​NEW BLOG: I Owe Nobody Anything.
As the year closes, there’s a familiar pressure to reflect and forgive and to wish everyone well. To be gracious at all costs.
But as this year draws to a close I’m not carrying everyone into 2026.
This doesn’t come from bitterness. Quite the opposite, it comes from peace.
For all of my life, I’ve been polite to a fault. I always smile, say hello. I always absorb awkwardness so no one else had to. I mistook that for kindness for years.
Last week something shifted. When I returned to Liverpool I was in town Christmas shopping and I saw someone I used to be close friends with. Someone I helped in business, someone I supported emotionally during her turbulent times. This friendship ended years ago, not through anything I did, but through circumstances, loyalties, and a life that no longer exists after our husbands had a disagreement. In the past, I have smiled at her and said hello in the supermarket aisle. Performed civility out of habit.
This time, I didn’t.
I looked straight through her and carried on with my day. And I felt great.
That moment told me everything I needed to know about where I am now. I simply didn’t register her as someone I needed to carry forward.
That’s what healing actually looks like - not dramatic, just an absence of obligation.
As we get older we realise how many relationships were situational. Built around marriages, proximity, shared routines, or versions of ourselves we’ve outgrown. When those structures fall away, so do some people.
And that’s not failure, it’s honesty.
We are not required to drag old dynamics into new chapters just to prove we’re nice. Politeness should never come at the expense of peace. Growth doesn’t always look friendly. Sometimes it looks like quiet non-engagement.
So as 2026 approaches, I’m being intentional.
I’m carrying forward the people who showed up when things were uncomfortable and the ones who respected my boundaries.
I am not required to shrink or explain.
I can proudly count my close friends on one hand now. These are my confidants, my friends who don’t require conditions.
I am not meeting people for coffee who want to be part time friends.
Sometimes the most powerful end-of-year ritual isn’t gratitude, it’s discernment.
It’s a healthy place to be at. Calm, clear and not fake AF.

SHE HAS SIX KIDS.
I went to a party last night at a lovely restaurant. I knew most of the people around the table, and my friend introduced me to a couple using her favourite party trick:
“This is Amanda… she has six kids.”
Honestly, you’d think she’d announced that I was a UFO crash site investigator by the surprise on his face. The woman smiled. The man practically choked on his falafel, staring me up and down like I’d just admitted to a murder.
Then came the predictable follow-up response, the one I’ve heard more times than I care to count:
“Six kids… with ONE man?”
As if that’s the plot twist that should shake the foundations of civilisation.
No one, at any point, would anyone ever ask man that.
A dad of six gets treated like a national treasure, as if he’s single-handedly repopulating the earth and deserves a medal for remembering their birthdays.
A mother of six? Suddenly she’s a suspect. People start squinting as they work out how many lovers she’s had. And if she looks human or worse, attractive, the interrogation level doubles. God forbid she looks well-rested; then she must be lying about something.
I’ve actually been stopped in airports multiple times and questioned like I’m running an international child-smuggling ring, simply because I’m travelling alone with my own children. That’s the starting point for how mothers are treated.
People love to be scandalised by the strangest, most illogical things. His follow-up line was equally predictable, delivered after he scanned me like he was evaluating fruit in a supermarket:
“You look good on it.”
As if my entire worth boils down to whether motherhood shows on my face. As if my appearance is the miracle here, not the fact that I am an award-winning author and international business owner and I still manage to show up polished.
None of that gets the gasps.
Just the number of kids and the assumption that somehow, somewhere, my morality and my sexual history are fair game for public commentary and judgement.
This is what women choke on every single day: the idea that our bodies, our choices, our past, our reproductive decisions, and even the state of our faces belong to public discussion. Men get celebrated for the bare minimum. Women get interrogated for the audacity of existing.
A man would never be asked this. A dad of six gets a standing ovation. A mum of six gets cross-examined. And here’s the part that really blows people’s minds: my children are intelligent, kind humans with a strong work ethic. They don’t smoke, drink, or take drugs. They’re emotionally balanced, grounded and respectful and not the feral stereotype people assume appears the moment a woman has more than two offspring. Because good parenting isn’t capped at one or two children. The idea that love, attention, or competence somehow expire after baby number two is just another myth people cling to because it makes their judgement easier.
Anyway back on topic....I always think: what exactly am I supposed to look like? Am I supposed to stroll in looking like chaos dressed me without seeing shower gel all week? Why is it shocking that a woman can raise children, build a career, move countries, hit the gym, run a household, fight legal battles and still look nice?
Women are expected to be everything and criticised no matter what we choose.
Too many kids, not enough kids.
Too ambitious, not ambitious enough.
Too much make up, not enough make up.
Every path comes with commentary.
A woman can be exceptional, but she’s still expected to be decorative. And if someone calls me beautiful, I roll my eyes.
It’s the bare minimum observation. It’s the most predictable, unimaginative compliment a woman can get and me and my equally good looking friends are not impressed by it.
Tell me you admire my drive.
Tell me you’re impressed by my resilience.
Tell me you can’t believe how much I’ve achieved.
I’m not here to meet anyone’s expectations, especially not the outdated ones.
I’m here to exceed my own.

NEW BLOG: I Went on a Date…And Ignored It Entirely
My friend met a guy and wanted to go for dinner with him but didn’t want to go alone, so without consulting me she arranged for a double date with an hour’s notice. I didn’t want to go, but as ever the networker, I thought it might be a new business contact at the very least and a free dinner. So with minimal effort (I didn't even brush my hair) I met them at the restaurant.
In Cyprus unfortunately smoking is allowed everywhere and I detest it, so before I had even sat down there was a cloud of cigarette smoke wafting over the table. So I shook hands and moved my chair back to almost the table behind, which was empty. Right then I was ready to leave.
I didn’t go to charm anyone, make small talk, or nod politely at the wine list. I went to support my friend and maybe, survive without pretending to be someone I’m not. But they had the personality of a piece of cardboard. Communication skills should definitely not be listed on their CV. So I pulled out my phone, something I would be normally horrified if anyone else did. There was a message from my friend sat next to me telling me I was rude. Like I give AF. I am not going to make small talk to people I am not interested in. I was existing quietly in the corner of someone else’s romance, not mine.
Society tells us we have to be engaged in every social setting. Smile, laugh, validate. But why? Just because I share the same space doesn’t mean I owe anyone performance points. And don’t get me wrong, when I am in a setting with people I want to be with, I am absolutely hilarious and entertaining. But this was not that night. I was thinking of ways to leave from the moment I arrived, without bailing on my friend.
I don’t want to date unless they are sending a car to pick me up and meet at the airport for a surprise trip. I don’t want to meet anyone unless it’s a business lead and I don’t want to make small talk with mediocre men in baggy polo necks and ill fitting jeans. So I whatsapped my kids, played on my wordsearch and did anything to kill time for an hour until my friend setted into her date.
Watching from my little bubble, I realized the scandal wasn’t my wordsearch. It was everyone else’s assumption that I should have been entertained or entertaining. I was present without being performative. And shockingly, nothing fell apart. The couple flirted awkwardly. I solved words. The world kept spinning.
So yes, call me rude. Call me awkward. Call me whatever you want. I call it self-preservation, with a dash of rebellion. Sometimes, doing nothing spectacularly well is better than pretending to care spectacularly badly.
Next time, maybe I’ll bring a book. Because in a world obsessed with performative politeness, I’ve found a loophole: polite invisibility.
I don’t think I was being rude, I didn’t even order dinner. I just sat there nursing a pina colada until I felt it was ok to leave. Because one thing I have learned about getting older is that I won’t be fake for anyone.

NoI Love My Age — I Just Don’t Want to Look It
It's my birthday next week and I'll be 54. When I was a kid, that seemed positively ancient.
I remember thinking anyone over 40 had basically seen the dinosaurs. Fifty-four? That was retirement, wearing smock dresses and flat shoes and bingo halls. And yet… here I am on the cusp of 54. Still clubbing, still partying.And I love it.
There’s something freeing about being this age. I’ve lived enough to know who I am, and I’ve stopped apologizing for it. I’ve seen my share of wins, losses, heartbreaks, and hilarious mistakes that now make for excellent stories over wine. There’s a confidence that only time can teach, a quiet voice that says, “You’ve got this. You’ve been through worse."
But loving my age doesn’t mean I want to look it or feel it. And I don't. I am stronger than I was in my 30s. My energy is on top form. My joints don’t ache. My face? Well, let’s just say it’s aging gracefully. Sure, I have a few wrinkles, but they’re part of the story, and I embrace modern aesthetics to enhance what’s already there. I’m not hiding my age; I’m celebrating it, on my own terms.
Loving my age doesn’t mean I want to look old. I want to look vibrant, alive, confident and polished in all the ways I choose. There’s joy in taking care of yourself, in combining experience with style, strength, and a little bit of playful vanity
I’m not chasing twenty anymore, no thank you. I don’t want to erase the years; I just want to wear them well. I want to glow because I feel alive and comfortable in my skin. There’s power in that, in refusing to let the world tell you that beauty has an expiration date.
Fifty-four isn’t ancient. It’s seasoned. It’s textured. It’s rich with stories and lessons and laughter lines that prove I’ve been living.
So book the Botox, have the facials, lift the weights, and throw on an inappropriate outfit because age is an asset, not an excuse. And I plan to live it loudly, beautifully, and unapologetically.

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