Just the Way You Are

by Beth Moran

I had dinner at six forty-five, because I was getting hungry. I ate a giant slice of coconut cake while the pasta boiled, because I felt like it, and I left my dirty plate in the living room all night, because I could, and no one was there to moan about it. I was free.

As they walked away, I gave myself a mental slap. I’d made a thousand judgements about this woman, badly drawn tattoos scrawled across her arms and legs. A face with every soft angle chipped away. Eyes sharp and fierce. I did my best to ditch every ill-conceived one of them.

I wasn’t sure what I enjoyed most – doing what I liked, or finally discovering what it was I liked to do.

I would have missed all of this, if I’d listened to the guilt and the fear.

I felt a fleeting pang of regret that I had no one to share this with, before shaking my head at the concept that you have to share something in order to fully appreciate it. I’d experienced a moment of magic, and that was something to treasure.

It was just me, trying to survive out here in the big wide world alone, handling adult responsibilities and navigating each day without starting wars with librarians, annoying my neighbours or ruining birthday parties.

‘I also realised that for my whole life I’ve been like this little planet, revolving around the star that is my mother. Relying on her for warmth and light and direction. I’m thirty this year, and I don’t really know who I am.’

there are imperfect, mixed-up, complicated people everywhere. People who are simply doing the best they can to shake off whatever’s been dumped on them, pick themselves up and keep on going.

You need help. We all need help, all the time. That’s why I pay for a cleaner and have just spent the week driving my grandchildren about. But sometimes, we need more help than others.