My mother’s tongue is harsh. Hers is a language of efficiency, deftly cutting between ribs to strike to the tender core. In my mother’s tongue, what has happened to my body, what my body has done, is called Fehlgeburt. FailRead more…
Story ends, is, begins
This piece was awarded second place in the Feminartsy Memoir Prize 2018. I keep seeing your old akubra on the dash. The one you never left home without. I don’t know how I managed to drive back to your flat,Read more…
Northbound on the Noarlunga Line
This piece was awarded third place in the Feminartsy Memoir Prize 2018. On a Wednesday evening in late summer I take the train into the city, setting forth from my far-flung seaside suburb to meet an old friend for dinner.Read more…
An educated, wealthy, white woman on mental illness
Content Warning: Suicide & Mental Illness ‘Nothing hurts more than realising you’ve been complicit in your own silence. Nothing feels better than unleashing your voice.’ – Clementine Ford in Fight Like A Girl I was fourteen theRead more…
Cooking as an antidote to alienation
At eighteen, I left my home smelling of crushed cinnamon, cardamom and star anise. I stepped into Australia in the intense summer of 2013. The air smelled of eucalyptus and rosemary – a smell that I still pick up inRead more…