Oh. So you’ve found me.

Bit bold, don’t you think? Just wandering into my quiet corner of the internet like it’s not sacred ground for emotional debris and semi-dramatic life processing. You’re a nosy Parker, aren’t you? (It’s fine. I’d have clicked too.) This wasn’t really supposed to be your business — and yet here you are, rifling through the drawers of my digital brain like it’s a car boot sale and you’re hoping to find a sentence that’ll spiritually maim you. Respectfully.

Well. You’ve seen enough now, so I suppose you’re in it. Welcome to the club. What club, you ask? Honestly… couldn’t tell you. Maybe it’s the “overthinks everything but looks calm in public” club. Or the “high-functioning spiral with a good eye for metaphors” club. Or the one where we’re all just feeling too much and writing through it like that’ll fix anything. (Spoiler: it doesn’t. But it helps.)

This is my non-taboo, very unfiltered, slightly feral side-Substack. Not Taboo + Toast, where I scream about systems and society and patriarchy and girlhood like I’m emotionally possessed by a radical feminist poltergeist. No — this is just… me. Writing about life. About the mess. About all the strange, quiet, unmarketable things that don’t fit in a thesis or a TikTok caption but still deserve a voice.

You'll find things like:

✸ Life updates no one asked for but are now emotionally invested in
✸ Diary entries I pretend are essays
✸ Notes App monologues with semi-functioning punctuation
✸ Voicey rambles about grief, joy, shame, weird timing, and too many feelings
✸ Chaotic personal stories with bad decisions and beautiful metaphors
✸ Unsolicited advice (less agony aunt, more emotionally chaotic older sister in a blanket)
✸ Reflections that don’t belong in Taboo + Toast but still feel like they matter

Since Taboo + Toast started doing unexpectedly well (which I still can’t say out loud without cringing and whispering “I’m not like, a newsletter person…”), I’ve had a lot of people say they love my writing. That my voice makes them feel seen. That I say the thing they were almost brave enough to say. That they want more of me — not just the cultural commentary, but the messy, deeply human stuff underneath it.

And the truth is… I’m avoidant. I don’t actually like people knowing too much about me. (Which is hilarious considering I’ve published 3,000-word essays about emotional repression and crying over hot chocolates.)

But somehow, writing all this down has become a kind of exposure therapy.

And apparently — you lot like it when I’m honest.

So I’m keeping this space. It’s my quiet little club. And maybe soon, I’ll be adding a paid section — for the people who want the really raw things. The voice notes I record at 2am. The deeper, darker, stranger essays I’m still scared to post. The stuff that feels more like a secret than a story.

For now, though — welcome.

You're here. You’ve seen too much.

You might as well stay.