This is my way of looking at what happens when I go from free and happy, to falling and anxious, to stuck and sad, assigning an imagined landscape to each of the emotions. It has meant that when I feel my saddest (as though I’ve sunk all the way down and in), I can picture an empty swing surrounded by stars, jungle vines and the sound of the ocean just up over my head. It’s so lovely that I start to feel pangs of the happiness that come with being sat up there, and so I start to think about how I could reach my jungle swing from the depths of that big black hole. I’d need a ladder. And so, from my blankets, or the floor, or wherever it is I’ve sunk this time, I close my eyes and think of a rope ladder made from swinging vines and I begin to climb until I’m moving again.

This is my way of turning a very flushed face into some kind of power move. It’s a reminder to wear shades of pink and orange with pride. My cheeks feel like they set themselves on fire a lot. Everyone else is super cool and calm and blue and instead I’m burning. I’m so embarrassed that I’m basically tangerine a la flambé. But when that happens, I can picture this girl in her bright orange trousers, with sunflowers for knees, and remember that it’s okay to go super pink and stand out. It’s cool to be orange. So now, instead of wanting the ground to swallow me up when I start to burn in a crowd of blue shaped people, I’ll be the apricot girl. The girl who stands there in all her red/pink/orange glory and owns it.

This is my way of remembering that sometimes what looks and smells and tastes like a disaster actually isn’t one. Sometimes I feel like I’m ready and waiting for the worst. It’s as though I’m bracing myself for fire. But I think it’s because when you become used to disaster you start to expect it. And so I started to think the world was going to burn down any time I caught even a whiff of metaphorical smoke. This little drawing is telling me that there’s no fire. I can just smell it because my toast is burning. A minor and passing and totally fixable disaster. I mean both set the fire alarm off sometimes, but that doesn’t mean they’re the same thing yanno.

This is my way of remembering how strong other people are. It’s a reminder that I don’t have to carry everything all by myself all the time because it can be a little bit too much sometimes and more often than not other people are happy to help. They’ll pop that backpack straight on their own back no questions asked until I’m ready to carry it again. And that’s okay. Sometimes my shoulders just need a little break. And when their shoulders need a break I’ll carry their bags right back.

This a reminder for whenever that guilt creeps in and I need to remember that I’m not horrible. I’m extra good at telling myself that I am the worst kind of person. I’ve done it since I was little. I was seven years old when someone told me I was bad and I’ve looked for proof of it ever since. This drawing tells me to look again. It tells me to stop seeing a monster in the mirror and start seeing a soft skinned human girl whose heart is good.

This is a gentle little way to remind myself that it’s okay to fill the room. It’s okay to stand so tall that I fill every corner, wall to window, floor to sky. It’s a reminder that I deserve to take up space in every room I enter even if it feels uncomfy (actually especially when it feels uncomfy). My voice might be small and I might speak too fast and get easily muddled, but it deserves to travel round the skirting board and into the rafters. This drawing tells me to practice being as big as I can be. It’s a quiet message that secretly shouts, “let’s live in a world of giants”.

This my little reminder that we can think things into being. That sometimes even when we’re super scared or worried or sad we can make the opposite true if we make ourselves believe in it enough. When I was really little I was scared of the ghost that lived at the bottom of our stairs. But one day little five year old me decided to be brave even though she wasn’t feeling it. I sat up in my bed, folded my arms and whispered into the dark “I’m not scared of ghosts”. It wasn’t true, but I said it every night until I believed it. I imagined I wasn’t scared of ghosts until I really was the little girl who wasn’t scared of ghosts. I still have to whisper it sometimes when I get scared of other things and the magic words from twenty years ago still make me stand taller.

This is a little reminder that I need to fill myself all the way up. I found that really hard to do for a little while, I wanted and needed to be empty. However, if I was squishing strawberries to make homemade jam or making a cup of tea for my mum I’d make sure the jar, the kettle and the cup was full. Empty wouldn’t have worked and so I started to think about needing to treat my tummy in the same way. Almost like a pot that deserves all the best and sweetest ingredients. We deserve to have everything in every way, and looking at this gingham girl reminds me that I’ve actually not had too much. The pot should be full and I should be too.

This is my little reminder that I need to believe in myself. I often catch myself thinking about how Tinkerbell turned from green to grey in Peter Pan. She started to fade away and only got her colour back when everyone shouted “I do believe in fairies” at the top of their lungs. My heart swells each and every time I hear it and I started to wonder if the same sentiment applies to me. Does my light go out every time I doubt myself a little bit more? And can I switch it back on by saying “I believe” until it rings true? If my heart swells for tinkerbell maybe I can do it for me too?

This is a reminder that when things feel like they are falling apart, I need to kick my legs and flap my arms with all my might. It's hard to keep going when everything feels like it is going wrong, but switching the language from 'fall' to 'swim' somehow makes it feel easier. If I can convince myself that the endless dark night is in fact a lovely pool of water, that I am not tumbling down and down but rather paddling through a liquid sky, it somehow makes me feel more determined. It makes me feel like I should keep swimming.

This is my way of remembering that sometimes I can’t fix things and change the story, even when I really really want to. I can, however, be there with my whole heart and my ears and a reassuring nod and that big big pot of steaming hot tea (milk and sugar primed and at the ready for those who need or want them). I think maybe sometimes that’s enough. Perhaps quite often a shared cup of tea is what people are asking for.

This is a reminder for me to hold tightly to blue's hand each and every time my little yellow person packs up her things and leaves town for a while. It's a reminder to sit with blue whilst I wait for yellow to come on back. A reminder to acknowledge just how important she is too. I have noticed that yellow tends to come back a whole lot quicker when I squeeze blue's hand and try and reassure her as best I can. So, to my little blue person, 'I've got you, and I am not going anywhere.'

This is my little way of remembering that I’m allowed to shut the door sometimes. Even if I want to give my whole heart and head and ears to other people, I’m still allowed to close them up for a while. I have a habit of leaving the gate open and then getting overwhelmed when people walk muddy footprints all over a once neat path. So this tiny figure and her orange trousers are here to tell me that I can actually say ‘sorry you can’t come in today but I’ll be here tomorrow’, ‘I love you and I’ll be here when I’m ready’ or ‘I’ll listen when the grass has regrown’. They are all things I sometimes find hard to remember on my own.