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.
I’ll be sitting at my laptop, working, writing, answering emails, maybe just thinking about writing while actually scrolling through memes, and then poof… I disappear.
Not slowly, like that cosy afternoon nap you give yourself permission for. I mean one second I’m here, and the next, gone. Like someone unplugged my brain. Then just as quickly, I jolt back. Blink. It’s over. The dog’s still asleep. The kettle’s still humming. But I’m sitting upright at my computer, wondering: Did I just fall asleep while working? And it happens more than once; these strange glitches come in clusters. I can be pulled out of them if the phone rings or if someone touches me, like my nervous system is waiting for a jumpstart.
I’ve had a few of these episodes now. They’re not dreamy or floaty or warm. They’re hard and fast and jarring. And they scare the shit out of me.
When you live with MS, every weird body glitch carries a question mark. Is this just MS doing its daily chaos routine? Or is this something new? I am always scared of something new because in my support group, my fellow spoonies will say, “It’s never just one disease,” or “Once you’ve got one, you’ll get more.”
Please, no.
MRI (Eventually) Incoming
I haven’t actually made the appointment yet. I know I need to. But I’m still in the bureaucratic limbo of:
A. Figuring out whether my medical aid will cover it (spoiler: only a portion, yay South African healthcare).
B. …I forgot what B was. I genuinely had it a minute ago.
Anyway. MRI, neurologist, those are on the horizon. Somewhere between the load shedding schedule and the next cup of tea.
And I’ll admit it: I’m nervous. Not because I expect a terrifying result. I’ve already got a brain with white spots and a spine full of screws and wires. But I need answers. And the options on the table are… not exactly comforting.
Here’s the shortlist:
MS fatigue, aka “lassitude,” which is a fancy word for soul-sucking exhaustion that hits like a tranquillizer dart. It’s not “you need a nap” tired. It’s “my brain is melting” tired. I don’t know how to explain it to people who have never experienced it. Closest is, imagine you’ve been awake for 142 hours and your veins are full of cement.
Microsleeps, which are tiny, sneaky, involuntary naps that last mere seconds but could happen while I’m sitting, reading, or, terrifyingly, driving.
Narcolepsy, which I don’t think it is, but hey, add it to the menu of potential plot twists.
Or, worst case, seizures, though mine don’t come with confusion or post-episode fog, so that seems less likely. Still, it’s on the board.
What’s the difference, anyway?
I did some digging because I’m me, and medical rabbit holes are my weird comfort activity. Here’s the deal:
MS Fatigue: Creeps in slowly, can last days, weeks, months (yup), worsens with heat or thinking or breathing. It’s not fixed with sleep; you just have to wave a white flag and collapse.
Microsleeps: Happen instantly and briefly. You might not even realize it’s happening. They often show up when you’re bored, tired, or doing something repetitive. Like, say… staring at a screen trying to earn a living.
Sleep attacks: Similar to narcolepsy, these come on fast and can make you collapse mid-sentence. (Not happening here, thank god.)
Seizures: Usually longer, often come with confusion or memory gaps. (Not me. I come back online almost too fast.)
So what’s happening with me? I don’t know yet. But I do know this: it’s unsettling. So much so that Bugsy seems to pick up on it and he lies next to me quietly till I’m back before carrying on with his 18th zoomie of the day.
The Mental Load of Not Knowing
This is the part they don’t tell you when you’re diagnosed. Not just the disease, but the never-ending detective work. The constant second-guessing. The mental calculus of “Should I worry about this now or later? Or never?”
It’s exhausting. And honestly? Sometimes it’s lonelier than the actual symptoms.
But I’m trying to do the responsible thing. See the doctor. Get the scan. Ask the questions. Start taking rest breaks (who has time for this?) and hydrate (not so easy when your throat muscles are experiencing spasticity).
Things I need to do:
Rest with intention: Schedule quiet breaks, not just flopping on the couch. Phone off, eyes closed, even if it’s just 10 minutes.
Temperature matters: I keep a fan close by. Heat makes it worse.
Bedtime boundaries: I HAVE to get stricter about bedtime; even though I want to binge British murder shows till 2 a.m., I simply can’t. A good night’s rest is imperative.
Talk to my doctor: Not Google. Not Facebook. Not an Ai medical app. Get actual help.
I’ll update you if/when the MRI happens. I’m claustrophobic and terrified of going in that damn thing. Maybe there’ll be news. Maybe it’ll be “just fatigue.” Maybe I’ll get a fancy new Latin diagnosis to add to my collection. Who knows?
In the meantime, I’m still here. Still working. Still trying. Still curious.
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.
Step away from the plastic fern, darling—real, breathing greenery is easier than you think.
Why My Plants Used to File for Restraining Orders
True confession: I once crisped a peace lily so badly it looked like biltong. I blamed “black thumb genetics” until I learned that some plants actually like benign neglec, and many are sold right here in Mzansi through Takealot, Builders, and every Saturday-morning market between Durbanville and Durban. Research backs it up: species such as snake plant and pothos not only survive dim flats but actively scrub indoor air of volatile nasties.
Ready to stop the botanical bloodshed? Meet my magnificent seven.
What it wants: One cup of water a month, maybe a compliment every quarter. Drama factor: 1/10. You could forget it behind the couch for a season; it would merely smirk and photosynthesise. NASA’s famous clean-air study put snake plants near the top for formaldehyde removal. Buy it: R 170 for a 17 cm pot at Cape Garden Centre (ships nationwide).
2 | ZZ Plant (Zamioculcas zamiifolia)—The Zen Master
What it wants: Low light, sporadic watering, zero gossip. Why you’ll love it: Glossy leaves that look polished even when Eskom doesn’t power the polish cloth. Garden writers rank it among the hardiest “set-and-forget” options. Buy it: R 200 via Happy Life Plants; arrives swaddled like a newborn.
3 | Golden Pothos (Epipremnum aureum)—The Over-Achiever
What it wants: Anything from bright-ish corner to bookshelf gloom. Party trick: Trails of variegated leaves that forgive missed waterings the way Labradors forgive bad tennis-ball throws. Extension experts call pothos “excellent for beginners.” Buy it: 15 cm hanging basket, R 140 on Plantify, just unbox, hang, and brag.
What it wants: Occasional sunbeam, weekly sip. Why it’s cool: Shoots out baby “spiderettes” you can pot up and gift (or keep, no judgment). Featured in 2025 “fast-growing houseplants” round-ups for good reason. Buy it: R 150 from Botanical Heaven, comes with two free offspring already dangling.
5 | Peace Lily (Spathiphyllum spp.)—The Drama Queen (But in a Good Way)
What it wants: Dappled light, evenly moist soil. Life hack: Leaves droop when thirsty, then bounce back after watering, built-in reminder for the forgetful. South-African supermarket Woollies sells a 14 cm specimen for under R 140.
6 | Aloe Vera—The Medic
What it wants: Bright light, sandy soil, the odd sunburned human to rescue. Bonus: Gel inside treats minor burns and mosquito bites, first-aid kit on a stem. Gardening mags list aloe among 2025’s “best low-light succulents.” Buy it:Builders Warehouse, R 79 per chunky starter.
What it wants: Indirect light, fortnightly water, occasional leaf-wipe (it’s vain like that). Reward: Insta-worthy glossy foliage that says “I’ve got my life together” even if you’re Googling “load-shedding dinner ideas.” Decofurn sells a 15 cm potted stunner for R 175.00 from Plantify.
Quick-Start Care Plan (No Latin Required)
Light: If you can read without squinting, the plant’s fine.
Water: Finger test, soil dry 3 cm down? Water. Still damp? Step away.
Food: A slow-release pellet every spring; skip if you forget, nobody dies.
Pots: Drainage holes are non-negotiable; saucers catch the guilt.
Do that, and you’ll be the smug friend doling out baby spider plants by Christmas.
