It started about a year ago. 3am.
I try not to look at the clock when I wake up in the middle of the night because the maths of "how many hours of sleep can I get if I fall asleep right now?" makes me panic.
So instead, I kept my eyes firmly shut while my brain thrust itself immediately into gear and began to worry about everything from the state of the world to the state of my skin — both shit — and then I did the thing you aren't meant to do.
Watch: Mia Freedman's commentary on the Golden Globes. Post continues below.
I picked up my phone. Idiot.
I doom-scrolled the news. Not happy, Jan. Did you know women have a much higher propensity to be left with an "anxiety hangover" after consuming the news? It can feel like a physical weight on our chests.
Looking for something lighter, I flicked over to Instagram only to learn — quite aggressively — that wearing invisible socks is now a sign that I am a tragic, sad, old person.
I thought, for f**k's sake. It's not bad enough that every time women our age speak up for ourselves, we're disparaged as "Karens"— shout out to all the women actually named Karen; this weaponisation of your name is a travesty and we are indignant on your behalf — now it's my socks?


























