In the full-swing of my awkward teenage years, the worst possible thing anyone could say to me was ‘oh, you’ll be fine, just be yourself!’ I’d swiftly descend into an internal vortex, thinking ‘but I don’t know who ‘myself’ IS? So how do I BE her?’ And the harder I tried to ‘be myself’ the more awkward (and weird) I’d feel myself becoming. 

Oh, puberty. Thankfully the days of dodgy undercuts, green eyeshadow, rebelling against nothing in particular and that heady mix of hormones are (mostly) in the past. But there are still times I catch myself pondering this same question: Who am I? Who am I, aside from the role of mother, daughter, partner, sister, friend? Who am I, if not the person society has been telling me for 40 years that I am? And who would I be if I hadn’t had that (fill in your own experience) happen to me? 

When I was 18, I decided I wanted to write a novel. I had an idea for a plot, I was studying English Literature and I was blessed with that kind of gung-ho ‘how hard can it be?’ self-assurance of (very) early adulthood.

It wasn’t the right time. I had absolutely no idea who I was. My life experience was minimal and my writing experience was largely based on A-Level Shakespeare essays. But fast forward 20+ years to where I have a marginally better idea of who I am, a lot more life experience and can safely say I’ve forgotten everything I learnt about Shakespeare—and I STILL haven’t got got round to writing that book. It’s not that I don’t want to. In fact, it’s been bugging me pretty much every day since then. I’ve talked about it a lot, I’ve planned to make a start many times, but I’ve resisted doing anything about it.

The physical fall-out of birth (pun intended) brought in its wake a whole host of associated emotional and psychological challenges. When your vital organs are sliding out, it’s not only uncomfortable and sometimes painful, it’s also incredibly demoralising. You don’t feel good. Or strong. The most basic and unavoidable daily tasks (lifting a toddler onto a bike, carrying shopping, climbing the stairs) become a huge ordeal. You don’t feel confident. Or attractive. Or relaxed enough to have - or enjoy – sex as you could previously. You can’t exercise to improve your mood. So you feel sad. And angry. And desperate to find a solution. 

A few years ago I was invited to Kuwait to run a workshop for a group of doctors who wanted to polish up their writing skills. I accepted with alacrity, and a few weeks later found myself in a Business Class seat (first and last time I’ve turned left entering a plane) hurtling through the sky towards my exotic destination. But once the initial excitement of the situation had worn off - ‘look how big this TV is!’, ‘this seat turns into an actual BED’ and ‘YES I certainly will have a glass of champagne’ - I started to get a familiar sinking feeling that perhaps this was all a BIG mistake.

Who am I to be talking to a bunch of doctors about writing? I don’t know anything about medicine. Or about writing scientific papers. I do know some things about writing…don’t  I? But can I really call myself an expert? ALSO, I look and sound like a 14-year-old. I don’t have a suit, should I wear I suit? And I’ve got to run this workshop for 2 HOURS!? 

Towards the end of February 2020, I was sitting in a swanky cafe in Amsterdam with my two-month-old daughter, Aimi. I was surreptitiously and not very successfully trying to breastfeed whilst also attempting to eat an unwanted mezze platter and half-hold a conversation with my sister. At the next table was another new mum sporting perfectly applied red lips and a perfectly pressed white shirt (white!) sipping a cappuccino and chatting to a friend as her baby slept obligingly in its fancy stroller. I was dumbfounded: how on earth did she make it look so easy? And at that moment, Aimi chose to deliver what my partner and I came to refer to as a ‘back poo’ – an outflux so catastrophic that it made it all the way up to her neckline. As I struggled inexpertly to deal with the consequences on an inadequate changing table in the café’s inadequate loo, I thought to myself ‘I WISH I could have a few months just staying at home, without needing to go out and without any visitors coming in.’

And then March 2020 happened. Without claiming that I single-handedly conjured up global lockdown over that changing table, the timing did feel uncanny.

My daughter was almost three months old when the global pandemic was declared. And, well – you know the rest. Schools, shops, cafes, gyms, cinemas, restaurants were all shut. Words and phrases like ‘self-isolating’ and ‘social distancing’ invaded our vocabulary and were even parachuted into the Oxford Dictionary as emergency new entries. And as our usual activities, busy-ness and distractions were progressively taken away, we found ourselves left with a little bit too much time with ourselves. Mentally, emotionally, practically, spiritually – we were not prepared for this. What were we to do now?

I had it all figured out. I was going to quit my well-paid corporate job in Amsterdam and go to Sicily to complete a poetry workshop with a prestigious American writing school. After that, I was going to go and finish a (bestselling, obvs) book of poems from the tropical lushness of Bali, where I had been accepted to complete a month-long sabbatical with an organisation for creatives and individuals looking to shake up their status quo. I would then move back to the UK as an award-winning poet (and kick-ass surfer with a killer tan) where I would train to become a Writing Therapist and coach, and hopefully meet the perfect man to settle down with. I was finally embarking on the quest to become the best and shiniest version of myself that had so long felt out of reach. I love a good plan, and this plan was perfect!  

I’m trying to think of what to say to the person in front of me. I feel sweaty and shy, insecure about my acne-spattered skin and uncomfortable in my bulging and increasingly wobbling body. Suddenly I feel like I have nothing at all to say. Who am I? Why can’t I be me? Who even is me? I want the floor to swallow me up. I want to hide under my duvet eating crisps. I want my mum. 

And no, I am not 13. I am 37 - and pregnant. 

But short of having an undercut and locking myself in my bedroom blasting out Radiohead and angrily burning incense sticks, the feelings between the transition to adulthood and the transition to motherhood are remarkably similar. Existential, emotional, hormonal, physical angst. Soaring, aspirational highs and wailing, irrational lows. Hair in unwanted places, sore boobs and a willingness to spend all my disposable income on Clean & Clear. It’s puberty 2.0.

On a recent mini break (remember those?!) the owner of the Airbnb where we were staying had a large barking dog that I immediately clocked. Within a matter of seconds, a series of catastrophes played out in my mind involving lost limbs, rabies, blood-stained clothes and potential lawsuits.

You see I am afraid of big dogs. On a family camping holiday when I was four, my brother and sister both got bitten by a bad-tempered collie and I have a clear memory ‘snapshot’ of the three of us pegging it back to the tent in terror. Fast-forward 34 years, and while I’m better able to talk myself down from the initial overblown response, I can nonetheless still feel the fear in my body.

The funny thing about travelling on a shoestring is that it induces a shoestring mentality.

You find yourself sacrificing sanity and comfort in favour of lunacy and infestation for a meagre £3.50 — a sum you would cheerfully spend on a skinny-wet-latte in London but which, for a first-class upgrade in India, feels like profligacy.

So we book ourselves second-class sleeper tickets for the 36-hour train ride from Mumbai to Calcutta, smugly priding ourselves on our thrift and willingness to embrace the Authentic Indian Experience.