Here we go....

I’ve been meaning to start this Substack for a while. I even told myself that last year would be the year, as evidenced by my one and only other post on this account. Then life intervened and absolutely wrecked that plan, something I’ll come back to later in this post.

One of the reasons I never wanted to start a Substack wasn’t because I didn’t have anything to say. If anything, I have too much to say. The problem was not knowing which version of myself I was supposed to be in this space. What lane I should pick. What box I should politely sit in.

This week, something small and slightly funny happened that sorted all of that out.

I met a friend’s mum. Because my friend is a journalist, her mum assumed I was one too. When my friend explained that I’m actually an activist and that we’d once travelled together to Somaliland, her mum looked even more confused. In her head, I was “Jess’s journalism friend” and now suddenly I was something else.

I laughed and said, “She’s not alone. People are always confused about who I am and what I do, even when I’m standing right there explaining it.”

Saying it out loud unlocked something. Because it’s true.

Instead of constantly trying to make myself more legible, I realised I could just stop fighting it.

I care about a lot of things. Serious things, like how institutionally racist our NHS is, and how last summer it took far too long for my mum’s cancer to be diagnosed, which, by the way, is what completely fucked my plans to write here. And I also care about less serious things. Observations. Annoyances. Mindless thoughts. The everyday shit that lives alongside the heavy stuff.

I’ve never fitted neatly into a box, so I don’t know why I thought this page should.

Maybe what I write here will be shit and I’ll quietly retreat back to ranting on what we used to call Twitter. Or maybe it’ll help surface ideas, conversations, and policies I actually care about. Possibly both.

Either way, I’m giving it a go.

And thank you, in advance, for reading.