They said it would be easy,

a simple walk in the park.

But I knew better,

with each step came a pounding in my head,

a weight around my arms,

a vice around my throat.

"Hello best friend!"

Scribbled on the first line,

your name,

carried in my heart,

and written on every page.

I have gotten used to invisible hands.

They held my gaze, whispered to me.

Like a phantom lover, they mesmerized me.

It has only been a short time since they touched me,

And yet I am certain I can feel them now.

I do not want to—I do.

I hear the roaring laughter of the winds as it crawls into my

Veins of fear.

What could possibly be left of the lingering thoughts of going

Somewhere far away in the Pacific ocean

Where no human feet are traced

It often needs a trigger warning, yet it happens every day. Often in homes, behind closed doors, sibling to sibling is the most common method - as heart breaking as that is to hear, it’s completely true. I suffered more than once with being victimised. But not at home, at school. A close school friend of mine, let’s call her Lara - for data protection reasons, abused me.

Following the successful launch of her second published poetry book, Wings Unfurled, we were overjoyed to speak with poet and author Libby Jenner about her poetry inspiration, writing process, and how poetry has been a powerful tool to help her with mental health and to heal traumas.

Do you know what it was/is to be in love? It was that spot in the woods by the park that is always filled with sunlight. The spot with the fairy garden that I took them to before they asked me to date them, like really date them. It was warmth and soup broth, it was a bath in some ways but not others. It is straining my eyes because I’m trying to peer into a wolf’s den or peering out of a cave and not straining my eyes because it’s night already. It is feeling like I was slapped in the face, and then wishing I had actually been slapped in the face because physical wounds are tangible. It is sobbing so hard I shake in my parked car the day after, before work, alone.

I forget myself in the melancholy of times,

where the arrows are like scissors

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…

This Modern Struggle Magazine had the honour of speaking with artist and writer Irina Tall and sharing her unique artwork.

She shares her artistic journey, her creative process, the powerful meanings behind her work and the way that art can inspire and influence.

Thank you so much to Irina for taking the time to share her creativity and insights with us.

This Modern Struggle Magazine had the absolute privilege of speaking with artist Aleena Sharif and sharing her inspirational artwork.

She shares her artistic journey, her creative process, and how the power of painting the nude female form helps to promote body confidence and self-love for herself and other women.

Thank you so much to Aleena for creating representative pieces and a safe space to share nude paintings.

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.

Never in a million years did I think I would be a single dad.

As my first Christmas co-parenting approaches, I can’t help thinking that this isn’t how I imagined my life to be, how things don’t always turn out the way you expect when you start a family.

We are brought up with the notion that it’s always better for children to be part of the traditional family with both parents than each alone. Because it was imprinted into me that coming from a broken home was so difficult for children growing up, I have personally really struggled with the feeling that I have failed my daughter because her mom and I are no longer together.

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.

This Modern Struggle Magazine is honoured to share the beautiful words of Stephanie, a Glaswegian cinquain and soliloquy poet.

She aims to help people with her poetry, and her poem Love Yourself is an inspiring message about self-love that we all need to hear.

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. 

If you have watched any of the classic horror films, such as Halloween, Scream, Friday the 13th, or Nightmare on Elm Street, you will recognise the Final Girl trope. One woman will be the lone survivor of the slasher, beating the killer and becoming the last one standing.

This premise seems progressive, however, the trope was usually that the Final Girl was seen as the most ‘moral’ girl. If you are having sex in a horror film, drinking too much, or doing drugs, you are going to be one of the first to get killed. If you are the more innocent, kind, or virginal girl, you will always be the one who survives. This perspective goes hand in hand with women being objectified in horror films, with their bodies being used for sex and dismemberment, often being found in compromising positions, shown with their breasts exposed, or sexually assaulted on screen.

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

Following the successful launch of her third published poetry book, Sins & Sunflowers: Second Edition, we were thrilled to speak with poet and author Emma-Jane Barlow about her poetry inspiration, writing process, advice for up-and-coming poets, and how poetry has helped her express her emotions and speak up to help others with autism.

Exposing her vulnerability as she pens the tempestuous journey of loss and love, Emma-Jane explores the vicissitude of overcoming her first heartbreak, dating, and falling in love with someone new. Through the symbolism of a sunflower with canary wings, she writes about learning to love herself as she navigates new beginnings and finds her voice again. In this second and more visceral edition of Sins & Sunflowers, she digs even deeper into the trauma and tribulations of the healing journey and how believing in your own light can truly set a spirit free.

“And you’re listening to that song, and that drive with the people who you love most in this world. And in this moment, I swear, we are infinite.”

- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I have always loved that one scene in The Perks of Being a Wallflower. You know, the one with the back of the car, Sam and “Heroes” by David Bowie. Or, if you remember, the one with the back of the car, Charlie and “Heroes” by David Bowie. Actually, I like the second one better, because you know at this point in the movie how much the character has gone through. You know how much he has grown, and that the freedom he feels is hard fought. It’s that one that makes me cry, that gives me hope, that makes me a little sad.

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.