Somewhere out there, there must be women who glide through life in silk blouses without a single coffee stain, who never trip on their own shoelaces, and who somehow manage to eat spaghetti without looking like a toddler with finger paint.
I am not one of them. I am, proudly, a clumsy woman.
Food constantly finds its way down my cleavage. Honestly, my boobs are like a man’s beard: a net for falling snacks. I trip over invisible objects, drop things daily, and my clothes seem to rebel against me with regular wardrobe malfunctions. And don’t get me started on my hair. The minute I have both hands full, it drops over my face like a theatre curtain mid-performance.
Case in point: this week I was juggling armfuls of stuff, hair blinding me, when some man decided to launch into a conversation. Did he offer to help? Sweep the hair out of my eyes? Carry something? Of course not. He just stood there yammering, waiting for an answer while I struggled on. Honestly, if I’d had a free hand to scoop out any food from the boob-trap, I would’ve lobbed it straight at him.
Graceful? Please. Being a clumsy woman isn’t a flaw; it’s a lifestyle. And survival is my art form.
So here’s to the myth of the graceful woman. May we never meet her. May we keep tripping, spilling, wobbling, flashing a bit too much, and still showing up anyway. Because perfect is boring, but clumsy is unforgettable.
There’s a moment, maybe you know it, where someone asks too much, again, and instead of speaking, your body screams. Your jaw tightens. Your stomach turns. You smile and say, “Sure, no problem.”
I used to think being agreeable made me good. What it made me was exhausted. And resentful. And invisible.
This is about the messy, liberating art of setting boundaries, even if your voice shakes, even if you’ve never seen it modelled, even if it costs you people who only loved the version of you that said yes too often.
Where We Learn to Over-Give
We don’t come out of the womb clutching a to-do list and an apology. That’s learned. Most of us were raised to be good girls and boys, to not make waves, to share even when it hurt. And if you’re someone who’s lived through trauma or chronic illness, the habit of over-giving becomes a survival strategy. We give more, so we’re not abandoned. We stay quiet so we’re not punished. We work twice as hard to prove we’re worth the space we take up. Then there’s the capitalist cherry on top: if you can do more, you should. Productivity becomes morality. Rest is suspect. And boundaries? Selfish. That’s the lie they sell us so we’ll keep bleeding ourselves dry.
What Happens When You Don’t
The body keeps the receipts. Fatigue. Resentment. MS flares. Migraines. Rage that simmers under your skin until it boils over or turns inward. When you don’t set boundaries, your body will eventually do it for you. And the people who benefit from your lack of boundaries? They’re not going to suggest you take better care of yourself. They’re not going to set limits for you. That’s your job. Without boundaries, you become a ghost in your own damn life, present, but not really there.
Boundaries Are Not Walls
People get twitchy around boundaries because they mistake them for barriers. But boundaries aren’t walls. They’re bridges with toll booths. They say, “You can come closer, but here are the terms.” Boundaries allow love in, real love, not the manipulative, shape-shift-until-you’re-pleasing kind. You can say, “I love you, but I don’t take work calls after 6 PM.” Or, “I care about you, but I’m not your emotional landfill.” Boundaries are not ultimatums. They are clarity. And clarity is kindness, even if sometimes it sounds like fire.
What Saying No Can Sound Like
Saying no doesn’t need to come with a PowerPoint presentation and a side of guilt. Sometimes it’s just: “No.” Or: “That doesn’t work for me.” Or the power move of silence. You don’t owe an explanation for protecting your peace. And yes, you’re allowed to say no to people who love you, people who raised you, people who expect the old version of you to show up on cue. Every no is a yes to something else. A yes to your body. Your time. Your sanity.
Expect the Pushback
You will be called selfish. Dramatic. Cold. Especially if you’re a woman, or someone socialised to be the fixer, the feeler, the forgiver. But hear this: you’re not selfish. You’re sober now. You’ve sobered up from the belief that you must earn your place by disappearing. Some people won’t like the new you. Let them leave. That’s not a failure, that’s a filter. The ones who stay? Those are your people. Those are the ones who can love you with your spine intact.
Boundaries for Chronic Illness & Energy Management
If your body is already fighting battles no one can see, your boundaries are your armour. Cancel the plans. Turn off your phone. Say, “I can’t do that today” without a TED Talk. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you manage your health, your pain, your rest. Boundaries aren’t just emotional tools; they are survival gear. Especially when every decision costs energy you can’t afford to waste.
Personal Note
For me, learning to say no started with getting sick. MS didn’t just strip my nerves, it stripped my tolerance for bullshit. I don’t have the energy to please and perform anymore. What’s left is a very raw, very real version of me. She’s not for everyone. But damn, she’s finally for me. And with that came loss. I lost a lot of people, people who were only around for the good times, for the easy yeses, for the mountains of emotional support I used to give without question. When I got sick and started drawing lines in the sand, some vanished overnight. Boundaries have a brutal kind of clarity. They show you who’s in your corner because they love you, and who was only there for what they could get.
Ever let one slip and immediately feel shame? Don’t. You’re part of a noble, gassy lineage. Every toot is a biological miracle, and honestly, kind of punk rock. This post goes out to the bloated, the brave, and everyone who’s ever blamed the dog.
1. The average person farts 14 to 22 times a day
And if they say they don’t? They’re lying or dead inside. This includes your crush, your boss, and that super-zen yoga instructor who eats only moonlight and mung beans.
2. Farts are mostly odourless
Roughly 99% of a fart is hydrogen, methane, carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and oxygen. The deadly 1% is sulfur. That’s the part that smells like Satan’s eggs. Blame cruciferous veggies, not your soul.
3. Women’s farts smell worse
It’s true. According to actual scientists with actual PhDs, women’s farts tend to contain more hydrogen sulfide, the smelly part. Equality wins again.
*Author Confession I am, tragically, a full-time resident of the One Percenter Club; that elite group whose farts consistently smell like betrayal. And before you come for me, know this: I eat my broccoli. I eat my cabbage. I eat my lentils, nuts, seeds, and every gut-happy thing the wellness girlies preach. I’m basically a plant-based war zone. If farts are mostly odourless, then mine are the artisanal kind. small batch, sulfur-forward, and emotionally devastating. I’ve crop-dusted Woolies. I’ve made the dog leave the room. I’ve blamed everything from ghosts to faulty floorboards. Zero shame. Full power.
4. They help regulate your gut
Farting is your digestive system doing its damn job. If you’re farting, your gut microbiome is alive and kickin’. No farts? Could be constipation, stress, or a lack of fibre. (Also known as “diet culture in disguise.”)
5. Holding in farts is bad for your health
Not catastrophic, but it can cause bloating, cramps, and bad breath. Plus, if you hold it in too long, it can be reabsorbed and released via your mouth. Yes. That is real. Yes. It’s horrifying. * (See notes below.)
6. Farts can travel at up to 11 km/h
That’s faster than I jog. That’s faster than I ever jogged. Actually, I can’t jog at all, so it’s faster than me. Your butt is out here setting land speed records.
7. Your farts are unique to you
Like fingerprints or Spotify Wrapped. Your fart’s signature scent is based on your bacteria, diet, and hormone levels. (So if you’ve been bloated and breaking wind since starting HRT or menopause? Not just in your head.)
8. Silent ones aren’t always deadlier, they’re just sneakier
Loud or soft depends on the pressure, position, and sphincter tension (yes, that’s a phrase I just typed). The loudest farts are often the least smelly. Discuss at dinner.
9. Some animals use farts to communicate
Termites are the biggest farters in the animal kingdom. Herrings fart to keep in touch with each other in the dark. Meanwhile, humans do the opposite and ghost you if you fart in a car.
10. Certain foods are gas accelerants
Beans, cabbage, dairy (especially if you’re lactose intolerant), and artificial sweeteners are the holy quad of air biscuits. Probiotics can help, but if you’re farting after a green juice cleanse? Congrats. You’re normal.
11. Smelling farts might have health benefits
There was one study. Once. Suggesting low levels of hydrogen sulfide might help prevent cell damage. So, if your partner ever farts under the covers and traps you in it? It’s basically love. And medicine.
* NO! I AM NOT DOING THIS TO CURE MY MS!
12. You can’t really “light a fart” safely
Is it flammable? Sure, if there’s enough methane. But should you try it? Only if you want your butt to end up on a burn unit. Mythbusters tried it so you don’t have to.
13. There’s an actual word for fear of farting
It’s flatuphobia. And if you’ve ever sat through a silent yoga class with a roiling belly, you’ve probably had it.
So… why does this matter?
Because bodily functions are not embarrassing, they’re honest. And in a world obsessed with detox teas, thigh gaps, and curated perfection, normalising farts might be the most rebellious thing we do today.
Let it rip, darling. You’ve earned it.
A fart, a fart, is good for the heart. It puts the belly at ease. It warms the bed on a winter’s night, And keeps away all the fleas.
It’s rare, and it’s not like your butt gas just magically floats up and burps out, but… here’s what’s really going on:
When you hold in a fart, the gas pressure builds up in your colon. Most of it stays trapped and gets absorbed into the lining of your gut, where it enters your bloodstream. From there, it’s carried to your lungs, and eventually exhaled through your mouth.
So technically, yes, some of that fart might get rerouted and sneak out as part of your next exhale.
Is it literally a burped fart? No. Is it spiritually a burped fart? Oh, absolutely.
Don’t Tell Me I’m “Too Sensitive.” You’re Just Too Cruel.
It happened in front of a Starbucks. Like so many little violences do. I was inching my car into a disabled bay, my legs trembling, fatigue coiled behind my eyes like a migraine ready to strike, when a woman dripping in costume jewellery appeared. Finger raised. Voice already sharp with judgment.
“You can’t park there.”
I told her I could. That I had a permit and that I have multiple sclerosis.
She scoffed. “Those things are fake. You can buy them anywhere.”
“Really?” I thought to myself, “Where?” Probably would’ve been easier.
Then she looked me in the face and said: “Multiple Sclerosis doesn’t count.”
Let me repeat that. Multiple Sclerosis doesn’t **ing count.
Well, clearly I need to have a little chat with my world-class neurologist. Obviously, this woman knew something he didn’t.
I wish I had a clever comeback. Something surgical and savage that would’ve left her sizzling in a puddle of her own ignorance.
But I didn’t.
I just stood there, vibrating with rage, with shame of her making a scene in public, of her filming me on her phone, with that old, sick feeling in my gut: Here we go again.
My nervous system wasn’t built for public debate. And yet, here I was. My body on trial in the middle of town. I just wanted a coffee and to sit down because getting out in the world is an ENORMOUS treat for me these days.
The Price of Looking “Fine”
When I was first diagnosed, the man I was dating didn’t believe me.
“You’re not actually sick,” he said. “You look fine.”
As if illness only counts if it disfigures you. As if I must drag a wound behind me like a Victorian ghost to be believed.
He cheated on me with two of my friends and later dated a woman with a more obvious illness. I did start to question if he had some kind of bizarre fetish or if he just needed to feel more masculine by having a damsel in distress on his flabby arm. Who knows, people are weird. Once, with godlike certainty, he said: “Maybe you just don’t get to have love.”
I didn’t believe him; I’m not that messed up. But that’s what the world teaches you when your illness hides under your skin. That, unless your pain is public, photogenic, and can make people tilt their heads with an “oh, you poor thing” look, it doesn’t count.
That your nervous system, your actual lived experience, is somehow up for peer review.
Welcome to the Performance of “Okay”
Women are taught from the beginning to make pain look pretty. Smiling through cramps. Working through grief. Performing resilience like it’s an effing TED Talk.
Throw chronic illness into the mix, and you’re cast in a very specific role:
Be brave, but not bitter.
Be strong, but not messy.
Be informative, but not angry.
Be disabled, but not inconvenient.
God forbid you feel things. God forbid your body doesn’t cooperate.
The Ableism Hidden in Wellness Culture
Let’s talk about the billion-dollar lie that says you can “heal yourself” if you try hard enough.
Green juice.
Yoga.
Mindset.
Detoxes.
Energy work.
The whole “optimise your nervous system” cult that pretends trauma and illness are just bad habits you haven’t outgrown yet.
I’m not knocking genuine care or ritual or pleasure; I love a magnesium bath as much as the next exhausted woman. But I am calling out the violence that happens when the wellness world gaslights the sick. When it blames you for your symptoms. When it markets recovery as a brand you can buy if you hustle hard enough and stop being “negative.”
Sometimes a body is just broken. Sometimes it’s just tired. Sometimes it’s never going to be better, and that doesn’t mean you failed. It means the system did.
I Don’t Owe You My Pain Performance
I don’t owe you visible suffering. I don’t owe you explanations. I don’t owe you a limp, a wheelchair, a medical file, or a teary TEDx talk.
I have MS. It’s real. And whether I’m collapsed in bed or laughing at a party or, God forbid, standing tall in a disabled parking space, I’m still sick. I’m still fighting. And I’m still not here to make you comfortable.
Stop asking women to shrink their pain into something you can digest.
Stop calling us “too sensitive” when what you mean is, “I don’t want to feel implicated in your reality.”
My nervous system is not a fucking debate club. It’s not up for peer review. It’s mine. It’s sacred. And sometimes it hurts like hell.
And Still, I Rise. Not to Inspire You. To Save Myself.
The best part? That ex who told me I didn’t get to have love? He was wrong. So wrong it’s almost funny. I found someone who didn’t need proof to believe me. Who didn’t treat my illness like an inconvenience or a prop. Who holds space when my legs fail and holds my hand when they don’t.
What About You?
Have you ever been asked to prove your pain? Have you swallowed your symptoms to make others more comfortable? What would it feel like to stop performing and just… be?
You don’t owe anyone your broken parts. But if you feel like sharing, I’m listening.
Once upon a time, I was a Nice Person. I’d smile politely while someone explained my own diagnosis to me. I’d hold the door open for strangers and wait while they slowly shuffled through, unbothered. I’d listen to that one friend monologue about her sugar detox while I silently wondered if I could fake my own death to get out of the conversation.
But that version of me is gone. She perished somewhere between the fifth unsolicited wellness tip and the third time someone said, “But you don’t look sick.”
And in her place? A delightfully irritable, short-fused, boundary-setting badass who no longer has time for bullshit, big or small. This is my official Villain Era™, and it’s sponsored by chronic illness, menopause, and a bottomless vat of nope.
So, without further ado, here’s a lovingly curated list of Things I No Longer Have Patience For:
1. Loud Chewers & Public Speakerphone Users
If your jaw sounds like gravel in a washing machine, or you’re broadcasting your break-up on speakerphone in public — congratulations, you’re the reason I believe in selective extinction.
2. The Door You Left Open
Did you not feel that icy blast? Is your soul so shrivelled you think we enjoy sudden indoor tornadoes? Close the damn door before I throw a salt lamp at you.
3. Unsolicited Advice from Non-Experts
Unless you’ve lived in this meat-suit and have a PhD in neurology, keep your spirulina suppository and moon-water testimonials to yourself. I’m not your pet project. I’m just trying to buy avocados in peace. Keep your seaweed smoothie cure to yourself. And no, Susan, yoga will not reverse brain lesions.
4. The Phrase “You Don’t Look Sick”
Well, you do look stupid, so I guess we’re even.
5. The Cult of Beige Instagram Moms
If your child has a capsule wardrobe and your playroom has mood lighting, I assume your soul has been traded for engagement. Let those kids wear Crocs and chaos like the rest of us.
6. “Everything Happens for a Reason”
Unless that reason is “you’re a carbon-based life form on a rapidly decaying planet,” keep it to yourself. Some things are just… shitty.
7. People Sitting Next to Me When There Are 100 Other Empty Seats
This isn’t a hostage situation; you have options. And yet you chose my airspace? I didn’t survive a pandemic just to share elbow room with your tuna wrap. Why. Just why. Are you okay? Blink twice if you’re in distress.
8. Trad Wives Cosplaying the 1950s (Badly)
You want to obey your husband and churn butter on camera? Go wild. But don’t pretend your ring-light lifestyle is actual tradition. Real trad wives didn’t have OnlyFans. (me-owe!)
9. Chronic Illness Gatekeepers
If you’ve ever said “just be positive” to someone in pain, I hope you step on a Lego every Monday morning for the remainder of your time here.
10. Mainsplainers & Creepy Flirters
I used to nod. Now I say “That’s creepy AF dude” and walk away while maintaining eye contact.
11. People Who Know Me Better Than I Do
Newsflash: I’ve been in this body a while. I don’t need you to explain my symptoms, my limits, or my mood swings. Especially not during peri-fucking-menopause.
12. Covid Opinions
Still? We’re still doing this? Pass.
13. Thieves of Parking Spaces
That space was mine. I will trap you in. I will go Fried Green Tomatoes on your bumper. Do not test the rage of a middle-aged woman with perimenopause and pain.
I don’t know if this list makes me petty, evolved, or simply tired, but it feels delicious to get it out. There’s a joy in drawing the line. In saying “no thanks” without apologising. In laughing at how little crap I’m willing to take these days.
And maybe that’s what real healing looks like.
Your turn: what’s something you no longer have patience for? Drop it in the comments. Let’s be gloriously petty together.
