some extremely shitty (pardon the french) times.

I am always hopeful of a better future, and although these Christmas holidays have been heart wrenching, emotionally draining and brought with them a fresh set of grief (due to family circumstances), I know that like all negative aspects of my life, if I'm patient I will get through it.

This post was most definitely not written to scare or put off anyone who is yet to embark on their University experience, instead it was my way of showing that feeling homesick, lonely, frustrated and fed up - no matter how ready you think you are - is all completely normal. People don't realise that it's a lot of change coming all at once - and for it to be a shock to the system is natural. (And for those people who haven't experienced any of this - you GO GIRL (or boy) ... you must have balls of steel).

Thank you so much for reading, and I really do AIM to have my weekly blog post schedule back (if I don't, you have full permission to shout at me!).

Love,
Grace x