It's almost impossible to forget about celebrity engagements (see: Jennifer Lopez and Alex Rodriguez), but considering the low profile Jennifer Lawrence and fiancé Cooke Maroney tend to keep, we almost forget about theirs. The couple celebrated their upcoming nuptials in New York City this past weekend and, as usual, all eyes were on Lawrence — but not just for her ever-growing engagement ring. This time, we couldn't keep our eyes off of her natural beauty look.

While Maroney looked undeniably dapper, it was Lawrence who stole the spotlight in a romantic loose updo (created by hairstylist Ben Skervin) and full-body glow. Even better, the actress arrived in what looked like her most natural beauty look yet — and perhaps a likely preview of what's to come on her big day.

Lawrence's makeup artist Fulvia Farolfi stuck to a lightweight base, subtle contour, and your-lips-but-better pink lipstick — not unlike Meghan Markle's bridal beauty approach. In fact, we'd bet Lawrence was inspired by the Duchess' no-makeup makeup look (which she also wore after giving birth to her son, Archie).

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YES!!! What a joy to be part of this magic moment!! 💘 Here she comes! We couldn’t be happier and more excited for #jenniferlawrence to become a #MRS.. this weekend we toasted Jen and her groom to be.. too good of a time was had by all 💕💕💕 @narrativepr @jillandjordan @benskervin 💞 #makeupbyfulviafarolfi

A post shared by @ fulviafarolfi on May 13, 2019 at 10:50am PDT

Farolfi posted a behind-the-scenes photo to Instagram just a few hours ago of Lawrence looking more etherial than ever, signing the romantic shot with the caption: "YES!!! What a joy to be part of this magic moment!! Here she comes! We couldn’t be happier and more excited for #jenniferlawrence to become a #MRS.. this weekend we toasted Jen and her groom to be.. too good of a time was had by all."

No word yet on when Lawrence and Maroney are walking down the aisle, but we don't doubt her bridal beauty look will be perfect when that day comes.

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There’s no better feeling than trawling through your local charity shop, spending less than a tenner and walking away with a boxy leather jacket that looks like it’s been snapped up straight from Alexander Wang's SS19 catwalk. That said, the needle-in-a-haystack approach isn’t the most relaxing way to shop. So what if we said all the joy of that one-of-a-kind find (and sustainable, to boot) could be recreated without the stress?

That’s right thrifters: brace yourselves. ASOS Marketplace has hit us with some good news – the retail giant has launched a curated selection of the finest vintage pieces in collaboration with Oxfam, Traid and Barnardo's, starting at just £15. And if that didn’t send your mind into a vintage-filled daze, its latest venture is available to shop now and more drops will be coming across the summer – just in time for festival season.

Each charity will have an online boutique selling everything from leather goods that will have you receiving envious stares on your daily commute to retro tees that will make you feel as though you’ve just stepped out of Back To The Future (in the best possible way obviously) while supporting a worthy cause.

The best bit? In order to ensure all charities involved are able to make the most revenue from the online boutiques, 100% of all proceeds will go directly to each of them. No cut for ASOS.

We’re already prepping our budget for a summer spent trudging through muddy fields, seeing our favourite artists live (hiya Stormzy on Glasto main stage) and drinking copious amounts of flat beer; it seems only fitting that we have a sustainable, one-of-a-kind wardrobe to match.

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Thanks to French-girl cool brand, Rouje, summer knitwear is having a moment. This is as far from your grandma's wardrobe as you can get; think lightweight cardigans, Breton-striped jumpers, cropped vests and even sexy, plunging knit tops (yes, you read that right, sexy knitwear).

Talking to Refinery29 about her love for knitwear, Rouje's Creative Director (and our ultimate French girl crush) Jeanne Damas describes the inspiration behind the brand's newest collection: "I feel very inspired by the style of Pedro Almodovar's heroines, so colourful and feminine. In the South, women wear wrap or shirt dresses with joyful prints like dots, flowers, fruits, which we tried to depict in our own collection. They can wear them with braided sandals or wedged sandals, a basket bag and a knotted cardigan, which is much cosier and softer than a jacket, especially when the nights get chilly in summer. Knitwear also balances their outfits: they could wear all of their jewellery, [and] their silhouette would still remain authentic and charming."

Owing to the Great British weather and its wonderful unpredictability, lightweight knits are ideal for summer. Button up a cardigan (such as Rouje's Lino knit) and wear with straight-leg jeans for French nonchalance, then unbutton for a flirty date night look. Or throw an oversized knit over your favourite floral maxi dress when the sun goes down at summer festivals and on trips to the beach.

Fellow French brand Musier has plenty of pretty knitwear on offer, including the Carlotta cardigan with its delicate pearlised buttons. Another Gallic favourite is Sézane, which now has an appartement in Notting Hill – its Isaac jumper is an Instagram favourite. On the high street, head to Jigsaw, & Other Stories and Warehouse for the best quality pieces.

If you fancy adding some easy chic to your wardrobe, take a look through some of our top knits this season.

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"Take your onesie off," my boyfriend whispered in the dark while slowly caressing my leg on a cold evening in December. I paused, confused. "What?" I asked, checking I'd heard him correctly.

"Take your onesie off," he said again. That's when I burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. "I'm not wearing one," I laughed, before explaining – through the snorts – that I was in fact naked. I wasn't wearing the fleece onesie that I'd been slobbing in all evening while we binge-watched Line of Duty; I just hadn't shaved my legs in three weeks.

This, you might say, was a sexual low point in our relationship (not to mention a personal grooming one on my part). A sign that I’d gotten too comfortable, that our sex life wasn’t as rampant as it once was; something that comes with the territory of a long-term relationship.

I’ve been with my now husband for nine years. In the early days of our relationship, we’d have sex three or four times a week. This slowly tailed off to a solid once a week; nowadays, it varies. Sometimes a few weeks will pass before we do it, and on the rare occasion that we somehow find the time and energy to have sex more than once in a week, we feel like sex gods.

It turns out we aren’t alone. New research shows that sex is on the decline in Britain. According to a study by the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, which surveyed 34,000 people in the UK, sexual activity has fallen from 2001 to 2012, with the steepest decline among the over-25s and those who are married or cohabiting. It revealed that fewer than half of men and women have sex at least once a week, and over 29% said they hadn’t had sex in the past month.

The reason? Researchers can only speculate, but Professor Kaye Wellings and the team who carried out the research point to the introduction of the iPhone in 2007 and the global recession in 2008 as two events that could be significant.

I’d be lying if I said that neither of these things have had an impact on our sex life. There have been times when my husband and I have spent 20 minutes lying in bed next to each other, scrolling through social media. We know we should be having sex but after a long, stressful day, we’re feeling tired and lazy; plus, this cat video is hilarious.

When I was made redundant we didn’t have sex for a few weeks, because my head was consumed with What the f*** do I do now? and Maybe I’m just not good enough thoughts. The last thing I needed to worry about was whether or not we should be having sex.

So why do we assume that having less sex is a bad thing? Perhaps the problem lies in our almost-pathological belief as a society that there’s a certain amount of sex we should be having. The researchers of the study admit that a more likely explanation for the decline in sexual activity is that nowadays, we feel less social pressure to exaggerate how often we have sex.

Women no longer feel that they must 'satisfy' their partner sexually, regardless of their own desires, to make sure they don’t go looking elsewhere; and men aren’t expected to exist in a permanent state of horniness, as if the number of times they get laid directly correlates to their masculinity.

When I revealed to my friends that I was writing this piece, a string of relieved 'us too' messages flooded our WhatsApp group. One friend revealed that she and her husband hadn’t had sex in over a month: "That’s toddlers and Game of Thrones for you." Another said it had been a few weeks, and she even blamed the rain: "It dampened my spirits. I just need a free weekend morning, you know?!"

Sure, we could all probably be prioritising sex more in our lives. But Peter Saddington, a sex therapist at Relate, agrees that it’s time we all stop chasing the mythical sex quota: "There is no 'normal', when it comes to how often you should have sex," he explains. "There’s no life manual that says you should be having 2.5 children, get married before you’re 30 and have sex three times a week, but never on a full moon. Every couple, every individual, is unique. It’s about what feels right for you. There will be some weeks when you want to do it more, and others when you just aren’t in the mood. As long as both of you are in agreement and feel happy with how often you have sex, there’s no need to worry."

I asked my husband what he thought: was he secretly disappointed and unsatisfied? "God, no!" he said. "You’d always like to have more, but I’m happy with how often we do it. I’d rather do it less and really enjoy it, than have sex just because we think we should."

After nine years together, my husband and I may not have sex as often as we used to, but we feel more connected and fulfilled in our relationship than ever before. We have Fajita Fridays, where we cook and drink wine before settling down to something binge-worthy on Netflix. We go for long hikes in the countryside, and discover new places together. Sunday nights are spent watching documentaries while we give each other foot rubs. All of these things make us feel close, even if they don’t lead to sex.

And research backs this up: studies show that blood pressure and heart rates drop in women during touching and cuddling, regardless of whether or not sex takes place. And intimacy, rather than passion, ranked highest in a survey about marital satisfaction and long-term relationships.

Intimacy is that sense of another person fully knowing you and loving you because of who you are – as well as in spite of it. It requires us to take a leap into rare honesty and allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. It’s a wonderful milestone to be able to forgo shaving for three weeks, or agree to skip sex so you can watch one more episode of something on Netflix, without worrying that your relationship is in trouble.

So what does sex look like for us in the future? Who knows. Maybe we’ll have more of it. Maybe we’ll have less. But I’m not worried. I hope that when we’re 80, we still hold hands when we watch our favourite TV show and have a silly dance while cooking in the kitchen. He feels like home, and that’s all that matters.

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Forget tomorrow, what does the year 2024 hold? What will the world look like in five years’ time? Or in a decade? When will the unrest that’s been circling political, societal and cultural spheres finally come to a head, and what shape will it take? Will Snapchat still be a thing, do sex robots have legs and where do virtual assistants like Alexa go next? These are all bum-clenchingly tense questions to ponder. But what if you could be catapulted into the near future to get a (fictional) peek at how thing might pan out?

We’re not talking about a Hunger Games, Handmaid’s Tale or even Blade Runner -style dystopian tragedy. No, consider Years and Years a disarming but hopeful window into an entirely plausible future as experienced by a warm, unassuming family in Manchester. Strap yourselves in for a wild ride that spans the next 15 years...

In the BBC’s compulsive new drama, we meet the Lyons in the present day. Border negotiations with Ireland are ongoing, Donald Trump is still banging on about building a wall and Rosie (Ruth Madeley), the youngest Lyons sibling, is being driven to the hospital by one of her neighbours because she’s about to go into labour.

Danny (Russell Tovey) is watching the news. He’s one of Rosie’s older brothers, works as a housing officer and somewhat happily lives with his impressionable boyfriend, Ralph (Dino Fetscher). It doesn’t take long to realise that Danny carries the weight of social consciousness on his shoulders and the speed at which the world is changing (for better and for worse) is tricky for him to get his head around.

On the telly, a relatively unknown entrepreneur called Vivienne Rook (Emma Thompson) is on some sort of political debate show, telling a panel audience that she doesn't "give a fuck" about Palestine or Israel. Her priorities are that her bins get collected, that the school down the road picks up their own rubbish and that people stop parking on pavements so that her elderly mother who walks with a stick can get around with ease. Real exaggerated, almost satirical Britain First vibes. The audience cheers at her thinly veiled appeal for public favour and though she sounds very familiar right now, at this point in time Vivienne Rook is no politician. But we’ll meet her again in a few years.

Danny’s attention is drawn away from the TV and Vivienne’s controversial spiel by a call from Rosie about going into labour and needing a hand with her firstborn son, Lee. Danny then gets in touch with Stephen (Rory Kinnear), the meek, peacekeeping eldest sibling who buggered off to London where he works from home as a financial advisor and lives with his successful, stylish and outspoken wife Celeste (T’Nia Miller), and their two daughters Bethany and Ruby. The second Lyons sister, Edith (Jessica Hynes) has a reputation of being the wild one who’s always off somewhere on the other side of the world "causing trouble", so she doesn’t make it to the hospital. But at the helm of the family is gran Muriel (Anne Reid), who is as sharp-tongued as she is adoring of her big, somewhat disparate family.

Everyone meets the new baby, Lincoln, whose birth anchors much of the episode. We fast-forward to his second birthday in 2021, where Danny and Ralph are engaged and Donald Trump has won another term in the White House. 2022 sees the UK prepare for our elections, continuing unrest in Ukraine and the death of Angela Merkel. Up pops Vivienne Rook on yet another news segment to say she's happy to see the back of her, and that Germany should be too. We then whizz all the way to 2024 where the world premiere of Guardians 4 can be watched from home on something called "vision", Snapchat filters are IRL holograms that literally mask your face, and the of-the-moment virtual assistant is called Senior.

Danny's work has found him overseeing a community of temporary accommodation for the influx of Ukrainian refugees. Stephen and Celeste's eldest daughter thinks that she's trans (not transgender but transhuman – she wants to become a digital entity rather than exist in her physical body), and Rosie is introduced to a domestic robot that comes with, erm, accessories that allow it to be used for sex.

Butterflies are long extinct, "sex imagery" classes are obligatory in schools for those above the age of 11 and Ralph is perhaps a little too curious about a website which claims to have "discovered" that germs don't exist – it's apparently all a ploy by money-hungry pharmaceutical companies. It sounds crazy, but not that crazy. This world sounds both distant and within our reach, which is probably what's so inviting yet ever so slightly bothersome about it. Thompson's erratic Vivienne Rook is going to cause political trouble, that's for sure. There's also a huge international threat looming on the horizon, and it's all at the mercy of future Trump's handling of particularly delicate overseas relations. You'd be right to be filled with dread at the thought of where this could all go in the 11 further years it promises to explore, but at the core of this incredibly smart series is a family that any of us could be part of. There's humour (god knows there'd have to be), affection and a sharp look at a reality that isn't beyond any of our imaginations.

Years and Years starts on BBC One on Tuesday 14th May

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A post shared by Mary Phillips (@maryphillips) on Jul 17, 2018 at 2:54pm PDT

From Bella Hadid to Chrissy Teigen, makeup artist Mary Phillips counts some of the world's biggest celebrities as her regular clients, but it's Kendall Jenner that taps her the most.

In a world full of dramatic cut creases, overly lined lips and seriously sharp contours, Mary makes a case for the opposite when making over the model, favouring the understated, barely there look which she's now famous for – but you don't have to be an expert to recreate it perfectly. Here's what we learned about achieving easy, natural makeup when we sat down with the pro herself.

Start with skincare

Mary preps every client's skin with a good moisturiser (Creme de La Mer, to be exact) but for the lighter, glowier finish that Kendall prefers, she will mix a couple of drops of facial oil with one or two pumps of foundation. "I apply foundation all over the face with a big fluffy brush, buffing it in using circular motions," Mary told us. "But I’m careful not to wipe the skin out. I like it when you can see through to the skin."

Keep your foundation light

To create a really dewy look, Mary says that your makeup – whether that's foundation, concealer or bronzer – needs to be kept as light as possible, as you want the skin to "shine" through. The trick is to start with less and then build up to your desired coverage. Swap traditional flat foundation brushes for something with longer, fluffier bristles to keep coverage natural. A multipurpose brush like MAC's Split Fibre Large Face Brush, £34.50, works for foundation and powder makeup.

And if you want to make makeup look fresh again at the end of the day, Mary has the smartest tip. "I take some moisturiser, put it on the back of my hand, use a fluffy brush and buff the skin with it. It’s basically like a magic eraser and rehydrates makeup without completely removing anything." That's when you can go in and re-powder or reapply foundation.

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A post shared by Mary Phillips (@maryphillips) on Apr 5, 2019 at 7:55am PDT

Use moisturiser as highlighter

"The whole point of highlighter is getting that pop of shine, not a stripe," advised Mary. "You don’t really want to see the highlighter, more a glow from within." She dabs just a tiny bit of moisturiser down the centre and tip of the nose and pats a little on to the high points of the cheekbones. That way, skin doesn't look glittery or overly shiny.

Ditch lipstick for lip pencil

Mary tends to swap thick, heavy matte lipstick for something more sheer and pared down. "I like to use both nude and light berry-coloured lip pencils, as well as lip stains. I then use my fingers to diffuse the product, as it results in a softer touch." To finish, Mary always pats a little lip balm on top.

Stick to one shade of eyeshadow

When creating a barely there look, you might choose not to use eyeshadow, but to pull the look together, Mary simply washes a warm brown shade over the lid and dusts a little bit underneath the lower lash line. "This is just a single swipe of colour and any fluffy eyeshadow brush will do." Try Zoeva's Luxe Soft Crease Brush, £10, and Pat McGrath Labs EYEdols Eyeshadow in Statuesque, £23.

Keep mascara to a minimum

If you want to keep your look really pared down, avoid applying mascara on your bottom lashes. Instead, swipe one or two coats on to the top lashes, focusing on the outer corners for an elongated, fanned-out effect. When it comes to mascara, there are three that Mary tends to use on loop. "I like Diorshow Mascara, £28, and Giorgio Armani Eyes To Kill Classic Mascara, £30, for a subtle look. The Givenchy Phenomen'Eyes High Precision Panoramic Mascara, £25.50, is also really easy to apply thanks to the little ball on the end."

Get your blush right

"I really miss the old Kevyn Aucoin blushers," Mary said, "but I've found a great match in the Serge Lutens bronzer and it’s probably the best one I’ve ever used."

Instead of applying bronzer all over, concentrate the product to the areas where the sun might hit your face naturally, such as the bridge of the nose, your cheekbones and around the hairline.

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Kylie Jenner is previewing her new skin-care line, which the 21-year-old billionaire teased on Instagram with multiple posts of mostly make-up free selfies and one on Saturday announcing the launch.

"Skincare and makeup go hand in hand and Kylie Skin was something I dreamt up soon after Kylie Cosmetics," Jenner wrote. "I’ve been working on this for what feels like a lifetime so I can’t believe I’m finally announcing!"

Set to launch on May 22, the line of products will be, according to her Instagram, cruelty-, gluten-, paraben-, and sulfate-free as well as vegan.

The new brand already has a website and an official Instagram page (@kylieskin), which already has nearly a million followers just one day after her announcement. Everything is priced under £24, and Jenner said on her Instagram, “I’m doing a bundle for you guys, so for £97 you can get it all.” The millennial pink-hued collection includes six products: Foaming Face Wash, Vanilla Milk Toner, Walnut Face Scrub, Face Moisturiser, Eye Cream, and Vitamin C Serum. Jenner shared details on her Insta stories Sunday morning.

At Refinery29, we’re here to help you navigate this overwhelming world of stuff. All of our market picks are independently selected and curated by the editorial team. If you buy something we link to on our site, Refinery29 may earn commission.

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Consider 2019 the beginning of the end of Instagram-fuelled aesthetic perfection. First, Alessandro Michele proved he's as disruptive as ever with Gucci Beauty's new campaign. This was no ordinary lipstick launch: featuring punk singer Dani Miller and her twisted, gap-toothed smile, the campaign showed us what we've been craving for so long: the absolute beauty of imperfection. The antithesis of the precision of Kylie Jenner's lip kits, Gucci Beauty is a celebration of painting outside the lines, a swipe of high-shine '80s lipstick here, a dab of Prince-purple across the lid there.

Now, the makeup artist behind the campaign, Thomas de Kluyver, who has a client roster including Calvin Klein, Simone Rocha, Missoni and Kenzo, is launching a photo book that confirms the shift towards anti-beauty. All I Want To Be comprises entirely new work that champions "identity politics, representation, individual expression and other buzzwords that basically add up to people simply being people (in all their remarkableness)." From hyper-shimmering skin and egg yolk shades applied in disregard of the rules, to the awkward innocence of teens wearing false lashes that are just a little too big, every shot in the book is a rallying cry for filters to be removed and imperfections revered.

Collaborating with his favourite photographers – Zoe Ghertner, Sharna Osborne, Oliver Hadlee Pearch, Fumiko Imano, Lea Colombo and Harley Weir – poet Wilson Oryema and art director Ben Kelway, Thomas created the series of images over "six hyper active months" and "made an extra unordinary book together". What's more, Thomas, who is self-taught and honed his aesthetic by experimenting with friends as a teen on the '00s rave scene, is donating his share of the book proceeds to Mermaids, the charity and advocacy organisation supporting gender diverse and transgender youth in the UK.

Beauty is dead! Long live beauty!

Published by IDEA, Thomas de Kluyver's All I Want To Be, £45, is available from 16th May at Dover Street Market, in celebration of Photo London.

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Piera Gelardi, 39, executive creative director and co-founder of Refinery29
Fertility Journey: IVF, miscarriage, gestational surrogacy

When you try hard for something and it doesn’t come to you, you can start to doubt yourself, to doubt if the thing you want is meant for you in the first place.

In seven years of trying to have a baby, I had plenty of time to question.

I started off blindly hopeful. I stopped taking my birth control, thinking it would just happen in its own time. (I called it “not not trying” to get pregnant.) My husband and I weren’t totally sure we were “ready” to be parents, but everyone says you’re never ready, so we decided to give it a go. One day, my period was late and I fully freaked out. I was terrified that it was happening! The next day my period came. I was perplexed by the mixed emotions as I processed both disappointment and relief.

After a year of “not not trying” and not getting pregnant, I decided to go see my Ob/Gyn. That’s when the barrage of needles, tests, and discoveries started.

I quickly learned my path to becoming a mum would be a winding one, and over the years, I built up a whole parade of issues. First it was hypothyroidism, then PCOS, then I learned I had a large pedunculated uterine fibroid, and finally that I have a unicornuate uterus, which is a genetic defect I’d lived with my whole life and only discovered at 36.

Please don’t feel bad for me. I loathe being pitied. That’s why I lied to most of my friends and family through the years of trying, and told them I was too busy having fun to have kids.

The way we talk about infertility — the dreaded “barren womb” — is all wrong. Barren means bleak, empty, lifeless, but I didn’t feel that way. My life was so full, exciting, and worthy of celebrating, with or without a baby. The feeling that something was missing ebbed and flowed, but I felt that if I told people, I would have to carry around their sadness for me like a heavy reminder of what wasn’t in my life when what I deeply needed was to feel the beauty of all that was.

On my 37th birthday I got pregnant via IVF. It felt like a fortuitous sign. Then at 13 weeks I miscarried dramatically in the office bathroom. So much came crashing down.

Two doctors told me that I’d likely have to get pregnant several more times to stretch my uterus. This meant I might have to endure a series of miscarriages — each at a later stage — until I could carry to full term. Since this was a hard path to electively go down, I decided to open myself to all the options. I had a call with an adoption agency, learned about surrogacy, and pondered how I might “mother” in other non-traditional ways.

In the midst of everything, an unfathomable offer came my way. My sister-in-law Teresa offered to carry a baby for me and my husband. I was floored by her generosity, awestruck that someone would do something of that magnitude for us.

Last November, my daughter Viva was born into a sea of love. Brought forth by the most beautiful act of generosity and kindness. And in the moment she was born, all of my doubts washed away and I felt the most uncanny sense of calm and clarity. What was meant for me — and had always been meant for me — was finally here.

In the seven years it took for me to become a mum, I spent a lot of time wondering, questioning what the future might hold. Now every day I’m awoken (a little earlier than I would like) by Viva’s singing. When I peer into her crib and her face lights up at the sight of mine, the present moment is the only one that counts.

Amy Emmerich, 43, president and chief content officer of Refinery29
Colin Oberschmidt, 40, studio technician
Fertility journey: Male infertility, IVF

Colin: We were married in October of ’09, and I had a sperm analysis in November of 2010. That test came up pretty much normal, which threw us in the wrong direction. In August of 2011 the same test came back showing I had zero sperm, so there may have been a false positive.

Amy: I was pissed when I realised that Colin’s sperm mobility was what was holding us back from having children. I was 35-years-old and every doctor assumed it was “my age.” I felt like we wasted time and money. I felt ignorant. How could I not have had the information I needed about my body? I felt sorry for Colin, I was prepared to carry the burden, but I don’t think he was. And for a man to have lower sperm count affects everything about him.

Colin: For me, there was never a big shock. Frustration was definitely the feeling. And not having answers.

Amy: No doctor could explain to him why this happened, one test was fine, but the rest weren’t. He got poked, prodded, tested, and no answers. There’s not enough money for male fertility issues — most of the money and research is around female issues. So, the information is limited. It’s not just us who are going through this — male sperm count has been consistently decreasing since the ‘50s.

Colin: I had to see a urologist and doctors ultimately prescribed Clomid, a drug often prescribed to stimulate ovulation in women. In men, it can trigger an increase in testosterone and the creation of more sperm. I quit drinking for almost a year, and we did tons of tests. Through the process, I didn’t open up much. I’m not a big sharer. I did talk to a coworker who's gone through something similar, and who helped me navigate what our insurance would cover.

Amy: This experience shook me. Gone was the magical notion that you can "just get pregnant" when you have sex. There would never be an "oops" miracle. It made me question everything. Should we be together? Were we not supposed to have children? A year of therapy helped us get to the next step and try IVF.

Colin: I was eventually able to produce sperm and we did IVF. Luckily, my insurance covers up to $10,000 (£7,740) in fertility treatments, and we ended up with eight viable zygotes. We inseminated two the first time, and froze the remaining six.

We went to the doctor two weeks after that transfer, and the ultrasound revealed one embryo was doing well. We were pumped, but it was very early. We had two implanted into Amy’s uterine wall. One ended up being Emzy, our daughter, the other split very early and ended up miscarrying. It was very scary. Amy woke up one night with a bunch of blood at four or five in the morning. But there was still the one, and she still looked great. At around the 12-week mark, we told people that we were having Emzy, who’s six years old now. We weren’t keeping the whole thing a secret. I told my mum, but we weren’t engaging with people that much about it. We weren’t sure if we would be successful or not. When Emzy was nine months old, we went through the procedure again and that led to Flash, who is five years old now. I tried not to think about a lot of things I felt in my heart during the process — but this whole time, I knew we were going to be successful. Maybe there’s a societal stigma about not being able to conceive “naturally,” but having two kids really outweighs the stigma for us.

Amy: There are both small and large parts of being a parent that are amazing. My favourite two times of the day are the hour I get in the morning for cuddling and then reading time with the kids at night. On a larger level, your kids reflect all the great and bad about you. Every day is about growing up alongside them, and that’s pretty significant.

Christene Barberich, co-founder and global editor-in-chief of Refinery29
Fertility Journey: Miscarriages, IVF

As science-driven as the fertility world has become, it's been my experience that it's also very archaic in how it measures fertility and assesses protocol. You have to figure out where you are on the spectrum — beyond just being “fertile” or “infertile." I’ve learned there can be so much nuance. When I began trying to get pregnant, the first three doctors I worked with — all highly respected physicians specialising in fertility — gave me the same tests and assessed me based on the same markers. My "advanced maternal age " (I was 41 when I started) was the most significant. But none of them could understand why I kept getting pregnant over and over again, yet couldn't maintain the pregnancy. It wasn't until I worked with Dr. Jeffrey Braverman, a reproductive immunologist, and his partner Dr. Andrea Vidali, that I learned how specific each woman's case really is. You just have to find the doctor who has the patience and tenacity to help you get there.

What I've learned is that fertility challenges don't discriminate. Some things are easy to remedy and others are a little more involved. We all just need to find the path that works for us and makes us feel strong and able, not sad and broken. Regrettably, I believe the latter is how our culture still views women who struggle with pregnancy.

Everything in your life changes in an instant when you have a baby. And it takes some time to catch up. I cried a lot (the sleep deprivation didn’t help). And I felt I could only cry to the friends I knew who wouldn’t judge me or make me feel inadequate. I think there’s an assumption that if you work so hard to have a baby for as long as I did you’re not allowed to complain or have doubts. Like, How dare I? But the friends that let me lay myself bare as I adapted are the ones I’m indebted to. And my husband, of course.

No one prepares you for how life-altering having a baby is. Before she was born, I had so many worries, too many to count, but when she arrived, even though she was seven weeks early, I just knew that my life — a new one — had begun. As scared as I was and as all over the place as I felt with my crash of hormones, I would look at her and just be in complete disbelief that after nearly 10 years of trying to have a baby, she was finally here. But she is.

Cori Smith, 28, activist, public speaker, artist
Fertility Journey: Egg freezing, endometriosis, hysterectomy

Unfortunately, unlike many transgender people, my transition wasn’t my first medical priority. That’s because I had endometriosis, which I was diagnosed with at 16. It caused debilitating abdominal pain and put my transition on the back-burner.

I began my medical transition at 23, and after eight months of taking testosterone I was still having period spotting, which is uncommon. Since I first started menstruating at 13, I’ve always had heavy, horribly painful periods. And, even while taking testosterone, I started having really severe issues that made me collapse at work. My father would have to pick me up to take me to urgent care. I knew this was the endometriosis, and not even the testosterone was helping. At that point, I started looking into a hysterectomy. But I always knew that I wanted my own biological children.

If you want to have biological children when you’re in my position, it’s going to cost a lot of money. Adoption is also an option, but I wanted the opportunity to have my own kids, too. To me, it was really important because my family is very small, and most of our blood relatives are back in Scotland. So as I prepared for my hysterectomy, I went to see a fertility specialist to freeze my eggs.

I got help from my parents to pay for the surgical aspect, which was somewhere between $5,000 (£3,870)and $6,000 (£4,643). They knew this was their best shot at getting grandchildren, so they were willing to help. There was also medication leading up to the retrieval, which ordinarily would have been approximately another $4,000 (£3,095). But I filled out Fertility Lifelines Compassionate Care Application for financial assistance. Because of my income level, I got about 75% of the medication costs covered. So, it was only about $1,500 or $2,000 (£770-£1,550) for medicine for me.

I had to stop taking the testosterone and begin taking hormones for the egg retrieval — such as “Gonal-F,” a follicle-stimulating hormone, and Novarel, which triggers egg release. It was hard to go off testosterone when I had been on it for so long. People had begun to look at me and automatically gender me as a man, which I’d always wanted, so it was difficult to halt that process. But I was able to look at the big picture. Three weeks of going off testosterone was the price I had to pay for the chance at a biological child.

Because I was on testosterone for so long, and because my ovaries had been through hell thanks to surgeries for endometriosis, I wasn’t even sure if the egg retrieval would work. But I ended up getting 14 eggs. They’re still frozen. The plan is to hopefully get sperm from my partner and use a surrogate to have a completely biological child. Which is pretty amazing, given that we’re a gay male couple.

Sade Strehlke, 32, health & wellness director, Refinery29
Fertility Journey: High-risk pregnancy

When I was 25 I was diagnosed with Lupus. It’s an autoimmune disorder that causes fatigue, joint pant, skin issues, and possible organ failure — it can also make conceiving harder and pregnancy tricky. Luckily, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac so I went to the doctor as soon as I felt “off,” and as a result my Lupus is pretty well regulated, with just one medication, plaquenil, an antimalarial drug with minimal side effects. I don’t require steroids or immunosuppressants like others afflicted with the disease. But the higher chance of difficulty getting pregnant, miscarriage, birth defects, along with the effects of this daily and lifelong pill, were on my mind when I decided to have a baby.

After being married for six years, my husband and I just looked at each other one day and said: “What are we waiting for?” There were some obstacles: We lived in different states. He was in a rigorous PhD program that was a four hour car drive away. I’d be alone during most of the pregnancy. But that moment, at the cusp of my 30th birthday, was the right time to start trying — especially if we might run into trouble and need medical intervention to make our hope of four to six kids a reality. (We’ve always been ambitious dreamers.)

I was thriving in my career and it made no sense to keep on waiting. I’d watched my mother try and not be able to give me a sibling in her mid 30s, and I knew I wouldn’t have the mental fortitude to go through that. So I downloaded a fertility app to figure out when I was ovulating, bought a special lube that was supposed to make sperm swim faster, and put my legs up in the air for 10 to 15 minutes after sex. I got pregnant the first month we tried. I was elated, but thoroughly shocked that it happened so quickly. I was like: Daycare, shit. My husband has two to three years left of school, shit. My career, shit. The permanent entrance into adulthood, shit. The nausea, tiredness, dizziness, twisted fibroids (those were new), low progesterone, gender disappointment, gestational diabetes scare, 60 lbs weight gain... shit, shit, shit, shit, shit — and shit.

However, after that dreadful first trimester, the pregnancy was relatively easy and low-key. I had about twice the doctor appointments that a pregnant woman with no autoimmune disorder would have, but every single test — including four foetal echocardiograms, because babies born to people with lupus have a chance of developing neonatal lupus and congenital heart block — revealed nothing. The hardest part by far was being away from my husband and not being spoiled by a partner like in the movies.

Around 35 or so weeks I learned I’d be induced (which I’d later find out is its own special hell) around 39 weeks in order to make sure everything kept going smoothly, as you can run into more problems as the baby grows. That ended in a 24-hour labor, two hours of pushing, a C-section, and postpartum preeclampsia. But in the very end, I got my precious Harrison. A very large, very loving, very rambunctious baby who’s almost two now. As we start thinking about the second one, I hope everything will be as “easy.” But if it’s not, that’s okay. Harry’s here, and he’s all I need.

Susan*, 33, paediatric cardiologist
Fertility Journey: IVF, miscarriages, adoption

After trying for a year to conceive naturally, we went to a fertility clinic and had every work-up imaginable. We ended up doing four fresh cycles of IVF and eight embryo transfers over the course of about five years, for a total of five negative pregnancy tests and three miscarriages.

When our doctor suggested a fifth, fresh cycle of IVF, we opted out. We were tired of all the science. I felt like an experiment. None of this felt natural, and I thought maybe we should take it as a sign that we weren’t meant to be using so much technology to grow our family.

After that, it was a pretty easy decision to turn to adoption. I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders, because I do carry some guilt that the IVF didn’t work. We had no idea how adoption worked or where to start. There were hundreds of pages of paperwork from all the different agencies, and we ended up using The Adoption Consultancy as a tour guide through the craziness. One weekend, we just sat at our kitchen table and powered through all the pages. We stayed in PJs all day, and probably worked for eight hours nonstop to get through it all.

We were lucky to get matched to an expecting mother so quickly, because some people wait years. The birth mother chooses you, and you never know what somebody is looking for. You try your best to portray who you are, but it’s a challenge if you’re not chosen. It makes you wonder if there’s something about you that’s off-putting, but honestly everyone wants something different: a stay-at-home mum, a person who works, someone who lives in the city, or on a farm. It’s so subjective. We just tried to be ourselves.

We ended up getting matched with an expecting mother in late July 2018. Our son’s birth mum was only 12 weeks at the time, so it was a long wait. He was born prematurely in December, but — unbeknownst to us or the adoption agency — she was considering not going through with the adoption at all. She didn’t tell anyone she gave birth. She had stopped answering my messages and wasn’t meeting with the agency as she was supposed to. On New Year’s Eve, we got the shock of our lives when the agency called to tell us that she’d actually given birth two weeks ago. In the end, she decided to sign the papers after all. We were supposed to be hosting a New Year’s party that night, but it turned into a different sort of celebration. We were toasting to our family. We got on a plane Jan. 1, and flew to Florida to meet our son. He was still in the NICU, but was discharged a few weeks later.

He’s now almost four months old. He’s meeting his milestones, gaining weight like a fiend, has the chubbiest cheeks, and the sweetest smile. I can’t imagine my life without him. I’m amazed every day that it’s possible to love someone this much. There’s no doubt in my mind that our path was leading us to him — it was just a matter of timing.

*Requested not to use her last name for privacy reasons

Laura Delarato, 32, senior creative at Refinery29 and founder of the newsletter 1-800-HEYLAURA
Fertility Journey: Childless by choice

I had a dream that I was pregnant when I was 15. When I woke up, I had extreme feelings of anxiety. I felt like because I made a baby that I had to give up on every single thing that made me who I am in my life. I wasn’t willing to give myself up, and I was so scared for the baby. It was an interesting dream, and it helped me make the pretty massive decision not to have kids.

It’s not to say that I don’t love kids, but the idea of raising a child and putting myself on the back-burner is something I don’t want to do. I wouldn’t want to bring a child into a world where they aren’t my first priority. I would say that’s an incredibly emotionally mature and responsible thing to consider. I would never say to someone that their want or need to have a child is any more or less valuable than what I’m doing for me.

Women live in this world where we’re constantly told our only goal in life is to have children. We’re told we have this miracle power to birth humans, so why waste it? I wouldn’t say that I’m wasting that opportunity, but rather that I’m giving myself the ability and autonomy to achieve my goals. It’s okay for me to want my body for myself and not for a kid.

I grew up in a really close family unit, where family is recognised as the most important thing. There’s a parade for anyone who has a child. But I go against the norm. I celebrate with my family every time there’s a birth, and I kiss the babies. But I still don’t feel the need to have one.

My true goal in life is to be the woman who made an entire generation of women stop hating themselves with my writing and my newsletter about body and sex positivity. I don’t get a normal amount of sleep in my schedule trying to do that now, so how am I going to fit this baby into that? Without kids, I have so much more time to do my passion projects and make the world a better place.

Georgie Wileman, 30, professional photographer
Fertility Journey: Endometriosis, adenomyosis, and hysterectomy

Before my hysterectomy, pain was totally dominating my life. I got to the point where I couldn't walk; I was in a wheelchair. I was diagnosed with endometriosis, a painful disorder that causes tissue similar to the inside of your uterus to grow outside of it, and adenomyosis, a sister disease of endometriosis, which means the tissue that normally lines the uterus grows into its muscular wall. To treat the endometriosis, I had many surgeries including ablation, during which doctors remove growths and scar tissue or destroy them with intense heat. During my fourth surgery, I was diagnosed with adenomyosis. Finally, on my sixth surgery, I finally had a hysterectomy to treat the adenomyosis.

Before that, I lived on the couch covered in heating pads and ice packs. For me, having a hysterectomy wasn't a question, because I wasn't living life. It was no existence at all — my family and partner had to take care of me. As soon as I heard that I had adenomyosis, I knew that I needed to have a hysterectomy. I truly believed that it was what I needed, but my surgeon said I couldn’t have the hysterectomy right away. He wanted to save my uterus as much as he could. That made me feel, at the time, that my potential children's lives were being put before my own. There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted a hysterectomy.

My life now is way better. Just being able to walk six miles in a day and do what I love, reaffirms that. But I think the hysterectomy certainly did hit me hard afterwards, knowing that I can't have my own children. I'm very excited to adopt one day, but having children is still something that I'm grieving for. When I see children in the street playing, it's difficult in the moment. It upsets me, and I live quite close to a few schools, which is tricky. But I'm sure that’ll will pass.

The first thing my partner said when we came out of the ultrasound that confirmed I had adenomyosis was this: “The world doesn't need more children, it needs more parents.”

Jamie Stelter, 37, NY1 traffic anchor and co-host of Mornings On 1, Spectrum New NY1,
Fertility Journey: IVF, miscarriages

For the longest time, I would tell all of my friends that I wanted five babies. So far, I’ve had five miscarriages, one baby, and am expecting my second in four months. My husband and I knew even when we were dating that we wanted a big family. We envisioned big family dinners, and lots of activities.

We started trying to conceive in 2014. Eventually, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome, which prevented me from ovulating. After seeing a fertility specialist, we tried intrauterine insemination. The first time it didn’t work, but the second time it did. At nine weeks, however, I miscarried. I had to undergo a dilation and curettage — commonly known as a D&C — to remove the foetus from my uterus. Then I got pregnant soon after without any intervention with identical twins, but lost both. In a period of three months, I lost three babies.

We took a little break, and then tried IVF. We had a really successful egg retrieval, and wound up with six healthy embryos. They implanted the healthiest of the batch and that’s our daughter, Sunny. She’s two now, and just starting to talk.

When she was nine months old we decided to try again, and I got pregnant after the first embryo transfer. We thought we had cracked our fertility code, but at nine weeks I miscarried. I took pill similar to misoprostol, used to help empty the uterus during abortions and miscarriages. I inserted it into my vagina, the way I would a tampon. It basically bombed my uterus, and the result was probably one of the most traumatic nights of my life — it was painful, and I bled like something out of a horror movie. I thought, I'm bleeding out a baby that I wanted. It's devastating.

Next, I had a chemical pregnancy, meaning I miscarried early on, before most women even know they’re pregnant. I felt like, even though Sunny didn't know, I was letting her down, because we were trying to give her a sibling. I was so mad at my body. I was so mad at everything.

The money part of this was also stressful. We are very privileged, and I’m aware of my privilege for being able to even try IVF, but the money stuff still worried me. My husband Brian just kept saying, "You focus on everything else, don't worry about the money." But it was so hard not to have that weight on me knowing that each try cost a lot. Each cycle cost a different amount, based on how much insurance was used versus how much was paid out of pocket. It costs about $15,000 (£11,610) for a full cycle of IVF, including procedures and medications.

We ended up doing another egg retrieval because all embryos are graded, and each time we tried, we were using an embryo with a worse grade than the next. So our doctor recommended we try for another batch of “Sunny grade” embryos, as we like to call them. It worked, and I'm now more than six months pregnant and due in August. We would love to have more babies, but I never thought each one would take so much time and so much of a toll on my body. For now, I’m looking forward to having another little person at the family dinner table I always imagined.

Michelle Herrera Mulligan, 44, senior editor at Atria books, motivational speaker, novelist, and journalist
Fertility Journey: Childless by choice

My partner and I have made the decision to not have human children. It’s complicated, however, because in the Latino community families are very close-knit, and family is everything. It was a foregone conclusion that of course I would have kids. All that really matters in life is family. But I was conflicted. Deep down in my heart, I knew that to be able to make it from where I was to where I was going in life, it was very unlikely that kids were going to be in that picture.

When I was a teenager, I was in a pretty high stress environment. My younger brother is disabled — he has a life-threatening illness. So we were constantly going to the ER. My mum was always struggling to make it, and we were all working so hard. I got a job when I was 12. When people asked me what I wanted to do when I grow up, I just thought: I want things to be calm. I want to have a calm life where things are beautiful and I have the time and the space to value and appreciate art. And to cultivate really incredible relationships, have lots of adventures, and a lot of idle time. Maybe that sounds strange, but like, none of those things were in my life as a child. Everybody I knew who had kids was struggling to make ends meet.

My mum used to tell me: "No, you're going to change your mind." There were times when I did change my mind. But I always ended up coming back to my original decision.

When people say you’re going to change your mind, it really undermines who you are and your identity as a woman. Regardless of the identity that you create for yourself — whether it’s an artist, executive, or teacher — there's going to be somebody out there questioning it. Someone making you doubt yourself. Research shows that women are questioned at every turn, in the workplace, in school, even from the time they're able to talk, walk, and think. So when you latch onto an identity and a desire for yourself as a human being, and then people try to plant seeds of doubt in you, it's harmful. You’re being undermined. It's as if to say, everything that you fought for, everything that you've worked for, everything that means something profound to you, doesn't matter.

Alyza Brevard-Rodriguez, 30, active-duty service member in the U.S. Navy, co-owner of SW3AT Sauna Studio.
Tamiah Brevard-Rodriguez, 35, director of the undergraduate research center at Rutgers University, co-owner of SW3AT Sauna Studio.
Fertility Journey: IVF

Alyza: We’ve been together for seven years. We actually met because I was her personal trainer. Miah’s carrying my egg. I went through the IVF process and removed my eggs in August of last year and a [fertilised] egg was transferred to Tamiah last December. We chose to have a child in this way so that we could both be included in the process and so the baby feels a connection with both of us.

Tamiah: We went to Florida for the holiday after the transfer and we were just trying to keep our minds off it. We were just wondering if the transfer worked, and we were riding actual roller coasters to keep our mind off things.

Alyza: The whole process was a rollercoaster really.

Tamiah: Yes there were a lot of shots. We both took shots at some point, she had three needles a night for a few weeks, and I took a combination of oestrogen and progesterone each morning for nine weeks. I would have welts on my back, because I was allergic to the sesame oil in one.

Alyza: By the end we were both so hormonal and overly emotional. It turns turn you into a teenager. It was all so crazy. But we thrive in chaos.

Tamiah: She thrives better than I do. I’m a worrier. I was Googling all the symptoms and things that could go wrong with this.

Alyza: Yes, but she’s the calm to my chaotic storm. You can't do this process without some anxiety, though. You have to think about everything so carefully, like what your insurance will cover, and how to pick a doctor. We wanted a doctor who was going to understand us. Who’s worked with women of colour. You have to look at that, people have their own biases, and you don’t want those to shine through when you’re trying to create a family.

Tamiah: Even picking a sperm donor wasn’t easy. We wanted someone who was genetically similar to me, so that she could have as much of both of us as she could.

Alyza: We got a positive pregnancy test on Christmas Day. We just found out that we’re having a girl. I’m just excited to create an amazing human being. There’s a lot of crappy people in the world, so it’s important to create a next generation that’s kind and smart and innovative. Her being kind is the most important thing to us. She’ll have thick skin because she has two mums. She’ll be sensitive to the fact that everyone needs love. We’ll definitely instil in her: “You are different, so be kind to others who are different.”

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Kids? No thanks.

I went to a consultation at an egg freezing clinic in Los Angeles two weeks ago because, well, I love a project.

I had just finished a play in New York and hate the nonnegotiable stretches in an actor’s life where we wait — sometimes unbearably — for the next gig. The fertility doctor said my insides were ripe and gorgeous (better feedback than my last audition) and, well, flattery will get you everywhere, folks. They say artists should create their own work, so I embarked on a project with my ovaries. Apparently I’ll do literally anything not to write my screenplay.

But this nagging fear keeps clouding my apparent nonchalance: If someone had told me when I was a child that I would be single and freezing my eggs in my 30s, while writing love letters that I’ll never never send to an ex-boyfriend from six years ago, it would have decimated me. No other accomplishment in my life today could soothe the failure and pain I’d imagine a single woman at my age could feel. Beneath my defiant joie de vivre, I’m paralysed with a recurring terror: Am I doing my life wrong? Will I one day regret who I have chosen to be?

All this persistent fear has revealed a dirty little secret I’ve never admitted, even to myself… until, maybe now. As early as, I don’t know — I had a discernible heartbeat? — I made a plan for my life that seems to defy everything I purport to stand for today. I, a feminist, raised in New York City by university worshipping parents who told me I could be anything when I grow up, aspired to be a housewife. Sure, I planned to be a wildly successful something or another until I was 29. But, naturally then, I would be rescued by a rich husband and never experience fear or pain ever again (as long as I had the perfect body, of course). What a whole lot of money my lovely parents were spending on an education that, truth be told, I did not plan to use for a breath longer than my twenties. But what a great way to meet a successful husband to support me in my future perfect body.

Even though my actions since university have consistently bucked that plan, as I sit here freezing my eggs and missing my ex, I realise I’ve never stopped subscribing to it. Despite years of fighting for happiness on my own terms, I haven’t let go of what I thought I needed to be a happy adult woman. I must secure my life with a husband, his money and our children, without which I’d be kidding myself if I actually believed I was happy.

Of course, this isn’t true. As the late great Jill Clayburgh would have calmly reassured my younger self: self-supporting single women are wildly happy. Today I’m full of the deepest contentment I’ve ever known (and have the financial means to freeze my eggs). I’d sooner die than give up my acting career, and I’d be very surprised if I enjoyed raising a child, let alone the second one you’re supposed to have in order to make sure that the first one turns out normal.

So, what the hell am I doing? Is this all worth the exorbitant $15,000 (£11,610), weeks of hormone injections, a month of my life, no travel, and the ongoing egg storage fees for children I don’t think I want? If children become important to me someday, surely I could just adopt? But here I am, because the path I dreamed for my life as a child hasn’t materialised — and suddenly, that fear: Am I doing my life wrong?

Life is unpredictable. I’m a completely different person now than I was six years ago. All I know is that I don’t know anything about the person I could be six years from now. And damn it, I just want the same leisure of time that men have when deciding what they want to be when they grow up.

The original life plan, where I’m happily married, supported by someone else, raising our family, and going to calorie-free barbecues all day, still sounds good to me. It feels wrong to admit that, anti-feminist even, but I confess, it sounds good. But of course it does: it’s a fantasy. It’s not a real option.

I almost achieved this exact fantasy six years ago, and to be honest, it more closely resembled the apocalypse than Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. When I was in that “the one” relationship with my then boyfriend and rescuer, I almost died from exhaustion: the exhaustion of my own impossible standards that I had to be ferociously successful, physically nonexistent, and absolutely everything to the man I loved in order to be a not-failure. Performing eight Broadway shows per week, taking two spin classes per day, and making hourly devoted promises I never kept, did not lead to nirvana. It lead me to inpatient treatment and the worst break up I’ve ever lived through. In grasping for perfection, I left out every real thread of the tapestry of what it looks like when a woman is a human being. It was spiritual suicide, and I hurt him so much too.

I’ve needed about six years to recover from that bottom and to grow out of my disordered, childish beliefs. Six years later, I have a bigger, more varied farmer’s market haul of love and resources: a healthy body that I adore, an artistic career that I’m incredibly proud of, jobs that delight and challenge me, a multitude of friendships that are rich and hilarious, a dog who tortures me, a recovery community that I serve daily, and occasionally, every blood moon or so, really great sex. My childhood self got everything she thought could only come from a husband, his money, and kids. Well, kind of.

But there is a defect in my spiritual rehabilitation: Like a lot of people, I’m still trying to control the outcome. It’s just swung in the opposite direction. I went from dreaming about being a deliriously happy wife and mother, to forcing myself into satisfaction with solitude. Dating is — to put it unbelievably lightly — hard, and relationships where I’m seen intimately as my complete imperfect self are downright frightening. If after all that, no man is ever going to enter on a white horse and be the perfect painkiller, the solution must be skipping this whole fantasy altogether and accepting that ultimately all we have in life are ourselves and our work. Kill Meg Ryan, fuck Colin Hanks, and marry myself. How evolved of me: I’ll be a bachelor.

Either I’m right, or I’m so totally wrong that I’m depriving myself of life’s greatest joys. It’s a pretty high stakes crossroads for me.

Millions of generations of humans are probably not all wrong when they say that having children is one of life’s most meaningful endeavours, to say nothing of having a life partner. But my way? Where I just work and love my friends? It’s safer. It’s choosing to want what I know I can have. I can’t manifest someone I’m in love with out of thin air, and if I did, I would still have to face and be seen in my mortal imperfection. It’s painful to keep longing for old love that isn’t meant to be. It’s nauseating to stare at a biological clock and play the mental tape of, “Well, if I met someone now, and we dated for a year, and decided to get married, by then I would have X much time to have one child.” Yikes. So, I decided to not want those kids! Time and love are things I can’t control, so I’d rather convince myself to want freedom, self-reliance, and the pursuit of great art. Why couldn’t I love working forever, having boyfriends as I wish, and never getting bored by the 18 year imprisonment and financial ruin of raising children?

It’s totally possible that I could. I’m just not sure yet. Suddenly, I’m facing both. I want the security of happiness I can depend on and I want the beautiful wild things I can’t control.

Honestly, I’m not freezing my eggs because I secretly want kids. I’m freezing my eggs to give myself the opportunity to want them. If six years ago I was sick, and today my life is a varied and beautiful market-basket of gladiolas and freelance writing and laughter, in six more years I could be anyone. I’m not withering, as I feared I must after age 29, I’m blooming. So, with an open mind and willingness, even a desire to be absolutely wrong about everything I think I know, I’m freezing my eggs. Not for my future children, but for the child I once was, whose parents told her she could be anything. And now HAVE anything. When I know what that is, I will have the miraculous privilege of going after that with all the wild flowers in my heart.

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I had heard a lot about birth plans over the last few years. Particularly in this past year as I (finally) became successfully pregnant with my daughter, Raffi. If you count breathing exercises and maybe an ambient playlist on Spotify, it’s safe to say I didn’t get very far in the pursuit of any customised birth experience. What I did know was that a birth plan was something to design — to dream about, to prep for and aspire to. Like, hey, let’s Dream Board our Birth Plan, or Birth Plan our Dream Board (depending on how you look at it). As if, all you really need to do to have a baby the natural way — you know, the right way, as popular opinion would lead you to believe — is enough yoga, acupuncture, kegels, fancy teas, doula services, etc. All of that is truly admirable, but the truth is this: Birth is unpredictable.

But first, some back-story.

Last year, in January, my husband and I took a quick trip out West to see his brother and his family. Just a few months earlier, their father Bill had passed away, rather suddenly after a routine toe surgery led to a steady decline in his health. Within two months of his being admitted to the hospital, he was gone.

We flew out to Arizona to mourn with his family — Bill was sweet and a bit of a sentimental mush beneath his oftentimes macho Southern veneer. When we confided in him over the years of our dream to have a baby, he never hid his hope for us, which made him weepy whenever he asked how it was all coming along, despite how hard he knew it had been, especially for me.

We went to Arizona to pay our respects to Bill, but also to drive further out into the open desert, between Arizona and New Mexico, to get some space and to brace ourselves for what was on the horizon: A second round of IVF. The losses that had piled up over the past decade were still hard to fathom: My own father, then Kevin’s mother four months later, multiple miscarriages, the sudden death of a close friend, and then Kevin’s dad. Throw in a breast cancer scare at the end of 2018 and we were really on a roll. It was a lot. And so, much of diffusing all that disappointment was riding on this embryo transfer — a procedure that would take no more than a few minutes to administer. We’d wrestled with loss and death… became familiar with it, and, for me, occasionally lingered a little too long beneath that warm blanket of self-hatred and isolation. But, finally, I was tired of it all. As if a switch in me had been flipped, and I could feel my desire to begin again coming back to life. And so we went to the desert. To welcome what we hoped would be coming and maybe even sowing the early seeds of a birth experience I had hoped, someday, to be living out.

About six months later, I finally mustered the courage to share the news that I was pregnant. Our baby was growing beautifully, even if I held my breath throughout every single weekly sonogram, praying my body would continue to cooperate. Despite the nagging apprehension of getting genuinely attached, I felt strong. It was strange, after believing for nearly a decade that all of me, not just my uterus, was irreparably broken and unable to do what we’re taught from the earliest age is the most basic of natural things… that here I was… pregnant! With a belly and swollen feet and that glow I never dreamed was even real, let alone something I would experience.

Yes. I glowed.

But still, no amount of physical or medical reassurance could make me feel safe in my new skin after so many miscarriages. Every few days there were those familiar waves of panic that things would go off the rails, and, if the worst actually happened, maybe this time I wouldn’t be able to recover. With practice though (and a handful of people on speed dial for the particularly dicey moments) I managed to retrain my brain and, to a degree, my body to listen to my daughter’s repeated message to me: I’m good. Really. Don’t worry so much. Let’s keep going.

As far as pregnancies go, at least from what I’ve read and what good friends with children have shared with me, my first seven months were pretty status quo. Yes, I had persistent insomnia and occasional crippling bouts of nausea (potato salad was always the cure), but considering all that had come before, it was all going remarkably well.

Until it wasn’t.

My husband and close workmates did a pretty poor job of trying not to notice my swollen feet, you know, at first looking shocked, but then feeling bad for looking shocked. My husband made a nightly ritual of massaging them to move the fluid somewhere else, usually my knees which occasionally, looked and felt even worse. My doctor assured me the swelling was normal, if not unsightly, and that unless my blood pressure was high or protein started showing up in my weekly urine tests, I was good. I always knew that I was high risk due to my age and history but my doctor assured me that once I got to 34 weeks, I could start to breathe easier. At 34 weeks, my pregnancy would be far enough along to (hopefully) avoid any serious complications. At 34 weeks, he told me “to pop the mediocre champagne.”

But one morning, when I was around 32 weeks pregnant, I awoke and noticed that the swelling had crept significantly up my legs, almost to my hips. I was immediately worried. I made an appointment to see my doctor later that day, but on the way, my acupuncturist agreed to sneak me in for a session to see if she could get the swelling down. She took one look at my cartoon legs and ran to get her blood pressure gage. For the first time in my entire life it was high: 160/90. We did a short session to see if the therapy might bring it down, but 40 minutes later, it was even higher. We called my doctor from her table, at which point he told me to meet him at the hospital.

All I could think was: It’s too soon. Too soon. Too soon. It went on and on like a loop in my head. I called my husband, who met me at the hospital… no fancy face creams, silk kimono or anything else everyone urged me to bring to ensure being ready for that first “beautiful” birthing moment. Instead we grabbed a toothbrush at the nearby CVS and that was it.

Once under surveillance, I was told I was beginning to show signs of preeclampsia, a condition that can lead to placental abruption and other serious health concerns. Rest is recommended to treat it, but the only real cure is delivery. I never dreamed something like this could happen, even though I probably should have. I just assumed, like most people who have uncomplicated pregnancies (up until that point), that everything would likely turn out fine. Not the case. Preeclampsia affects about 5-8% of U.S. pregnancies, and is the leading cause of maternal and infant illness and mortality. It can also be more prevalent in mothers over 40, very young mothers, and for women who’ve undergone fertility treatments, such as myself.

In an attempt to hold out on delivery just a little longer, the team performed blood tests every morning at 6 a.m. and blood pressure checks every three hours to monitor me and the baby. The plan was to stretch out my hospitalisation as long as we could. The closer we got to my due date, the better. And after holding steady for three days (and getting the essential steroid shots that are customary if you can get them in time to speed up a preterm infant’s lung development), it seemed like we might even get another week under the belt before my condition escalated. But one morning, the day before my late-father’s birthday, my doctor tapped on my door and said what I had feared.

“Well, today’s the day,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. I immediately began to cry. Sobbing into my hospital gown, my doctor sat beside me and assured me it was going to be okay. We were nearly at 33 weeks, a triumph, considering the journey it was for me and my husband to even get here. And now, it was happening, yet another thing I couldn’t have prepared myself for — an emergency C-section.

I remember calling Amy Emmerich, our CCO, who was in an executive meeting at that moment to give them an update. I’ll admit, it’s an interesting and maybe peculiar phenomenon to some to hold such a level of intimacy with colleagues. But, at that point, that degree of honesty wasn’t anything new, and I am grateful for it. Traveling a long and complicated fertility path — and all that goes along with it — doesn’t just require trust; it demands time — time at doctors, time waiting for test results, time at home because you feel like garbage. Lots and lots of time, very often away from your work. And it’s hard to hide that. Anyone who’s been there, and who has a job with people that rely on them, knows that sharing comes with the territory, no matter how private you’d like to be in such a personal situation. And, so, when I told Amy the news I’d been admitted to the hospital, I remember her voice didn’t waver. She relayed the message to the team, and I heard everyone around the table cheer. I cried. And while I couldn’t see it in that moment, I knew there were some people there in that conference room crying, too. Because, that’s what you do when everyone’s rooting for you and you have know idea what’s going to happen or how things will turn out. You cry. Because you can’t bear to disappoint one more person on the way to the finish line. Not one more person.

Just two hours later, I was being wheeled into the operating room, a day shy of seven weeks before my due date, with a blood pressure count that had tipped 190/100.

It’s hard to explain the fear, even at moments, terror, that I felt in the hour leading up to the actual birth. In reality, I felt as though I had been pregnant with the idea of my kid for nearly a decade. It’s such a long time to wait to become a parent, and I know from all the many stories I’ve read that compared to some other parents’ journeys, that might not even seem that long. But it was so hard to imagine and remember a time before I was wishing for her. Before I wrote and prayed and went to every conceivable mental and physical measure to crack the code of motherhood. I had come this far, after so long, and instead of feeling ready and prepared I felt like I was being shot out of a canon. Because even surrounded by accredited professionals, no less than 10 nurses, drugs, sterile instruments, a loving partner as advocate, I knew I had no control over what was about to happen.

Giving birth can be beautiful and miraculous in theory, but it can also be frightening, and in many parts of the world, particularly where women lack health care, it can be deadly. With all your preparation and perceived birthing “tools” it really doesn’t feel as though you have control over anything at all. Because the truth is, you don’t. Between the mystery of birth itself and the multitude of medical conditions that can appear near the end (breech, transverse, umbilical cord prolapse, low amniotic fluid, placenta previa... the list goes on). In those moments, when you just want everyone to be okay, there’s barely enough time to tread water let alone pull out your journal to amend your birth plan. If you have one. Which, as we know at this point.... I really didn’t. I did however, have a doula that I had hoped to coach me in my birth experience, and upon hearing I was very early, agreed (and was miraculously free) to meet us for the surgery.

Instead, our actual birth plan, came dressed up as the head of the Mount Sinai NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). A lovely young doctor who came to see my husband and I and tell us, moment by moment, what was going to happen since our baby was coming early. Our plan would be him, there in the delivery room with us, waiting in the wings with his own nurses and an incubator. He told me not to immediately worry if our baby didn’t cry when she first came out. It didn’t mean anything necessarily. He and my doctor would allow me and my husband to see her and kiss her only momentarily, after which she would then be taken immediately to the NICU to be examined and hooked up to fluids, monitors, and oxygen. I cried. He told me not to worry; 33 weeks wasn’t too early. I cried some more. He told me not to worry. I worried anyway.

What I learned in those moments before Raffi was born made me think back to earlier in 2018 when my dear friend Aya regaled me in her own unexpected birth story. An easy pregnancy, a big baby, a plan for a natural birth, 26 hours of labouring, and then a C-section. She didn’t sugarcoat anything for me, and I am grateful for that. I feel lucky that she was honest about her fears. Because when I rolled into the ER, I knew it was okay for me to have those same fears, too. It didn’t make it any easier to bend over for the spinal tap, lay down on the table and spread my arms out crucifixion style while a nurse hooked up fluids, inserted a catheter, and prepped my abdomen for a six-inch incision that would become the doorway between then and now. It didn’t make it easier knowing any chance of a birth plan was blown to bits. Instead, I closed my eyes, and, with the help of my husband and our doula, just kept breathing as my doctor told me exactly what he was doing while he cut, wiggled, stretched, and tugged some more. Eventually, he pulled out my beautiful wailing daughter, her mouth agape and her tiny body the colour of ripe rhubarb.

Just as the NICU director had told me, I was able to give my sweet Rafaela a kiss on the forehead, her eyes tightly shut, before they whisked her out of the room in a gust of nurses. At the same time, my own doctor sewed me up and prepped me for a trip back to recovery where I would be placed on a Magnesium drip for 12 hours to prevent my high blood pressure from peaking and possibly causing a stroke or heart attack (once again...surprise!).

During those hours, I was alone, while my husband was with our daughter. I wasn’t able to get out of bed, vomited on and off from the miasmatic cocktail of meds, and felt myself emptying what seemed like gallons of blood, goo, and emotional runoff into a bedpan. Thank goodness I didn’t have a mirror, because at one point I was able to see my reflection in a strip of metal trimming on the wall beside me and I didn’t recognise myself. As if this stranger was saying: Welcome to the other side.

Our daughter was alive. She was early but she was okay. I was okay, even if I felt like I’d stepped in front of a transit bus. Because when I finally got clearance to see my daughter, and slipped my hand into her incubator and she curled her fingers around my own, it didn’t matter that she was tiny or that the CPAP breathing tube was too big for her face, that her eyes were sealed shut as if to say… give me some space, processing, please. We all were. I spent every day with her, and watched as she slowly awakened to the world. And each of those days, when every movement or sound she made could make my heart flutter.

I’ve discussed this a bit over the years, but I am not one of those people that dreamed since I was a kid about having kids. I was always pretty ambivalent about it. Until that moment when I decided it was an experience I wanted to have. Didn’t need to have. Wanted to have. That attitude and the lengths my husband and I went to bring Raffi into the world cost me old beliefs, and friendships, because the last thing you want as you’re recovering from your umpteenth miscarriage is someone who’s supposed to love you confiding about how babies born of science are just “not for me.”

Really?

Those comments, and every one of us who’s struggled to have a child has fielded these gems from people we love, are so hard to leave behind, but we are better and stronger and lighter when we do. Your path to having a baby, or not, is yours and yours alone. It’s not black or white, fertile or infertile. Possible or impossible. We all operate somewhere on that spectrum of hope and intention and biology and science. If you’re like me, and most women, your own journey will be highlighted by a panoply of twists and improvisations and, if you’re lucky, balls out comedy that will lift and drop and then lift you again to the next thing. And the next. When I imagine my NICU mate having a loud discussion with our mutual nurse, about her need for nipple extenders — in front of both our husbands and two other families — we locked eyes and nearly collapsed in a heap of belly laughs while simultaneously moaning in pain because of our stitches. Those are the moments you should remember, that I remember. Nipple extenders, the fantastic men’s style underwear and giant maxi pads, the view of Central Park from my hospital window, my deep purple scar that I hope never fades. None of it was perfect or planned, but perfect is overrated.

This month, Raffi turns seven months old. And this past week, I celebrated my first Mother’s Day. I have no idea how to feel about that. Joyous and like somebody should have a parade in my honour, or quiet and clingy with my baby and my husband, because they were my life raft through it all. I’m only here to have something to say because they came along on the journey, and showed me I could actually be a mother, too. That I might even like it… and I do. It requires a kind of brain power and physical tenacity that feels like you are in training for the Tour de France but with all the wrong gear. Your brain is constantly engaged, as are your thighs and lower back, which makes it seem like your lower body would look really firm and awesome but it really doesn’t. You just feel sore.

Sore… but also in love. Because the feeling I have in my heart when Raffi squeals in the morning with delight, when her father reads to her, when she grabbed my face and lips for the first time… when it seemed clear she knew I was her mother, I realised, I’m here. I’m actually here. We both are. Finding our life together. Whatever is to come. I never could have planned it.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

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We're almost done with Game of Thrones , which means it is nearly time to fully commit to season 2 of Big Little Lies. Get ready to trade in fiery dragons for fiery mums, and wine in chalices for coffee in to-go cups. And in case you aren't completely on the edge of your seat to once again be reunited with the Monterey Five, or to meet Meryl Streep's new character, then Nicole Kidman might get you there with her one-sentence summary of the season.

During an exhaustive interview with Deadline (I say exhaustive because I am exhausted reading about all the fantastic projects Kidman is working on), the BLL star teased the season in a way that really speaks to me.

"The second season’s not a latte; it’s a double espresso."

Let's just sit with that for a second First of all, yes, these women are, in fact, my source of caffeine and adrenaline. Reese Witherspoon's character, Madeline Martha Mackenzie, is literally a walking non-fat latte — full of energy with a little bit of froth. But, as Kidman warned, that was season one. Season two is espresso — double espresso. Come June 9, viewers are getting an intense rush of straight java. Shots, no chaser!

The metaphor for the show originally came from Jane Campion, a New Zealand screenwriter and filmmaker who worked with Kidman on Top of the Lake. "When you’re making a thing about mothers with kindergarteners, that sounds like a very small demographic type of series where you go, “Well, who’s going to be interested in that?”" Kidman told Deadline. "But I love putting topical issues with entertainment. And then Jane Campion said to us when she saw it, “It’s a latte, because it’s frothy on the top and bitter and strong underneath.” I was like, “I’m taking that, Jane.”

Espresso energy, combined with the fact that Kidman's performance as Celeste was so intense that it scared Streep, means that this season is about to make Daenerys' recent scouring of King's Landing (Emilia Clarke) look like child's play.

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Elle Fanning has been in a Hollywood fixture for longer than you realise. The 21-year-old had her first starring role in I Am Sam when she was just two years old. Since then, she's starred in (soon to be) 60 projects. Now, the young adult and movie darling is representing a new class in film as the youngest jury member at Cannes Film Festival. A presence like hers is especially welcome at the festival which is not known for being an inclusive place for female and minority voices.

Remember when Kristen Stewart wore flats to protest the festival's rule about women having to don heels for red carpets? Or when Carey Mulligan had to field minsogynst questions during an event at the festival? Having a young, successful Gen Z-er on the panel is a bit surprising, but wholly refreshing.

"I was in complete shock when I got that phone call and that question if I wanted to be a member of the Cannes Jury," Fanning said of hearing the news during a press conference.

She also reminded everyone who may be questioning her validity, like the older man who brought up her age in his question that she is young, but so incredibly worthy. "I started acting when I was young and been on a lot of movie sets," she said, gesturing at Alejandro G. Iñárritu, seated down the row from him, whose film Babel she starred in. "I feel just really honored and I feel proud to represent a young voice in the festival."

Elle Fanning on being the youngest #Cannes juror in history: "I feel proud to represent a young voice" https://t.co/zg4lpX2JmX pic.twitter.com/lsqQzylrNd

— Variety (@Variety) May 14, 2019

This year, only four films in competition were directed by women. Hopefully, hearing from voices like Fanning's will change that.

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There's this dichotomy that comes with being a bridesmaid. On one hand, there's the stress of planning the hen party and finding the right wedding gift — not to mention figuring out how to pay for everything. But, on the other hand, there's the joy you feel when you're actually standing at the altar — feeling beautiful in your one-shoulder dress and perfectly-tousled, half-up hairstyle.

When you're tearing up as your best friend, sister, or soon-to-be sister-in-law walks down the aisle, it's easy to forget all the hardships of the prep. And to help remove one more thing from your very long pre-wedding to-do list, we've compiled a comprehensive guide to bridesmaid hairstyles. Whether you're the Type-A maid of honour or the begrudging bridesmaid who'd rather skip to the reception, scroll through for styles that are sure to please everyone in the bridal party — even the fickle bride.

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Throughout her 20s, author Sarah Wilson was plagued with anxiety. Tired of the stigma attached to the disease, she made it her mission to change the outlook on anxiety and envisage it as something beautiful. She was fed up of seeing endless solutions suggesting medication as a way to battle her issues and wanted to find her own route to help herself and eventually others.

In the following extract, entitled 'Make The Beast Beautiful', we join Wilson on her journey to find positive coping mechanisms while working as a waitress. Documenting useful passages and advice from fellow sufferers, philosophers, her hypnotist Eugene and mental health organisations, she gives us a glimpse into a world where you can not only cope with anxiety, but thrive.

The following is an extract from First, We Make The Beast Beautiful by Sarah Wilson

Following an episode in my early twenties it took about a year to build myself back up again. I couldn’t study or hold down a full-time job. I worked on building mental muscle with Eugene, reading up on my illness (with real books, researched crudely, not via internet searches), and I waitressed. Waitressing is good for such occasions. It’s bustling and distracting. You’re in service, so a blissful eight hours can pass in which you don’t think about yourself. And you can flee if you need to. You dump the coffee politely, then dash to the next order before your awkwardness freaks anyone out.

During this time, a guy I served coffee to gave me a book about obsessive-compulsive disorder. I’d asked about the red-raw rash on his hands and he’d told me he had a disorder that saw him wash himself over and over. I’ve never been one to hide stuff when prompted, particularly when I’m confided in; I presume I let him know I got his drift and he brought the book in the next day.

I absolutely believe it helps to see anxiety as having a meta-purpose beyond the arbitrary torture of our little souls. Pain is lessened when there is a point to it. We know this.

The book was called Nine, Ten Do it Again. I remember stabbing at it with my finger, 'Oh my God! Counting things is a thing! A thing that other people do!' So is doing it over and over.
I recall reading that many OCD sufferers work to a counting rhythm of three, four and five. Electricity pioneer Nikola Tesla was a three man – before entering a building he would have to walk around the block three times and he would wash his hands three times. I, too, washed mine in sets of three. One, two, three. One two three. One two three. And then repeat, twenty-one times. Or ninety-six times. Or more. Unless I’d entered a four phase. I wonder now if it has something to do with the natural tempo of music, thus the seemingly lulling effect of counting for folk like me.

Anyway. The book exposed me to a few other factoids. Such as that OCD exists in the same numbers – about 1.2 per cent of any given population – around the world, even in the depths of the Kalahari. The book also postulated (and I’ve picked up on this notion a number of times since) that far from being ostracised in ancient cultures, obsessive-compulsives were elevated to important leadership positions in communities. Their hyper-attendance to safety and hygiene – and all OCD symptoms cluster (in various, not always logical, guises) around these two themes – was a boon in days gone by. Shaman were likely OCD, goes some evolutionary theory. I liked this.

About twenty years ago there was a documentary made about the work of Dian Fossey who followed a tribe of chimps for several years. It gets cited in various guises around the interweb by people interested in the role of mental illness in society. The gist is that in all chimp troops, there always exists a small number that are anxious/depressed and that tend to retreat to the outskirts of the troop, often socially disengaged. Fossey decided to remove these agitated chimps to see what would happen. Six months later the entire community was dead. It was suggested that the anxious chimps were pivotal for survival. Outsiders, they were the ones who were sleeping in the trees on the edge, on the border, on the boundary of the community. Hyper-sensitive and vigilant, the smallest noise freaked them out and disturbed them so they were awake much of the night anyway. We label such symptoms anxiety, but back when we were in trees, they were the early warning system for the troop. They were the first to scream, 'Look out! Look out!'

In A First-Rate Madness, Dr Nassir Ghaemi argues that the best crisis leaders in history have had anxiety. 'When our world is in tumult, mentally ill leaders function best,' he writes. It’s a bold claim, but he goes on: 'In the storm of crisis, complete sanity can steer us astray, while some insanity brings us to port.

'The best crisis leaders are either mentally ill or mentally abnormal [he points to Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King and Gandhi]; the worst crisis leaders are mentally healthy.' He says eminently sane men like Neville Chamberlain and George W. Bush made poor leaders. A lifetime without the cyclical torment of mood disorders, Ghaemi explains, left them ill-equipped to endure dire straits. In the wake of the 2008 economic crash, some commentators have even suggested that the main cause was politicians and financiers who were either stupid or insufficiently anxious or both. I absolutely believe it helps to see anxiety as having a meta-purpose beyond the arbitrary torture of our little souls. Pain is lessened when there is a point to it. We know this.

Women wouldn’t go through childbirth and men wouldn’t fight wars if this weren’t true. For the anxious, this is possibly amplified by the fact that we tend to be very A-type, purpose-orientated kids who find the seemingly all-consuming, cruelly ironic, palpable pointlessness of anxiety unbearable.

During this same period in my early twenties, I also read Elizabeth Wurtzel’s era-defining Prozac Nation. In it she wrote, of her depression in her case, 'That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.'

As Nietzsche said, ‘He who has a why can endure any how.’Our ‘why’ today might just be the very important task of crying out, ‘Look out, look out . . . we’re doing life wrong.’ We, the highly strung, are the advance party who flag to the troops that consumerism is hurting our hearts, that the toxins we’re being fed via Big Pharma and Big Food are making us fat and sick and that . . . hang on guys! There’s no triumphant finish line in this mad, frantic race. So perhaps we could, um, back off. It’s we, the highly strung, who become meditation instructors, activists and online ranters.

New York Times bestseller and former addict Glennon Doyle Melton describes in a post how she was able to step out of the world of addiction by stepping ‘into worlds of purpose’. ‘Yes, I’ve got these conditions—anxiety, depression, addiction — and they almost killed me. But they are also my superpowers. I'm the canary in the mine and you need my sensitivity because I can smell toxins in the air that you can't smell, see trouble you don't see and sense danger you don't feel. My sensitivity could save us all. And so instead of letting me fall silent and die - why don't we work together to clear some of this poison from the air?'

I have often said the same - that we're proverbial canaries reporting back. Glennon adds this: 'Help us manage our fire, yes, but don't try to extinguish us.'

First, We Make The Beast Beautiful: A New Conversation About Anxiety by Sarah Wilson, available now from Bantam Press, £12.99.

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Good news: eye-wateringly expensive shoes aren't cool anymore. Just take a look at this season's front rows; instead of big-budget brands, the editors, buyers, stylists and bloggers were championing a new wave of lesser-known, independent footwear designers. From Icelandic label Kalda’s butter-soft leather slingbacks to Berlin-based Aeyde’s intricate sculptural heels, the new favourites offer comfort, sustainability and affordability without skimping on design values.

How does a London fashion editor come across a small Icelandic brand like Kalda in the first place? Social media, of course. "I would have to credit Instagram," says founder Katrín on how people discovered her label. "It has been instrumental in reaching a new audience, especially buyers and industry people," she says.

Discovering hot new designers feels even better when the price is right: most of these new footwear labels pitch a pair of luxury leather shoes at around £250 – not exactly high street cheap, but far more accessible than the latest £6k feather boots by Saint Laurent. "We source the same materials as big luxury houses," explains Aeyde cofounder Luisa, "but due to our direct-to-consumer approach and strong digital strategy, we're able to provide our products at a different price point."

If designer-looking shoes without the designer price tag sounds good to you, read on for six of the new cult shoe brands on every fashion girl’s radar.

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Welcome to Money Diaries, where we're tackling what might be the last taboo facing modern working women: money. We're asking a cross-section of women how they spend their hard-earned money during a seven-day period – and we're tracking every last penny.

This week: "I am a 22-year-old recent graduate from Glasgow. I count myself lucky that I still live at home with my parents, so my monthly expenses are low, but I plan to buy a flat in the next few years so am trying to improve my spending habits to save for a deposit. However, I am regularly caught between trying to save and splurging!

I started my first 'proper' job early last year in the construction industry in an office-based role and I took full advantage of earning a full-time salary during the first few months, including paying for a month-long trip travelling around China and Hong Kong, holidays to Cyprus and Switzerland, and building up a collection of expensive trainers and designer handbags. However, I am on a fixed-term contract which is due to end in the summer and although this is likely to be renewed, I still haven’t had any confirmation from the company, giving me another reason to improve my saving habits to give me a safety net if I need to find another job. This hasn’t stopped me planning a couple of holidays for this summer though!"

Industry: Construction
Age: 22
Location: Glasgow
Salary: £19,500
Paycheque amount: £1,400
Number of housemates: Three – mum, stepdad and younger brother.

Monthly Expenses

Housing costs: £0 (my mum has conveniently forgotten our agreement for me to start paying 'dig' money when I started working full time).
Loan payments: £0 (being Scottish, my uni fees were covered by SAAS [Student Awards Agency for Scotland] and I covered the other costs of going to uni by working part time).
Utilities: £0
Transportation: About £150 for petrol (my car insurance and road tax are paid on an annual basis and I use my savings to cover both).
Phone bill: £0 (still covered by my parents; hopefully if they don’t notice it will stay that way forever).
Savings? I put £200 every month into a Help to Buy ISA and another £100-200 goes into my Marcus savings account. Any money I make through selling on eBay or Depop is transferred from my PayPal straight into my Marcus account (minus the selling fees) and if I have anything left over at the end of the month it also goes into savings (not that this happens very often).
Other: £18 for gym membership and £9.99 for Spotify Premium (the only thing that gets me through commuting to and from work every day).

Are you heading to a festival this summer? Would you be interested in recording your spending for a money diary while you're there? Get in touch: moneydiary@refinery29.uk

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Devilishly “disabled”😝 . . . #disabled #disability #disabilityawareness #black #blondehair #deaf #prostheticleg #different #unique #bigbumproblems #workit #backshot #jubilant #happy #ownit #proud #whodat #newbitch #happybitchface #smile #makeup #hair #fishnets #liverpoolcity #bbc1 #bbc3

A post shared by Devon💫 (@angeldoll_x_o) on Mar 30, 2019 at 10:29am PDT

Women with disabilities complain time and again of being made to feel invisible by the media. Progress is happening in some fields – such as acting, comedy and journalism – but at a glacial pace. "Even campaigns or content that are purposely striving to include marginalised women routinely miss out those with disabilities," wrote the Guardian's Frances Ryan last year, flagging the glaring lack of disability representation in fashion and beauty campaigns. "When this exclusion happens often, it eventually finds a place inside of you: a shameful message that you’re not quite like other women."

Twenty-year-old Devon Taverner-Hailou from Epping, Essex, knows how this feels. Devon has proximal femoral focal deficiency (PFFD), a rare, non-hereditary condition which means she was born with no left hip or thigh bone; she is also partly deaf and wears a hearing aid. She is one participant in a new four-part BBC Three series, 21 Again, in which five young women from different backgrounds send their mums undercover as 21-year-olds in the hope they can better understand what it’s like to be young today.

There is this idea that people with disabilities can't be sexy or beautiful, but obviously they are.

Her aim in taking part? To break the mould of how women with disabilities are represented by injecting what she considers to be some much-needed raunchiness, and hopefully launching a career in glamour modelling. "There is this idea that people with disabilities can’t be sexy or beautiful, but obviously they are," Devon tells Refinery29. "I think it’s because of the way they're portrayed, they can be seen as quite boring and dull which obviously isn’t true."

In watching the show we discover that, to her mum Joanna Taverner-Averkiou's dismay, Devon had until then been living a double life online – on Instagram (@angeldoll_x_o) and dating apps she posts raunchy selfies, X-rated dance moves and barely there outfits, while keeping her full-length prosthetic leg and hearing aid largely out of the picture. It's only recently, since filming ended, that she's developed the confidence to show this side of herself online, she says.

"When I was younger I just thought it [her disability] was quite normal, because if my leg ever hurt when I was at school, I used to just take it off and I would just start hopping around the playground. I felt that people weren’t as judgemental, so I felt really confident about my disability then."

But when Devon reached secondary school she began struggling with how others perceived it, and her confidence took a knock. "A lot of people bullied me because of my leg and took the mickey out of how I walk. That was very difficult because I was made to feel like I was more different." So she began obscuring her disabilities online with the aim of "fitting in".

In episode three, Devon meets another young woman who shares her condition for the first time, the makeup artist Yasmin Senior, in an emotional encounter that inspires her to take part in a photoshoot with her prosthetic leg on show – which ends up being shown on a billboard in Liverpool. This experience, coupled with getting a lace-patterned prosthetic leg, was central to rebuilding Devon's self-esteem. She says of the patterned limb that she's grown to love: "I remember walking out of the hospital and just having it out, and people stared a little bit and then they just stopped, and it just made me feel really confident to have it on show and to just own it."

I kind of always wanted to be a disabled model to inspire other people with disabilities.

"I kind of always wanted to be a disabled model to inspire other people with disabilities, and obviously I hope that [the photoshoot] will," gushes Devon of her first experience being shot professionally. "I actually cried after we did it because it was so emotional."

She now hopes to become a glamour model and in doing so, inspire more young women with disabilities to feel free to portray themselves however they like. "I haven’t really seen other proper disabled models on a billboard, and then obviously when it's yourself, it's the most incredible experience – it was definitely the best day of my life. And it just made me feel like I wanted to continue doing stuff like that, and become a disability advocate in the media."

As for Joanna, having made peace with her daughter's penchant for suggestive selfies, she's warmed to the idea of her becoming a poster girl for others like her – even describing glamour modelling as "Devon's calling". "Devon would love to do quite a sexy shoot. There is nothing like that, you never see that, but there certainly is a need." She now also understands why her daughter was using social media in this way. "Devon was using social media as a way to be like everyone else I guess, and to be on an even ground to everyone else. She doesn’t always necessarily want to talk about her disabilities, she just wants to look hot and that’s it.

"At first, I thought her Instagram was a bit like, 'Oh gosh! It’s a bit racy!' and I wasn’t really happy. But then I realised her getting the likes and attention made her feel good, and so I can see why she does it."

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A post shared by Devon💫 (@angeldoll_x_o) on Mar 28, 2019 at 12:16pm PDT

Joanna is equally passionate about broadening portrayals of women with disabilities in the media. "Even if you look at disabled magazines, everything is geared towards 50 to 70-year-olds. There’s nothing sexy, there is never an attractive-looking model, everything is very brown and dull. When people think 'disability', they think of an older person in a wheelchair. They don’t think that there are hidden disabilities or that someone could be deaf, or that they might not have a leg or an arm. Devon is thinking of starting her own magazine for disabled people like her, young people with a disability." Watch this space.

21 Again will be available on BBC Three via iPlayer from Wednesday 15th May

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I haven’t had layers since I was 11 years old and with good reason: the thick, outward-flicking hair running down my head like the tiers of a Christmas tree haunts me to this day. With no fringe to shape my round face, this once ultra-sensitive, hyperaware kid swore off layers for life. So why in God's name, at 26, would I revisit that personal hell? Well, folks, I’ve fallen for the shag – and hard.

What’s the shag, I hear you cry? The answer is both a haircut and – I’m not being dramatic here – a state of mind. Let’s get the technical bit out of the way first: the shag is comprised of layers cut into various lengths, where the hair is often feathered, making it full-bodied around the crown of the head, getting thinner around the face and nape of the neck. What the end result looks like is totally dependent on your hair type. It was barber-to-the-stars Paul McGregor who cut the first shag, with his inaugural model none other than Jane Fonda. The actress was married to Barbarella director Roger Vadim at the time and, according to her autobiography, it was in McGregor’s salon that she had her "first deep hair epiphany":

"Hair had ruled me for many years. Perhaps I used it to hide behind. The men in my life liked it long and blonde, and I had been a blonde for so long that I didn’t even know what my own colour actually was. I simply said to Paul McGregor, 'Do something' and he did. It was the haircut that became famous in Klute [the 1971 neo-noir thriller Fonda starred in], the shag. I didn’t look as if I were trying to imitate Vadim’s other wives anymore [his previous wives included Brigitte Bardot and Annette Vadim]. I looked like me! I knew right away that I could do life differently with this hair. Vadim sensed immediately that my cutting my hair was the first volley in my move for independence."

Cutting my hair into a shag was the first volley in my move for independence.

If that’s not rebellion and liberation in a haircut, I don’t know what is. Don’t believe me? One sweep through hair history and you’ll see that some of the world’s coolest women exuded insouciance via a shag cut at some point in time.

For Jane Fonda, it was the cut she wore during the peak of her activism in the '60s and '70s – just look at old photos of her on the picket line opposing the Vietnam War, or in support of the civil rights movement. With other famous shaggers (will I get sued for this?) Chrissie Hynde and Joan Jett, their layered cuts are as much a part of their image in our collective consciousness as their smudged black liner and tight leather trousers. Sure, they may have looked cool wielding guitars on stage with any hairstyle, but that could-have-cut-it-over-the-kitchen-sink look embodied the 'give a fuck' attitude for which those women became icons.

The (longer) shag is Stevie Nicks twirling on stage in one of her many vaulted shawls; it’s Patti Smith and PJ Harvey and David Bowie – but don’t think this means the cut should be cast into the well of the past, never to be celebrated again.

On the contrary, '00s model Freja Beha Erichsen ’s androgynous shag was part of the appeal that earned her the 'Queen of Cool' title. Now Gucci’s Alessandro Michele has been championing a granny’s-attic-meets-kids-dressing-up-box aesthetic since his appointment at the brand back in 2015, and with it he’s explored retromania in a number of ways, including casting models with shaggy cuts to feature in both campaigns and catwalk shows.

Outside of fashion and beauty, in 2019 the shag cut is alive and kicking on the music scene. Look at Courtney Barnett, Sharon van Etten and Sunflower Bean’s Julia Cumming, some of the coolest women in music – and all with feathered cuts that exude the same nonchalance as Chrissie and Joan. Models Cheyenne Maya Carty, Mica Argañaraz and Roberta Pecoraro are all currently sporting curly shags. Am I making myself clear? The shag is where it’s at.

But is it for everyone? Or is it just for models and rock stars and women with cheekbones that could cut glass? Usually experimental with colour and cuts, I’d let my hair grow dull and long without much thought over the past six months, so, a willing guinea pig in need of a hair (or life?) refresh, I headed to the best man in the business: Sam Burnett at Hare & Bone.

"When you think about how to cut this style, you want to think about the parts of the face you want to accentuate, and parts you want to draw the eye away from," Sam tells me as I sit nervously in his Soho salon. I’d gone in with references I’d found on Instagram, which featured short fringes and long lengths. "If I cut a line across your forehead, that would accentuate the roundness of your face, whereas if we keep the fringe sweeping down in a 1970s curtain style, it draws the eye down the centre of your face."

Sam’s not being blunt – the salon’s renowned consultation service is the reason I came here. "Our whole philosophy is about cutting hair to its natural fall and texture, because it makes home maintenance so much lower," he explains. "If you have no time to dry or style it, it’s always going to sit in a great shape."

I’m concerned I’ll look more like a throwback Rod Stewart than Joan Jett.

So far so good, but I’m still concerned I’ll look more like a throwback Rod Stewart than Joan Jett. To kick things off, Sam cuts my lengths to halfway between my collarbone and my chin. I’m apprehensive, as I assumed this would only draw attention to my round face shape, but he assures me that with a longer, sweeping fringe, we can afford to go this short. "It’s good to get the length off first thing, as that’s the initial shock over with!" While I sit back and let him sculpt those layers in, he tells me more about the shag.

"This haircut really suits naturally wavy hair. With very curly hair it’s really just down to the quality of the cut, but with poker straight hair it will just sit flat. You need to introduce a lot of layers for it to really work, so if your hair is fine, it’ll get really sparse around the bottom. Medium to thick natural wavy hair is perfect." What about upkeep? We’re all familiar with the cuts that look amazing in the salon but as soon as you’re left to style it at home, you are hit with regret. "Honestly, this sort of style is ideal for someone who doesn’t want to spend hours styling their hair each morning, as you can let it air dry and go."

When the cut is nearly done, my hair has half dried and Sam applies a layer of leave-in conditioner, then salt spray to keep movement but avoid stiffness.

Once I’m out of the salon, a hair wash and a few days on, I’m still hooked on my hair change. First up, it’s as easy to style as Sam assured me. I wash with bumble & bumble’s Surf Foam Wash Shampoo and Conditioner, before towel-drying, rubbing a coin-size amount of Rahua’s Leave-In Treatment in my palms and working through the hair. Next, I shake my head from side to side (like a wet dog) and voilà! My hair falls into place. I spritz a liberal amount of Ouai’s Wave Spray all over, before leaving it alone while I have coffee and get dressed. By the time I’m ready to leave the house, it’s nearly all dry. I spritz more Wave Spray and add a little of Rahua’s Smoothing Hair Balm to keep the ends separated (rather than fluffy like Farrah Fawcett’s style.)

Unexpected result – this cut has transformed my outfits. Before The Shag, a T-shirt, jeans and boots looked fine, don’t get me wrong. But now? I feel effortless, more daring: I sweep on the bright orange lip shade I’d bought and never had the gumption to wear, because The Shag calls for boldness, it eggs you on. I look at the shot of Argañaraz in Juergen Teller’s Saint Laurent SS19 campaign. With long, blonde, Insta-friendly swooshy hair, this look would be dripping with hyperfeminine Jerry Hall glamour, but with her curly shag, it oozes rock’n’roll. Once you have the shag, there are no half measures – you have to lean all the way in. It's given me a new attitude and, boy, is that fun.

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At one point in time, the hour-long face beat — complete with contour, highlight, baking, and draping — was seemingly the norm, but a counterculture has been reigning supreme in the last few years. Beauty-obsessed millennials are leaning into a minimal approach with maximum output. And Urban Outfitters joined in on the easy-does-it beauty lineup last year when it released Ohii , an in-house brand that has hair, skin care, and makeup products.

For years, Urban Outfitters has carried a carefully curated selection of beauty brands such as Ouai and Benefit Cosmetics. Ohii stands a part as a private-label option created with the Urban customer in mind. The collection has clearly targeted the Instagram-loving generation with the product selection. First, the entire line is affordable, with everything under £20. Second, every piece is photo worthy, from the Soft Glow Highlighter to the Glistening Gummy Glosses with fun names like “Golden Charge” and “Rose Quartz.”

In case you haven't checked out the line for yourself, we've rounded up some of the best Ohii beauty offerings, ahead.

At Refinery29, we’re here to help you navigate this overwhelming world of stuff. All of our market picks are independently selected and curated by the editorial team. If you buy something we link to on our site, Refinery29 may earn commission.

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