The existential crisis of Autumn

Season of missed planes and twenty twenty hindsight

I’m back. Thanks for bearing with me while I took a much needed break. You might remember that my deadline for Ultra Processed Women was the end of July, so in early July I paused subscriptions on this substack to allow me to completely focus on the seemingly impossible task of getting tens of thousands of well-researched words over the line in time. July was…intense. As well as the usual chaos of three kids and their social whirl of a summer term drawing to a close, I was at my laptop from dawn til dusk, seven days a week, in a state of terrible panic. My imposter syndrome was full throttle; I was tired and overwhelmed, my head swimming with a mix of information and doubt in my own abilities. If only I could go back and tell myself that I was going to make it. Only just - and there is still work to be done - but I made it. In hindsight, I should have known I would - I always do.

August, once the manuscript was filed, turned out to be filled with further lessons in hindsight. We took a family holiday - I was determined we would as I had been dreaming of warm crystal clear waters the whole time I’d been sat at my desk, wrapped in a duvet, writing, panicking, writing. Our flight was at 6.30am from London, no mean feat as we live about 3 hours from the airport. But - we left on time, in the dead of night, all tired but excited, and then…we only went and bloody missed the plane? Have you ever missed a plane? If you want to feel your heart falling all the way down through your stomach, into your boots and then watch it running around the departure lounge, screaming like a toddler whilst you stand, open-mouthed, all the blood drained from your face, trying not to cry because you’re a grown up, I highly recommend it. It’s quite unique in the oh-my-god-you-are-joking-this-can’t-be-happening stakes.

After the sound of splattering shit hitting the fan in your brain has subsided, the next wave takes the form of hindsight as clear as those crystal waters you were supposed to be heading for, but now may never see. In painful slow motion over the next few hours, days - and particularly during your 3am menopause crisis meetings with yourself - you will endlessly replay the trip to the airport and your progress through each queue and security check and be able to see with perfect focus why you and only you are the world’s biggest dumbass. Of course, you will also remember that you weren’t helped by the family in the baggage check area who caused quite a hold-up by packing several jars of chutney and a ceremonial sword in their hand luggage. But you will realise that you can’t really blame them, because it’s ALL YOUR FAULT. In hindsight, you should have left half an hour earlier.