My mum told me she read my little ones some Greek mythology stories at bedtime.

A few days later, my 5 year old says

Mama, what’s your weak spot?

I say what do you mean, and he tries to pronounce Achilles.

I say, oh, my Achilles heel, my weak spot, I understand.

I think about it, really think about it, and then think about how amazing it is to be asked, by a child, questions that really do make you think.

While I’m thinking he says sweetly, bashfully

My weak spot is my heart. I really don’t like my heart being hurt.

I want to cry as I look at him, wanting to shrink him so I can fit him in my pocket and keep him safe forever. I want to pause this moment, keep him 5 forever.

*

I’ve never experienced wanderlust. I had an almost-boyfriend when I was 18 who wanted me to go to Bali with him. I’ve had an unacceptable number of “almost-boyfriends” – which I describe as someone who I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time with in ambiguously romantic settings, with months of messaging and building a mutual emotional reliance – only to find that neither of you have the guts to “try”.

We had only kissed once and slept in the same bed for one night when he asked me to go travelling with him, starting out in Bali, but he thought that the natural next step would be for us to go on a plane and spend hundreds of pounds and get vaccinations and go around the world together.

I’d have preferred the cinema and sex.

But I said yes.

I started the process of packing, got a new suitcase and a special ID card from the travel agency. I remember the photo for the ID card because I look strangely pretty and tanned and was wearing a floral hairband which I lost and then tried to find in Claire’s Accessories for years after.

I looked mildly wild in that photo, which is something I’d always wanted to be.

This would have been a really cool thing for me to do.

Go across the world with my new almost-boyfriend before coming back and (perhaps) going to university. Be normal for my age! Be relaxed with nothing but a backpack!

The day before we were due to fly I panicked. This was not me. I did not like him enough, and I did not want to travel enough. I told him in a park. He was very upset and we never spoke again. It’s a shame because he was one of the first male friends I ever had and I think of him every now and again, especially when I see a plane.

What could have been?

Even though I didn’t yet know what I wanted to do with my life, I knew I was not the sort of person to be relaxed and wander about. I needed to get on with things, and if I was going to travel, I wanted it to be when I felt I’d earned it.

I still struggle with enjoyment in general, allowing myself joy – but I am glad I didn’t go on that trip.

*

I did a show this week.

It was the first time onstage since my “bad” show in April, which put me off performing for a while.

It was also my first show ever on antidepressants, so I was curious to see how I’d feel.

As I set up my chairs onstage, I noticed I was shaking.

I haven’t shook like that since I did my shows in the days after my brother died, and I was performing Sunrise. I shook then because, even though I’d done the show over 100 times when it happened, I was in deep shock. Somehow had to pretend I was fine in front of a crowd and do a good show - honour the money they’d spend on the ticket and the babysitter they’d booked.

It didn’t occur to me to cancel the shows. I had a job to do. If I had cancelled them, then it would have meant something awful had happened – which of course it had – but I wasn’t ready to confront that yet.

For my current show – 7 years later – there is no pressure on me at all. it’s a work-in-progress show. No one expects anything of me. I will be performing in a tiny cave in Edinburgh at midday for only a week and I don’t even know what I’ll do with this show once the week is over.

I may never look at it again. It really doesn’t matter, and yet – for this little preview in a railway arch venue in Shoreditch – I wanted it to matter, it mattered to me. I wanted to do a good show. I wanted to show people my writing and my ideas and perform well and not fuck up.

I was shaking because it was the first time I’d really cared in so long. And when things matter, there’s higher stakes, which is scary.

A woman came up to me and asked if I was okay, as I finished setting up the stage.

Usually, I would say yeah! all good! Thanks! But for some reason, I let this woman in. I told her honestly, I had a difficult show a few months ago which battered my confidence in my material and this could be very revealing and exposing because I’m trying to justify my decision to support my family by Only Fans and so if the show is bad, then I am bad, and I have no other options.

She didn’t back away. She kindly said “well I think it’s amazing that you have gone through all of this and here you are, setting up your chairs, and trying.”

And I wanted to hug her. I didn’t. She told me to do some box breathing and I said “but I only do that for my kids at bedtime to soothe them” and she said “well you need to sooth yourself right now”.

In my new show I speak to an invisible man. I told her this. I said “I really just want to be able to say my lines clearly, and not worry if they’re not laughing”.

She said “I can be the invisible man at the back. focus on me.”

And I did.

It was a cathartic experience, and I came offstage and felt such relief that I had done it, I had tried.

I didn’t even get her name, but she helped me.

Later I thought about how so far, I’ve had no side effects from my medication, only a slight lift in mood. But then I thought about interactions I’ve had in the last few weeks – I’ve been less shut off, more open.

I don’t think I would have been open to doing breathing exercises with a stranger before going onstage a few weeks ago……..

so maybe the (certain type of) drugs do work????

thanks for reading xox

* My new work in progress show is at the Edinburgh festival 6^th-13^th August. It’s about my time on only fans. and motherhood.

I’m also revisiting my show SUNRISE in Edinburgh 9^th&10^th August, which will be an emotional experience.

Then again in London 19^th&20^th September at the Young Vic.
This weeks podcast.

I don’t remember taking any of these images, but they mean so much to me…. because within motherhood there is so much light and so much darkness.

This morning I cried at another school gates. I’ve cried at so many, internally and externally, throughout my life.

This time I was watching my 11year old queue up for his first morning at a new school, for an induction. This will where he goes to secondary school, which felt so far off a few months ago, but now it feels so close in an almost hostile way, pulling my child away from me with it’s September current.

You wait so long for them to go to school, for then there is less pressure on you as a parent… you have some time in the day to do your own thing – you go to work, you go to the gym, you pay the bills and tidy the sitting room and wait for pick up time for the chaos to begin again the house to be full and noisy and fights about the remote control or beyblades or who gets to have a shower first or choose which song or have the one remaining Cornetto.

You wait for them, you collect them, you tend to them, you need them as much as they need you.

But with secondary school there is an expectation that the parenting backs off a bit.

They know what homework they have, they learn their own new language. You may step inside the school gates once or twice a year for parents evenings to be told things about your child that you would never know if you hadn’t got that one ten minute slot to talk to the teacher who spends more hours with your child per week than you do…who sees your child in an environment that you can’t envisage anymore because when you went to secondary school, it was so fucking traumatic you’ve blocked it all out.

The teachers and their peer group, the school halls and lockers and the nuclear baked beans in the cafeteria – the yawny commute…. Most of their day is beyond you, out of reach – unintentionally kept secret from you: the parent.

I will matter less. He won’t need me to pack his school bag or hold his hand on the way – he’s on his own path, he has his own plans.

I want that for him, but my heart fucking aches already at the thought of it.

These past few weeks I’ve homeschooled him, and it’s been glorious. We’ve created our own special routine. he’s memorised Shakespeare and the Blackalicious alphabet and we’ve drawn and gone on runs in the woods. We’ve become friends.

I regret not doing it sooner. I’ve learnt new words with him, watch him play, read to him, done nothing with him. I’ve had unencumbered, uninterrupted time with just one child - something which is rare once you have multiple, sacred time I knew I’d be sacrificing as I had more children.

Yet I wanted more. I still want more.

This morning I stood with countless other parents – mainly mothers – as we encouraged our not so little ones to move forward and get into a line. In that line were children who will be in his life not just for secondary school, but very possibly in his memories forever.

I still think about girls I knew at school, but never saw again after GCSE’s. I still think about boys I knew at school, who I kissed or was rejected by or who actively disliked me. I still think about the cafeteria menu and the gum in the lockers and the heavy stepped walk from the station to the front gates. I can still smell the acrylic art room and the hall, feel the cold of the wooden floor on my ass where we sat for agonisingly dull assemblies.

I remember getting told off for hiding a Furby in my desk. I remember a girl in year 7 telling me she tried to kill herself in the locker room with a skipping room and feeling jealous that she was intelligent enough to know darkness before I did. I feel the pain and self-loathing of what was beneath my school uniform: my newly pubescent body, my budding breasts and pubic hair and the confusion of it all as I looked in the grimy, graffitied mirror in the toilets.

Year 7.

A mother standing next to me this morning told me she recognised me. She said “sorry, I’m starstuck”. I felt sick because I feel like such a failure. Did she know about Only fans or is she a Harry Potter fan. God forbid she’s read my novel or this substack. I replied “I’m just trying not to cry”. We had a brief chat about how all the children were so tall, as my youngest child – my baby – kept shouting about my boobs, putting his hand down my top.

“booby, booby, booby” he kept singing, like “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby” by the Kaiser Chiefs.

It was strange as he hasn’t tried to put his hands down my top for months, since I told him he wasn’t allowed to after my boob job. But perhaps he sensed that I was longing for my eldest son - and needed to feel needed, was so pathetically desperate to shout out I LOVE YOU to him as he was led off in his line – he knew it would be appropriate at the moment – completely appreciated at that moment – for him to pretend to be a baby again, who needed milk and constant skin-to-skin, anywhere and everywhere.

I watched my son in the line walk off until I couldn’t see him anymore, and then I hovered for a bit, waiting for him to run out maybe? waiting for him to say - it’s all a joke - i’m not growing up, don’t worry! but he didn’t, and I traipsed back to my car with my baby, with his hand in my top, pathetically.

Other parents hovered too. I was glad about this. They must be feeling it too. I’m not alone. I’m not weaker. I’m not more broken. All of us seemed unsure of what to do with ourselves.

I caught one parent taking a photo of her daughter through the gates which, for a second, made me jealous. My son would not have wanted a photo, would not have allowed a photo. He already has his own opinions about photos, his own image. I respect that, while wishing I had more photos, even though I know that I don’t really look back anymore at photos anyway because they make me too sad.

Still, I like having them there, knowing I have evidence of my life in all it’s phases in the cloud.

In the car, I sighed heavily.

My little one asked what was wrong. I said “I’m going to miss him while he’s at his new school” and he asked “will you miss me too?” and then began his weekly petition to not go to nursery. We reached a compromise and he was allowed to watch Bluey for the 10-minute drive, and he re-iterated that he would need a lollipop AND milky-way stars for when I pick him later.

There was the same drama as usual when I dropped him off, but I didn’t mind.

In fact I was grateful to him for making a fuss over me – I indulged the third and fourth hug before I left and the nursery workers did their best to conceal their pity and annoyance at me.

I’m not equipped for this, I thought, as I drove home to my empty house.

I’m not strong enough to not have another baby. I want to do it all over again, and again, and again, but I know I can’t.

I am scared of what I will be confronted with when I’m not pregnant, breastfeeding or tending to a toddler.

When I got home I read my book.

Right now, I’m reading Motherhood by Sheila Heti. this but struck me, hard:

“There is a feeling I have of life standing by, twiddling it’s thumbs, waiting for me to have a child. I have sensed it creeping over my skin – the sensation of life tapping it’s foot, waiting for me to give birth to a child who could only be given birth to through me. sometimes I feel there’s a specific human life I’m denying – actively and selfishly denying – if I don’t have a baby.

…

If I accept the idea that there is a creature waiting to be born through me, and it’s not some vague guilt about my abortion, then I become calm. Then it seems ike the main thing about motherhood is letting another creature come through you, whose life is entirely it’s own. A child is not a combination of you and your partner, but a reality all it’s own, separate and unique – a distinct point of consciousness in the world. I don’t think this was something I ever felt – that my body, my life, belonged to me.”

*

I’ve promised myself I will try 6 weeks on antidepressants.

I’ve been deliberating if I should go on medication for years, since my brother died in 2019, and then more seriously since my youngest was born and we encountered a series of unfortunate events as a couple, all of which I’ve over-documented on our podcast.

To be honest I was mainly worried about the side effects. It’s no secret that I’m vain. I like my hair and skin and my weight and didn’t want any of these things to change – and I assumed any medication would affect these things.

For so long I’ve been negative. I think I’ve been negative forever; I joke that I was a miserable child. I think I was, really. My baseline feeling when I wake up is “doomed”. I don’t remember waking up and feeling excited or content, apart from the 36 months in which I’ve been pregnant in my life.

Sometimes I wonder how many women there are like me out there, who feel this pull to pregnancy almost every second of the day. I am consumed by it and my career has been arguably been ruined by it.

Maybe by the time the medication kicks in, and when September comes round, I’ll be more able to keep my shit together at the school gates.

thanks for reading xox

I’m home-schooling my eldest for the final half-term of his primary school experience.

A mere 5 weeks till he’s done, then he’s to secondary school. My brain can’t compute how he’s nearly twelve, that twelve years have flashed by. I’ve wanted to home-school for years but there’s always been some career thing that wasn’t really a thing but I made it a thing and I could have done this before! I really could have spared that time.

But I was too desperate, thought I needed to be constantly available. Another thing to add to my BIG LIFE REGRETS list….(I add one thing a day)

My youngest was in his little dressing towel-gown after the bath and as I dried his legs and helped him get pants and socks on he said

“would you still love me if I was half-demon half-boy?”

He had tears in his eyes, he looked at me so directly, pupil to pupil – with unblinking, begging eyes, thinking my answer would be no, but it would be yes! – of course it would be yes – if there was still half of him in there? yes, forever and ever! but then I thought of watching Adolescence – I can still recall whole scenes and dialogue – I am still affected by it months and months later… and I thought ….would I still love my child if that happened? we assume that kind of thing won’t happen to our children, but it could –

I leave my eldest two downstairs after we go up to bed sometimes on the weekend – they could be watching things we haven’t approved. We could be ruining them already, because I didn’t want to fall asleep on the sofa and trusted they would be “good kids” and go to bed independently, responsibly.

Maybe I’m homeschooling because I want to keep him innocent for as long as possible, just one more summer before he is surrounded by phones at the school bus stop…. maybe I’m homeschooling because I want an excuse to analyse fairytales and draw and read during the day.

With my new teacher role, I have become interested in Shakespeare for the first time in my life. I’m making him learn All The Worlds A Stage monologue and refraining myself from giving my intense dramatic performance critique.

We start the day with morning pages.

He likes that he doesn’t need to read it back and that no one will be marking it. While he’s next to me writing nonsense or lyrics or what his dreams are made of I write lists for myself, which is not what morning pages are meant to be for, they are meant to be free of admin and bullet points and be FREE thought…. but I don’t know when I was last able to have free thoughts. My thoughts are militant and ordered.

My lists are the same every day, but I don’t read them back, so don’t know what’s been done or forgotten. Things like “try to maintain positive energy” and “money will come later, but check there’s some money now” and “JUST FILL OUT THE FORMS” because there seems to be more and more forms to fill in with age.

I dread the mail. It’s always bad. My son had the job of opening my mail today, to inform me of my next smear test. Last week, in London, he helped do the lighting for some filming I was doing for Mothersl_ts in a little theatre so I don’t look washed out.

He’s also had the job of setting up our podcast, Before We Break Up Again. He’s learning vital skills!

I’ve always imagined myself as a more promiscuous Miss Honey, but he’s calling me Miss Luteal – a name bestowed on me by Alfie. Now, me and my son have a running joke or many running jokes, jokes I now understand I didn’t have time for when he was at school.

Because the reality is - you don’t have much time with them when they’re at school.

Read more

I want to quit, I want to hide, I want to run away and go offline and never set foot inside a small theatre again – ignore all my peers and next time I’m asked what I do “for a living” I’ll pretend I was a nurse that stopped when I had kids but I now earn money on the side doing secretarial work from home.

I’ll do anything – any form of bullshit – to ever go back into the creative arts. How dare I have that dream?

It’s not unusual at all to do work-in-progress shows that I regret or where I perform badly. I’ve done one-woman shows now for 15 years. I have been awful onstage many, many times.

The difference this time was my shifted perspective.

Read more

My son is hoping to see his friend this week.

He’s 4, and he spent one year building a friendship with a boy who was one year older, before we moved to Liverpool. He saw this boy a few days a week for one year, and now he has not seen this boy in about 10 months. Still, my son has mentioned his friend approximately twice a week ever since.

It’s difficult to keep promises to your children, especially if you have more than a few.

I have promised my son that he will see his friend again.

I’ve even lied and bribed him with the prospect of seeing his friend, on the more fraught than usual mornings when I so desperately needed him to go to nursery so I could do some “work” at home.

Recently, I realised there might be an opportunity for my boy to see his friend, because I have to travel to London for “work”. It occurred to me that I could take him, make the most of these pre-school days when I can just put him in my backpack and get a train.

Nervously, I texted the boys mum, asking first of all if they still lived in London (it’s so expensive I honestly don’t know how anyone can still afford to - well done if that’s you!!!!). Then I asked if they were available to meet. The answer was yes to both questions and I was so relieved, so thrilled. Then I had the delightful job of telling my son that he was finally, finally going to see his friend.

My sons face, upon telling him, was quite simply the best thing I have ever seen. He is quite a poetic, dramatic child and, when he’s happy, he says things like

“where are you lovely mama I love you so much my heart can talk”

Or when he’s sad

“my heart hurts because you have broken it in half”

When I told him he would be seeing his friend, his face slowly contorted into a dreamy, kind, assured smile, like “I knew this moment would come and I’m ready”. I told him a few days ago, maybe a week, and he has asked a million times a day if we are getting the train NOW or “when we wake up?”, jumping up and down saying “I AM SO EXCITED” with the biggest grin in the world.

There is no doubt in his mind that this reunion will take place.

He is bursting, he’s already there.

And this is where I begin hurting.

The weight of responsibility I have on me now to ensure that this sacred overdue playdate happens, that we make it to London, that my meeting does not run over…. That it won’t rain. That the boy won’t be tired and stand-offish after a long day of school. What if he doesn’t even remember my little boy, who is still hopelessly obsessed with him, just as if they were playing together in the sandpit yesterday?

My heart feels like it could break if the meeting does not go to plan.

My son could feel rejection for the first time, and I cannot cope. It would be my fault for dangling this opportunity - should I have just let the friendship go on his behalf? We don’t need to maintain EVERY connection? He will eventually stop asking about his friend, he will forget him in time, surely?

It made me consider when it was that I last felt singularly excited, without fear or hesitation, for something - anything - to happen.

A long time.

I make plans knowing they will get cancelled, that people will flake.

Sometimes I make plans as I hope the other person will forget.

I make plans with regret, primed for rejection.

I don’t think I’ve looked forward to a meeting, in the same way that my son is looking forward to seeing his friend, since I was a teen and desperately seeking validation or alleviation. Am I a miserable person or am I just a grown up? I’m not sure.

But once again my children have taught me something. I want to be excited again. I want to have hope that things will happen if you put them in the ical.

Even if it doesn’t happen this week – we miss the train or his friend is sick – we have enjoyed talking about the meeting and looking forward to it. We’ve imagined it. We’ve set it in our minds and I have shown him that I will honour his friendships (even if he doesn’t remember this in years to come!)

So that’s it. I’m changed! Watch out for my texts and emails!

I will try to make my future plans from now on with less cynicism, like a 4 year old arranging to meet his first best friend in the park after school.

Once again I was hit by a “why would anyone want to read what I have to write” crisis and have barely opened my laptop in weeks….

I let things take over; taking images of my hair for my dwindling hair fetishist subscribers, treating our giant ridgeback puppy like he’s my 5th child, big shops wandering the aisles of Tesco like there are clues for life hidden behind boxes of Shreddies.

I have been a mum, just a mum, a mum who slightly resents being in the car so much ferrying her children to early morning clubs or late night clubs or clubs that make absolutely no sense to do seeing as no one enjoys them, not much happens in them other than endless “water breaks” and they cost a fortune….yet WE STILL DO THEM because they wanted to sign up for them and we are not quitters.

Except maybe I am?

I am a quitter.

I’ve always been a quitter.

I quit tennis and swimming as a child, after years of training and money spent on rackets and goggles and tournaments and galas. I quit singing, I quit dancing, I quit art school. I quit university. I quit secretary school. I quit sewing and life drawing courses. I quit working at Urban Outfitters and multiple restaurants. I quit pilates and hot yoga and I quit reading classics. I’ve quit podcasts and I’ve continually quit pretending I like things.

I love quitting!

But I must not tell my children that.

It was my birthday yesterday.

I felt glad the sun was not shining when I woke up. I feel more pressure to have the best time ever when it’s sunny.

Perhaps it’s something to do with a fear of failure, because there are indeed many delicious opportunities for failure on a birthday.

No one will remember?

No presents or cards?

Sadness could permeate the day?

Balloons will pop, the cake could sink and I could find something slightly annoying which means I say something irretrievable that annihilates the chance of anybody wanting to celebrate the day I came into this world.

I’ve never thrown a party for myself, no one has ever thrown a party for me. That’s a failure, surely?

I just don’t have the patience required to endure friendships that are simply fine.

Therefore, my theoretical birthday party would be small, and I don’t want to submit my small pool of loyal friends to an awkward evening – awkward because I’ve intentionally kept my friends very separate.

I do not have a friendship group.

I do not have a best friend.

As I get older, I feel less shame admitting this. I don’t like parties anyway! I much prefer being with one person in a pleasant room (with some low volume Lana Del Rey in the background) oversharing as if my life depended on it.

In fact, as I get older, I care less about getting older. I’m 39 now which is an OAP in the acting industry. I will be going up for the same roles as Helen Mirren soon!

but I care a little less about that part of my life now – adopting the what will be will be attitude I always wanted but could never really commit to because I love control.

The sun stayed hidden throughout the morning, which I appreciated.

I put no pressure on the day.

I just wanted to drop the kids at school and then go for a nice dog walk with A and my lovely little boy AKA “the nursery refuser”. We walked through the woods and I pointed out a rat and a blue tit and our dog ran free and slowly, the sun started to come out as I held his little hand and we talked about trolls.

After the walk, we went to a pet shop to get special insect food for the dog and my son played with a little mechanical mouse meant for kittens. I looked at dog treats that were plaited and braided and looked like hair, took some funny photos. We got our dog, Pinter, his first ID tag for his collar. As it was my birthday, I was allowed to pick which one. There was one with mountains and stars on, a Pride flag, a bubble tea, a big bone.

I chose a desert one, with a cactus and eagle. I don’t know why.

On the drive home, I let my son sleep, even though it would absolutely fuck up the evening. I enjoyed him sleeping because it reminded me of when he was a baby, and part of me still longs to still have a baby on me at all times.

The sun was shining now.

We drove through the countryside back towards where we live and I thought how incredible to see so much green when my landscape used to be 100% concrete with one or two dying trees – we lived in the middle of a city for so long I forgot how breath taking, how dazzling and rejuvenating an open field can be…..

As I entered my 39th year, last May, I guess I was depressed.

I was scared about moving to Liverpool and leaving everything that I knew – as well as leaving my family, my place of birth and the place I’ve always romanticised: London. My career had absolutely plateaued; I was fumbling about with my hair content and feeling embarrassed that that was how I had to make a living now. We were living in such cramped conditions because we had failed – we did not have the money to live in London, to live with space, or even just to live well. We were stressed all the time. Our ambition had to contort to fit with our reduced habitat and time.

As the year went on, I relaxed little by little. We moved, successfully, in that all our belongings had made their way safely to our house. We have a desk each, where hopefully we will both create again. We have a kitchen with space for a table and the kids have their own beds (though they don’t all sleep in them) and we have a small garden where they can shout and find ants and annoy neighbours by throwing endless balls over the wall.

Month by month, my world opened up again and I got stronger and more positive, leading me to make decisions I never thought I’d have the courage to make (like getting a giant boob job from the first surgeon I met and purchasing giant puppy of a random man in Wales). These big decisions have been very freeing and life-affirming.

So I feel ready to embark on my 40th year, with the hope that I’ll find a way of making the work that I want to, even if that takes longer and pays less than I’d like.

I will seek out the sun rather than being glad it’s cloudy and dull and I will not quit! I will not quit on myself. Or this Substack.

thanks for reading xox

LONDON EVENTS:

3RD JUNE - MOTHERSL_TS LIVE CIRCLE

6TH JUNE - IN CONVERSATION WITH HANNAH MURRAY

I started doing long hair content on the platform on March 10th 2025 and thought I would keep track of how things are going on here too. Out of respect to my paying subs, these posts are behind a paywall.

I am grateful to anyone who reads my work.

Jessie xox

*

Day 407

The easter holidays meant I put a pause on content and allowed myself a brief hair content hiatus. If I was a better and more organised creative, I could have “queued” a load of content for a couple of weeks and kept my Rapunzal profile alive with some tips rolling in, but I’m a mother of four with a Rhodesian Ridgeback and only have the bandwidth to do things on a post by post basis. My hair is only clean and able to be released from a scruffy top bun and camera ready a couple of days a week.

In truth, I am bored of my hair, I am bored with myself.

Read more

I started doing Hair-based content on the platform on March 10th 2025, and decided to keep track of how things were going on substack too. Out of respect to my paying subscribers, these entries are behind a paywall.

thank you for getting here, however you got here

Jessie xox

Day 380

Today I’m going to try and do something I’ve not done before on the platform. I’m going to TALK.

I don’t know how yet, but I think I’ll have to develop a character. Maybe a sexy Hair Teacher? Long Haired TedTalk Lady? Do I decorate my brush…. maybe tie a whip around it? What will my new name be?

I’ve managed to keep the HairShow afloat for over a year now, but I’m stalling.

Read more

It’s the day my brother died today.

7 fucking years. I am writing this quickly on a Saturday morning, face wet with tears, as my kids watch TV or do homework and before I have a bath and try to get on with the day.

It is rough writing, but grief is messy, so I don’t care.

Sibling loss is such a peculiar thing.

It’s not talked about that much. It’s a lonely grief, even within a group of siblings (I am one of 5), because we each had our own relationship with him. Our age orders make a massive difference too. Did you lose a little brother or a big brother?

I lost a little brother. I felt very maternal towards him from the moment he was born, and you can see how proud I was of him in every photo of us together.

Since he died I’ve learnt so much about life. “How do I want to live?” is something I would never have asked myself before he died.

It feels indulgent sometimes to talk about grief for one person, especially with the world as it is right now. I am hesitant to speak about him sometimes in case the person I am speaking to has lost someone too and their loss could be deemed “bigger” than mine.

but pain is pain.

I have my version of the Ben that I knew and loved, my own memories. I am determined to keep him alive in my children. I write about him often. We have some of his clothes and instruments and I even tried to get my youngest induced on this day, 4 years ago on the 21^st March, because I thought there would be some magical symbolism to that, life and death as close together as possible. In the end my baby came in the early hours of the 22^nd March, and I cried for hours through the night thinking I had not only failed the induction but failed my brother.

Today I want to keep busy.

I insisted I would take my kids to the bakery in the morning after dropping my son at a football match. Google maps took me the long way, meaning we were late. I got irrationally angry at google maps, at my phone, at the clock and at time in general. Why does time march on so fast now that he’s gone? How would he have liked my youngest two? How sad that he never lived to 28, to 30, that he never had kids or a house or watched Succession or came to visit me in my mad house in Liverpool. He doesn’t know I am a dog person now!

We went to the bakery and had to wait for 15 minutes for it to open and it felt like we were standing there forever. My kids were jumping on and off the bench outside, singing and tapping and playing and living LOUDLY…. And I was standing there crying as quietly as possible as I looked through the window at the pastries being made thinking about how lucky we are that we get to eat in a minute. We get to chew and swallow and feel full.

This morning the sun was out and there was blossom on the trees, which – in the early days of my grief I resented because it seemed wrong to me that there should be beauty in the world when his death was so ugly. I am never far away from crying about him, but throughout the year I do my best to swallow the tears. I don’t let them out. I don’t do therapy or anything to “help” my mental health apart from exercise. It’s fear. If I let myself think too much about how he’s gone and how his death changed everything for me, I would not be able to get my kids to school.

But on his death day, I do open the box. I let myself cry. I look at photos.

It’s just a day. Sure.

But for people who have lost someone suddenly, like a random accident…crossing the road, a car crash – or in my poor brothers case – electrocuted on the fucking train tracks – there is a clear marker of Before and After. So the day means everything. It was the end of one life and the start of another.

I was on tour with my show Sunrise 7 years ago, doing a two week run at the soho theatre (a theatre I will never perform at again because of how it treated me in the wake of my boyfriends “cancellation”….I spoke about this on our podcast in depth if you are interested in watching me cry for half an hour about my career and our collective loss). I was very happy 7 years ago, i remember thinking “this is the happiest i’ve ever been” three days before he died.

I had a 4 year old and a two year old and was doing well, hopeful, ambitious and had no idea that everything was about to collapse. I did not miss a show. I kept going onstage, pretending. I don’t regret this, but I do think it means I developed a toxic attitude towards people who take “time off for themselves” – I’m just jealous of their ability to take care of themselves and the confidence they have that the work will be there when they return.

The death day is just awful.

There’s no way around it, no matter how hard you try.

Even if it’s my sons birthday tomorrow and my god, my brother would have adored him – there will be joy, of course, but there’s no use disguising or pretending that the day is not going to be grotesque and heavy.

Yes, I will go round a toy shop. There, I will see my brother in the wresting figurines or the videogame covers. I will see him in some shape or form in multiple strangers today, as I do most days anyway, but today it simply hurts more.

The sun is shining and blossom is here. sure.

I’ll eat cake and open presents and watch something. sure.

I’ll have a bath and wash my face and smile when I’m smiled at. sure.

But fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

* I wrote my book Sunset in the months after he died.

I don’t know how I did this, but I’m so glad I did. I hope it helped anyone who lost a sibling. The messages I receive about the book give me such a sense of pride and relief that it was worth the excruciating process.

*

I looked out the window, or read about the war(s) and listened to sad songs and occasionally, took a selfie/deleted the selfie.

Every time I got home I had to brace myself for the mess as I opened the front door, afraid the mess or the smell of the house would put me off and I wouldn’t be able to hug my kids properly until I had done a deep clean and manic dog-hair hoover. I’m a hyper-sensitive, anal woman and I wish I wasn’t.

I worried I’d have a panic attack seeing the shoes anywhere other than the shoe rack, toys and sofa cushions and tea-towels and books and school bags discarded in the hallway…. I thought I’d be a bitch because I was exhausted from long days of chatting on set (which requires a much more substantial social battery than I was dealt at birth). I thought I’d snap at my boyfriend about there being no food for dinner or milk - causing a massive fight as soon as I got in and ruining the one day I had at home.

In fact I was fine, no panic attacks. There was milk. There were happy children who had been fine without me. I accepted the mess that I could detect, aware that much of it was hidden. I hugged my children and enjoyed the time it took to get them to sleep - in fact I enjoyed all the things I usually find a little tedious about motherhood - the cleaning up of plates, serving snacks, wiping bums, cleaning teeth - and appreciated how close I was to them. They were not just ideas of mine or photos to share - they were real, they are mine, I was next to them.

It was “Mother’s day” yesterday here, and I saw so many posts about being a mother and what it meant. How thankful we are and should be. I don’t like these “days” that we have and must conform to… Not a fan of people using hashtags in exchange for love.

My mother is amazing. She’s had 5 kids, she’s lost one. She’s looked after my kids as if they are her own. Helped me so that I can work all these years. Never complained or made me feel silly for asking for help. She accepts me. She doesn’t want overt praise or thanks or an instagram post, she barely allows me to take photos of her (though I do). She loves me like I love her and we have great respect for each other. Neither of us needs reminding of this, yet I felt compelled to thank her publicly for everything she’s ever done for me, for giving birth to me, because that’s what everyone else was doing throughout the day yesterday.

I saw so many images of mothers that my brain did not need to see. Lovely mums, sure. But why?

It feels fake, yet I posted something because I thought I’d be judged by my siblings or relatives if I didn’t.

I don’t want to do that again.

I want to change my habits. I am in a muddle with my presence online, as I have been since the birth of my last baby who is 4 this week, quite ridiculously. 4? I won’t ever have a little baby again. I will no longer have a toddler. I have 4 KIDS…actual kids who can talk and fight and debate and use a remote control and do homework. Still, I don’t feel ready.

I’m trying to get braver at sharing more risque images of myself to try and make it more clear that I have an onlyfans so that I can gain subscribers and continue to pay my bills (and buy luxury items like the Oatly Barista and the Whole Earth Smooth peanut butter). My cryptic tactic has stopped working. It’s quite incredible that lots of people still think it’s been a joke all along - as if it is simply unbelievable that a sweet bespectacled mother of 4 is in such need of money that she has succumbed to a platform largely known for porn - no, no! she must have the time to make up such a big joke and write about it for a year for giggles!.

I have been to the cinema three times in one week (thanks to my subscribers because the cinema is fucking expensive). I was away recovering from my boob job (medical update: I LIKE THEM BUT THEY HURT) so me and my boyfriend went to see Wuthering Heights. We left after 41 minutes. This was either because I found the whole thing too clean-cut, nonsensical and ribbon-y OR because I was having some post-op feverish chills and the cinema was too cold.

I also went to see If I Had Legs I’d Kick You on my own and to help with my pain I ordered a pint of bitter - which I thought like Guinness - but it was so disgusting I think it meant I found the entire film too nauseating to “enjoy”. But maybe that was the point of the film?

We assume we will “enjoy” motherhood, but there are only a few moments a day in which you can really enjoy it. The rest is laundry and worrying and cleaning and future-scaping and feeding. When Rose Byrne gets into bed with her daughter, a little drunk, and smiles for the first time in the film and says “I love you I love you I love you” and seems truly happy for a second before her daughter tells her she smells of wine - I thought yes! That’s it! It’s those little ecstatic displays throughout the blurry days that make it worth it - even if everything is falling to pieces.

Never liked Rose Byrne so much. As mothers we should give ourselves a break sometimes and sprint to the sea, crashing into the waves in the moonlight until we are ready to be “better” and go home.

I got back to my babies post-op day 5 and took my kids to see Hopper at the imax. The recliner seats were perfect with my codeine. I’m quite clearly not a film critic and I do look at my phone at 15 minute intervals BUT I do think that Hopper is a return to form for Pixar. It’s a lovely story about a grandmother and daughter who share a love and need for nature, and when the grandmother dies, the girl goes on a quest to save a lake with a beaver. Or something like that. I think the best thing about it was that there were no animals on iphones featured at all, and the ending was positive (I did show my daughter La La Land this week too and she was distraught at the unhappy ending, so Hopper was a relief at least for her even though there was a massive fire).

Whenever I’m away from my kids, I forget how abstract children can be from the moment they wake up in the morning. As soon as I got back and once they had warmed up to me (it always takes an hour or so) - the questions started rolling in.

“Can you have two girlfriends?”

“Can you touch fire with your mouth?”

“How do you get a broken heart?”

“How does the carwheel know where to go?”

And then it starts again….

I’m Jessie but I’m just their mum and I crawl out of their room on my hands and knees once they fall asleep, back to my bed, where they find me again in the middle of the night…. I answer all the questions ineptly but I mean well and I smile and I hug them too tight and I do my best, even though I’m scared all the time of what the future may bring or if I can provide for them and I feed them nuts and milky way stars and I bring them milk and make sure they don’t watch too much youtube and……I am so lucky to be their mum, every single day.

I started on the platform on March 10th 2025. From day one, I decided to keep an account of how it was going on substack too. You can follow my whole journey if you want to scroll backwards and become a paid subscriber.

I am also doing LIVE SHOWS about my experiences on the “blue platform”…. they’ve been really fun and cathartic so far.

Glasgow 21st March

London 22nd April 3rd June

and then the Edinburgh Festival 6th-13th August (not on sale yet)

also might add that my podcast is out every friday, bonus episodes on Patreon on monday - we discuss my life on only fans a lot…..

thank you for reading/supporting my work, it means so much xox

*

DAY 366

I didn’t realise before I started how much content I needed to produce each week. It is RELENTLESS. No one could have prepared me for the amount. If you aren’t consistent, you will lose them. It’s a constant juggle, between motherhood and rushing away to film myself do something silly. My rule for each image is “the hair is the main character” but….

there’s only so much I can do with my hair.

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If I’m honest, I’m a little embarrassed that after one year of doing it full-time, I’m still not secure financially – nowhere fucking near – although I am relieved I’m not in the financial situation I was in before.

I’m also a few days away from my life-changing operation (boob job) so I’m a little hesitant to write my true thoughts and wishes like “the algorithm will treat me better with big boobs and subscriptions will pick up again”.

disclaimer: only fans HQ has not forced me to get a boob job

I can’t believe it’s been one year.

My life has changed a lot since last March 10th. We’ve moved cities, I am at peace with the label of “content creator”, we have a giant dog, I structure my week around how clean my hair is….

I’m more confident.

I like myself more, carry less shame.

I’ve let go of certain dreams professionally.

My ambition has shrunk substantially as I’ve spent more time at home as a full-time mum and truly, there’s no place I’d rather be. I just want to earn enough for us to be able to afford one UK based holiday a year (centerparcs).

I don’t give a fuck about what people think anymore.

Comments can’t hurt me, I cannot be picked apart.

For years, I was so worried all the time about saying and doing the wrong thing in this industry or looking and being different.

Now, my differences are what brings in subscribers. Finally, the irritating label of “quirky girl” has paid off.

I know my time left on the platform is limited, but I’m so happy I’ve reached one year without going naked or doing porn. Yay me.

I like 100% of my posts. I have learnt about what having a fetish is like and see the value in honing in on one part of your self - be it feet, elbows or split ends - and relishing it in every aspect - honouring and celebrating the areas that are often ignored.

I thought I would only last 6 months. I think now I’ll reach 2 years.

Perhaps I’ll stop on my 40^th birthday and shave my head on a final livestream? I like that. I’m open to everything. Bring on Year 2.

*

Before//explaining my path to only fans//sob story:

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Where is everybody? Why am I so alone? I don’t like it.

There are no people eating packaged sandwiches for me to scowl at! I could record a podcast on this empty carriage, do some hair content! WE ARE BEHIND SCHEDULE! How can I fill up this space?

This prolonged time on my own is so strange for me. I feel like I’m getting to know myself again, or at least the person I am when not in a rush.

I’ve allowed myself to chew gum - bubblemint - as my orthodontist just sent me some tips for Sleep Apnea Jaw Alignment and apparently chewing gum helps reset your jaw in the morning. I don’t understand because I thought chewing gum was bad for my jaw but I’m allowing myself one train ride of anxious chewing, anything to stop me eating more protein bars to kill time till I get home to my family.

I am not a big drinker, I’ve never smoked.

But for most of my life I have been addicted to bubblegum. I could chew gum all day. I used to go to sleep with it in my mouth, wake up after nearly choking to death then stick the gum on the wall next to my pillow. I called it my gum mountain. I gave my main character a similar gum mountain in my novel Sunset.

Perhaps I liked chewing gum all the time because it felt like I was doing something active. Anything to prevent me from sitting still, to stop me from thinking. Anything to stop me from snacks (here are some of the depressing lies I told myself in my late teens - mid twenties: snacks are danger, snacks stop you from getting jobs, snacks make you lazy, snacks are evil, snacks stop you from being the elegant bird-like woman you need to be to be loved, no one likes a woman who snacks, snacks make you weak etc). It felt like I was doing something cleansing. I liked it when people came to me for gum too because I was needed. My grandma had gum by her bedside and would chew three pieces at a time. I did three at a time for a while too, but developed jaw ache. Recently I found a half pack of Wrigley in an old handbag of hers and I didn’t want to throw it away, felt some connection to her.

Did she get addicted too?

I’ve managed to wean myself off chewing gum 24/7, but only because I’m paranoid about my teeth and I read something about how chewing gum moves your teeth. I paid for invisalign once and I can’t do it again. I’ve said to people “but aren’t you worried about your teeth moving you daredevil?” when they chew gum and they think I’m being silly, that it’s nonsense - but I only need to read something unimportant but personally relevant to me just once and even if it’s not a reliable source - even if it doesn’t make clinical sense and there’s no hard evidence - I will take that information as gospel. Sorry.

I will love Hubba Bubba from afar and till I die.

I have met so many people in the last two weeks that I’m a little exhausted, my social battery is not built for this many deep chats. You get a bunch of actors together and it’s a poetic scramble to see who’s got more a) trauma, b) gossip or c) wellness tips.

I’m enjoying it, playing the role of “actress” after a year of playing “weird hair content woman who whines on instagram”.

I miss my kids so much I really don’t know if I can do this again.

I keep looking up actresses on IMDB and try to work out how much time they would have spent away from their kids for that job in Thailand or Atlanta and wondering how they coped and if they took their babies and how much they earned and did they get a nanny or did they homeschool and were they happy or miserable doing the job and I’m pathetic, it’s pathetic.

I avoid speaking to my kids on the phone when I’m away as I get upset that they’re upset or get upset that they’re not upset enough, DO THEY MISS ME AT ALL, and then I become needy. I do not like missing bedtimes. I don’t like missing school pick up. I miss knowing they’re every move. I miss the mess and the screeching and the spillages. I even miss the bloody dog!

SIDENOTE: Yes, I love the dog! How could I have denied dogs love all these years? They’re amazing creatures? HOW DID I MISS THIS DOGS ARE GREAT THING?

I’ve become a bit of a slob with this newfound time on my own in a hotel room.

I fall asleep with the laptop on my stomach, forget to shower, arrive to set with my hair scruffy because I know I’ll be looked after by a nice lady. I’ve had beer in bed, a giant bag of kettle crisps and chocolate brazil nuts for dinner. At home, I’m the one who sets the alarm, who gets everyone up in the morning. I brush their teeth and wash their little faces. I am fastidious and anal and a clean freak and like everything to have order and be in place. So it’s nice to have had a break from my own militant routine. It’s a holiday, being selfish, focusing on one project.

I’m falling asleep after watching episode after episode, completely alone, with crumbs on my body and stuff all over the bed and once I didn’t even wash my hands before going to sleep (which I usually do 2-4 times, for no reason whatsoever). I haven’t been able to do this kind of thing - wasting or relishing time- since my twenties and it feels like a little rebellion from my normal order of things.

I’m back this week with a review of my first year on onlyfans….

Jessie x

P.s.

I’ve fallen in love with a series with Brendan Gleeson called Mr Mercedes. It’s first series was harrowing in places, and the second series is a bit mad, but it’s addictive because Mr Gleeson is so good. He says “fuck me up the arse” like no other.

I had a show last week- thank you for those that came - and I’ve been bouncing about to and from the north and south of England. The show is about my only fans journey and I’ll be doing it again in Glasgow (21st March) and then London on the 22nd April.

In a rare and bizarre happenstance, I’ve found myself doing an acting job - and everything other than getting from A to B and making sure my kids are okay without me has gone out the window. It’s only a couple more weeks of it and so I’m trying to soak it all up as I might never work as an actress again (EVERY JOB IS SURELY MY LAST JOB).

I had forgotten what it’s like to juggle long working days with homelife, and have massive newfound respect for working mothers.

Doing this job and not really being able to write due to exhaustion (and a profound failure to multi-task) has really proven how important writing is to me. I’ve barely written in my diary and I realised that when I’m not with the kids, I don’t really remember anything about the day. It’s like nothing I do on my own is noteworthy. I will endeavour to change that.

My inability to focus on myself probably comes down to ingrained self-loathing and a constant need to divert pain into something sweet. But no more of that shit!!! I want to hold myself to account this year and really question my own motives.

So…. this post is about my forthcoming boob job.

As it’s a big deal for me, it’s behind a paywall. I will resume my only fans diary entries in the next few days too. :)

*

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Jessie xox

*

It’s one of those amazing days on which I’ve woken up not feeling tired. My kids slept! I slept! I bounced the youngest to nursery and ran back listening to music that usually I find too loud and sat down at my desk ready to attack the day with positivity and gratitude. (Two things I’m usually too tired to be acquainted with).

It’s been weeks and weeks of huge hormonal disruption for me (which I wrote about in my last post) but today I don’t have a progesterone related headache or feel wretched and I feel like my body is playing ball and it’s Remarkable.

I have never been lucky with sleep, especially since having babies. If I was to write a memoir the title would have to be something like Jessie Cave: How Sleep Apnea Destroyed All My Relationships.

The youngest is nearly 4, and his brother is 5. They are still so little and I put them to bed by co-sleeping, which I describe as “pretending you’re going to bed at the same time as them after the books and then pretend you’re asleep until they are definitely asleep and then manoeuvre yourself out the room like a ninja and hope they manage to stay asleep in their bed until at least 3am before they start howling”.

I’m sorry but I just don’t know to do it any other way. My elder two are now able to sleep on their own, but it’s taken YEARS.

So we are nowhere near “sleeping though” each night. That is probably still a couple of years away –I find another reality of having kids is that no one talks about how you don’t really sleep for 6 years unless you’ve done some militant (and I’m sure highly effective!) sleep training (not for me, sorry, and not just because I couldn’t afford it).

Most nights, at about 3.02am, the two little brothers appear at my bedroom door holding hands, and they shuffle in the dark towards our bed until I sense movement. I scream EVERY NIGHT thinking it’s an intruder. They accept the scream as a welcome invitation to sleep in our bed, but they move so much it fully wakes both me and my boyfriend up. I shuffle us back to their bed (which is king size and on the floor, obviously) and then I try to migrate back to my bed once they’re settled.

However, I wake at foot of their bed most days at 6am, exhausted and confused. Where am I?

This morning my little one woke up happy and did not complain about going to nursery, which is a miracle. We slept! I said. Don’t you feel better for sleeping all night in your bed like a big boy alllllll night? He said no, I like sleeping with you. I smiled.

It won’t be like this forever. I don’t mind being tired 5 out of 7 days if we are all happy.

*

It’s my brother’s birthday in a few days. Around this time of year, I feel so deeply sad for him that he’s not here. I have been so busy and tired and I guess “in recovery” lately that I haven’t had time to think about him. He doesn’t have a grave. If he did, I think I’d like visiting. Going to a place which is dedicated to the lost person must be quite nice? Would I take him flowers or little figurines? Would I clean it?

I sometimes run though a graveyard on my attempted long runs, and tears roll down my cold cheeks as if on cue. I feel too self-conscious to stop and allow myself to fully wail because it would look like I’m stopping at a certain grave. What if a family member saw me crying at their lost persons grave? I would have to explain that I’m crying for someone else, and then I’d cry even more.

So I just keep running.

I don’t believe in an afterlife but around his birthday and deathday I fucking wish I did.

*

I feel guilty that I’m about to do an acting job which will mean I’ll be away from my kids for a few weeks. I am never away from my kids. I’ve orchestrated my “job” so that I can be there the moment they wake up to the moment I creep out of their rooms like a ninja. I almost didn’t accept the job, even though I guess an acting job is one of the things I’ve been long been wishing for, because I’m scared of our routine being disrupted. I told my daughter this and she said firmly “mummy. you’re going.”

I thought of how recently there was a careers day in reception and my son came home excitedly with postcards of submarines and he said a mother had come in to talk about her job “working for the oceans”. It sounded so amazing, so inspirational, so proper. I stupidly asked my 5yo what he thinks my job is and he shrugged and said “podcast?”. I was gutted. I’ve worked for 18 years, solidly in different fields, but my son only knows this strange new era of my career where I sit and chat to his dad while they quietly watch Bluey.

I felt so jealous of the mum who had got to go into the school for the careers talk because it’s something I’ll never be able to do! How on earth would I explain my career? “well kids, let me tell you about spending a decade trying and failing to get a television show made and how doing regular, dumb instagram reels have become vital to a creative persons survival” .

I thought by February 4th I’d be less bitter and more open to change. I’m not.

I tried to explain to my son that I’ve done shows and acted and written a book….but he just laughed and asked for another chocolate rice cake as my eldest son helpfully said “she also does hair stuff”.

So, through the force of my children, I’m starting something new. I’m opening myself up to opportunities and perhaps new failure, even if it means the house is destroyed and our routine is obliterated by the time I come home.

We released a podcast last week that’s got such a warm response. It was about us having a pregnancy that did not work out, or that we could not continue with…. Basically, I had to have a surgical abortion. I felt really exposed talking about it, but I’m glad that I did, and the messages I’ve received have been hugely comforting and validating. If you want to watch or listen to the episode it’s here or on spotify/apple etc.

*
As I lay down for the scan, I expect to hear a heartbeat instantly, like I have with all my other scans, but it’s silent. I say can I have the sound on? even though I know hearing a heartbeat will make me want to keep it even more than I secretly do – maybe I want my boyfriend to hear the heartbeat so he will want me to keep it too- but she says they aren’t allowed to play the sound, as if it’s a song on Spotify that’s been hidden because you’ve listened too many times: it’s for your own good.

She asks me if I want to know if it is viable and do I want to know if it’s twins. I get excited. Twins! Yes! what about triplets? Will I be allowed triplets! My boyfriend puts his head in his hands. I can’t reject this offer of twins? I can be a twin mum – finally fulfil my dream of a baby on each boob – but then I look at the screen and I see the dot.

A little tiny dot, that’s very still. Oddly still.

I feel an instant bittersweet relief that makes tears form.

She kept measuring and measuring the little dot but I knew.

She hugs me as we say goodbye. I almost instruct my boyfriend to hug her too.

Proceed forwards.

Work is the only way I can proceed forwards.

This ending is actually a beginning.

My daughter must have sensed a hormonal shift in me lately and says “mama you would tell me if you were having another baby, wouldn’t you?” as we exit Euston station early January. She is amazingly empathetic for her age, sometimes her dreams scare me. I lie and say yes, of course, as I know I have what was the beginnings of a baby in my body right now. I am carrying something that’s not alive.

A gestational sac, is what it’s called, apparently. Though I don’t like calling it that.

I tell them almost everything, usually.

We are an honest family. For example, they know about my forthcoming boob job. My little sacks of rice in black tights are hanging around my office, the kids have all tried the “boobs” on. They know we’ve broken up twice, they know I am doing hair content to pay for their school meals.

But I won’t tell them about this for a while. I know they would want me to have another baby. I would want to make them happy. But for now, I need to make myself happy.

It feels good to have made that decision after months of wondering. Running in the sun imagining myself pregnant. Not letting my mum throw away my Snuz cots.

This has refocused me, made me more grateful for the time I have with my kids. this has made me more grateful for time with him.

As we lay in bed together, I think of how many years we’ve lost being apart and I want to cry. I need him so much it’s terrifying; if he dies, what will happen to me? he’s got a mystery scab on his scalp and I think he’s dying. His ears are hurting and I think he’s dying. He is out walking the dog and he takes longer than usual and he’s dead, he simply must be dead.

Love is exhausting. Another baby would be more love and I’m at capacity. I have four little hot chocolates to buy everytime we go for coffee. That’s insanely expensive.

My daughter and I watch 10 Things I Hate About You and my boyfriend says he had a huge crush on Julia Styles and I panic because she’s got small boobs. I say – but I’m about to get massive boobs – what do you mean you fancy Julia Styles????? He laughs. He thinks I’m joking. I identify as someone with a flat chest. Will my boob job rewire me? Will I look at small boobs and long for them like for years I’ve longed for big ones?

Yes. We always want what we can’t have.

Accept that.

I can’t help but notice everyones teeth in 10 Things. Actors with normal, uneven, slightly yellow teeth. Heath Ledger wouldn’t have had veneers, would be?

We go to the cinema at 10am on Sunday morning to see Zootropolis 2 and I indulge myself by looking at my phone under my coat. I don’t usually scroll when I’m with the kids, but in the dark of the cinema it feels like a treat. They have their sweets and popcorn, I have some phone time.

I fall down a rabbit hole and spend the time googling celebrities who’ve had veneers.

In case anyone is wondering, the answer is ALL OF THEM.

Towards the end of Zootropolis 2, as my toddler has almost passed out from pick and mix (a special treat breakfast) and after watching Jessica Biel’s glute exercise regime reel three times, I remember that I need to send an email. The subject title of the email is KIDS AND PHONES AT BUS STOP.

It’s an angry email to a school nearby, complaining about the kids at the bus stops on their phones, sometimes so distracted by them that they stand on the busy road. Every time I drive by on my way to pick up, I feel so depressed for these teens. No one is talking to each other. They all seem drugged by their little screens, completely unaware of the fast cars, or other people wanting to get on the bus or walk past with buggies, dogs.

They may be standing together but they are all so far apart.

I press send on the email as the movie ends. My kids are unaware I’ve been on my phone for the entirety of the movie, and I feel guilty.

Am I a hypocrite?

I drive to Tesco for lunchbox essentials and custard. I have to do a “messy hair” custom and I’ve been putting it off for a while. I don’t know how much time I have left with my hair content. Part of me wants to just cut it all off, start something new. But we need the money. If I don’t do this, I don’t make enough writing, or doing my shows, or acting. I have to do this. I just have to do it my way so it’s not draining and I don’t cross my boundaries (although my boundaries keep changing because people change).

I listen to my favourite news podcast on the way to Tesco, the Epstein Files, Trump, Keir Starmer – I listen to news podcasts constantly because it feels like I’m doing something productive - I love pretending I know what’s going on even though I don’t understand anything – and I love that my hair subscribers would have no idea that I’m listening to the News Agents as I sultrily pour Ambrosia all over my hair.

I buy pregnancy tests because it’s time to check if I’m not pregnant after the abortion.

My body has been recovering for weeks, hormones all over the place, and the test keeps coming back as positive and every time I see the two lines I can’t stop myself from feeling like yes actually I AM having another baby - it’s all okay, I can handle it, I can have it all, it’s going to be fine, we can cope - but I know that’s not real.

Time for the harder option. Work. Being Present.

Accepting what can’t be.

I get home and unpack the shopping. The Cheerios, the Teddy Bear crisps, the Ambrosia.

I take what could be my last ever pregnancy test.

It’s negative. Finally negative.

I don’t allow time for sadness or think about what we would have called it, I pick up the custard and go looking for my laptop.

As I enter my 11^th month of making money out of my ridiculously long hair, I’m feeling reflective and serene. And I’m glad to report that I don’t feel dirty.

Part of me still can’t believe how much I’ve managed to make just from playing with my hair, showing my split ends, twirling it, plaiting in, throwing it about, running my fingers through it, wetting it, splatting it, squeezing water out of it, endlessly squirting leave-in conditioner into it….

Is it detached from me and just for the fetishists? Or have I finally found my Clown through my hair?

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I used to find pride in how we didn’t celebrate or even really remark upon anniversaries or birthdays. No we’re not married, we don’t do date nights. We are just in love and united (until we break up again) and that’s enough, that’s all good.

But lately I do see the merit in carving out time to face each other at a table thats not the one in your house and remember what it’s like to just chat whilst eating something other than one of the three dinners on the household roster.

For us, there are many obstacles to a date night.

The first being that we now have a giant Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy on top of our 4 not so giant offspring.

I have never been able to put trust in any childcare app (I tried using Koru Kids once during the Edinburgh Fringe and the one applicant quit within two hours…my elder two say they spent the second hour looking after her). The only babysitter we “use” is my mum, who does not live in Liverpool so, logistically, a date night is a nightmare. My mum has been quite busy lately and unable to come up as much as usual.

It’s amazing how many weeks can go by before I realise that we haven’t been alone – just us, as a couple - in a room for more than two minutes. As a family we still live like we did in our tiny London flat, migrating as a pack and staying all together in one room AT ALL TIMES. It still feels bizarre to be (able to be) in separate rooms.

Even though I see him all the time, I miss him.

I miss direct, alert eye contact.

I miss being in bed together and not being so tired I feel drugged.

I miss waking up together and not immediately getting dressed into my “school run mum uniform” (ancient black leggings, XXXXL T-shirt, two unnecessary sportsbras, odd socks, waterproof ugly trainers) and frantically trying to dress two little humans as they refuse to move in bed, sleepily kicking me in the face as I put on their socks.

I miss being awake enough to watch a series together – we haven’t watched something since our 5^th watch of Mad Men (nothing will ever compete) and decided that we would have a break from TV in bed. I miss TV in bed! I don’t care if it’s “bad” and that we should be reading. I think TV in bed (as I eat 3-4 squares of chocolate) is one of the greatest luxuries of all time, and I’m too tired to indulge in it!

After I’ve done bedtime with the kids and eaten my dinner, I nearly fall asleep with the electric toothbrush in my mouth. I am pathetic.

This phantom tiredness is hopefully just circumstantial.

Usually I’d blame my hormones and PMDD but I think it’s mainly getting used to things up north…. our kids have so many after school activities (Liverpool is sporty place!!!) and snacks that they need to be served. I’m moving so much more each day as we now live in a place with stairs and I run in a park with FRESH AIR (what a novelty). Oh and the dog who is – I’m reluctant to say – like having a 5^th child.

The only time we’ve been semi-alone is when we’ve been podcasting – and even then, the dog is pacing around between our feet, and inevitably we have one/all of the kids interrupt broadcasting procedures to announce they’ve lost the remote control or that Bluey has frozen. Bluey never freezes. They just want to see what we’re doing.

We had the rare opportunity last night to go out for dinner as my mum was up. I saw this a chance to embark on our new Date Night tradition and booked our favourite cheap hotel which allows dogs (my mum is ready yet for dogs). I was relieved that up until this point I’ve never thought too much about dogs staying in hotels…. my OCD cannot quite handle it.

I was so excited!

We’d have a nice meal and then get to go and WATCH TV IN BED WITH CHOCOLATE at a decent, not-passing-out hour! It worked out quite well. As I getting ready for bed I decided to do some quick hair content in the nice, clean, hotel bathroom (I’m never without my tripod or serum).

When I came out the bathroom our dog was sprawled all over the bed, taking up all the space on my side. I could barely fit on the bed. My boyfriend was thrilled - he’s been bargaining for the dog to be allowed upstairs since we got him and I have absolutely refused. But he looked so happy, laying there with laptop on his crotch and the dog right next to him, asleep.

All aspirations of our sexy, romantic date night evaporated as I wondered if I could even get in the bed knowing our dogs paws had just wandered all around the city centre. Would I have to sleep on the floor? Would my boyfriend prefer to sleep with the ridgeback? Should I let him have this one night with the puppy in the bed?

I got in the bed, under the covers and stopped myself from inspecting his paws. We did manage to watch a little bit of The Substance before I got too jealous of Margaret and then tried watching The Steal on Amazon before I began to get drowsy. The dog seemed to enjoy both The Substance and The Steal more than either of us.

The weight of the dog made the bed sink in the middle, I felt like I was on a ship.

I saw his hairs on the white sheet and I did have a momentary panic but I calmed myself down by stroking him and seeing how delighted he was to be in a bed with us.

It was not the best night of sleep and I will NOT be making that a regular occurrence but it was a nice, completely new experience for us, looking after a puppy in bed instead of a little human.

It feels freeing to do things like this that I never thought I could do. Hopefully I can keep surprising myself…..

*

Other than our doggy date night, there’s not much to report for me lately.

I’ve been trying to live slightly slower, scroll a bit less and be softer with myself. It’s much harder than I thought it would be.

I am still holding on to a former idea of myself I need to let go.

I’m painting and breathing and stretching and sewing but I still feel like I’m running away from something. My new “DIY therapy/creativity” instagram has been helpful because it is a definitive new beginning and it carries no baggage (yet). And when it accumulates baggage I can openly talk about it, rather than feel compelled to be funny or endlessly self-promote.

I don’t know exactly what age I was that I started on my path of self-loathing, though sometimes it seems like I’ve been on it forever.

I want to change. I want to like myself and believe in myself.

I guess I’ve been preoccupied by trying to raise funds for my breast augmentation. It will cost £8k, which I simply don’t have, so I’ve asked my Hair subscribers to contribute to the “boob fund”. They’ve certainly put a few pennies in but I have a long way to go… I don’t know how I feel about my subscribers paying for new body parts, but the whole thing feels quite urgent now. I need to do this, however I can.

I started this year with a clear objective – to feel better about myself, and I believe that having a substantial, lifted cleavage will help me be happier. It’s a vanity based decision that I’m not ashamed of.

Some would argue I need to work on myself before cosmetic surgery, and yes, that is true, but I have always been quite good at multi-tasking, with a few projects on the go….

I am excited to share that surgery journey too.

back soon

x

*
I’ve found it hard to write lately as I no longer trust my laptop.

It’s a particular type of pain to see your writing disappear, which can happen if your laptop is so ancient that Word has decided to stop saving and rescind any offers of ‘recovery’.

I have been preparing myself for the laptop to die, but I’m still not ready.

And then my youngest spilt a strawberry Actimel on the keyboard last week as he was watching Bluey, and even though I think I successfully blow dried the milky liquid out of the z, x, c, v keys, I don’t think my pretty pink macbook has long left. I had left the laptop open only momentarily while I paused my important research <“breast augmentation - vitamins you should take before op, when can you sprint again”> - and he was too wrapped up in Bluey’s sibling dynamic to notice my laptop was not a table.

I think I screamed. I hope I didn’t scream. Yes I screamed.

My little one was confused. I said ‘why did you put the Actimel on the laptop?” and he calmly said “I thought it was a table” and I nodded because of course, of course. I said sorry for shouting/screaming – told him I just need the laptop “for work” and that I was upset as laptops cost a lot of money.

Luckily, my son did not question me about breast augmentation, or at least chose to discuss at a later date - and went back to watching Bluey.

That was his first and last Actimel.

They’re just so expensive!!! I’ve even put “please buy me a laptop so I can write a novel” on my only fans wishlist <via Throne> but, so far, my fans ONLY gift me things if they are 100 percent PVC, highly flammable and smell a bit strange.

I couldn’t tell my toddler that the reason I screamed was because the laptop contains my most precious Word document - my daily diary that I’ve kept adding to since 2022. 135K+ words about my life – my relationship break ups and get back togethers, my kids teeth, a birth, my teeth, my happiness, my depression – my EVERYTHING - the thing that’s kept me from going insane since the birth of my fourth baby… <I really do believe that keeping a diary has saved my life>.

As I blow dried my laptop, I noticed that my boyfriend was filming me from behind. I must have looked funny. I don’t even use a hair dryer for my hair. It felt so surreal trying to resuscitate a laptop. I let him film me in my distress because we’re trying to do more content of our day-to-day lives on our podcast instagram - as utterly pathetic as that is. For a second I was happy he was complying with my podcast demands, and getting onboard the content bandwagon - before I remembered how hideous I was feeling and, more crucially, looking.

After I shooed him away and said something like “do not to post that as a story I was hunched over I am disgusting let’s not do that again”, it hit me that if the diary was gone, I would not remember anything. Those years would only be in evidence as a series of random photos. The photos do not show my post natal depression in 2022 – the photos only show me presenting a CBBC art show and proudly breastfeeding between takes. The photos do not show the heartbreak of our second break up in 2023 either, or the trauma of our careers failing and having to move into smaller and smaller flats, continuously downsizing our lives, careers and our wellness post Covid.

Photos can lie, words can’t. I prefer to live in truth.

Fortunately, I am not a total idiot and I do back up once in a blue moon. I would always have had some remains of the diary. But it really shook me that the thing in total, the up-to-date total word count, might be gone. It made me reconsider writing it on a laptop anymore and consider going back to paper – but I find writing by hand so tiring, and I can never write all that I want, it’s more for scrawled one liners before bedtime like “becker has started calling me big fat mumma but doesn’t let me call him big fat becker”.

The pain of finally losing this laptop is easy for me to understand as I bought the laptop the year that my brother died in 2019. Buying it was meant to signal a new start, for me and my sister to use for our podcast, for my doodle orders inventory (my orders boomed during covid), for our stage show (about grief), and for my novel (about grief). It was so shiny and new and looked so eager to help me, to take me somewhere.

I resented the new laptop at first… it’s mere presence reminding me that I should be working, I should be coping – so I barely used it. I ended up writing my novel Sunset on a dying ipad, which reminded me of simpler, happier times. My kids and I would share that ipad – they used it to colour in mythical animals after school and I used it to string together sentences about sibling loss in the evening once they went to bed.

Having to buy a new laptop signals change.

It’s a new era for me as a mother and a creative. This year, I have to start again with my career. Work out how to be happier, work out what I want to write, how I want to make money. I should be writing a new comedy show this year, go to Edinburgh, get back on stage and fail upwards. I should finally write this film I’ve wanted to write for 15 years. I should start my doodle shop again and actually learn how to use Shopify. This new laptop will be used for the New Me, and that’s scary, I don’t feel ready to meet her just yet. I’ve just gotten used to the new me from last time, when my ipad died!

So I keep blow drying and resuscitating and attempting to write on it even though I know the laptop could make my words disappear at any moment. I’m ignoring the signs of a new beginning.

Perhaps I’ll be waiting forever for a stranger to gift me a new laptop that I’ll resent.

back soon!

xox

what you are about to read is one of my Only Fans diary entries.

I started doing hair content on the platform last March, and have decided to keep a track of things on substack too.

I never thought my career would go in this direction, but here we are.

I am just a mother of 4 trying to make a living as a strange creative, and I’m really grateful to anyone who reads my work.

Love Jessie xox

Day 310

I’ve got my dates wrong and thought I’d done 10 months on Only Fans last month, when in fact, it’s ten months this month. I don’t know how I miscalculated that, but sometimes it does feel like I’ve done it – and by it I mean PLAYING WITH MY HAIR – forever.

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