Welcome to my bug soup

Dive in and have a taste. Warning: it’s not comfort food.

Did you know that when caterpillars go into their cocoon, they don’t just gradually change from one state to another? If I ever thought about it, I’d have imagined the caterpillar becoming less furry, losing some legs, slimming down, and growing wings.

But that’s not how it works. In fact, once safely inside woven silk, the caterpillar breaks down completely, until it’s a liquid substance of cells and organic stuff.

Bug soup.

And you can imagine a caterpillar being completely freaked out by this. All she’s ever known is her creepy crawly life, all those feet on the ground, munching on leaves. Cocoon time comes, and she knows she’s growing up. She’s going to be a different version of herself. Something more, but her idea of ‘more’ can only come from what she already is.

Then she becomes nothing. Formless. Unseen. Unseeing. Away from the world, having no impact on it. Waiting.

In that moment, how could she possible know what it means to be a butterfly?

I first learned about bug soup from Sundae Schneider Bean, on her podcast about dealing with life’s transitions, and the metaphor really stuck. Yes, it’s disgusting. But that’s what makes it memorable and powerful for me. When I’m lacking purpose and focus, sometimes it’s because I’m in bug soup, and thinking of it that way is very reassuring.

About a year ago I made my way to the Marcliffe – Aberdeen’s prettiest, cosiest luxury hotel, where the sun shone on grounds full of mature trees, their leaves just turning gold. I found my way to the comfortable conference room where my newest group of friends were gathering. We were there to work on our TEDx talks. Now that was some new-term energy, of the most inspiring kind. We would spend the next ten weeks learning together, supporting each other, and creating something special and unique.

Imposter syndrome? Not a bit. I was an experienced speaker, an expert in my own story, and my pitch was chosen as one of ten out of a hundred applicants.

Meanwhile, that summer I’d been on a solo trip to Stockholm, for a writers’ conference, and Denmark, where I caught up with friends in Copenhagen and Esbjerg and held a successful book event in the town where I’d written most of ‘Nest’.

When I got back to Aberdeen, I’d helped organise and host a book event with a group of local authors. I’d been networking with local booksellers and getting my book on their shelves, setting up author events and preparing to sell my book at a large Christmas fair.

In between all that, I was making time for writing, keeping in touch with my readers, and fitting in some editing for clients. There wasn’t much headspace for domestic stuff or replying to our architects’ emails. But honestly, that was kind of the plan. I was busy in the best of ways. I was an author, with a calendar full of bookish activities. And I was buzzing – no – fluttering with energy. In my butterfly era.

Ever since November, after I delivered my TEDx talk in the Music Hall in Aberdeen, I’ve been wondering where that buzz has gone. Well…it’s not exactly a mystery, but I’ve been craving its return.

I spent most of December ill, along with most of my family, so that into the new year I was still in recovery mode, waiting for hibernation to end and new-year energy to kick in. In January my TEDx talk was published on YouTube, prompting a brief flurry of trying to reclaim that extrovert energy to tell the world about it. After that, most of my energy and attention was consumed by our new puppy, then I had to adjust to our new dog-owning-family routine.

In spring I had some editing work, but otherwise I was keeping my calendar clear for much of the year to finally devote headspace to the planning and execution of our new extension. To actually nesting. By June, I was packing boxes, exactly two years after packing up our Paris home to move back to Aberdeen. This time we packed up dozens of boxes of books to be stashed away in a spare room, and moved my desk from our ‘library’ to the bedroom. Then the emptied room became our temporary kitchen. In the about-to-be-demolished kitchen, I found myself asking the familiar question of each item: do I need this for the next three or four months? Just like packing for a move where we wouldn’t see our shipment for months, I was preparing for life in limbo, with most of our kitchen stuff in storage and just the basics available to see us through the transition.

So our house was launched into its own bug soup, consisting of piles of rubble and boarded-up window spaces and lots of builders’ empty coffee cups and sandwich wrappers. As I type, there’s the constant soundtrack of a circular saw in the background, and clouds of dust wafting past the window. In the last couple of weeks, rubble has given way to clean walls with modern insulation, we’ve chosen roof lanterns and cladding, and we’ve ordered our shiny new kitchen. It’s very exciting.

But among it all, as my days and hours adapted to the puppy’s schedule and the builders’ schedule and continued to mould to the shape of the days of a teen and pre-teen – exactly as I’d planned – I’ve lost focus on the writing projects I began two years ago. My motivation levels to promote a book that’s now two years in the world have dropped. I miss sitting down for an hours-long session with a client’s precious manuscript and diving deep into their words and worlds. Real-world surprises are popping up, presenting big decisions to be made (yes, even bigger than wood vs tile flooring) and anyway, I’ve been reminding myself that the plans and goals I set for myself to kick off our return to the UK were designed to…well, kick off our return to the UK. And here we are, well and truly returned.

I’ve been reminding myself that I set up those plans in order to prevent my time and attention getting completely sucked up by domestic demands, and these last few months have proved just how important that was.

Because now – better now than then – I’m in bug soup.

So what will my next butterfly era look like? Just like the caterpillar, I have no idea what colour the wings will be. But recognisable parts are forming. Possibilities are starting to align, some distractions are falling away, and others are finding their groove. (Think: a groove of playful walks and fluffy nap times.) I’m also reminding myself that just because I said one time I would do a thing, I’m not locked in to some kind of good-girl contract to actually do it.

There’s some waiting still to do – for decisions by other people, as well as for my own chattering intuition to tune in to what matters most. Perhaps, by the time the shelves of my new pantry are stocked with neat rows of organised jars, I’ll be ready to emerge from this cocoon with a bright new fluttering energy.

Something I have been sticking to this month (September 2025) is writing 500 words a day in support of Refugee Action. I know how it feels to live in a liminal space, to search for belonging across borders – and I’m grateful I could always be sure of a soft landing and security along the way. That reassurance shouldn’t be a privilege – every human deserves safe refuge. Please visit my fundraising page for this month’s ‘Race for Refugee’ campaign and add your support.