I am worryingly obsessed with my new Pyscle trainer Sarah Elliott. Not only is she ridiculously ripped in places I didn’t even know muscles existed, but she manages to train, talk, motivate and DJ at the same time… for three sessions in a row. Her lovable Canadian sass makes you push harder, think deeper and free every ounce of inhibition you were holding onto. It’s extraordinary. It’s motivating. It’s everything I need. She is everything I would want to be.

But as I wipe the sweat from behind my ears and eyelids (I didn’t think it would be possible to sweat from such outlets), I realise that she is the instigator for enormous change. There are 50 people there at a time in that small room in Clapham Junction. 50. And she manages to make every single person in there feel amazing.

The joy of music is the memories. YOUR memories. The beat of the never-ending rhythmic photo stream of faces that you have met or cherished or hated or even walked past in the street. Each of these faces mean something to you for many reasons we will never understand.

I remember the my great grandmother’s face when we stole keys from her house in Wales, desperate to open this hidden, magical door in her garden.

Or the first time I saw my sister when she came back from Tanzania with greasy dreadlocks and a tanned face.

Or when I threw a hard-brushed hairbrush from the top floor and it hit my father’s head. I think he still remembers my face after I was told off, hand first.

The face of the first boy I kissed in spin the bottle with three girls and him.

The nameless face of the man that drew a gun to my head on a beach in Cornwall.

The eyes of first-ever boyfriend Harry when I was 14. I still have the light-up heart he made me and the leopard toy holding the ‘I Love You’ heart.

 Your face when I didn’t recognise you.

Your face when I told you I loved you.

Your face when I told you I was leaving.

Your face when I told you I wanted you back.

Your face when I told you I had made a mistake.

Your face.

 

The face of anyone who is trying to hold it together but just can’t.

The face of anyone who has suffered pain but just crawled through.

The face of anyone after you say thank you.

 

My mother’s tears when we change a plan she had so been looking forward to.

My sister’s tears when she just needs to be able to tell someone she is struggling.

My best friend’s face when she told me she was engaged.

My doctor’s face when she delivered the news that I can’t have children.

 

All of these people, with their own wonderful names and beautiful faces, are a part of me. Your own shape have shaped me and my life. You continue to push me and taunt me and rescue me and shape me into this version of me that, for once, I am happy with.

Today, this thank you is for you Sarah.

 

January’s Memories:

1. Dry Jan – for the first time in my life I consistently stuck to something.
2. Smokeless Jan – the love/hate relation of drinking and smoking. Like that annoying couple who never do anything apart.
3. Dolly Alderton – if you haven’t read her book, make sure it is next on your list. I laughed, cried, questioned my life and felt like I was friends with someone through a page. She is utter magic.
4. Harry – my new puppy friend on a Monday who eats everything and is obsessed with trying to jump up on the sofa
5. Capital Ring Walk with @findingyourfeetlondon – walking 13.5 miles through parts of London I would never have been
6. I did my tax return.
7. Saving £250 on Moneybox
8. Sleeping for 8 hours straight for the first time in three years
9. Booking my first holiday in over a year
10. Being a better version of me