Moots, mum and mutts.

  Having completed my last assignment for Year 2 of my Law degree, I should be feeling elated and excited to finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I remember this stage well last year, and how relieved and excited I was to buy my new box file, tidy all my notes, and proudly place them on my shelf. But this year, I just feel sadness. This year has been hard. Not in the sense that studying itself has been challenging, but in almost every other aspect of my chaotic life. Managing my youngest son’s anaphylaxis, his health conditions, relentless appointments, and school has been tough. And then there was my husband’s own battle with his health, which grounded us last summer and made us realise just how fragile our little world really was. Recovery has been long and difficult for him, not just physically, but emotionally too. Losing a broken part of yourself means letting go of the image of perfection you once had of your own body and youth. Our older children have all had thei...

For my Law on Trial module, I have to write three essays on various topics, each one challenging where the law stands and asking what I truly think of it. I had been so eager to dive into this module. The subject matter is rich, controversial, and meaningful. The kind of work that, in my mind, should produce something powerful, something memorable, something that might even change the way people think. And yet, with only a week until submission, I feel more deflated than inspired. I read back over my essays and feel disappointed. Disappointed in my prose, in my analysis, in the way I’ve expressed myself. In my head, these essays should be exceptional, but on the page, they feel… plain. Almost lifeless. The kind of writing that makes me want to shut my laptop and throw it out of the nearest window. In a small moment of hope, I signed up for a workshop with one of my favourite lecturers, Claire. Even walking in, I felt that familiar knot of imposter syndrome tightening, convinced I was...

  The last two days felt like a dream. Fast, vivid… and slightly incoherent, like one of those dreams where you’re late for something but don’t know what. Yesterday was the pathway double lecture. Every module tutor came in, proudly presenting their subject like it was the best thing since sliced bread (and to be fair, some of them almost convinced me). We were told what was essential, what was optional… and what would likely break us. Being part-time, I still have ten modules to go. Ten. Somewhere between “core” and “optional,” I had that familiar thought: the end is still very, very far away… Naturally, my brain did what it does best, spiral productively. Could I do it in two years instead of three? Would I survive the workload? Would my family still recognise me? The answer remains… unclear. So, in a moment of bold optimism (or mild panic), I booked a meeting with our course leader. Because three years ago, I would never have imagined being this far into a law degree, let alone ...

  Yesterday, Parliament passed what has been widely referred to as Benedict’s Law , requiring schools to implement clear allergy policies and ensure staff receive proper training. For many people, this will sound like a sensible safeguarding reform. For families like ours, it feels far more personal. Our youngest son Fred is four. Since he was a baby, he has lived with severe allergies. Last term alone he suffered two anaphylactic reactions at school . Those are words that no parent ever wants to write, let alone live through. When you have a child with life-threatening allergies, daily life changes in ways that most people never see. Shopping lists change. Kitchens change. Birthday parties become complicated logistical exercises. Every label is read twice. Every snack is checked. Every outing carries an element of risk assessment. Our whole family has had to learn. Fred’s older brothers and sisters know the signs of an allergic reaction. They know where his medication is kept...

  Today marked the final guest lecture in our Learning Through the Workplace series, and what an ending it was. We met Derrick Gooden, Director and Higher Rights Advocate specialising in Criminal Defence at Grech Gooden Solicitors. From the moment he began, it was clear that this lecture would not follow the usual script. Perched casually on the desk in jeans, completely at ease in his own skin, Derrick spoke with a frankness that instantly silenced the auditorium. No polished corporate performance, no rehearsed legal lecture. Just straight talking, confidence, and a storyteller who knew exactly how to hold a room. And hold it he did. Within minutes I was hooked. His style reminded me of those rare teachers who truly know how to tell a story, the kind where you lean forward without realising, because whatever happens next, you need to hear it. Of course, my mind wandered now and again, but not away from the law. Instead, it wandered to Hamilton . Since lockdown, my daughter has ha...

  On International Women’s Day, I find myself reflecting on what progress has truly been made since the day was officially recognised in 1977. On paper, the progress looks impressive. In reality, the lived experience of many women tells a different story. Recently I was chatting with my best friend, who is also a teacher. We laughed, slightly bitterly about a small but telling detail in our classrooms. Female teachers are called Miss , while male colleagues are called Sir . Surely the true equivalent would be Ma’am . It seems trivial, but these tiny details reveal something deeper about how women are still positioned in society. Our conversation followed a video I watched where a woman asked her audience a simple question: How old were you when you first received unwanted attention from a man? The question itself made my heart sink. Because my answer was not during my teenage years, or even adolescence. My answer was before I was ten years old. That reality is one many women quie...