Learning to Adjust to Lockdown

As I write this today, it’s 1 June, and here in London, this is our 71st day of lockdown. It’s been 10 long weeks of isolation for most of us, and back in March when restrictions were first announced, we had no idea it could possibly last this long or what they might really mean for us. The most meaningful easing of restrictions – being able to spend time with our families, in each other’s homes, suddenly feels a bleakly long way off.

I should also say now – we have been incredibly lucky. I lost my job and my income at the start of March, but we are well and we have enough. I should also say we have a lot of privilege in that we don’t work on the front line and we have decent space in our home, enough food and a small garden in which we can live well enough. I am keenly aware that to a lot of people, we are living in the height of luxury. London has always been a city of massive difference in privilege and so it proves again with covid-19 and lockdown.

Weirdly enough, this isn’t my first lockdown. About 5 years ago now, I was unwell with an immune condition that meant I needed to be in hospital for 2 weeks in near isolation, and then later that same year I had to take some immunosuppressive drugs that kept me at home with no contact allowed. This period of illness really shook up my lifestyle and my beliefs about what it was that I really needed. It turned a lot of my assumptions about myself on their head. Not unlike this experience of covid lockdown we are sharing now.

When my world was upended by illness, it fundamentally changed who I thought I was, because it had changed what I was capable of. Willpower and desire to carry on weren’t enough – there were many more physical limitations on my and I never thought I would learn to bear them. My everyday thoughts became consumed with just one thing: if life would ever be normal again and if I would be able to rebuild in a way that mattered to me. I remember needing to find a way to give my looping thoughts a break, a way to stop them building into anxiety again and wondering when I would get my personality back. I also remember being amazed when the day finally came that I got back on a tube train and realised I wanted to listen to music again. It was such a milestone and such a departure from the previous months.

Even though this lockdown has felt tough and even though I can’t access many of the ways I would normally make myself feel better – meeting with friends, staying with family, travel to greener or more open space, interviewing for new jobs – little by little, this uncertainty and it’s strangeness has started to feel more comfortable. This smaller world, by the miracle of how human brains are wired to help us adjust to that which we cannot change, has become normal. I’m sure there is a psychological term to describe this acceptance, this normalisation of circumstances, this adaption. It takes frustrating time to process the grief, the sadness, the frustration, the anger – but you get there. I got there. I remember the therapist I visited for many years once telling me being open to change is the best way to cope. Her most repeated definition of madness was ‘doing or thinking the same thing again and again but expecting a different outcome’.

I can’t pretend to know how this lockdown has been for most people and I don’t want to make assumptions. The way news and ideas are shared now are very skewed and it’s difficult to hear opinions from circles outside your own – you have to actively move round the algorithm. What I hope to do here though, is to share some thoughts that got me through and helped me reshape my life. Given that it sounds like we might be living with covid for some time yet, perhaps these ideas can help make the prospect a little less daunting.

Allow yourself emotions but know when to stop

I’m a great one for allowing perpetual worries to take over the everyday moments. I learnt over time to actively manage my emotions and set boundaries for myself and others. I had too. My lack of emotional awareness had begun to spill over and affect my mental health and my relationships with others. Elizabeth Gilbert, of Eat Pray Love fame, has a phrase for this concept: ‘practising emotional sobriety’. This is the idea that you should take care with your emotions, in that it’s ok to have emotions, but then treat yourself with compassion and don’t add emotions about emotions to everything you have on your plate.

Find some distractions to keep you busy (but not too busy)

Mindless or mindful distractions worked (and still work) for me. Whilst it’s tempting to overwork, overbake, overclean, over exercise etc, filling every second of your day with a distraction is mentally and physically exhausting – and that type of exhaustion can pretty quickly spill over into emotional exhaustion. I learnt this the hard way. Now, to stop me scrolling through news or Twitter on my phone when I have an hour of time in the evening (and also to stop me using it to eat and berate myself), I’ve picked up my knitting. I’m not great and I don’t know if I will ever wear what I’ve knitted out in public but for now, I find the simple movement soothing and it keeps me out of late night trouble.

Find a new routine and stick to it (even if it’s mundane)

When I was in hospital, it was the smallest things that got me through. Toast for breakfast, the day we have macaroni cheese for lunch, the day we had clean bed sheets, the nightly cup of tea I had when reading. And so it was when I got home. Taking 15 minutes each morning to stretch and breathe, a weekly trip to buy some biscuits, a weekly swim. These small moments marked time for me and allowed me to have something simple and modest to look forward to. Even when the days were miserable, they could be made better by a little pleasure.

Cut yourself some slack

I have to say, I’m fully rejecting using lockdown time to become better at anything. All power to you if you’ve been able to use your downtime to upskill or upgrade anything. But like so many other parents, I’m settling for all of us surviving with our emotional health intact and leaving lockdown still on speaking terms. It’s so easy to compare your life to those of others anyway, and now we have so little other stimulation or social contact, the broadcast of people sharing their drive to improve and impress has become even more obvious. I’ve spent much of the last 10 weeks using my spare time to hold everything together and keep the house clean, and I imagine, I’m not alone. You’re doing great no matter how little you are learning.

Build your resilience by looking after your own wellness

The first few weeks of my illness and this lockdown were tough for this. Adjusting to a new reality means a new routine. You need to find new times to shower, clean, eat, exercise, rest. And those times aren’t always obviously there and ready to be used. Eventually I realised that I needed all these things to help keep me well and sane and that sacrificing them to look after my family made me angry and bitter. Not the type of parent I wanted to be.

I can’t manage all of my ideal wellness routines every day – I often can do just one or two. I might not wash my hair as much as I’d like, I probably choose yoga pants too often, my floors are dusty and I don’t make it out of the house every day. But I never compromise on food. Never ever. I’m sticking rigidly to my 10 portions of fruit and veg a day, and reducing sugar, caffeine and wine as much as possible.

Sometimes, you should just go to bed

And finally, a word of wisdom from my dad, Dave. Sometimes days are just rubbish and you will have had enough. It’s ok just to stop, not do the washing up and go to bed, literally calling it a day. Things usually do look better in the morning.

Photo by John Cameron on Unsplash

The Power of Mothering


Two close friends of mine had a baby around the same time as me. None of us planned it, but our babies were all born over the summer of 2016, each 6 weeks apart. We were good friends before, but what pulled us closer was our shared parenting experiences.

It turned out that we all had a very similar style of motherhood – a dedication to breastfeeding and co-sleeping, a rejection of sleep training and we all deferred childcare as long as we could. (Again, a massive caveat here: no judgement on any other mamas for their choices and paths, this was just what felt right for all of us at the time). Our personalities differed, our babes were beginning to show their own stripes, but what we shared was a fierce, mama-bear like insistence that this was how we wanted to mother.

I held deep seated convictions over how I wanted to mother from the moment I knew I was pregnant – and, unlike many, I knew I was pregnant from the day after I conceived. Luckily/unluckily, I have a chronic condition that recedes with pregnancy, so I knew from how well I felt that a baby was on the way. It also allowed me to associate the period of pregnancy and breastfeeding with a feeling of whole health and wellness. The baby and I were looking out for each other, right from the start.

My friends and I disappeared into motherhood, allowing ourselves to change, probably beyond recognition some days, and slowly came back out seeing the world through new eyes. We were probably slower than most, allowing the intensity of that first year to really make its mark on our bodies, minds, souls, in a way that we didn’t necessarily see in other mother’s around us.

A lot of our peers, fought to regain their balance, to put a routine in place, to automate their days and re-stablise their relationship with their partner. This routine, the return to work, the sense of order needed to get through the week, reduced the sense of chaos and put other carers into the picture. Sometimes I was envious, sometimes it looked like my worst nightmare.

A few years in, I now realise there were two huge influences on how I parent: my own mother and then a book I had read before we tried for a baby.

I can’t speak for other regions, but here in the UK, a 2011 book by child psychologist Oliver James, called “How Not To F*** Them Up”  was widely read and made a huge impact on how mothers saw themselves. The core of his theory came down to this: how you parent is less relevant to the child than how comfortable you are as a parent. If you are forever trying to outrun your responsibilities as a parent, if you cannot be consistent in how you relate to your child and if you are not able to be true to how you want to parent (whatever end of the attachment spectrum you are naturally on), you will create an unsettled and confusing environment for the child. One way or another, you need to be honest with yourself so you can then create a stable environment that they can orientate themselves around.

James also introduced new terms to the UK parenting culture; those of Organiser, Fleximum and Hugger, clearly describing each and giving a breakdown of the pros and cons of each.

How easy it was to read before you were a parent! And then how easy it was to judge when you finally were a parent – looking for reassurance that your way was ok, seeing the style of other mums you knew reflected in these archetypes. Before I was pregnant, I assumed that I would be a Fleximum and until my girl arrived, it felt like the safest place to stake my ground.

The Fleximum is adaptive to their child, weighing up situations for what they are, still factors themselves and the broader family in and then, as a slight downside, can rationalise every and any decision to make it feel like their kid will benefit, even if that’s slightly stretching the truth. It sounds logical, rational and the best of both. A safe and stable place to be.

As it turned out, I fell into the Hugger category – a mum who allows their needs to collapse into that of their child, emotionally is tied to their child from the start and often sees the world through their child’s eyes, using that perspective to make their choices. The drawback to this is that these mums often find it hard to bring themselves back into the picture, to understand their needs and find it difficult when their child begins to separate from them as they naturally grow into their opinions and personalities.

Throughout the book, James emphasises that often, the parenting tribe we chose is not of our making, that it’s almost entirely as subconscious reaction, with most women either choosing to do the exact opposite of their own mother or do exactly the same.

I most definitely did the same. It’s now plainly obvious that so many of my convictions came from my mum and as a happy side effect, she has felt recognised and respected by how I have modeled her behaviour towards the younger me. That she is able to understand how I do things gives me this extra reassurance, a foundation and confidence that I badly needed when starting out.

My mum has been the person who has enabled me to feel that my Hugger-ish style and the choices that stem from that are not only ok, they can actually be good for my daughter. Her support through the tough and emotional times were the validation I needed to feel comfortable in my skin and stop pushing against how I assumed parenting should be.

A few weeks ago, arm deep in cleaning up toddler vomit at 3am, it finally dawned on me what a sweaty, full bodied, all encompassing experience parenting is and that I was more than cool with it. I actually I relished it. I’m sure the parents of more than one will read this with a wry smile on their face knowing this already. The blood, the sweat, the tears are exactly what you sign up for, and actually are representative of the magnitude of motherhood. You’re in the experience, fully immersed, for the rest of your life, whether you try to out run it or not.

Our experience as a family is tight, full on, emotionally intense and powerful. We shape each other daily. I influence my daughter and she influences me right back. I’m a stronger, richer, deeper person for being her mama.

But here’s the rub, the question we never expected to waiver on… Can we cope with two? Physically, probably. Emotionally, we’re not so sure.

I didn’t realise until recently, just how much my conviction around parenting has shaped this family and established our rhythms, habits and relationships. It’s completely fair and accurate to say that my husband almost didn’t get a look in. I started doing my thing and it’s only recently that we’ve started to question if all my quirky ways have been the right thing for the family.

Clearly, I think co-sleeping, refusing sleep training and being emotionally expressive is good for our daughter. Except now I’m not so sure that it’s been as good for my partner and I as individuals or as a couple.

The conversation over whether to have a second started at least two years ago and we disagreed: I couldn’t imagine not having another and my husband couldn’t imagine having one. For the last few months, I’ve been assuming that my desire to have a second would prevail, that my partner would change his mind. But then all of a sudden I had my doubts too.

Do I have the emotional capacity to keep guiding this family? Can I take the pressure of raising another small human? Can my body physically take the pressure of on demand feeding and vastly reduced sleep? I will probably never be able to make a logical, rational call; I’m sure it will be pure emotion.

I can’t help but look back over the decisions I made on how to parent, I now wonder if I should have chosen to be a bit less hands on, whether I could have detached more and worried less – might this have led to a less intense, more laid back experience for all of us? Might it have made having a second an easy forgone conclusion?

But I’m in the business of raising a small human as well as I can and if I only get to do this once, I will be glad I did it my way.

All of a sudden, now more than ever, I’m realising she’s mirroring me. I’m a hands on mum, hugging, soothing, sitting together constantly. If she replicates this, I know I’ll look on proudly. Even now when she mothers her dolls, I can’t roll my eyes, mention gender bias or feminism, she’s doing what I’m modelling for her. And how can that be a bad thing?

We may not be able to repeat the experience but at least I have given my daughter a template of strong attachment and emotional literacy to follow. If I could choose any position of power to be in, that feels like the pinnacle. I’m literally laying the ground on which she will base her expectations of other relationships and also how she will mother. That is a responsibility and power that matters so much more than sleep.

Photo by Micah Hallahan on Unsplash

I’m aiming for ordinary, and that should be ok

A few months ago, for International Women’s Day, there was a wave of women in London changing their LinkedIn profile name to Dave. This led to a group of my colleagues and I chatting about why these women had done it – that there are more men called Dave on the board of the UK FTSE top 100 companies than there are women called anything in the same position. It was interesting to me because it became an easy thing to support, a quick sound bite to throw yourself behind, to prove you were a bit feminist.

What was even more interesting to me was that nowhere in this conversation between feminists (both male and female) was what I felt was one of the core problems – many women don’t want to do these jobs. It is of course not ideal that there isn’t gender balance on the boards of these companies. It’s been shown plenty of times that boards with women in run more successful companies, as if research was ever needed to show that a balance of thinking and working styles would be a better way forward. The idea that we just need to raise awareness of the problem to encourage more boards to hire or promote more women is overly simplistic thinking.

When I voiced my this opinion of mine, people looked at me strangely. Perhaps a bit like I might have been a ghost of 50s housewife. Someone even tensely asked if I was making the mistaken assumption that all women wanted children. But I’m happy to repeat my opinion for clarity: I don’t believe women want to do these jobs. And I also believe that if they did want to do these jobs, they would be in them given that they have the intelligence, drive and motivation to hold their own on the way up the ladder.

The real issue we should be talking about is why women don’t want these jobs and why they don’t feel they want to be part of the boardroom culture especially once they become mothers.

For me, it’s not hard to understand. As an emotional person, as someone who strives for balance and as a mother, I know that this type of work would be too difficult for me. Trying to force myself into the FTSE 100, master of the universe mould, would be the equivalent of pressing self destruct and I know I felt that way even before I had the daughter I actually want to spend time with.

It occurs to me now, that it reveals so much about our society that these are the jobs that are held up as the pinnacle of success – a pretty paternalistic and materialist badge of honour.

I was raised to be good feminist teenager by a mother who worked her way through the 80s, being told that she could have it all and that she was lucky to be able to work, but who secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) wanted to be at home with us. I was raised on microwave dinners and can clearly remember how exciting it was to be picked up by either parent from school, it was so rare an occurrence. I went on to study science, to push myself to do well at maths, to take physics at university and to scorn fellow female school mates who decided to take art, english and french, subconsciously deriding them as letting the side down, as giving in to the gender stereotypes, all the while wishing I could have taken art too.

This type of behaviour went on for the next ten years: me pushing myself harder and harder to stand out, to be different, to claim my due and to make sure I never faded into the background. I wanted to be a wonder woman, to break the stereotypes – until I got closer to the top and saw what that world was really like.

After 5 or so years of working all hours under the sun, being the only woman in every meeting, being mentored by our CEO and feeling it was a compliment to be called ‘one of the boys’, something finally clicked. My work was making me tired and miserable; trying to behave like a man and live up to their standards was making me anxious. I developed a hyper competitive personality to help me cope, but the reality of always looking over my shoulder and wondering what would happen if everyone realised I wasn’t the same as the boys was not at all worth it.

Could I have been on the board of my old company? Maybe. Would the personal sacrifice needed to be on that board have been worth it?

Categorically no.

So I used my maternity leave as a chance to step back and step away. I stayed on maternity leave for way longer than was deemed sensible. Tellingly, my job was given away to a woman who didn’t have kids, who didn’t plan to have kids and when I went through the motions of trying to negotiate a return to work on family friendly terms, my request to work only 3 days a week was turned down immediately. Why? “Because then everyone else will want to work part time too”.

When I was on this maternity leave, people asked me what I would do next. They assumed there was no way I would extend my time away from the grindstone without a secret plan brewing. Did I have a big business idea ready to unleash on the world? Had I written a book? Was I the next big #mamaboss? No, I wasn’t. I was at home, breastfeeding as long as I could, waking up through the night then catching up on my sleep and plastering on concealer, teaching my daughter to eat well, reading books a million times over and hanging out at the park, pockets full of tissues and snacks, rocking a mum bun.

So eventually, I went back to work. I did it on my terms and I still try to step back and make sure my work still matches my values as frequently as I can pause for thought. What is clear though it that I’m certainly financially worse off for wanting to spend time with my family. When I was younger and perhaps showed more direct ambition, I earnt more than I do now, nearly twice as much as I do now, and even without the adjustment for part time work, that’s a hefty drop. I sometimes look around and wonder what the younger women at our company, the ones without kids, see when they look at me. Someone who used to be more senior that now isn’t? Someone who couldn’t cut it? Maybe someone who wasn’t good enough to go all the way?

Perhaps they don’t realise that it was my choice to step away. I’m a passionate feminist and this was my choice. I made it freely. True, the very male values of my work environment compounded the decision and probably hastened it. They threw clear light on my very different personality – my unwillingness to be confrontational and competitive, my desire to be community minded, manage my teams well and supportive in every interaction.

But is lack of competition something I should be criticised for? Or not being forceful enough? Dare I say it, not male enough? Maybe many women are not at the top and don’t belong at the top, not because they’re female but because they do not want to be there, with all it entails. Perhaps it doesn’t interest them, doesn’t motivate them or make them happy.

I totally understand the thrill of the chase, the sense of belonging, the idea that if you can make it up the ladder, through the glass ceiling, you’d be a winner. But what good would that kudos, those gold stars, the piles of cash be if you’re missing out on your sleep, your contentment and your kids bedtime routine?

It’s now become really popular to define your work as your mission, to strive to find something meaningful. I guess that if work is going to be your main thing, you would have to. If I was going to spend all my time there and give everything up for it, it would need to contribute to the greater good, it would need to be purposeful.

Is this right though? Is the idea the wrong way round? Should work really be everything to us? Instead, perhaps we should be working on defining ourselves in other ways too.

Hopefully it will become ok to say that work has different meaning and purpose at different points in your life. Perhaps it could also become feminist to understand that how women work shouldn’t be our most visible way of assessing progress.

It’s fair to say that in my 20s, work was my everything. It was my social life, my ambition, my reason to be, my support through break ups, my identity – so much so that I couldn’t wait to get back from the unwelcome breaks that were holidays.

Now in my 30s, it’s become my support network, my steady income, my facilitator, my sense of balance (and also the place I can go to the toilet by myself). What will happen in my 40s?

If I have my way, it will be pretty ordinary. I’ll work at something I enjoy doing, I might work from myself. I’ll hope that people will say nice things about me and that we won’t be short of money. I’ll cook my daughter dinner every night after I’ve picked her up from school and helped her with her homework. We won’t live in a huge house or go on many Instagram worthy holidays but I’ll have enough time to fit in some mediation and yoga and not by getting up at 4.30am, just to carve out some space for myself in my super hectic days.

And you know what? Most of all I’ll hope that my daughter sees this balance and internalises it too. That she will see my freedom in choosing that type of life and won’t feel like she has to strive impossibly hard for impossibly long just to be seen as a worthy and successful part of our society. I want to teach my child that she can have a regular life and that she won’t have to be famous or special to mean anything to me or other people. Her growing up to be ordinary but fulfilled and good at something she likes is more than good enough for me.

So yes, women should be able to be on the board of the top companies of the world, if that’s what they chose. But perhaps the next feminist leap is making sure that all women receive respect for the many different kinds of work they do and are seen as successful, no matter how ordinary their choices may seem.