There's something about.....coming clean

A little bit about me

Yesterday I read a piece by ex-Cosmo and Elle Editor, Farrah Storr, about why she left her much-loved job. This is a woman I admire hugely, not only for her career achievements but also for her sensitivity and grace in her writing. Her piece resonated with me, and for the first time I felt I was able to share a bit about my chequered career history. And guess what? The sky didn’t fall down.

For so long I’ve felt a deep shame about my career. Anyone who knows me knows that I always maintain your job doesn’t define you. Yet here was someone I respected, telling me that actually, your job says everything about you. I sat with this idea for a while, allowing the discomfort to wash over me and I found that I was left with a clarity I haven’t felt before. Instead of feeling ashamed of my past, perhaps I should see it as an essential part of my journey to be where I am now. I felt ready to share. In fact, I think I need to come clean about my past to be able to move past the sense of failure it provokes.

To be clear, I’m not an ex-stripper (no disrespect to strippers - I admire your bravery) or a reformed criminal (again, good for you.) I’m an ex-lawyer. Even that seems a stretch - I was a qualified lawyer, but would never and have never described myself as a lawyer. A recruiter even said to me once “ooh, you don’t look like a lawyer!” I took it as a compliment.

I always knew I wanted to write. I devoured books as a child; in the days when you were only allowed three on loan from the local library, my mother used to ration them over the course of the week so I wouldn’t run out of reading material before my Saturday pilgrimage to the library. The very smell of the place (bear with me here) sent a shiver down my spine as I anticipated the worlds that awaited me between the pages of those books. Reading took me away from my mundane (but very lovely) Home Counties existence, transporting me from my childhood bedroom to wherever I wanted to go.

As I grew, my love of reading endured and I saved all my pocket money to spend on glossy magazines from the local corner shop. I’d walk there with my older brother, pockets bulging with change, relishing the freedom from parents. One Sunday morning stays vividly with me. It was October, a gloriously bright autumnal day and I had enough money for the latest copy of The Clothes Show magazine (remember?!). The model on the cover had flowing auburn curls and I remember the talk of russet hues and burnished orange lipstick. I read and re-read that magazine so many times over the years, devouring the prose and idolising the writers. My teacher asked me what I wanted to be, and I was resolute. A journalist.

Then life got in the way.