this is ki**ing me
i'm not talking about kissing. i am talking about writing - or rather the dream of it.
[September 25th, 2024] Today, I’m hurt. I was given the opportunity to write a feature with a topic that I was really passionate about, and rather than this supposed to have been published by now, I am being ghosted (lol). Honestly, it's been a rough week - welcome to your early 20’s - but usually, I can spin my mentality and make it positive. This has been harder than most things to budge on.
So, I prayed, I journaled, and I ‘dug deep’, and the revelation I came to was that I am letting writing TW: kill me :) I do not say this lightly, nor do I intend to be dramatic or comical (although this is my coping mechanism); what I mean is that any time I receive feedback from editors or a pitch is rejected or, in unlikely circumstances, I am ignored by my editor, I believe my career has reached the end of its tenure, and I catapult into an abyss of hopelessness and despair. Truly.
It’s not healthy, and I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘This girl needs therapy, pronto’, and you’re probably (definitely) not wrong. I’m learning to give myself grace1, however.
If you didn’t know, and since this may be one of your first proper introductions to me: Hi, I’m Aswan. I graduated from Central Saint Martins last year (WITH a first class, thank you) and have been freelance ever since. From September 2023, I have worked anywhere from three jobs minimum to six at most, and it’s only October 2024 as you’re reading this. I’m not saying this to gloat, and I have not done this to punish myself, though it may appear that way. I do it because I love everything I do - but every single day, really since starting university, I have toed the line of starting again.
And I’m not afraid to do so. At 54, my mum has just spent the last two years retraining to become a qualified primary school teacher. One of my aunties has worked anywhere from fashion to the IT department at a newspaper, and only in the last decade has she found her true calling and become a qualified counsellor. Change and adaptation are ingrained in my DNA, and thank God. But, what has also plagued my life for as long as I can remember is anxiety and depression. I don’t want to proclaim them over my life as if they’ll have a hold on me forever, but I do want to be more open about how much of a struggle life has been having to deal with them.
I remember only eating lunch in the canteen in year nine because I was scared of people seeing me eat. I wore a thick Penfield beanie throughout the summer of 2014 because some boys from the neighbouring school told me my forehead was too big. I cried when my feet grew from size 5 to size 6 because they’d now surpassed the size that may constitute me being more socially feminine. All of this upset, anger, ANXIETY, came from a need to be exactly who other people wanted or needed me to be rather than who I actually am.
Since age 11, I’ve known I wanted to write for magazines. I loved fashion and current affairs, and my gift was writing. I quickly put it together that I was destined for journalism. But no one tells you how scary it is to dip just one toe into the pool of fashion journalism, let alone have both feet in. And then, by the end of my degree, I realised that committing my life solely to fashion would leave me feeling soulless. I found passions in education and teaching, youth work, my faith and helping unrepresented creatives — which are what my two primary jobs mainly cover. So, really, things are working out. (Since this substack was initially written, I have lost two consistent jobs xxx)
Until it isn’t. Until February creeps up or September arises, and I tell myself I’m not cut out for fashion week because 1) the PR girlies hate me and I’m never invited, and 2) I can’t handle crowds and, therefore, the fanfare and event of fashion week trigger my fight or flight. I have pushed past my limit consistently for an industry that doesn’t care whether I’m in it or not — and I recognise it does this with most people. I’m not complaining about the personal; I’m complaining about the purposeful (or lack of).
I try to be rational within the realistic. Yes, the world often says, ‘One Black woman at a time, please,’ but how many Black women are in the space? (There are still a few, but you catch my drift - the number is growing.) Or, the industry can say, ‘Who does your parent know?’ but how many leaders in this industry are non-nepos? The truth is for most of us, the likelihood of our success is greater than our ‘failure’, and most of the time, we’re blessed enough not to see the worst-case scenario — and that’s not to negate that this is a reality for many, and I don’t want to be wishy-washy.
I just want to write. That’s all it comes down to. 18-year-old Aswan didn’t think she’d get to do what 23-year-old Aswan has done and continues to do. I used to not look people in the eye or have a conversation with people I didn’t know, and now it’s part of my job (although I do have a pre-interview ritual of asking God for peace and confidence, peeing and having a mint). The measures taken to write may come across as desperate, but it stems from an internal belief that if I can’t be enough, at least my writing can be. But even that is stupid because I will always be enough. This internal mental battle is evidence of being the eldest daughter, I fear.
“I write every feature like it’s my last and celebrate them as such because they very well could be,” says Anxiety. “You’re lucky your editor suffered through your writing and made it better,” says Depression. “You’re working hard and doing more than okay. Be good to yourself,” says (rational) Aswan, because really, what is the worst that could happen?
I get up and try again, see the feature with new eyes, (maybe) my editor succumbed to more pressing matters and couldn’t get back to me, I get another opportunity to do better—which is almost always the case—and in all of those outcomes, I get to keep writing. This will forever be the goal. That I can even call myself a writer in a freelance capacity is a blessing, and it’s one I never try to take for granted. I’m entirely sure that this is my calling because when I’m not letting it kill me, writing is such a healer — so let me do her justice!
You probably couldn’t take training away from an athlete without them getting the itch to get back on the track, hop on the vault, or jump in the pool. Similarly, you can’t take a notebook from a writer’s bag, a book off their shelf, or the pen out of their hand — it’s simply what we’re destined to do. It’s the muscle we need to exercise to keep things moving. So, one feature remains in the vault for now, but ahead lies a beautiful bibliography of stories waiting to be written and written by me.
How blessed am I?
Grace is a common theme that will probably be mentioned in most posts <3