I can’t quite pinpoint a specific moment. It crept up on me post-COVID lockdowns and restrictions, like an insidious bug that doesn’t knock you fully flat but slowly, persistently, robs you of your vitals. It was small things at first – a choking panic over an unexpected bill; forgetting to collect my son from training; howling with inflated anguish when a bottle of over-fermented beetroot juice exploded, instantly redecorating the kitchen a ceilingto-floor homicide red.
But the turning point was probably an otherwise ordinary commute home. “Miss, please, this is the last stop …Miss?!” Stepping into the blustering southerly jolted me out of my sleep fog and stung my cheeks with shame. I was so exhausted I had missed my stop for the second time this week. Surely, this was not normal?
But so many women I speak to, regardless of whether they have children or a demanding job or elderly parents (or all or none of
