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It’s cool to be kind in the new normal, even in the fashion world

I’ve just met Paul Costelloe, the legendary designer at his SS21 presentation. His was one of the few in-person shows in what was an almost entirely virtual London Fashion Week. It is a gorgeous collection with cool neutrals, pastels and textures. There are so many pieces one would love to have in their spring wardrobe. But the most positive part of the entire experience was meeting Paul himself. His old-world charm, good manners and warmth seem to be in stark contrast with the new normal of zoom calls, face masks and social distancing. Above and beyond that, in the six years I’ve been covering fashion week, he was perhaps the most welcoming designer who seemed genuinely happy to chat and say hi.




The context: I started covering London Fashion Week when I was just fourteen years old. The year was 2014 and mainstream media still dominated coverage. Bloggers were the newcomers and this was just before the dominance of the Instagram influencer. Fledgling teen bloggers like myself were at the very shallow end of the media pool. I’d started a fashion blog about 18 months prior and set my sights on covering fashion shows. I needed to build up a body of work to justify an invitation so I covered some trade shows and then in 2014 sent out scores of emails to press offices politely requesting an invitation. To my (and my parents) amazement, I actually received a handful of invitations. Some I had to decline because the shows were during school hours and attending a fashion show for my blog was not seen as a worth excuse to get me out of lessons.

 

I’ll never forget my first show. An Orla Kiely presentation in a warehouse studio off Carnaby Street. My mum dropped me off and I was terrified. I had my camera hanging around my neck and held my breath as I walked in the door. I was worried about fitting in, not knowing anyone, and not really having a right to be there. I was, after all, only fourteen and surrounded by seasoned veterans of fashion media. My mum gave me some sage advice before I went in which has fared me well at every season since - find someone else on their own and go and say hi. And I did just that. I went up to a girl standing by herself and said hello. I took a few pictures and a few notes and left. But I didn’t talk to many others. I saw a couple of other shows that season and followed the same pattern - chat with someone who looked lonely, take notes, take photos and leave. My coverage started me on the path to earning unsolicited invitations.

 

My adventures seemed bold and glamorous to my peers and school teachers at the time but in reality it was quite lonely and intimidating. It’s no secret that the fashion world is an exclusive place and it can even be hostile, especially to newcomers. You might remember the OG teen fashion blogger Tavi Gevinson who caused outrage in the front row of New York Fashion Week for blocking the view of those behind with her bow-shaped hat. While I was never openly rejected and occasionally people were welcoming, there was definitely an air of snobbery and I was not embraced as part of the ‘gang’. I was routinely quizzed at the door, receptionists not really believing my name was on the list and would be openly surprised when they found it was. Frankly I understood; I was so young, and didn’t have a publication or brand behind me. But I got used to the format of the shows, how to work the crowd, the etiquette, and became more confident in what I was doing. My dad, a very experienced journalist who accompanied me to my early forays to pre-fashion week trade shows, gave me some advice - always go up to the people in charge and introduce yourself. Look them in the eye and ask questions. You are covering the event, he said, so you need to be curious and not be afraid to go straight to the big players. When it comes to your camera, look through the lens when you take the shot but don’t hide behind it.

 

And aside from all that, the collections were inspiring, I was pushed out of my comfort zone and it was a privilege to experience the creative passion bustle of London Fashion Week.

 

This season, fashion week had barely crossed my mind. With the pandemic’s relentless disruption and some accusations that Spring fashion month exacerbated the spread of the virus across Europe, it seemed unlikely it was going to happen at all. There is also the sustainability issue and the debate about the ethics of fashion week, as reflected in Stockholm cancelling the event altogether last year.

 

But to my surprise and delight, I received an invitation earlier this week. Paul Costelloe was showing his SS21 collection at The Waldorf in London and I could attend virtually or make an appointment to see the show in person. Visits were being staggered and set up to ensure COVID-19 guidelines were followed. I didn’t hesitate to accept. I was flattered and excited. Some of the first designer pieces I ever owned were Paul Costelloe, including a blazer I wore throughout Sixth Form as I moonlit as a teen fashion blogger. If I was only going to attend one fashion show at these uncertain times, it seemed the most fitting.

 




Arriving at the Waldorf, face mask on and hands sanitised, I was temperature checked before being allowed into the beautiful and spacious Palm Court room. Unlike the packed, cliquey presentations I’d often attended in the past, I was greeted warmly. There was a virtual show on a screen and the collection was hung on racks around the room. Next to some of the garments were the clothing patterns and pieces mocked up in cloth - the first time I’d seen the process from paper pattern to finished piece at a fashion week presentation. And right in the centre was Paul himself, sketching designs among the fabrics used in the collection.

After immersing myself in the whimsical fabrics and silhouettes, I channelled the advice my Dad gave me - as I have done much more successfully over the last few years - and introduced myself to the legendary Paul Costelloe. I congratulated him on his collection - it is truly stunning - and said how wonderful it was he was hosting this show in person. He looked at me and exclaimed with great enthusiasm, ‘Well, I’m alive!’ At 75, during a global pandemic, he showed no ounce of fear of strangers or conversation. He was giving away sketches and offered to sign mine. I was, of course, thrilled. He was immensely kind and polite, complimenting me on my warm nature (thanks Mum and Dad). He also said I had a great, open face - a compliment I will remember for some time to come. He wished me luck in the future and thanked me for coming. It was the friendliest and most encouraging experience I’ve had in fashion week after six years of covering it, from a frightened 14 year old to a more confident 20 year old university student. Being able to chat with the designer himself and finding him to be so charming and welcoming was the sort of encouragement which will motivate me to continue.

 

The show was very different but not in the way I expected. I thought COVID would trigger fashion to become even more elitist and closed off to only those in the inner circle and unwelcoming to rookies. But it was absolutely the opposite. And more broadly, the fact that most shows are virtual means anyone could ‘attend’ London Fashion Week - no more fighting for an invitation or convincing gruff and dismissive organisers that you deserve a seat at the show up. But for me it was the face-to-face, being able to see the detail of the designs in a fashion bubble. I smiled and chatted with others in the room, and they smiled and chatted back - we were sharing a unique experience. Though all the appropriate measures of social distancing were applied there was a positive energy unlike anything I’ve previously felt at fashion week - I think everybody in the room was happy to be there.

 



The presentation itself was open too - clothing patterns hung next to finished pieces and the central table where Paul sat sketching was adorned with fabric scraps and sewing machines. Further, the process of making the collection was an integral part of the show. The often hidden aspects of a fashion house and how designs are created was part of the exhibition. I think I’m coming of age as a blogger and a writer. Perhaps the fashion shows are doing the same in these times of pandemic and great disruption.

 

The first line of the press release for the show reads: ‘a spirit of optimism and new beginnings sets the scene for Spring/Summer 2021 at Paul Costelloe’. In the new normal, even in the fashion world, it’s cool to be kind.


-LEXI

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TikTok vs Instagram - unlearning the digital rulebook

I am now a TikTok convert. More and more people seem to have downloaded the app in the time of social-distancing and lockdown, and while I was initially resistant, I succumbed to the implied pressure. To my astonishment, I had almost instant success. As one of my first pieces, I made a silly video introducing my family and for some reason known only to the gods of the algorithm, it took off. That video now has 100k views and counting. While there is something to be said for hashtags and pleasing the app’s algorithm, I still can’t work out why it has been so widely viewed. Each of my family members believe they are to take credit.

I’m fascinated by digital culture and an avid consumer of social media. But at first, I dismissed TikTok, as I think many of my generation did. I thought it was for young teens. I had been playing around with it for a few weeks and a journalist got in touch and asked me a question; did I feel pressure to look like the girls on the app and produce certain types of content. Good question. It got me thinking about how I might use TikTok compared with other social media.



  VS 


In my view TikTok conventions are different, especially if you compare them with Instagram. While there is some overlap - beautiful people are often successful - I don’t think the approach is the same. Among the dances, the pretty, skinny girls, there is a more grounded component. There is a massive section of comedy, often which is self-deprecating. Even the beautiful people sometimes show themselves in a less flattering light. When people post dancing videos, they’ll do it multiple times and include takes where they mess up. Unlike Instagram, where the feed is carefully curated and each shot has to be perfect, TikTok is more about producing mass content hoping something goes viral. In my view the TikTok fun, stupid, wild, ratio is higher than the Instagram equivalent. Sometimes you’re more successful when you mess up or don’t look good.


Since my small bout of TikTok fame (did I mention, 100k views?), I’ve posted a few others which haven’t gained anything like the same attention. I’ve been experimenting and the results have surprised me. I did a filter challenge where you’re supposed to look your best under a certain light. I thought putting my face in it, where I looked quite nice, would help - but it’s been among the least successful of my videos. My most successful video of my family and I being silly, I’m wearing no makeup - it is unfiltered. The next couple have a higher fun component. And therein lies a lesson.

There have been times when I have paused before posting something on TikTok. Why? Because I’ve not been wearing makeup, didn’t look my best, and thought I could get a better shot. In a sense, I was applying the principles by which I use Instagram to TikTok. But it seems I need to unlearn the digital rulebook. The content which succeeds is genuine, fun and sometimes less than beautiful. It’s often shot in bathrooms and bedrooms, in bad light, in trackies. TikTok is teaching me to take myself less seriously online, and enabling me to have fun and create in different ways. Perhaps it is a lesson we should be applying to all our platforms - not to be such a perfectionist, not to take ourselves too seriously.

If you’d like to follow my experiment and future imperfect adventures, follow me on TikTok @lexi.l.lawrence.


I’ll see you there - makeup-free, badly lit and possibly in my pyjamas.

-LEXI
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In isolation - but not alone

I’ve been trying to find a suitable collection of adjectives to describe the current state of our world. Surreal, unbelievable, crazy. Anxiety-inducing, depressing, uncertain. Sad, unstable, unpredictable, stressful. All of those words apply but they’re not sufficient. I feel like I’m living through an episode of Black Mirror (or Fringe, but many of you might not know that show - something to watch in isolation). We are all facing the global crisis of the Coronavirus. As of last Sunday night London has been on lockdown. It is the biggest social restriction since the Second World War and we are now a week in with more to come.

2020 has been a bumpy year for me so far, personally. My boyfriend went through a hard time, which affected me; there were disruptions in my social circle, and overall I felt low. There were also the disruptions and tragedies on a greater scale - the final exit of Britain from the EU, the bushfires in Australia, just to name two. Things were starting to look up for me in February when Matteo and I escaped to Barcelona for a few days to stay with our friend Tash in her flat. It was exactly what we needed. We walked in the sunshine, ate delicious Tapas, played football and drank beer on the beach, danced in VIP clubs. We were reminded of the vast joys of life, something both of us had lost sight of in the previous couple of months.

When I look back at that week now, the memories appear like a haunting daydream. I see an eerie sequence, reminiscent of something out of a sci-fi film, full of sunshine and laughter when everything is at peace, just before the chaos starts. The serenity before the crisis.


Fast forward to now and we are in the midst of an unprecedented storm. The world is in uncharted territory and we are all living through it.


I’d already had a taste of self isolation just before the lockdown. I was sick - not with Coronavirus but with Gastroentiritus, a very nasty stomach bug. I had a taste of the social distancing and quarantine before it became a government directive. The day I got the bug, I was gutted because I was missing our university varsity week. Heavily involved in the uni sports scene, I got major FOMO watching all my friends go to our big sports games and celebrate. By the end of the week, the big finale game of football got cancelled due to the virus. Now it’s not just me and there’s a much bigger picture. The world is on lockdown and my tiny experience, insignificant in the scheme of the crisis the planet faces, gave me a taste of what was to come.

I’ve been glued to my phone watching the people I follow on social media broadcast the crisis through their respective lenses, from empty shelves in supermarkets, brawls over toilet paper to budding Tik Tok careers. Everyone I know has chosen where they want to be and who they want to be with to get through the lockdown. In this time of isolation, who do you call? When the shutters go down, where do you go? Who do you want to be with? It’s fascinating to see where people land. I have an international group of friends and peers and many have fled to their home countries to be with their families.

COVID-19 is going to test more than just our geography and our relationships. It will be a defining moment of our generation. Businesses will go bust, the economy will be catastrophically effected, lives will be lost. Thousands of students will be affected - studies disrupted, exams cancelled, experiences and memories shifted from nights out to weeks in. Our mental health will be put under more pressure than ever before. There may be a baby boom of sorts - look for a higher birth rate in nine months from now. In years to come, I will meet people born in 2021 and I will ask if they were a product of COVID-19 isolation.

There is nothing but uncertainty. People are scared. Some, trying a positive spin on it say we should use this time to read, write, draw, cook. Great advice which may help for a while but I’m not sure if that’s a long term solution should this go on for months rather than weeks. I am a definite victim of cabin fever already, how do I proceed?

In 2016, I wrote a post after the election of Donald Trump, referencing his win in the US election and the UK’s decision to leave the EU. I titled it, ‘The Year the World Went Crazy’. I don’t think any of us could have anticipated subsequent events. I wrote some words at the time:

‘I’m going to remember exactly where I was when the US election result came in. And I'm going to do the same for the day when the Brexit Referendum was announced. These events and this year, 2016, will be studied in history, by my children, your children and their children. My advice is remember where you were, remember how you felt, because it will be important to hand on those stories to the next generation. It will be a tale of deep divisions, of political classes being challenged by different groups who are united only by their discontent. It will be remembered as a time of setbacks, protests, possibly revolution. And who knows what else?’

With a few adjustments I could write the same for March 2020. Remember where you are, who you are with, what you are feeling, who you are talking to who you are not, who you miss, who doesn’t matter. How you survived. Keep a diary. Because while historians will study the facts, economists will study the economy and medics will study the disease, it is the personal stories which should endure. When I’m 90 and in a nursing home (hopefully a luxurious one with a pool and a bar) I can imagine my great-grandkids studying for their history A-levels and telling me they’re writing about the 2020 pandemic and I can tell them what it was really like to be there.

We don’t know what is coming but we know that it is era defining. Stay in touch with the people you love and value. Take care of your physical and mental health. Try to have fun, as trivial as it sounds.

Write it all down. Live to see the other side. Take your stories with you.

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Australia and I

I am a West London girl, born and bred but I'm also a proud Australian. The daughter of an Aussie Dad, some of my earliest and fondest memories are of travelling 24 hours to the other side of the world, to the warmth, the sunshine and the people. From the Aussie words and slang in my vocabulary, to watching NRL (rugby league to those unfamiliar) to feeling my most content at the beach, I love being Australian. Even if my home is on this other side of the world, in London, part of me yearns for down under.


My Dad grew up in Sydney. He is one of six and the only sibling to have left Australia. The family tree is deeply rooted in Australia with many branches in the Sydney network. We are the odd ones out, my brother and I, as we have been raised in London. While there's the huge geographical gap, I feel a deep attachment to and affection for Australia, and my family that live there. 


In April I went to Sydney and to Byron Bay. This trip was special for three reasons: it was my first time in Australia in six years; my first time in Australia without my Dad; and my first time in Australia as an adult. I went with my best friend Lily, and we had three weeks of fun. But for me, it was also a deeper experience. 


I stayed with my Uncle and Aunt in Cabarita in North West Sydney, and the family could not have been more welcoming. Lily and I had dinner with that branch of the family and I was struck by the sharp wit of the Aussie banter. I was also taken by their deep connection with sport, each of them a player in their own right, and with the injuries to prove it. My cousin Emma had just recovered from hip surgery. My soon to be cousin-in-law Nick, a knee injury. My cousin Brook just had her wisdom teeth removed (ok not a sport injury but she plays netball). But none compared with my cousin Chris, the professional rugby league player who was recovering from major facial surgery acquired in a head clash in training. At one point Brook complained how hard it was to eat with her face recovering from the teeth. Chris responded, 'Your face hurts? My face has nine metal plates in it'. Apart from the humour, I was impressed by the resilience they all showed. They take the hits, move forward, and laugh about it. I think this is indicative of the Aussie culture. 

One of the best nights I had, would you believe, was going to dinner with two men in their mid 50s - Uncle Roso and Uncle Apps. These guys were the legends of my childhood, the heroes of my bedtime stories - my Dad's two best friends. I was in awe of their wild nights, their adventurous spirits and their plain stupidity and humour. I spoke of their legendary status to my childhood friends, and they'd pass on the stories too. Pascale, who I first met when I was 6, will still ask me, 'How is Roso?', despite never having met him. Lily and I went out for dinner with them and laughed the entire  night. We  ran into one of Roso's ex-girlfriends in the restaurant who they called 'sausage' (I'm still not sure if that is her real name). She didn't believe his story that we were their tinder dates. But it was a night of great hilarity. My Dad's friendship with them goes back nearly fifty years. It was forged in a tough working-class environment and at times a fairly brutal world but it is unbreakable. The fact that my Dad left thirty years ago and they remain as close as ever reflects the sort of friendship to which we all aspire.  




I took Lily to one of my favourite childhood spots in Sydney -  Coogee beach. From the surf shops to the pavilion, it felt so nice to be back to the part of Australia that felt like home for me. We also watched a rugby league match with my team Souths, although we did lose to Manly and I did sulk afterwards. 
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City is the Space of Story Making

'I left it at home', I said to my Dad.

 'Home? This is your home', he replied, as we discussed the whereabouts of a piece of clothing.

 He was right. That was my home but I, without thinking, referred to my university halls, also as 'home'. 
My language adjustment bemused my Dad - he cracked several jokes throughout the day about my weekend 'home' being merely a weekend back at my "parents' house". Now, both are home, and I'm lucky I feel that way. 

 I've been at university for almost two months now and it's been intense. Freshers Week overlapped with Fashion Week. I entered with the intention of acting in more plays but have ended up on a sports team. I have met so many new people and am constantly experiencing new things. There have been many surprises and I love it. 

 If you followed my writing over the last year, you'll know that the application process was a turbulent period for me. For a long time, I expected to be as far away from London as possible; staying here was never my plan. As much as I loved growing up in the city, I was aching for a change and new territory. And of course, as it so often happens, things went another way. As a result, I went into the London university I now attend with some excitement but no real expectations. Now, I think I'm close to the happiest I've ever been. I know a lot of people who are struggling with the adjustment from school to university, which makes me even more grateful for how well it has worked out for me.

 I'm studying English Literature and one of our modules is called 'Writing London'. We study pieces of literature set in London/by London based writers from vastly different time periods, social perspectives and genres. We discuss themes like surveillance, whether that makes London safe or sinister; loss and gain of identity and whether the city helps facilitate a purpose or actually makes it easier to lose yourself; how the mass of people makes 'chance encounters' more likely and therefore more likely to initiate stories. It feels particularly special because we're living it. All of the themes we look at can be applied or understood through our own lens of London. My lens of London will be different to that of people who have moved here from other parts of the UK, even more so to international students; we all have a different relationship with the city. Growing up in West London and moving to central means I too am seeing London through fresh eyes and also getting the change I so wished for. 



One of my lecturers said the other day, 'city is the space of story making'. I liked it so much, I wrote it on a post-it and stuck it on my wall.  As I study the stories of everyone from Woolf to Spenser, I am living out my own story, my own narrative. It's something I agonised over last year, trying to predict where it would be set, who would be the supporting characters, the love interests - all of it now is coming to life. 
The story is only just beginning.

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Five Years of Lexi Likes

Lexi Likes is now five years old.

That’s five years of chronicling the evolution of me as a writer and me as a person. It's something in which I take great pride. I have spent almost a third of my existence writing Lexi Likes, with content ranging from my sweet fashion musings as a peppy thirteen year old to the hopefully more considered views on life and the challenges it poses for a young woman in this complex age.

I’m now at a crossroads. Like many of my peers, I’m transitioning from the relatively cosseted world of school to.…..well, I’m not quite sure. My future remains uncertain, as does everyone's with the shadow of results day hanging over Summer.

It’s has been long few months. Actually, it's been a long year. Upper Sixth, the final year of school in the UK, was tough. It's hard to anticipate until you are in it. Everyone seems to recall the agony of their final school year but it's not something you fully understand until you're doing it yourself. The exhaustion of the university application process, the lead up to A-levels plus the exams themselves, all mixed in with the antics that come with being young and trying to work out exactly where in this world you want to be.

Sound angsty? It was.


I'd like to think I held myself together pretty well but I'm also not afraid to admit that I got hit by a few curve balls. While this was the year I strengthened my most valuable friendships and had many good times, it's also probably been the hardest year of my life. The simple yet deeply disorientating lesson is that not everything in life goes to plan. I've learnt I do not respond well to the surrendering of control. I've learnt what it feels like to want something with all of your heart and not get it. I’ve learnt to deal with burning disappointment. I’ve learnt that the measure of a person is how they move forward after taking a big hit. I've learnt that A-levels are bloody hard. I've learnt many things and, tough as some of those lessons have been, I am probably stronger for it.


During this year, the last six months in particular, my focus shifted to my studies. My blog took a backseat and the content I produced concentrated on my thoughts during this turbulent time. While it was an accidental product of the shift in my lifestyle, I'm actually proud of some of the pieces that came out of it.

Despite all the trials and tribulations of this last year and the disappointments that have come with it, one thing I know is that I feel confident calling myself a writer. In the ever-changing digital age, you can waste a lot of time trying to label your digital identity - blogger, writer, influencer, journalist. But storytelling, and writing more specifically, is what I do. When the travelling stopped; the party invitations were declined; when the theatre trips and art exhibitions were replaced by study and revision; when the personal style consisted of a rotation of three pairs of trackies and old T-shirts; writing was still there. And regardless of career or future, it always will be.


Here are some highlights of the last five years.


1. My first post. Short but sweet.


2. Outside a show at my first season of London Fashion Week


3. My first commission, where I designed an outfit for a doll company


4. Getting featured in Teen Vogue


5. A double page spread in a French magazine about my life in London as a blogger



6. Speaking to the marketing director of Lad Bible as a CNN intern at a media conference



7. Listed in The Tab's '25 Most Successful Fashion Bloggers Under 25'



..to name a few.


 I also want to thank you. Many of you have been here since the beginning, and may remember some of those moments. It's crazy to think I've been blogging for five years but what's even wilder is realising how many of you have been along for the ride. As my life moves into a new phase, I'm actively considering where to take this blog. As I evolve as a writer, a storyteller, so will the content of Lexi Likes. I hope that you will stay with me. 


I’m only just getting started.
-LEXI
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A Measure of Time

I'm about to read a book called 'The Order of Time'. Part of the blurb says, 'time flows at a different speed in different places'. While I'm unlikely to go into quantum theory and my Physics knowledge is limited to my A-level syllabus, I want to give my take on the passage of time. 

On Friday I finished high school. A major chapter has come to an end. Now is a time of reflection as well as looking ahead — with excitement and with trepidation. 

My whole year sat in the park dressed in our old school uniforms reminiscing about the years we spent together. I have a mental snapshot of that moment which I will take with me throughout my life. During this time of reflection, I thought of the way I often measure time. For me, it is usually the distance between two points — events or experiences, sometimes of little meaning in themselves, which I remember clearly and which echo with the reality of today.

I had an orthodontist appointment at the beginning of year 11.  At that time I booked a return bout, for the end of that academic year — right after my GCSE exams. I recall that I speculated about where I would be, how I would feel, how my exams would have gone when I reached that second appointment. When I did return, I paused and thought about all that had happened in that period of time; a huge amount occurred between the parallel events, yet it felt like no time at all.

These junctures aren't always organised routinely. Sometimes it's an event I find myself experiencing which I  vividly remember also happened years ago. One happened recently. It snowed in London for the first time in years. It was strange and beautiful - my good friend Tom took the photos in this post to forever remember it. For one second, I flew back to the last time it snowed in London. I have similar photos of my brother and I decked out in garish ski gear in our driveway, our excitement evident across our beaming faces. The snow-day bookends, the then and now, were, for me, a time travel experience. Two events years apart, that seemed like they were adjacent on my personal timeline. 







Sometimes it's triggered by an event, like the snow, sometimes by a song, a smell, a taste, or even a look. A flash into the past, and a sweeping reflection on everything you've been through since that moment. 
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Riding the Wave

Many of my blog posts over the last two years have been about the uncertainty of my future. I've written about how it's frightening and exciting in equal measure to not know what is next. I've reflected on the past while waiting for the future path to become clear. All of this was written in the knowledge - in the hope - that by the beginning of April, I would know what I'm doing next. 

Plot twist - I don't.

Perhaps naively, I assumed the vast majority of people would apply to university, end up with the school they wanted, get the grades and start in September. I assumed for most people, me included, much of the uncertainty would be over by now. It clearly happens for some people but what I’ve learned is that they are the very fortunate minority. 

For most people, it is not linear. There are setbacks, rejections, choices to be made. Gap years are increasingly common - not always a vehicle for travel but one for reapplying and figuring things out. People 'settle' for their second or third or fourth choices and end up loving it. Some go to their dream school hate it. There are so many variables out of our control that predictions are fraught with risk. But the uncertainty is part of the process.  

I'm also starting to realise that this is what the rest of life is going to be like. We've been spoilt by the linear security of school, always knowing what is ahead of us. Life isn't like that. Stepping out of that rigid structure feels like stepping into a void. 

Over the past few months, I've been dealt a few unexpected cards. I had the fantasy of my future mapped out in minute detail. But the cards I’ve drawn means I need to rethink. Dealing with rejection, and the closing of a door - even if it is just temporarily - has been harder than I could have imagined. I thought that university decisions, whether the verdict was good or bad, would bring clarity. At least I would know all of my options. At least I would be able to make a choice based on reality instead of hypothetical scenarios. Once again, I was wrong. Having heard back from all my universities, I'm actually faced with different choices and I remain confused. 

So, how do the unlucky majority deal with the process of uncertainty? As we watch our peers cruise through to their top choices, barely breaking a sweat, how do we deal with not knowing? 



We ride the wave. 

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The Waiting Game

There is none of the energy and excitement of starting the journey. There is none of the satisfaction of finishing the race. It is just a waiting game. I lie in the midst of a torturous hiatus. It's not the eye of the storm nor the calm before it. There's pressure, it's uncomfortable. Like many of my friends I am just waiting; for my A-levels, for university decisions, and for my next steps to become clear. 

 I'm trying to keep my cool and sidestep any drama but, I'm not going to lie, it's tough.

 We are all anxious in anticipation of our final exams, now just months away. I've completed my A-level mocks - an unsavoury taste of what is to come and the reason I couldn't attend or cover this season of London Fashion Week. While I admit to feeling invigorated by starting the revision process, which hopefully will build confidence about making it through, it's still a matter of... waiting. Not only for the exams but for university decisions.  

Part of my own uncertainty is one of geography - whether I stay in London or move to another city, or move to the United States. I have a favourite option but I'm not going to reveal it, because even as someone who prides herself on being rational, I don't want to jinx it. What is most excruciating is that all of this is now out of my control. At this point there is literally nothing I can do except... wait. 


We're all processing where we are, where we want to go, what is the right path for us. There are scores of different scenarios but until the results and the offers are in I can't focus on any of them. It's exciting and scary. Those of us in the same situation can share our anxiety and be there for one another but there is little we can do other than provide moral support. I am trying to balance positive thinking with managing expectations. Like I said, it's out of our control now. 

One thing is certain - I will be studying English. My current English class will laugh at me for putting this in but perhaps I should have faith in Fortuna, the Greek Goddess who controls the Wheel of Fortune. In a tragedy, she is responsible for the tragic hero's reversal of fortune - she turns her wheel and everything changes. Fortuna was a concept also used widely in Medieval literature, so I feel it's apt to bring it into this piece. Nowadays, we'd probably call it fate. What will fate decide?

 I like to think of myself as someone who will drive their own future. I am determined, and I strongly believe in the power people have to make things happen if they are committed, passionate and driven. So when I am in a situation where Fortuna (or university admissions officers) have the power to decide my fate, I'm not embarrassed to say it's unsettling.

I don't have a magic formula for making it okay for me, or my friends, who are similarly waiting decisions now outside their control. All we can do is have faith in ourselves and remember that this is a long game. Maybe fate will take us down a path we'd previously not considered but we will ultimately find fulfilling. We just have to get through this period, embrace the decisions that are made and move ahead with some confidence that Fortuna will be kind. 

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Now It Gets Serious

This is going to be a big year for me. I will look back when I'm older at 2018 and see it as a year of big choices and dramatic change. This year I will take my A-levels and finish school. I will turn 18 years old. I will leave home and start university - exactly where, I do not know yet.

Knowing that thousands of others are in the same boat, making choices that will significantly impact their lives, does not make it feel any less monumental. Up to now, there's been a rhythm, a sameness, about the years. I've known what to expect. Another school year, maybe a set of exams, the same place, the same people. Now, I'm making choices; I do not know whether I'll be successful in some of them or where others will take me. I'm also facing the final exams, hoping I'll do well. 

What is most significant about the choices ahead of me is that I am making them. Up until now, most of my major life decisions have been made for me. My parents decided where to bring me up, where to send me to school, to some extent what I should study. I may have had some input, but in the words of Judge Judy, up until 18, the parents own the air that I breathe. Now I'm taking the reins. I'm making the decision about where to go, what to study, where to live, what to do with my life. That responsibility is both exciting and terrifying. I am accountable for all that is to come next - good and bad. 


The choices my peers and I will make are potentially life-altering. This is one of those rare moments where we are being asked to pick a path for ourselves. As we get older, it will become less about us and more about those around us. It'll be about where your wife's promotion takes you, living in an area with good schools for your children, staying in a job so you can earn enough to have a lifestyle to keep you and your dependants happy, etc. This current series of decisions is all about us, the young individuals embarking on life as adults. At 18 we are also legally responsible. We are accountable. We will make the decisions, hopefully get them right, and regardless have to deal with the consequences.

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Are You Brave Enough?

Our generation has the ability to read a seemingly infinite pool of opinions.  At first glance, this seems to be empowering. Our access to information is greater than ever, with social media driving a mass of news and media to us at all times. But have you ever stopped to assess what you're consuming? Although we have access to immense diversity of media, both in culture and opinion, how much of it do we actually let through?

With the ability to select who we follow, we're able to filter our feeds and customise them to our likes and interests. I can select my favourite bloggers, publications, news agencies, and cultivate a wealth of information tailored to me. Even on Snapchat, although it showcases a variety of publications, I only read those that interest me, and that I trust. This is a great luxury, one I wouldn't necessarily change. But it raises an important question. While social media gives us great power to broaden our horizons, are we actually narrowing our perspective by filtering what we consume?



The self-selection of news is becoming a big issue and it is easy to be drawn into it. If you only consume the views of those who think like you, it can only serve to reinforce what you already think and reinforce any prejudice you have.

If you're a Trump supporter, and have no interest in hearing criticism of his administration, it's easier than ever to mute those who disagree with you. Likewise if you hate Trump, it makes sense to follow and support publications which aren't afraid to criticise him. Perhaps you loathe a certain boy-band because of their young female audience, but have you ever actually listened to their music? Maybe you're a die-hard fan, but are you brave enough to have your opinion challenged by someone who isn't?

If we only ever read opinions that reinforce our own, we are never tested. Those views are  solidified, perhaps subconsciously, by the fact that everyone else on our feed agrees with us. And doesn't that cause of a roadblock in social change? 
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The Year The World Went Crazy

(source)

I was discussing my blog with someone recently, and they referred to it as 'light reading'. Overall, they were very complimentary, and told me how much they admired me for doing what I do. My blog, by and large, is designed to be a light read - my musings on fashion, art, social trends and media. I occasionally comment on issues beyond my normal realm such as politics. For example, I wrote this piece in June, asking why 16 year olds weren't given a vote in the EU referendum. 

 I acknowledge that this isn't normally a space where I make profound revelations about philosophy, or discuss the inner mechanics of the human mind. However I'd like to think that when I delve into heavier issues, my blog is becomes more than 'light reading'. 

That brings me to the present day. On Wednesday the 9th of November, 2016, Donald Trump was elected as President of the United States. And the global reaction was huge. There was shock, tears, anger, fear. Somewhere in the world, I'm sure there were cheers, hugs, smiles, celebrations. It's the former bracket of reactions which I fell into. 

I can't pretend to be fully versed in politics, but I'm by no means ignorant. Although there are sporadic elements of politics on my blog, I almost feel it would be wrong to go on without commenting on this. It is a monumental event in history, and who knows what the repercussions will be.

All I can say is that I'm scared. I'm scared for women, people of colour, Muslims, the LGBTQA+ community, Mexicans, and all those who don't fit into what is considered by Trump and his followers as normal. I'm scared that a man who has been accused of sexual assault by over 20 women can be elected into one of the most powerful positions in the world. It seems progress that has been made over the last few years in terms of rights for women, the LGBTQA+ community, and so many more, is in jeopardy and at risk of being reversed. That is the most scary prospect of all. 

I'm also sad. It seems if it had gone the other way, women's rights and overall position in society would have made a leap ahead. Had the US elected it's first female President, it would have been an empowering social milestone. Regardless of what you think of her politics, the UK has Theresa May, its second female Prime Minister. 2016 could have been the year of female leaders. I'm deeply disappointed and saddened that we're not going to have a female President (at least for the next four years). 

I'm going to remember exactly where I was when the US election result came in. And I'm going to do the same for the day when the Brexit Referendum was announced. These events and this year, 2016, will be studied in history, by my children, your children and their children. My advice is remember where you were, remember how you felt, because it will be important to hand on those stories to the next generation. It will be a tale of deep divisions, of political classes being challenged by different groups who are united only by their discontent. It will be remembered as a time of setbacks, protests, possibly revolution. And who knows what else?


The other question we must ask - what do we do now?


-LEXI

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