I Accidentally Started a Cult in My Nan’s Garden
In 2024, I tried to “manifest” a quieter, more successful life by burning sage in my Nan’s garden while she was on holiday. Because nothing says spiritual enlightenment like a 23-year-old in pyjamas, flapping a Poundland smudge stick like a discount Gandalf. At the time, I was drowning in the noise of comparison—everyone my age seemed to have their lives together, while I was over here annotating The Second Sex and eating custard creams like they were a personality trait. (They are, actually. Jean-Paul Sartre could never.) Instead of inner peace, I summoned a neighbourhood cat cult. For a week, four strays gathered nightly to stare at me as I sat on the garden swing, muttering about Simone de Beauvoir and existential dread.
“Is this really peak feminism?” I asked a tabby I had named Dave. He licked his paw with the silent judgement of a man who’s never paid rent but still thinks he could run the economy better. That moment was a revelation—I was an overeducated chaos gremlin with nowhere to put all my thoughts. I’d spent years wrestling with questions that didn’t fit neatly into everyday conversation, convinced that normal people would find me a bit much, like an overenthusiastic pour of red wine at a work event.
Making friends as an adult is harder than explaining Ulysses to a golden retriever. I’ve written seven books (all hidden under my bed like contraband), cried over Wikipedia articles about Victorian-era sex scandals, and once spent two hours debating the ethics of Love Island with my therapist. (She billed me extra. I respected it.) I’m lucky to have a tiny circle of ride-or-die weirdos, but I crave conversations that go beyond “How’s work?” I want to argue about whether Pride and Prejudice is secretly a Marxist text, discuss whether Van Gogh’s sister-in-law was the real PR mastermind behind his fame, and confess that I’ve never had a relationship because men scare me. (And yes, sometimes I wish I were a lesbian just for the admin benefits.)
For too long, I buried these thoughts in my Notes app, afraid they were too weird, too intense, too much. But in 2025, I’m officially refusing to apologise for the chaos. I founded At The Taboo Table as a space for women to dissect everything from systemic sexism to the existential dread of laundry. But this Substack? This is where I stop filtering. Not as a polished podcaster. Not as a girlboss or a guru (the horror). But as the woman who writes essays in pyjamas, eats toast over the sink to avoid crumbs, and keeps a Google Doc titled Why Are We Like This? with 162+ thoughts on female rage.
I want to be your midnight confidante—the friend who DMs you at 2am with an unsolicited rant about capitalist dating apps and immediately asks for your take. The one who admits that yes, I’ve cried over Pride and Prejudice, no, I don’t know how to flirt, but I do know how to roast patriarchal norms like a Michelin-starred chef. I want to trade existential dread recipes, dissect pop culture’s messiest moments, and argue about whether self-care is just capitalism’s way of selling us scented candles instead of dismantling the system.
So here I am: introverted, wildly curious, and trying (badly) to be less avoidant. Taboo + Toast isn’t just a newsletter, it’s my mutiny against small talk, my love letter to the overthinkers, and my attempt to build a community where “weird” is the baseline. I’m not here to be your guru, your girlboss, or your agony aunt. I’m here to be the friend who says, “Same, but let’s dig deeper.”
The Secret Sauce (Or: Why You’ll Want to Join The Supper Club)
Let’s be real: free content is like a biscuit without the tea—nice, but not enough to sustain you. If you’re here, you’re the type who craves more than surface-level takes. You want the main dish, the spicy debates, and the midnight whispers that make you feel seen. That’s where (what I call) The Supper Club comes in. For £5/month (or £40/year if you’re feeling fancy and wanting a discount), you’re not just subscribing—you’re pulling up a chair at the table where the real feast happens.
Think of this as the backroom of At The Taboo Table—a dimly lit, biscuit-crumb-covered space where we ask questions that linger. Here, we don’t just “break the ice”—we melt it down and forge it into something better. Expect essays that read like love letters of chaos (like “Why ‘self-love’ feels like a part-time job nobody pays for”), deepdives of pop culture’s mad moments (looking at you, nepo babies), and art history gossip so juicy it’d make a Tudor ghost blush.
So, what’s on the menu?
Unfiltered AMAs: Quarterly no-holds-barred Q&As where I answer everything—sex, money, moral dilemmas.
The Brain Spiral Archives: Raw, unfiltered deepdives into midnight Google spirals: annotated research on why “girlboss” culture feels like a pyramid scheme, feminist critiques of rom-coms, and why we’re all secretly terrified of being “too much” in bed. (Yes, I’ve Googled that too.)
Exclusive Essays: Paid members get access to all The Main Dish articles—long-form taboo deepdives like “Why ‘self-love’ feels like a part-time job nobody pays you for” and “The silent shame of being broke in a pretend-I’m-rich world.”
The Biscuit Tin Content: Reader-driven chats where we spill the tea on everything from cutting off toxic families to the emotional labour of dating apps. (Spoiler: Swipe right for burnout).
The Supper Club Events: You will have future access to any virtual The Supper Club events, such as Zoom debates where we argue about ethics like it’s a Love Island recoupling, early access to in-person events, and other types of VIP events.
I didn’t start Taboo + Toast to be your guru (double gross), your agony aunt (exhausting), or your boss babe (yawn). I started it because depth is a radical act in a world hellbent on hot takes. This is a place for the overthinkers, the under-slept, and anyone who’s ever whispered “But what if we’re all wrong?” into the void.
You’re Already One of Us
If you’ve ever cancelled plans to journal and chill, cried at a Wikipedia page, or argued with your therapist over ethics of productivity, you’re my people. This isn’t a cult (probably), a therapy substitute (legally), or a TED talk (thank God). it’s a curiosity-laden rebellion.
So, go and grab a custard cream, mute your notifications, and let’s get uncomfortable. The kettle’s on, the void is listening, and I’ve saved you a seat at the taboo table.
