Moots, mum and mutts.

Today I received my results for completing my first year as a law student . I know I only studied part-time, but it still felt like a real achievement. And let me tell you — it was an anxious time. This wasn’t just results day. No, no. It was also Transition Day at work — when little Year 6 primary pupils swarm into our comprehensive school like wide-eyed meerkats, trying to figure out what a Bunsen burner does and whether I’m a teacher or a scary dinner lady. Normally, I love that day. It’s exciting and busy and I thrive off the energy. But this morning , their delightful neediness was unbearable. I just wanted one minute to log into the university portal and check if I had made it . Before leaving the house, I’d sent a good luck message to my co-mooters (we’re basically a team of courtroom gladiators now), wishing them amazing results. But as the morning went on and my phone buzzed like a toddler on a sugar high, my nerves started to rattle . By lunchtime — after multiple l...

The reason I wanted to study law in the first place was to understand how the system works. I had been on the receiving end of sex discrimination. I lost my job, my place in the community, and was cast aside by people who chose to listen to old men in positions of power rather than those who truly serve the community and have its best interests at heart. The fight was bitter. It was unfair. But I believed in my case. I refused to let my daughter see a mother who backed down. I am a strong woman. I am a mother. And I was raised by a strong mother who taught me to stand up for what is right. So, after two years of thinking about that courtroom—of living and breathing the details of my case—I won. And now, it’s time to let it go. It’s time to move on and look at the future I might have in the legal world. The truth is, I am capable of so much. Yet society tried to tell me who I should be. When I stepped outside that mould, I was shamed. Guilt-tripped. Silenced. But society is chang...

  The Power of a New Haircut ( or how I accidentally became fabulous again ) The last time I had a proper haircut—like, sit-in-a-chair-and-be-transformed level—was probably somewhere around 1998. Back when my biggest responsibility was deciding whether to go out-out or just stay in with a good book. Since then? Kids. Life. Bills. And a deep-rooted belief that paying actual money just to remove dead bits of myself (i.e. hair) was… unnecessary. But I was wrong. So very wrong. After what felt like months of pure exhaustion (but was apparently only two weeks), my beloved family staged a gentle intervention: “Go get your hair done,” they said. “You're starting to blend in with the laundry basket,” they said. Charming. So, I called my local hairdresser’s, secretly hoping they’d be fully booked until at least 2027. But no. “Can you come in at 10?” they said. It was 9:01. I panicked. I showered. I considered faking an allergic reaction. Then I went. Now, don’t get me wrong...