the words i will never say

As a working class woman in 2026.

Monday morning. Queue the symphony of the  fucking twinkling alarm - you’ve picked this particular ringtone because it doesn’t want to make you blast your face off at 7am. Make cereal. Is milk expired? Yep. Yesterday. It’ll be alright. Surely?

Long story short it tastes like shit, you walk through the apartment hall, lift your head, smile weakly at the old man who stares at your chest instead of literally any other part of your body. It’s like he has x-ray vision? Your hoodies useless. Congrats. It’s okay - you look like his wife. Before she died, obviously.

You pray the lift is empty. It is. It’s raining, you nearly miss the bus - but not quite!! Luckily, you get last in the queue and the bus driver tells you to smile, it’s really not all that bad. You take your change. Your Apple AirPod  max (18th Gen) cradle comfortably in your SHEIN tote bag at home. You blink twice to forget it’s fast fashion. The radio plays. Another femicide. Another bombing. 3 rapes. You get off the bus. The man behind you phlegms on the floor.

You arrive at work, cuddled tightly by the warmth of the stuffy air and smell of printer ink. You put your lunch in the fridge. The ladies talk about keto. They showcase their Picasso placed salad bowls full of brain food, avocado, sunflower seeds, mint dressing (that we all know tastes like shit). You look at your meal deal. You sigh.

They call you dear in emails, they ask if you will “kindly” adhere to their demands. You’re so polite for doing it. What a respectable young lady. Women like that get far. You could be a secretary someday.

You collect your boss’ presentation from the printer, he sits closer to it - but he’s busy. It’s very taxxing assigning your jobs to other people. You wouldn’t understand - that’s why you proof read their work. Make sure everyone obtains the now completed excel copy safely. I’m only joking, you could never create a pivot table. You won’t miss much. I’m sure you’ll be cc’d in.

You cry in the car. You’ve been cut off twice. It’s fine - fortune favours the kind. Music plays. It’s the 70s. You smile a little, and sing along. It’s peaceful. A real instrument? Unheard of. You daydream and yearn to take psychedelics and learn acoustic. You go to get your decaf soy milk matcha and remember - thank fuck the hippie ladies were finally allowed bank accounts. Let’s just hope their husband didn’t want sex selfishly, and god forbid if they got pregnant. You understand the gravity of choice between abuse and birth. Abortion wasn’t available. How dare you long to experience such a time.

How fortunate are you that you got the M&S ramen in the reduction section? Gratitude makes the world go round. You change into your pyjama shorts, your favourite hoodie. Let’s shut the blinds slightly though just in case. We don’t know who could see your legs? I know you’re in your home - but better safe than sorry. You see a man out a run through the window.

You eat your dinner - it’s actually a hell of a lot  better than the low calorie cauliflower rice you had last week. You even dare to add a bit of cheese into your noodles. The love islanders ask each other who is more their type on paper. You wash your dishes. The news theme plays in the background. It makes the room feel less empty.

Rape, rape, murder, rape, terrorism, child abuse. Alexander Ferguson. Brief mention of femicide - not too much though, you can’t ruffle feathers. You get thirsty. You took the last of your diluting juice to work. Tap water it is. It’s slightly cloudy and tastes like the school toilets - at least you have some. It could always be worse. You hear the word “allegedly”. Your ears prick up. There’s CCTV of an assault on a young girl, they have the attacker. It’s still alleged. Children’s imagination will be the death of them. They’re acting out for attention. Of course a 16 year old can flirt with a man twice her age? She’s mature and more intelligent than you think. She knows what she’s doing. She should be a lawyer.

Life doesn’t have to be like this. As your designated 24-year-old female attempting to navigate her 20s, let me tell you — I’ve been there.

Throughout the years, after multiple trials and errors, I can’t shake the idea that I may have found the cheat code to making the most mundane life slightly magical. I used to be a girl who would sleep, eat, and doomscroll every day, finding little to no enjoyment in anything and holding onto an impressive amount of resentment toward wellness influencers.

I couldn’t wrap my head around how people managed to get out of bed every day — let alone hold a 20-step skincare routine, run a 5k, and wash it down with a green ginger concoction. I was more of a “can I squeeze a nap in before my appointment in 50 minutes?” kind of girl. I didn’t enjoy healthy habits because I simply didn’t enjoy life.

But then something changed.

After years of therapy, a few scary experiences, and trying to survive the real-life horror film disguised as growing up, I reached a point where I was just… fed up. It clicked that if something didn’t change, I couldn’t live like this forever. So I crawled out of bed and started slowly. A few years on, I can honestly look back and say those small rituals and habits that I implemented changed my life.

When I was going through a horrible time, I for some reason found myself gravitating towards the bath. I’m not talking an “everything shower.” I mean a three-hour, bottle of wine, scream-crying to Taylor Swift in insane heat kind of bath. For some reason, this was therapeutic to me.

Albeit unhealthy due to the copious amounts of red wine consumed, it did start to become the highlight of my day.

I think this is where my obsession with romanticising life began. What used to be a 15-minute wash-and-go moment turned into an hour of soul music in candlelight, taking my time to wash my hair twice and even moisturise my face after. Hailey Bieber is quaking, I know.

From here, I realised I could make almost any task slightly more beautiful. My therapist told me, “If you have to do a task, you may as well enjoy it,” and a little cartoon lightbulb lit up in my brain. Maybe I was losing my mind — or maybe the wellness influencers were actually making sense.

Treat your baths as your solace

Hygiene can be hard, especially when you’re struggling with your mental health. Instead of seeing it as a task, I began to see bathing as a spa for myself — they became somewhere I could hide and decompress after a bustling, confusing day.

Baths are free, natural healers. They combine physical, psychological, and sensory factors that nurture your body and mind. There was something about the simplicity of it that felt addictive and restorative.

Warm water physically activates your parasympathetic nervous system and signals your body that it’s finally safe to relax. It slows your heart rate, lowers stress hormones, and shifts you into “rest and digest” mode — the same state as meditation.

I found that a bath became a warm hug at the end of an overwhelming ordeal. I’d hit the water, take a deep breath, and think: “Thank fuck that’s over — I’m safe now.” And I believed it. It felt like physically washing the bad juju and vibes of the day off my body.

Then came the candles

The overhead light in my bathroom was a harsh cool white, that kind of hurt my head if I looked at it too long. Goodbye squinting eyes — hello, three little helpers.

One candle on the cabinet.

One on the windowsill.

One… delicately balanced on the toilet seat.

Not glamorous, but effective.

I am a firm “no big light” advocate. Ambiance is one of the most important things in the world to me. If the room’s cosy, I’m cosy. If it isn’t, I’m not going — and you may proceed without me.

Candlelight has a low, gentle wavelength that encourages melatonin production and calms the nervous system. I used to come out of there with heavy eyes ready to get cosy in bed and rub my feet together, drifting off into the sunset.

Music made it magical

My life revolves around music — whether I’m lip syncing in the mirror, imagining music videos, or listening to the same album 50 times. Naturally, music became a huge part of my ritual. This really became about me listening to songs that I was feeling in that moment, allowing myself to let go, relax & really feel my emotions deeply and intuitively.

I’d create playlists for the month and play them on repeat in the bath. It became a way to melt away the day’s heaviness and process emotions through sound. I’d leave that bath feeling just a little lighter.

And anyway — crying doesn’t count if you’re in the bath, surely.

Small comforts became sacred

As my devotion to my ritual grew, I added more little pleasures:

a fizzy drink (with ice) in a fancy cup, fruit, bath bombs, essential oils — anything with a tiny dopamine hit.

I never rushed myself. I carved out time every day just for the bath. Sometimes 45 minutes, sometimes three hours — I didn’t care. I stayed in that little tub until I knew I was taking the piss, or until my heart stopped hurting even just slightly.

Taking time for me, with me was beautiful. It was the most patient and loving thing I’ve ever done for myself.

Maybe I’m just a Pisces, or maybe I’m onto something.

Try it and let me know.

Court x