My husband Ben posted my age on Instagram. Friends were aghast. Why, asks Marina Fogle
While adults, those beneficiaries of education, maturity and decades of life experience, are reticent about their age, regarding getting older as an embarrassment, a frailty, a weakness, children, unsullied by this manufactured shame regard it as it should be, a privilege.
Growing up, I was aware of this stigma. My grandmother, the down-to-earth product of a generation who came of age during a war, was bafflingly elusive about her age. 'I'm as old as my tongue, and a little older than my teeth,' she would say, mysteriously. This puzzled me; did she think I would admire her less if I knew how old she was?
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The Independent
3 hours ago
- The Independent
My friends don't make any effort with me now they have kids
I've come to the realisation that I value my friends more than they value me. It struck me when they started getting married. People I consider to be so close they are practically family not only chose others to be their bridesmaids – but one didn't even invite me to her wedding. She said it was just family at the ceremony and that it was really intimate, but I later found out there were other friends in attendance, and it was a bigger affair than she first led me to believe. To me, it's nothing to do with wearing a nice dress or even what it outwardly says to other people about our relationships – it's the really weighty and terrifying idea that I don't matter to them. At all. I already feel isolated because I am the last remaining single one and don't have kids. Our conversations have changed, I mould around their plans and responsibilities – and I am the glue, constantly bringing everyone together, desperately trying to cling onto the threads of our group. If I don't make the effort, nobody will. And yet, these very concrete decisions to exclude me (and to constantly talk about their children when we do get together, without even asking how I am) make me feel like my loyalty and kindness are taken for granted. I always try to be the friend I want to have myself – but should I just throw in the towel and give less? It seems to work for everyone else… Never the Bride – or the Bridesmaid Dear Never the Bride, I feel for you. I've often noticed that in friendship groups – particularly long-standing ones which span many years, even decades – the roles we 'fit' into early on tend to last. There's not much movement within established social groupings, even when the people within them do change. And it can sometimes feel like a burden. If you're the one who's always geeing everybody up: suggesting dates to meet, booking restaurants or starting one of those dreaded 'polls' on WhatsApp where you're fighting against everybody's diaries, simply to get a date in, some six months in the future – only to witness one friend flake, another transparently decide she got a better offer and someone else realise they've accidentally double-booked – then it can be tempting to give up trying to get everyone together to begin with. You're doing all the hard work, why aren't they? And why can't someone else take over the unpaid job of 'social organiser', for a change? The problem with this logic is that, while it's entirely right and justified for you to feel aggrieved, the most obvious reaction – to just stop making any effort, hoping your friends will notice or get the memo and then do the hard work of self-reflection to realise they've been taking advantage of your energy and social battery all this time – isn't likely to work, I'm afraid. I've seen it, time and time again... when we get fed up of putting ourselves out there and suddenly stop, without warning, the most likely outcome is that our friends will feel affronted because they haven't heard from you. Or (ironically), they'll wonder why you aren't making any effort anymore. I know. It's unfair. But it's usually what happens. Unless – and this takes bravery – you do something we don't often do, for fear of sparking conflict: tell them how you are feeling. I think this would be particularly pertinent to you when talking about how hurt you were not to be invited to your friend's wedding. That's such an obvious hurt that I have to admit I'm shocked your friend wasn't brave enough to raise it with you herself. But, crucially, you're going to need to go in soft. Using 'you did this' accusatory statements always backfire – no matter how justified. It puts the person you're dealing with on the defensive; they'll want to attack back. I would always suggest using 'I feel' statements – and centring the impact on you (because nobody can argue with how you feel!) 'I felt really hurt when I realised you hadn't invited me to your wedding, but other friends were there,' would be a totally reasonable thing to present her with. Resist the temptation to expand – I'd want to place the information about your feelings in front of her and see how she handled it. The constant mentioning (and prioritising) of people's kids is slightly trickier to handle, as I know (and I know you know) that your friends are always going to put their children first. But it shouldn't mean they can't set aside one evening, child-free, every couple of months. And it definitely shouldn't mean that when they're not with their kid, that's all they talk about – at the expense of finding out how you are. Again, I would try to frame it positively and from a place of introspection, as that's likely to get the most sympathetic result. If you're happy to show some vulnerability, you could say something like: ' I love hearing about your kids, but it can feel a bit overwhelming when we're together, because I feel I don't have anything to say. Can we try talking about us all as adults for the evening?' Good luck. I hope it works – though I'm also reminded that some friends only 'fit' into certain seasons of your life. It may be that, sadly, you've outgrown each other. If you have, that's not necessarily a terrible thing; it just means that it's time to let go of some of your old bonds and focus on making new ones – with people who are more similar to you. I wrote about some tips for that here.
Daily Mail
8 hours ago
- Daily Mail
My mother gave me away to the cleaner's sister at six weeks old. She never wanted me - I cannot now grieve her death: After a loveless childhood SUSANNAH JOWITT admits the unthinkable
My mother gave me away to the cleaner's sister at six weeks old. She never wanted me - I cannot now grieve her death: After a loveless childhood SUSANNAH JOWITT admits the unthinkable For the past few weeks, I have been wearing a necklace that was a gift from my mother, Juliet, on my wedding day. She repurposed a brooch she herself had inherited into a pendant for me: a finely-wrought gold dragon holding a glowing red little ruby in its mouth. It's beautiful and I have felt strangely compelled to wear it day and night, despite the occasional prick from the brooch pin stabbing into my neck. Ironically, this sums up my relationship with my mother: small elements to treasure, offset by real moments of pain. My mother died four weeks ago, aged 84. It was a relief for her and for us. She was miserable, veering vertiginously between Alzheimer's and clarity, physically dizzy and wobbly, then bed-bound, increasingly dehydrated and, eventually, she went past the point of no return. For a week after her death, I felt strangely light and liberated, no longer bearing the guilt of her misery, the shocking expense of her 24-hour care and the terror of how long both would continue. And yet the relationship continues to prick and please. Not once have I felt a moment of pure grief, not even when I read the astonishingly kind letters people have written. All are lovely; all say what a shock it must have been and what a hole she will leave in my life – but those from the friends who knew me better also include a degree of nuance that changes the whole picture of conventional grief. Susannah Jowitt with her late mother, Juliet, who admitted five years before her death that she had given her daughter away for the first year of her life Juliet was not, you see, a conventional mother. She gave me away for the first year of my life – until Christmas Eve 1969 – not actually meeting me until I was a year old. None of us know how long she would have continued to avoid my existence, because all the witnesses to that time are dead; my brother and I only found out this tale five years ago, on the night of my father's funeral, when my mother had a few too many sherries and told me. She admitted quite openly that the only reason I came back when I did was because her mother had been coming to stay for Christmas. My grandmother didn't know she had outsourced me to our cleaning lady's sister at six weeks old. So Juliet had to quickly reclaim me before her own mother found out what she'd done. And, in reality, what had she done? There was no neglect, no abuse, no need for social services. My mother simply hadn't wanted me – and when she was pressured into having me because everyone said my brother couldn't be an only child, she was determined to do things her way. So, on the night of my father's funeral, as if she were recalling her life story to a professional biographer, she told me all about it. 'I just never wanted children,' she said, 'but in those days no one ever admitted that, so I toed the line and got pregnant – but on my terms, right from the moment the doctor told me I was expecting. 'I demanded, and got, a prescription of three Valium a day to keep me calm for the whole pregnancy.' She planned my birth, in the late 1960s, with the precision and, some might say, callousness of a First World War field marshal sending young boys over the top of the trenches: all theory, no empathy. 'I had a very strong epidural so that I couldn't feel a thing and you were born unseen by me because I was hiding behind a large book, deliberately chosen for its size. The midwives had been firmly instructed to take you away and look after you for the four days that I was in hospital, so I didn't actually meet you. Juliet with her children in 1978. Susannah's mother was unable to love her or her brother. She certainly couldn't bear physical contact with them. Both remember seeing other children being hugged by their parents and thinking: 'Ohhh, so that's what hugging is!' 'You were then taken straight to a maternity nurse where you spent the first six weeks of your life.' At that point, I was meant to come home but, when it came to it, Juliet still couldn't face seeing me. She was also clearly suffering from monstrous – and undiagnosed – post-natal depression. 'I couldn't bear it and your father was going on a business trip to South Africa for six weeks, so it was decided by everyone that I should go with him, feel better from the winter sun and recover my joie de vivre,' she told me. 'And I thought it was unfair burdening your brother's nanny with a five-year-old and a newborn, so we came up with the plan of parking you with Mrs Pybus's sister in the village.' Me being lodged with the sister of Mrs Pybus, our elderly cleaning lady, worked like a dream. Juliet came back feeling so much better, in fact, that she decided with my father it would be better for everyone if I just stayed where I was. 'You were apparently happy,' she told me, 'and I was happy. And if I was happy, your father was happy.' Throughout her tale, she refused to tell me the name of the woman who cared for me in this year. No doubt many of you will find the thought of this distressing. But even as my mother told me, I wasn't shocked by her revelation. In fact, many pennies dropped. So this was why my mother and I had never bonded, why we were civil strangers until the day she died. What was more unexpected was how settled I felt within myself when she told me. All my life, I had punished myself for never being enough for my mother. Nothing I did could ever please her. Nothing I ever achieved made her proud. She seemed so resentful of me that I became convinced I was adopted – once going through her files trying to find evidence. I read book after book about Greek demigods and princesses being swapped at birth and brought up in commoners' households. I was sure this was what had happened to me. In my 20s, my godmother, who must have known what happened (sadly she died before I knew myself), once tried to give me a hint about that missing first year, saying: 'You should never underestimate how little you and your mother ever bonded, so it's no surprise that you can't seem to get along now. But she loves you really.' This, though, I would contest. My mother couldn't love me or my brother. She certainly couldn't bear physical contact with us. Both of us remember seeing other children being hugged by their parents and thinking to ourselves: 'Ohhh, so that's what hugging is!' My first memory of her touch is when I was about five and I stepped off the pavement without looking. She grabbed my hand and wrenched me back as a lorry swept past. Much more than the relief at having been saved was the shock of the feel of her hand: her strong, capable, slightly rough fingers, so genetically like my own now. If I close my eyes, I can feel it still. But I think my mother's lack of love went deeper than a mere horror of tactility. She was always jealous of the love my father, Tommy, was able to show me (despite his own consistent failure to actually be there for us as a father) and my brother and I both think she only really ever loved him. In essence, I believe she was jealous of me, full stop, which in retrospect was shown most clearly when I had my own children and so manifestly, abundantly loved them from the moment they were both born, 24 and 22 years ago. 'They each have you wrapped around their little finger,' she would comment acidly and regularly. 'I know and I love it,' I would respond, to her fury. I would never want to exaggerate the lovelessness of my childhood. We kids were never neglected, were given birthday presents and parties, and although we were very rarely taken on holiday by our parents because they couldn't have been less interested in doing so, all the middle-class conventions of parenting were otherwise observed. But sometimes, despite the material comfort, this sheer lack of maternal feeling had unintended consequences. While I was fine – happy, I think, and flooded by cuddles and warmth with Mrs Pybus's sister – during that first missing year of my life, it was a different story for my brother. He called me a few weeks after the revelations of that night of my dad's funeral in 2020. 'I'm struggling, Zannah. I am just so angry. Especially with Daddy for letting it happen.' My brother was four and a half when I was born and had, unlike my mother, met me in the hospital when he and my father visited. He remembers looking down at the little bundle that was me, swaddled, and thinking that while I wasn't much cop yet as a playmate, that maybe I had potential. But then I didn't come home. And no one said anything about me. He thought perhaps I had died. He didn't know but the unspoken message he got was that somehow, if you weren't up to the mark, you'd be – as he said – 'disappeared'. This breaks my heart a little whenever I think about it. On one level, I received the same message; it would certainly explain why I was such a desperate show-pony throughout my childhood; always showing off for attention, for a tiny scrap of love, anxious to be brilliant enough not to be sent away again. 'Susannah was like an eager little puppy,' my father once told my husband. 'No matter how often you kicked her, she always came back, tail wagging, for more.' Susannah is relieved that her mother's death was peaceful In my 30s and 40s I learned to put a label on my mother. Juliet was, I was told by various friends who had similar mothers, a classic example of someone who had Narcissistic Personality Disorder, dominated by an obsession with her own importance, her place at the centre of every story, craving constant admiration and lacking in genuine empathy for others. A relationships expert later told me that my father was also clearly narcissistic, so my brother and I were doomed. When it came to family, my mother probably had the emotional intelligence of a five year old. She could be charming, able to win people over easily – until things didn't go her way, at which point she would literally stamp her foot with her arms in the air and have a tantrum. So when my father died in 2020 and I found out the truth about my start in life, I actually felt profoundly sorry for her; a feeling that has persisted right up to her death and beyond. She hadn't been capable of motherhood, therefore who was I to condemn her or even label her as a narcissist? It would be like beating a puppy for refusing to stop chewing things or, in the case of the famous fable, like condemning the scorpion for stinging the frog that is carrying it to safety: it was just in her nature. Then, when she got Alzheimer's, her infantilisation really took hold. She had missed my father desperately when he died at the age of 86. They'd been married for nearly 57 years. But, when she became ill, she stopped missing him as a husband and talked about him like a hero-worshipping child talked about their idol. He had been charming, though flawed, but she could no longer see that: in her child's mind he was perfect – a perfect, gentle knight. Next to such a paragon, her living children – never even in the same league as her husband –were sorry compensation. Indeed, whenever I called her she would take a long time to answer and, when she did, sounded weary and almost resentful. Sometimes she would press the wrong contact in her phone and, meaning to call her best friend Susie, would get me by mistake. She always sounded so disappointed by this and would soon ring off in favour of calling Susie for real. I realised this was not behaviour she reserved only for me. When I was once staying with her, the phone rang and up popped my brother's name on the screen. Having been perfectly lively with those of us in the room, she grimaced at the sight of his name, took a deep breath and composed her face into lines of bitter suffering. 'H-h-hello?' she quavered, as if she was already on her deathbed. It was a masterful performance and I realised it was one she gave every time her disappointing children rang. All in all, it's no wonder that both my brother and I have had a conflicting mix of emotions since she died, but no real grief. It's her funeral tomorrow and I suspect that while her friends – who all adored her for being the fiercely clever, witty, talented, purposeful and intensely strong-willed friend she was for them –will genuinely mourn her and even cry a little, my brother and I won't quite. One thing I am heartfelt about is my relief that her actual death was so peaceful. The day before she died, at the age of 84, I had been rehearsing for a performance of Fauré's Requiem with the City of London Choir at the Barbican. I knew this to be one of her very favourite pieces of music, so I recorded some snatches of our rehearsal that afternoon, including the final movement, In Paradisum, and FaceTimed her with them. Her last word to me was 'wonderful', with a tiny smile. She died at 6am the next day, having not really spoken again. She may not have been very wonderful to me in my 56 years but I'm glad, when we parted, that we were joined by that word and that smile.
Telegraph
19 hours ago
- Telegraph
‘Buying gifts for family is a merry-go-round – it's a relief when you stop'
Beneath the surface of any happy family exchanging gifts, there's often a seething vipers' nest of hurt and resentment. At least one (child-free) person will be mentally calculating the dizzying cost of buying for 10 nieces and nephews and receiving a cheap calendar in return, another will be fuming because they weren't included in the present-buying kitty and a child will be eyeing their cousin's birthday bonanza with bitter envy. Family gift-giving goes way beyond Christmas, running through anniversaries ('We got Mum and Dad a trip to the Maldives, but I'm sure they loved your framed photo'), birthdays and holiday souvenirs, whereby you give them a £200 voucher for looking after the pets and they return the favour with a paperweight from Marbella airport. It's all a sure-fire recipe for burning resentment. 'At nine, my son is significantly younger than my three siblings' children,' says Alex Keyes*, 40, from Bristol. 'Some years ago, in a conversation about how to navigate Christmas, they all decided it was better to just buy for the children and not the adults. No one told me, and I ended up buying for all the adults and children – and didn't get anything in return.' It wasn't so much not having a present that stung, she explains, as 'not being considered. I was starting out in my career, with only one income paying the mortgage, and they didn't think of the financial or emotional impact of realising I'd been forgotten.' 'Within families, acts like gift-giving have the capacity to transport us back in time,' says Georgina Sturmer, a British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy counsellor. 'Giving and receiving gifts isn't just about the present moment – it can reignite old feelings around how we were treated when we were younger, patterns of behaviour within families, old and unresolved resentments.' Because the family dynamic can trigger intensely negative past feelings around 'unfairness', 'they can spill over when our inner child or teenager takes over', says Sturmer. It's not just the nature of the gift (or not) that can hurt, adds Sturmer – it's what it means about a sibling or family relationship. '' Gift-giving involves layers of emotional pressure,' she explains. 'The amount we spend, the choices we make and the way the gift may come to represent the relationship itself.' The cost of living crisis is making the financial toll on those who wind up shelling out more even worse. 'My husband and I haven't bought Christmas presents for years,' says professional organiser Karen Powell from Surrey. 'Last year, I agreed a £20 limit with my sister. This year we're not buying at all and will meet to do something nice and spend the day together. 'I have clients who have Christmas and birthday presents from last year unopened,' she adds. ' We all have so much, it's too much. It is so overwhelming! I see a lot of family dilemmas around gift-giving and, often, people are so relieved to get off that merry-go-round.' 'One year, I gave 40 people presents and got virtually nothing back,' says financial adviser Polly Arrowsmith from London. 'After that, I explained to my friends that I was no longer buying presents, which was a relief for me.' Family is equally fraught around gifting issues, she adds. 'I do spend a lot more on my family than they do on me and I make way more effort. One of my close family members is notorious for setting a strict budget of £50 – and, generally, they then forget,' Arrowsmith admits. 'They have a friend for whom they'll buy things like an iPad. But when I asked them to contribute towards my sister's 60th birthday present, they said no.' She used to find that attitude upsetting, but now says: 'I had to learn to accept that I have a different love language.' Not everyone employs gift-giving to show affection and esteem, agrees Sturmer. 'We all have different preferences when it comes to receiving affection,' she says. 'For some, receiving gifts isn't high on the list – we might prefer another 'love language', such as words of affirmation, quality time, acts of service and physical touch.' If there's an imbalance, and you – or one of your siblings – is caught in the 'forking out and not receiving' trap, it's worth mentioning. 'Often in families, traditions become entrenched and nobody questions them even if they no longer serve a purpose,' says Sturmer. Author Melissa McNally, from Hampshire, recalls: 'Last Christmas, my father-in law came to me and joked: 'It's your fault I'm poor'. Before his son met me, there was just him and his grandson to buy for,' she explains. 'For the past eight years, he's had to buy for me, my daughter, my son, his wife, my stepson – he's a pensioner and admitted he can't really afford it.' Meanwhile, McNally had similar concerns. 'There are a few of us in the family who earn really good money, and those who don't, so the balance seems uneven. After Christmas we all agreed not to buy presents this year but to put £100 each in a pot and spend it on an experience or a weekend away,' she explains. 'I think it's a lovely idea, and it makes the occasion more joyful – concentrating on being together, rather than what we're receiving.' Author and speaker Ani Naqvi from London is all too aware of the imbalance in her family. While she is child-free, her only sibling is a mother of four. 'I also have nine cousins,' she adds. 'In our culture, every birthday, graduation, anniversary, Eid, we give gifts. My mum gives lots of gifts to others, but she doesn't get as much in return. It's the same for me. I have my nieces and nephews to buy for as well as godchildren and close friends.' For Naqvi, however, it's less of a problem and more an opportunity to show affection. 'I find so much joy in giving and don't expect to receive the same back,' she insists. 'In times of financial hardship I would still give but a bit less.' She says it's down to her 'abundance mindset': 'When you give freely, with no expectation of receiving, you get rewarded in different ways.' For big occasions, she adds, her family will pool their money for a joint gift. 'Those doing well put in a bit more. It all works out in the end.' If you're struggling to feel as Zen, though, speak up now, says Sturmer. 'Don't leave it until family members have already started stockpiling their Christmas gifts.' Family relationships can be complex and tangled, she adds, 'so use 'I' statements to stop yourself from being drawn into an old, unhelpful dynamic – calmly stating how you feel, rather than apportioning blame'. Although family gifts are rooted in tradition, expectation and celebration, if you're overspending, mired in complex Amazon wish-lists and resenting the whole thing, it's time to take a step back. 'Sometimes it's important to look past the objects that we are purchasing and remember the true intention behind the giving,' says Sturmer. 'What are we trying to communicate in our gift? Perhaps it's gratitude, appreciation or simply an acknowledgement of our relationship.' And if you do decide to pool your resources, remember to tell everyone in the family. Sometimes, feeling included is the real gift.
