HELLO 2026!!

Happy new year kittens!! Hello 2026! You’ve arrived just in time for my annual existential crisis about:

• The fact that I am not married yet. I always wanted to be by age 25, so technically I’ve still got four months…

• The fact that I am not where I want to be in life yet.

• The fact that my writing isn’t as popular as I’d like it to be yet — the fact that I haven’t landed a book deal off the back of this blog. Yet.

• The fact that I am not living in America yet, and Trump appears to be turning it into some sort of ultra-patriarchal, woman-hating, paedophile haven that protects the worst of the worst (men) and despises women, weaponising their reproductive rights as ammunition in this Make America Great Again cataclysm.

• And lastly, the fact that I am ageing with each tick of the clock. Which all of a sudden feels very confronting and frightening(!!)

Despite these horrors that berate me — and despite the fact that my New Year’s Eve didn’t go to plan, I actually had a rather incredible start to 2026. Being back at work today feels like a kick in the abdomen, although my period from hell may be partially to blame for that one. Ouch.

New Year’s Eve day began with the devastating news of a suicide. Not someone I knew personally, but someone close to an important person in my life. I’m not making this about myself —I mention it only to set the internal landscape. This news, coupled with my own raging PMDD suicidal ideation, was a dangerous cocktail if I do say so myself. I spent the entire morning —when I should have been organising myself and getting ready— cycling through extreme anxiety, depression, rage… you get the picture. My makeup wasn’t going on right, and my perfectionist OCD was dialled up to one-thousand.

I had to look perfect, because I was wearing my £500 Self-Portrait white tweed, padded-shoulder, belted-waist, tennis-skirted dress for the first time. This dress had been hanging in my wardrobe, practically gagging for such a splendid occasion to make its debut. Naturally, there was immense pressure on the rest of me to look as good as the dress —which unfortunately manifested as an anxiety overload.

Halfway through my first mascara application, tears began welling in my eyes, leaving me no choice but to remove my makeup (which, let’s be honest, probably didn’t even look that bad) in frustration. The second attempt was more thoughtful. With shaky hands, I prayed to God that my makeup wouldn’t fuck up a second time. By some divine miracle, it went well, and I could move on to curling and setting my hair. I’d recently had my roots done, so my hair was extra Barbie-doll blonde, and I felt hot for it.

The dress fit perfectly — even better than I remembered. What I hadn’t remembered, however, was the time of my dinner booking. Thanks to my frankly chaotic mental state, which caused me to take practically the entire day to do something that usually takes a couple of hours, I misremembered it entirely. By the time I arrived at the restaurant, I was an hour late.

Luckily, because I frequent this particular vegan restaurant like the ghost of someone who died there, they seated us in the bar. Very kind — though the bar is far too cold in winter, so I spent most of dinner wrapped in my shawl babushka-style. I also quickly realised that eating a large meal in a tightly tailored dress is not only impractical, but downright painful. Because I’m so skinny, I eat like a snake —you can practically see the food making its journey through me. After a carb-heavy dinner, the dress became claustrophobic. No food regrets, just perhaps poor portion judgement paired with a restrictive outfit.

After dinner, we Ubered pronto to the Comedy Store — which I fucking love. My gorgeous, Cali-sober-cannabis-princess LA-bestie introduced me to it on my last night in Los Angeles, and there is truly nothing like live comedy. Luckily we snuck in just as the host was warming up the audience —and despite cutting it close, got some great seats!!

Being in a room filled with contagious laughter feels intoxicating — as though the comics are exhaling nitrous oxide and the audience is collectively inhaling it. As close to group intoxication as you can get while sober. Laughter really is a narcotic.

Every comic hit the mark bar one woman, whose confidence outshone her actual jokes, tipping into arrogance. Her material wasn’t terrible, but the execution spoiled what worked. Hate to say it, but all the men were fantastic, especially the two older comics, who really knew how to provoke a reaction and earned huge belly laughs. Particularly from the woman seated in front of me, who was so drunk she laughed before the punchlines. Some may have found her annoying; I found her hilarious.

The younger male comic made a joke I related to with juicy pleasure: “Ah, the benzodiazepine family — a family I know better than my own.” Was the punchline to a story about being spiked in New Orleans. His delivery was a little wobbly, but he was genuinely funny. Give him another decade and I think he’ll either be addicted to pills or a really fucking good stand-up comic… probably both.

There was the option to stay for a countdown party after the comedy show, but by then I felt awful. The amaretto and ginger ales only worsened the bloating in my form-fitting ensemble, so we decided to leave and ring in the new year our own way. Everything was timed perfectly; if we caught that train, we’d reach Hyde Park just in time to watch incandescent fireworks cascade across the London skyline, like blazing, kaleidoscopic confetti. Unfortunately, TFL had other plans. The station we walked to was closed, forcing a longer route.

I rang in the new year in the most London way possible: stopped at a red signal on the Circle and District line. The carriage was ghost-town empty. Somehow, despite the unconventional setting, it felt special —and undeniably memorable. A mother with two small children shouted “Happy New Year!” at midnight. We shouted back.

Perhaps it was better that way. Not long after midnight London would have jumped back to life as if reanimated by electricity. The trains soon to be rammed with people looking to relocate or head home, and opportunistic phone snatchers (I had my phone stolen from my bag on a train three years ago on nye).

Entering 2026 stationary on an empty London train felt strangely poignant —a peaceful and intimate start to the new year.

Once home and warm, I had a complete mental breakdown about my sobriety. New Year’s Eve is particularly triggering for me; it was NYE 2020/21 when I last did cocaine — a two-day binge involving hallucination-worthy quantities. It was the most gacked up I’ve ever been, aside from the deliberate overdoses, of course. Although I probably should have gone to A&E. Instead, I fell asleep at a friend’s house and woke up in my own bed. I don’t remember the Uber ride at all.

I miss drugs so much. More than that, I hate that I am a person who should never touch them. I can’t trust myself. There is a demon inside me, and once I’m high, he takes over —scheming to kill me. There is no stopping him except when the money runs out… But when you’re a hot blonde the money never runs out. The demon doesn’t understand “stop.” And because I’ve suppressed him for so many years now, I know he’s vengeful. Given the keys to the castle, he would burn it down.

Something terrible would happen — I know this with bone-marrow-deep certainty. I am not safe when I am high on coke. That is the cruelest reality I still struggle to accept. I’m jealous of people who can do it. I’m triggered by them too. I see it everywhere. I hear it being chopped, ringing in my ears like tinnitus. It’s a malignant obsession that drains me.

I don’t know how to be free of it. Like most painful things in life, I suspect time is meant to be the great healer —but time hasn’t helped much so far. If anything, I’m more hyper-fixated than ever. It’s a total mindfuck.

I spent the early hours of 2026 regretting sobriety annd texting my mum, wishing I’d just gotten high instead. But now, in a clearer headspace, I know that would have been incredibly dangerous — and I’d likely still be suffering through the comedown.

Sometimes doing the right thing doesn’t feel good. And the narrative that life automatically improves once you’re sober really irritates me. I’m not saying it doesn’t for some — all addictions are different, and sweeping statements help no one. But personally, I often feel my life was better when I was using. Maybe that’s circumstantial, or rose-tinted nostalgia. Still, sobriety can be deeply isolating.

I already struggle to relate to people, and sobriety has made me envious and judgemental of those who do drugs. This stems entirely from jealousy and insecurity — like mean girls picking on a pretty girl because they’re secretly jelly. I don’t like this part of myself. I hope one day it heals, and I no longer carry this bitter, painful grudge.

How did you guys spend your New Year’s Eves?