When She looked at the dragon, it seemed to her like air dissolved in hopes, blue, blue, shimmering like a garland and this attracted, like a moth to the radiance…

sweet chamomile tea

now made bitter with the

mint leaves

tricked by the sweet scent i

slowly mix them in

Life is hard but so am I

I won’t give up, I will not die,

And even when my brain goes mad

I’ll carry on, I won’t be sad.

Darkness seems to follow me a lot… a shadow that’s present, even when the light shines through, it never seems to absorb it at all. Darkness is like daylight savings; it starts off and ends in darkness. That hour back barely makes any difference at all. I walk around with my eyes open, but I mind as well walk around with them closed; because at least I know the doors are shut and nobody can see into them.

When I was in my 20s, I used to dislike the idea of reaching 30. I always associated being 30 with being old (I am sorry to anyone I have hurt by saying this!)

However, now that I am in my 30s, as much as I wish I were in my 20s, I do think there is a lot of power in this new decade of my life. When I was 28-29 years old, I used to have conversations with people who were already in their 30s about how I should approach this new phase of my life.

A few things I was told are that the 30s are the most beautiful years of a woman’s life: she is confident, unapologetic, and daring.

Holidays, for me, consist of finding excuses.

An example of this is at a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, when I inevitably get restless from sitting at the table with my family, and start offering to take people’s dirty dishes to the kitchen for a reason to move around. This is met with a yes or a no and usually a genuine ‘thank you’, my real motive concealed under the guise of being considerate. A less polite excuse I utilize is going to the bathroom for ten minutes so I have a break from socializing and conversation. While it is tedious to be constantly looking for these ‘outs’, I find that they are the only way to preserve my sanity.

Holidays are, in short, a lot.

Sometimes I think of grief like an old woollen jumper. It’s the knitwear you fold at the bottom of your drawer, only getting it out on the coldest of days or in the very midst of winter.  

Sometimes you only wear it on Christmas day, or on a special date that no one else celebrates.

Once it’s enveloped you, you fold it away again, smoothing down the fabric with your fingers in a private ritual, like the most sacred of things. 

It was at the tender age of 12 that my mom showed me her favorite movies, mostly old thrillers. My first was Rear Window, which of course we followed with North by Northwest, Charade, To Catch a Thief, Wait Until Dark, among others. Some were better than others, some aged poorly, but none were as good as Rear Window, which is a favorite to this day.

If I am honest, though, the Golden Age of Hollywood doesn’t do much for me anymore. The women are so pretty, so classically feminine. The men are strong, rough, and indistinguishable from each other. I will always love Rear Window, even as I see how far from Grace Kelly and James Stewart, and realize it doesn’t love me back.

It was a crisp October day when the world ended, the kind where you can wear just a jumper, so I didn’t have a coat on when the sky shattered and fell down around me. 

Today, 29th October 2023, is 10 years since my university house doorway became the backdrop of my most tragic scene as I was delivered the cruellest news. ‘They didn’t want to tell you over the phone’, my aunt said, and with that sentence I knew immediately what she was going to say next. 

My dad had passed away. 

This Modern Struggle Magazine is honoured to share the beautiful words of My Inner Child, an exclusive unpublished poem by Canadian poet Ally Lyons.

When I first met depression she allowed me to see only a glimpse of her true self. When I first met depression, she walked with me to the still stream at the opening of her soul, she removed my shoes and encouraged me to dip my toes into her murky waters. Her presence was cold and calm, she wore a dark cloak stitched with shame and laced with sorrow, her greying face barely visible under her cowling hood.

When I first met depression I didn’t really know who she was or what she intended to do. She was clever and calculated, she let me in slowly, spoon by spoon she fed me a gradually increasing dose of her toxic medicine.

Many believe that as soon as you have children, that’s it, you have to give up all the fun things that you enjoyed doing before.

I adore my family, friends and having lots of social time. However, when these little humans come along who want and need you at every grasping moment, it can feel like the days of being social are over.

What people forget is that being away from your children is super important, not only for them to grow and become more independent, but also for your own mental health!

The International OCD Foundation defines Scrupulosity as, “a subtype of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) involving religious or moral obsessions.” It describes Scrupulous people as “overly concerned that something they thought or did might be a sin or other violationof religious or moral doctrine.” Said people might also “worry about what their thoughts or behavior mean about who they are as a person.”

While I do find it interesting that apparently up to a third of OCD havers (who, according to the National Institute of Mental Health, make up 1.2% of the population) experience Scrupulosity, I wanted to know more. Specifically, I wanted to know what percent of this third were under 13. I wanted to know how many of this third were like me.

As I grew up my emotions evolved, as well as the way I felt about them. Even though I was well acquainted with my multitudes, I started to see that to a degree, they set me apart, and not in a way I liked. I saw how my tears sometimes scared people around me, and how my excitement was at times overwhelming. Simply put, I became afraid of being too much.

However, the reality of being by my standards “too much” became a lot less fun when I got diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder, Anxiety, Autism Spectrum Disorder, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It was all of a sudden too real. I was no longer “Lanacore” and “Girl, Interruptedesque” - I was mentally ill.

A few weeks ago I turned 29, the pivotal last year of my 20s.

Being in your 20s/30s is a weird time. It’s a transitional period when suddenly you’re expected to know everything that you want to do with your years, whether that’s in terms of career, getting a house, getting married, or having children. But it’s also supposed to be the best time of your life, with the free abandon to enjoy it as much as you can.

It’s that time of the year to receive the dreaded ‘Do you want to opt out of Father’s Day?’ emails.

While it’s great that companies are being more sensitive to their customers and subscriber lists, sadly you can’t avoid this holiday everywhere you go.

As someone whose dad has passed away, I always feel like this holiday is something I can’t take part in and is something to just avoid completely.

But just because he’s gone, doesn’t mean I can’t talk about him.

Hi, I’m Ally!

I started this magazine for all the fellow strugglers who feel the same way that I do; like everyone else has it all figured out and you just don’t know what you’re doing in life.

The struggle is real… when you’re trying to figure life out.

Hi, I’m Ally, and welcome to This Modern Struggle Magazine.

If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance that you also feel like you don’t know what you’re doing with your life.