Who are the People in Your Neighbourhood?

I've been thinking a lot about community recently. What is it? And what does it actually mean?

In the corporate spaces I've worked in, and spoken at, there's often emphasis on community and belonging to the extent that 'Belonging' appears in job titles - LinkedIn contains hundreds of profiles where this is the case. Some organisations, it would seem, want employees to feel like they're one big family. But is that what employers - and the people who work for them - really want? For lots of people, family life isn't one big Werther's Originals ad - it can just as easily be about fights at weddings and arguments at funerals. Of permanent estrangements and the relative that "no-one talks about".

If organisations really want to foster a sense of 'community' are they ready to accept it in all of its forms? If they want people to feel like they 'belong', are they ready to provide an environment that is more akin to their actual background vs the corporate image they want to portray to shareholders and customers? And if not, how can they provide support for disadvantaged communities in a way that meets their social impact commitments, is not patronising and is delivered in good faith? 

When I left home aged 19 and for good, I left behind my family and my sense of community. For the first year or so I was back every weekend. Keeping in contact with friends and spending time with my younger siblings. I was on first name terms with the barman at the pub, the owners of the newsagents and the women who worked at the local Co-op. I knew my mum's neighbours and where my friends' parents lived. A short walk to the precinct to fetch some milk would mean bumping into someone who'd say; "How's it going in Reading? Does your brother still do such-and-such? How's your mum?". 

Growing up in a place and at a time where university wasn't considered even for some of the brightest of us, people didn't venture too far from home unless they joined the Army. Home was 'where the heart is'. Where people walked in through the back door and smoked cigarettes around the kitchen table. Where they had time to listen to your problems and knew someone who could lend you a fiver or give you a loaf of bread. Home was where people put up with all sorts of behaviours, said exactly what they thought and didn't turn their backs on one another if someone had to spend some time 'inside'. It was where the one who had 'done good' was still expected to turn up and not turn their nose up at family occasions. Where it was expected that you would top up the electric and settle the tab.

And the longer you're away the harder it gets. For both sides. On the one hand you've left the struggle behind and want to help when you can. On the other, people "don't want your handouts" and resent it feeling like they have to "get the bloody flags out" when you visit. Neither side can talk about their finances without it feeling awkward. You are the same blood and yet different people. They're too loud and you're no fun. Corporate life polished your rough edges smoother than the granite worktop on your kitchen island and rubbed out part of who you were. The part that is proper unpalatable in polite company but sometimes still makes an appearance which confuses the hell out of your social circle. Where do you even belong?!

It's a strange feeling to purposely and pointedly step away. To know that you're needed but that to stay would be a mistake. To feel that pull to a different horizon. Distance brings nostalgia and no matter how embedded you find yourself in another city or a different town years down the line, nothing brings quite the same visceral kick that is evoked by an image of the top deck of a bus in 1985. Or finding the family photograph where where the wallpaper is ripped and Christmas cards are pinned to the wall. 

When I feel like this, I'm reminded of a saying that I love: "Learning from, not longing for, the past". It reminds me that those rose tinted spectacles aren't always helpful. That we can look back with kindness and fondness but also take time to make sure we're living in the present moment and to not flagellate ourselves for getting to the point that we wanted to achieve. It's helpful too in the context of thinking about the work I do, and conversations I have, in the social mobility space. It can be - as I once found when in conversation with a mum who was struggling as my mum used to - unhelpful and patronising for someone who is clearly better off than you to attempt to find common ground. Who can offer supportive words but not practical help. Who can be an advocate when what you need is a friend. Being 'well-meaning' doesn't mean your words of actions are going to be well-received. 

So where does this leave things? For me at least it's in doing the bits that I'm good at (entertaining people, being honest about my experiences, finding connection with people in corporates who have been through what I've been through) and using the skills I have to celebrate and showcase the efforts of those who are doing the real grass-roots work. Who are putting funding, assets and resources into the hands of those communities. Who are the communities. There is too much that is conditional, score=carded, well-intended but ill thought out. If I learned one thing from my mum it's that being told what to do, judged and monitored by people in positions of power when you are in a position of need does nothing for your sense of worth. I lived that in my corporate life which is the deal we make when we're incredibly well paid but on a personal level? No thanks.

Let's end this on a cheerful note - in fact, how about two? Firstly, I'm going to encourage you to check out The Common Good Network. It's a directory and map that I've made which showcases the organisations, large and small, who are working to help people overcome financial barriers to opportunities. In particular I want to shout out the grass-roots and community-based organisations which you'll find here: Community and Place-Based - The Common Good

Secondly - well, this is a treat! It's the inspiration of the title behind this post, the 'People in Your Neighbourhood' song from Sesame Street. A walloping dollop of feel-good fun that celebrates community and I hope you'll enjoy:

https://youtu.be/V2bbnlZwlGQ?si=tLiQRuFh4jRPsgV7

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Enjoy this? Interested in booking me to speak or to write an article for you? Ping me via this form: Contact - Toni Kent – Speaker, Writer and Stand Up

 

Someone, somewhere is going to feel nostalgic looking at this :)

I Feel Like a Woman

What a time to be alive....

I don't mean the state of the world. I mean being a mid-life woman. One who has hit 50 and with it, met one of the major milestones - that of menopause. And if you're thinking "Oh for the love of Davina do we really need another blog post about this?", I'd like to assure you that this will be more about friendship than it is about hot flushes.

The thing is, I keep hearing "we never talk about menopause". But if you're a woman 'of a certain age', I'd put money on the fact that your WhatsApp chats are awash with conversations about who's on what HRT and the best time of the day to set aside for screaming. I'd also bet that it doesn't matter how many celebrities wang on about what worked for them, each woman will find her own experience to be different. Apart from two things:

1. The inconsistencies you experience in healthcare are WILD
2. You need your friends

First things first. This isn't just a menopause thing. This is a being a woman thing. As a teenager who only had a few months of horrendously heavy periods before things settled down, I got away pretty lightly. The pill seemed to sort me out but having raised a daughter of my own and spoken with friends who have long suffered with conditions such as endometriosis it would appear that women's bodies continue to be nothing short of a medical mystery. Bleeding for four weeks in a row? Buy more absorbent tampons. Cramping so badly you can't breathe? Take some ibuprofen. The way in which I have watched friends be pushed from pillar to post for years - or who simply just don't bother to go to the doctor - reinforces the long-held belief of many that this simply wouldn't be the case if these things happened to men.

And, given these things don't happen to men, we learn very early on how much we need our friends. In one such instance my daughter was saved by a friend giving her a jumper to tie around her waist after her period turned up unexpectedly on a shopping trip. Before I was a mother, I bought my much younger sister a mountain of tampons - triumphantly placing them out on the counter in Boots in a show of "this is nothing to be ashamed of". We will all have had a moment where a Good Samaritan has discreetly passed tissues or sanitary items under the divider in a toilet to help another woman who, by virtue of bad luck, had a situation they hadn't planned for.

And at the point in our lives when we're fretting about whether we can wear white trousers or not, we're obviously not talking about menopause. We're dealing with the situation at hand. You don't need to think forty years ahead if you're only just coming to terms with the fact that your body seems to be operating against you. And how it signals you're now open to the possibility of pregnancy...

If you do get pregnant (and if you try, and it doesn't happen for you), there's then the small matter of the new phase of absolute sorcery that's going on within your body and bloody hell did I find out that's not straightforward either. It feels again like there's a lot that doesn't get talked about but, again, sometimes we're just not at that stage in life. And sometimes there's things that we don't want to talk about. Or sometimes - as was my case - you've got a fixed idea in your head based on family history which doesn't quite pan out in the same way for you.

I come, you see, from a family of 'breeders'. I shared this recently with a nurse who hilariously (to me) thought that I meant my family were breeders of pedigree dogs. Not so. What I meant was the family on my mother's side are born to have babies. I'm the eldest of six, my mum was one of five, her dad was - wait for it - one of ELEVEN. Good god. And so, to my mind, childbearing and child birth was going to be an absolute walk in the park. I was my mum's birthing partner when she had my two youngest siblings but it turns out that watching a woman's fifth and sixth deliveries is not something by which you should judge your own endeavours. We are, as I came to learn, all made differently.

And how differently! At the time that I fell pregnant with my daughter, not only did I participate in National Childbirth Trust (NCT) classes, I worked with women of a similar age to me who were similarly pregnant and revelled in the fact our employer ran a 'Bump Club'. NCT was every bit as earnest as you might think (my husband quit our course early after being made to link arms with the other dads to pretend to 'be a uterus') and yet was a true sanity-saver as, like lots of my corporate compadres, I had moved to a place far removed from having family and school friends on the doorstep. The NCT and workplace friends were the ones with whom I could have deep and timely conversations about our birth stories, recovery, hallucinations caused by sleep deprivation and tortuous attempts at feeding. And throughout this extended friendship group, we experienced all facets of fertility and faced the reality of what can happen in pregnancy and childbirth. 

Despite the mediaeval horror I went through in having a placenta manually removed with only gas and air for pain relief (the anaesthetist was unavailable and there was the real risk I would bleed out) and the potentially life-threatening complication that is an ectopic pregnancy, I feel beyond fortunate that alongside these bumps in the road I delivered my two children. I know women who not only faced the devastation of their babies being stillborn but were treated appallingly by some healthcare professionals in their words and actions. Their stories are interwoven with my own and I will never forget receiving the text that my friend's daughter had been 'born sleeping' as I cradled my own newborn in my arms.

As women, we don't shout these stories aloud for good reason. We hold them gently and cradle the names of the babies and heartbreak of our friends. We wait to whisper the words that others may be scared to hear until the time is right. Our bodies are a serious business and yet so often we come up against what seems to be an ignorant approach to what's going on inside us - and the care that we need afterwards. We leave hospital with skimpy leaflets whose priority is being printed on recycled paper vs comprehensive information; face advice that, depending on the healthcare trust, is different to one just across the border. Prescriptions and procedures vary by postcode. We compare the sizes of our patches and stitches, and wonder whether the gynaecologist that's carrying out our laparoscopic salpingo-oophorectomy is the same one that did the hysteroscopy on our friend. We look for recommendations of active listening, careful thinking and delicate hands.

Skimpy leaflets...

And so, to menopause. Turns out that thanks to the surgery with a very long name, if there was any doubt about whether I'd actually gone through menopause before, I've now been through it medically. And I didn't even realise that would be the case (I know, I know). The consultant said "I think you need this surgery" to which my reply was "Sounds good". And whilst it was obvious in many ways that this would be the case (try ovulating when you haven't got ovaries), it wasn't explicitly spelled out. Neither was the recovery time required - there I was thinking I'd just shimmy off home after a bit of keyhole surgery but not so. I baulked at being told (post-surgery) that I couldn't drive for three weeks and felt stunned by my absolute exhaustion in the week that followed. That second part most certainly wasn't in the leaflets. And neither was the fact that there'd be no follow-up for three to four weeks until they had the biopsy results (all clear so all good!). Whilst I was prepared for the op (and very amused at being given hibiscrub to wash with for a few days pre-op as that's what we use on the dogs with when they cut their paws...) I was less than ready for the aftermath.

Turns out that post-operative care is a proactive thing on the patient's part. It seems strange when one call could set someone's mind at ease. Leaflet-based advice designed for a time when we would have 'convalesced' seems out of sync in an age when we're kicked straight out of hospital and likely to spend hours on Google shitting ourselves because we wouldn't want to 'bother' our overstretched health service unless we think we might actually be dying (which Google is very good at telling you that you probably are). 

It's been a tricky time for sure. One during which I've had to work hard to restrict myself from social media and search engines. To take time and slow down (easier said than done when you're self-employed and have two active dogs), to focus on getting true rest. 

And in amongst this all was a gift. It was the realisation that the very best source of information, comfort, encouragement and advice on navigating this milestone was to be found amongst the women I know and love. Throughout our lives, and the course of our friendship so far, our bodies have changed and adapted, amazed us and frustrated us. We don't know for sure what's in store but whatever the next phase of being a woman sends our way and however it may make us feel...it feels great to know that we're in it together!

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Like the sound of how I write? Why not book me to speak? I talk about all things social mobility, women in business, careers and much more :) You can check out my showreel below and book me to speak here Contact - Toni Kent – Speaker, Writer and Stand Up

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Soundtrack: Man! I Feel Like a Woman - Shania Twain