Happily Imperfect

Copyright

Thorsons

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Thorsons 2019

FIRST EDITION

© Stacey Solomon 2019

Cover photograph © Jay Brooks 2019

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Stacey Solomon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008321017

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008322908

Version: 2019-02-05

Dedication

Thank you to Joe and all of the incredible boys in our life.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction: Labels

1 Letter to Me (aged fourteen)

2 The Big A

3 Ugly Duckling

4 My Tribe (My Big Jewish Family)

5 Recipes That Say Love (Version 1)

6 Mum Guilt!

7 Recipes That Say Love (Version 2)

8 Motherload

9 Creating a Happy Family Vibe

10 Perfectly Imperfect

11 Hairy McLary

12 Finding Your True Self

13 The Hype

14 Rose-tinted Goggles

15 Blended Families

16 Thankful

17 My Happy Ever After

18 Musings on Imperfection

19 Forget the ‘How-tos’

20 Kindness

21 Happily Imperfect Habits

22 Being Happy

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION:

Labels

Essex Girl: A type of young woman, supposedly to be found in and around Essex, and variously characterized as unintelligent, promiscuous and materialistic.

Oxford Living Dictionaries

Labels. We all have them, don’t we? They’re the reason I’m writing this book. I’m wildly, wonderfully imperfect, and my label as an Essex Girl proves it.

Am I an Essex Girl?

Absolutely!

Do I fit the stereotype?

Absolutely not! There’s so much more to people than the labels we’re given, and I want to share how I stay positive, how much I love my life, and how flawed yet happy I am, hence the title Happily Imperfect. This is how I am, and how I try to be, even when things feel less than ideal.

I’m far from perfect. I make mistakes, and that’s okay – in fact, it’s brilliant! This is the imperfect way I live my life: I love my work and revel in my family and community. I want to share how I stay positive, and show you how I deal with life’s ups and downs. I’ll be giving you completely imperfect advice, telling you what helps me in the hope that it helps you too. Your life doesn’t have to be perfect – far from it. You don’t need to be, look or even act a certain way to be happy.

I’m going to celebrate all of my imperfections, and there are plenty of them! I’m a ‘smother’ (Smothering Mummy, as my boys call me), a buffoon of a girlfriend, a fairly idiotic daughter, and I’m incredibly lucky to be a telly personality too. It all goes to show that there’s no right or wrong way to live wa-hoo!

Take from this book what you will. There is no single way to do things. I haven’t been through major trauma: I just want to share my journey with you, so that you know the real me, the unfiltered me, the far-from-perfect me. I want to pull open the curtain of celebrity because the people on your screens are just that: people – exactly like you. They’re no better or worse than anyone else. I’m passionate about breaking down barriers of all kinds – class, race, sexuality, whatever else holds people back or separates us. We’re all human. Let’s give ourselves a flippin’ break from judging others and – most importantly – ourselves.

Let’s go on annual leave from being told how to look, what to wear and who to be. Let’s say thanks but no thanks to the advertisers and social media telling us how to do or be anything. We don’t need to be thinner, richer, younger (!) or have a cut-glass accent. Those things don’t make you special to others. You being the only ‘you’ is the single most important thing that makes you stand out from the crowd. What a boring time we’d be having if everyone was the same.

Sometimes labels overshadow our talents. I was lucky enough that that wasn’t the case when I stepped onto the X Factor stage. I was last in the queue of thousands. I’d been waiting in an audition room packed with people until there was no one left except me, Zach and Mum. You can imagine what I looked like after spending sixteen hours in that space with my one-year-old. There was sick on my Converse trainers. My hair had been pulled every which way, and I wondered if I would ever actually get up there in front of the judges.

When they finally called my name, there was a rush of ‘Oh, my gosh, this is really happening!’ My heart was pounding and my mouth was as dry as if I’d eaten a bowl of sand. I felt my lips roll up like a blind – they literally curled up. I was so scared that the words of my song seemed to have vanished from my brain.

Standing there in front of the four people who would determine what happened next in my life, and the huge audience, I opened my mouth. Although the judges were surprised when they heard the girl from Dagenham’s singing voice, the stereotypes didn’t affect the opinions of Simon Cowell and the other panellists: Dannii Minogue, Louis Walsh and Cheryl Cole.

In the moment when all four gave me the thumbs-up, I realized I didn’t need to be perfect: I just needed to be me. Phew! I didn’t have to waste my energy trying to be someone I’m not. Just then it was truly amazing to be me: Stacey Solomon, X Factor contestant, ex fish-and-chip-shop worker, single teenage mum. Just me.

By being totally myself, I hope I can encourage others to be themselves. The prejudice I’ve faced in my life has often pushed me in the direction I’ve needed to go. When I was labelled a single mum, when people tutted at me breastfeeding Zach on the bus aged eighteen, I used that feeling to drive me forward, to make a success of myself, pay my taxes and be a good mum.

When people said I’d never make anything of myself because I had a baby, I wanted to prove them wrong. I have a rebellious side, which was often seen as negative when I was growing up, but it worked in my favour. It can work in yours too. If you feel like you don’t fit, like other people can’t see how incredible you are, choose who you want to be, and prove them all wrong.

We don’t have to be incredible, amazing or plain fabulous all the time. That would be draining. I try to look at the positive in each situation, and over time, I’ve found it the easiest way to be. I’ve discovered it’s much easier to let go (most of the time!). Getting angry or frustrated uses energy I could be channelling into making life better.

Happiness has become my ‘neutral’ state. When I smile, act in a friendly or kind way, I feel I’m owning my state of mind, regardless of what somebody wants to say or do to me. I’m more in control of how I react. When I’m confronted with a tricky situation, I try to ask myself, ‘Is it worth getting angry over this?’ It almost never is. But, of course, there are times when I need to stand up for myself, and certain situations in which anger and grief are necessary. Life isn’t always about smiling.

Every day I wake up alive and healthy, I feel I’m a winner. I feel privileged to be here on this amazing planet, but things don’t always go to plan. Stuff happens. Life throws a curveball. That’s when trying to see the glass as half full can help. It’s helped me through a few challenging times.

Choosing to see the positive isn’t always easy.

I find it extremely hard every time I go to Romford’s Queen’s Hospital children’s ward, where my sister works, where I act silly to entertain the children. While I’m with them, I’m thinking those kids shouldn’t have to be there: they should be outside playing, but life doesn’t always go that way. And it often strikes me that many of the children are the happiest, most positive humans I’ve ever met. There are some things you cannot change, so I try to focus on the amazing work the doctors and nurses do, the love and dedication of the parents and the resilience of the children. I walk out more aware of how extremely lucky I am to have healthy boys. It brings real perspective to everything.

My book is all about affecting the things you can change, like your state of mind, but if you want to see the ultimate act of positivity, then visit people in hospital. They’re the real heroes in action.

Life is imperfect. I am imperfect. We all are. I’ve learnt to love my quirks and idiosyncrasies, and those of my family and friends. Our faults can also be our biggest assets. My trusting nature means people take advantage of me sometimes, but it makes me kinder, and more open to others. Without it, some of the amazing folk I’ve met along the way might have passed me by.

I’m not going to tell anyone how to live or how to be happy, but I can share what works for me, as a flawed mum and partner, who occasionally shouts at her children in a usually messy home. Let’s not drown in life hacks, personality hacks, parenting hacks – hacking ourselves to bits – because that stress is the worst. And let’s remember to stop getting stressed about how stressed we are!

It’s been a massive relief for me to accept that I probably won’t ever have an Instagram-perfect home, face, body or partner. I probably won’t make my family organic juices throughout the day, throw a fake reindeer skin over my spotless designer sofa or waft through my Moroccan-inspired garden in a silk kaftan. Just isn’t happening.

Let’s celebrate being capable of love, and embrace the imperfections all around us. Let’s be kinder. What would the world look like if we were kinder to each other? It would be … almost perfect.

This book is about how my imperfections have helped me to live my best life. Thanks to them, I can make better choices about how to feel, what to focus on, and enjoy life.

I may be only twenty-nine, and I’ve broken a lot of rules, but I’ve learnt so much about love, being a mummy, and how to keep a smile on my face when the world seems bleak. Now I know what I need to do on my down days, when I’ve got Mum Guilt or I’m just sad, I want to share how I get through feeling hormonal, emotional or plain exhausted.

I’ve also decided to stop comparing myself with others or focusing on negatives. Halleluyah! I suffer from anxiety, so I’ve had to learn how not to worry about superficial things: it takes practice.

I want to bring you into my huge, crazy Jewish family. Today we would be labelled a ‘broken family’ but we didn’t fall apart when Mum and Dad divorced.

Dad bought a house opposite us so my sister, my brother and I could live half the time at Mum’s and half the time at his. Then he remarried and we grew into a blended family. It wasn’t conventional but it worked. That was where I came from – and that’s me.

This is an easy, no-stress book that celebrates all our weirdness and incredible-ness, with a few tips and bits of advice at the end of each chapter. I hope by sharing the things I’ve learnt along the way, I can help make life a little easier for you too. This is what makes me happily imperfect. Enjoy!

STAY POSITIVE

Labels! Everyone knows the stereotype of an Essex Girl – too much make-up, bleached hair, teetering on sky-high heels. She definitely lacks brains. Such a cliché! I could’ve let it hold me back, but I treasure my roots.

My accent is my member’s card to my life. All my friends and family speak like me. Fundamentally, we’re all good people with huge hearts, and that’s what matters. My accent makes me approachable, and I’ve started to enjoy my label. I’ve embraced the so-called ‘flaws’ of my accent and working-class roots. Italia Conti might not have wanted me, but The X Factor did, and the way I spoke became an advantage: it made me stand out from the rest, and gave me the ‘wow’ factor when I opened my mouth to sing. I’ll never forget the looks on the judges’ faces. It was the moment my hopes and dreams crystallized, the start of everything. Thank goodness I’m an Essex Girl. Would Simon, Louis, Dannii and Cheryl have noticed me if I wasn’t?

Look at the labels society may have stuck on you. Do they fit? Do they work for you? Do they define you? Can you own it or them, and make a positive from a negative? I’ve learnt that there’s more scope to impress people when their expectations are low, so set out to surprise them. Take advantage of those expectations and have a bit of fun with them, just like I did. Make peace with your labels – they could end up serving you rather than defining you.

Use this book to look at what might be going on with you, and identify it as a stereotype, a cliché or a label. It can be as easily shrugged off as embraced. You are you, your utterly unique and amazing self, and that is more than enough.

CHAPTER 1

Letter to Me (aged fourteen)

CHAPTER 2

The Big A

It started with prickles of sweat on my hands, then something like an electric current turbo-charged up my arms as I clutched my stuffed cat, Tootsie, and listened to the last words of our bedtime story. My older sister Jemma, who was eight, my brother Matthew, four, and I shared a bedroom. I was only six and, out of nowhere, I was terrified. It was a feeling I’d never had before. Because I was so young I didn’t even have words for what I was experiencing but I recognized fear. My body started to shake. My mind started to whirr. I couldn’t swallow. My breathing felt weird, like I had to think about it instead of just doing it. What was going on? I had to force each breath in, and each one out. I was starting to pant.

‘Stacey, are you okay?’ Mum peered into my bunk as she closed the book and started up towards the light switch.

‘Don’t leave me! Please don’t go!’ I begged, holding Tootsie even tighter. ‘If I go to sleep I might die. I might never wake up again!’

I don’t know where those thoughts came from, I just blurted them out.

Mum looked at me strangely. ‘What are you on about, Stace? Of course you’ll wake up again! You silly girl, you’re just overtired. What you need is a good sleep, young lady.’

‘No, Mummy. I’m scared.’ I must have sounded so pitiful!

At that moment Dad stepped into the bedroom. ‘It’s time for sleep, Stacey,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, let’s leave them and let them get some rest,’ he said, looking pointedly at Mum. Dad was strict about bedtimes, which now I understand. Back then I would never have dared challenge him, so I stayed in my bed, though each second was agony.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Stacey, I promise you. We’re here and you’re safe. Now go to sleep,’ Mum whispered, leaning over to kiss my forehead.

Usually she was able to soothe me but not that night. I stared after her as she tiptoed out. I didn’t dare to move, sitting bolt upright in my bed, as Matthew and Jemma snored softly in their bunks close by. Our giant teddy, Sylvester – we called him Sylvia after one of Mum’s friends, thinking it hilariously funny – was beside me. I cuddled up to him, dread filling me right up.

Every night Jemma and Matthew fell asleep before Mum had finished reading, but it usually took me longer to drop off.

‘You’ve got a busy head, that’s what it is, clever girl,’ Mum would say, ruffling my hair proudly. I didn’t feel clever. I just couldn’t switch off my head like my siblings did at bedtime, and I wished I could! Mine was always sparking with thoughts and questions.

I don’t know why I suddenly developed such a terror of going to sleep and dying. What could have triggered it? No flippin’ idea. I was confused as much as scared, and I really believed in that moment that I’d drown in the blackness of sleep, never to wake up. Dramatic but true. The thought makes me shudder, even today.

‘Don’t go! I’ll die if you go!’ I whispered, but the door was shut, the room turned black, and I sat there, wanting to scream but instead panting, my eyes as wide as a rabbit’s in the headlights. My breathing was becoming shallower and faster. I’m going to die … I’m going to die … My head was thumping. My body felt numb as I tried to draw air into my lungs. What if I fall asleep and it’s black for ever?

The numbness spread from my feet into my legs and passed through my small frame. I felt heavy and even more frightened. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t move. For what seemed like an hour, I sat there, my heart pounding.

Eventually – perhaps only a minute or so later – the feelings began to subside. I lay down, feeling really sick, my eyes eventually closing, but sleep stayed away.

That was my first panic attack and it was the start of my lifelong relationship with anxiety, or the Big A, as I call it. It was frightening because I hadn’t a clue what was happening to me. From then on, I dreaded bedtime because I was scared it would come back, and it often did. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, and go back to being the happy child I was before it struck.

It’s taken me a long time to make peace with my anxiety, to understand that it’s a natural survival instinct, though I’d be lying if I said I’m totally comfortable with it.

I still experience panic attacks, though they’re less frequent, and at least I now understand what is going on. I can also be open about my anxiety, which means I can share my experiences and, hopefully, help you guys. Worry isn’t a taboo subject for me. I think the more honest we can be about anxiety attacks, the more we can all feel we’re not alone, that we can talk about it and therefore help others who might feel isolated.

Anxiety creeps up on me when I hear about the death of a friend’s friend or see something tragic on the news. Death is the only thing I’m properly scared of, whether mine or a loved one’s. It freaks me out. In fact, I envy people who worry about their relationship ending, or their children moving far away because that stuff just doesn’t bother me. I don’t worry about whether I’ll lose my job one day, or even if my boyfriend Joe and I will split up. I don’t want any of those things to happen, but they aren’t life-or-death. Dying is the only thing that is!

If I’m alive I can do anything, but I’m aware that death could touch me at any moment. None of us knows when our time is up. I don’t want my life to end. I love my family, my children, my friends, and even Joe (sorry, babe, I couldn’t resist saying that!). Every morning I wake up happy to be alive and grateful for all the amazing things that have come my way. The thought of being dead fills me with horror. I don’t want to lose any of my loved ones and I don’t want my life to end. It’s as simple as that.

I know people will probably laugh at me for being so morbid when I’m only twenty-nine, but I grew up around Jewish grandmothers. If you want to learn how to worry about anything and everything, get a Jewish granny! Seriously, my nana (my dad’s mum) would constantly say things like: ‘Ugh! Don’t go outside – it’s cold!’ or ‘Ugh, if you don’t eat breakfast, you’ll starve!’ or ‘Ugh, you need a coat on [when it’s twenty degrees outside]!’

Nana lived like everything was dangerous and she was permanently on the edge of a cliff. I wonder if it was because Dad’s father died when he was young and she had young children to bring up on her own. She did an amazing job, but her anxiety definitely had an effect on me, though as a single mum I totally get where she was coming from.

When I look at my boys, Zachary, ten, and Leighton, six, I feel it’s all down to me to look after them. I mean, who would have them if I died? Who would support them and guide them? I’m really lucky. I have a big Jewish family so they wouldn’t be left on the streets. It’s more like, who would love them the way I do? And there’s no answer to that.

I grew out of the childhood panic attacks and spent my teenage years in an almost exactly opposite state: I felt indestructible. I’d spent ten years worrying about dying in my sleep and was still alive so I trusted life again. I actually believed that nothing bad would ever happen to me, and behaved accordingly. I had found my outspoken, rebellious side and loved it! It drove my mum mental.

When I went into labour with Zachary, everything changed and anxiety reared its ugly head again. I had no idea what to expect when I found out I was pregnant at seventeen. It was a big shock, closely followed by worry about the birth. I asked other mothers what their labours were like, and no one told me the truth. It was like there was a secret conspiracy to stop me knowing how traumatic childbirth can be. Looking back, it’s obvious they were trying not to frighten me, to protect me from the often grim reality, but it also meant I had no idea about the pain of contractions. I was in labour for seventy-two hours. I couldn’t believe how much each contraction hurt.