I didn’t plan to write about this. Honestly, I haven’t written a blog post in weeks but this one’s been simmering. And after seeing one too many social media threads moaning about Evita, I couldn’t bite my tongue any longer. So here we are.

Let’s talk about the Jamie Lloyd-directed production of Evita currently running at the London Palladium. Let’s talk about Rachel Zegler. And let’s talk about that moment, the now-iconic staging of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” being sung not from the stage… but from the actual balcony of the theatre.

If you’ve seen the show, or even just clips, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Around 9pm, Zegler appears on the Palladium’s upper balcony, in full view of the street, singing directly to the crowd gathered outside. Inside the theatre, the paying audience watches it unfold via screens.

And for some reason, this has caused absolute chaos online.

People are outraged. “I paid over £150 for my seat and had to watch her on a screen.” “It broke the moment.” “It felt like a concert for the public, not the paying audience.”

But here’s the thing. And I mean this with love:

If that’s your takeaway,

you’ve misunderstood everything this musical is about.

🧠 Let’s remember who Eva Perón actually was.

Eva Duarte wasn’t born into power. She wasn’t handed a mic. She fought her way into history, into politics, and into the hearts of Argentina’s working class. Her most famous speech, the one “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” is based on wasn’t for the political elite inside the palace.

It was for the people outside, gathered in the square below the Casa Rosada, hoping she could see them. Hoping she still remembered them. Hoping she would speak to them.

That’s what Jamie Lloyd’s staging is doing. It’s not just a design choice it’s a living metaphor. Rachel Zegler stepping out onto that balcony to sing to the crowd in the street while the in-house audience watches on a screen is a direct nod to the most famous moment of Eva’s life.

It doesn’t diminish the scene.

It amplifies it.

🎭 The Theatre Is the Metaphor

This is what Jamie Lloyd does best. He strips back everything theatrical and replaces it with pure symbolism. This isn’t about lavish sets or traditional staging. This is about power. Access. Presence.

The elite, us, the theatre audience, are inside, removed from the action. Watching it happen at a distance. On a screen. While Eva sings directly to those gathered in the street.

Those without tickets. Those without privilege.

Those who, symbolically, were always her people.

🎥 But I Paid to See It in Person!

I hear you. I do. But theatre isn’t just about comfort. It’s about challenge. And if you’re sitting there thinking “I paid for the best view and didn’t get it,” maybe just maybe that’s exactly what Jamie Lloyd wants you to sit with.

It’s a gentle reminder that sometimes, the most powerful messages aren’t delivered to those at the top. They’re delivered to those outside. And if that makes you uncomfortable, good. That’s what theatre is supposed to do.

Also… you get every other second of Rachel Zegler’s phenomenal performance up close. Let the street have their moment. That balcony scene belongs to the people. Always has.

💔 My Regret and Why This Matters

I never got to see Jamie Lloyd’s Sunset Boulevard. I thought it would be on longer, and I missed it. It’s possibly my one great theatrical regret. So when Evita was announced, I knew I had to pay attention. I’ve loved this show since I first saw the film with Madonna and Antonio Banderas (don’t come for me — I still think Antonio was the best Che).

Evita isn’t just a musical I love. It’s one I understand. And this production, stripped back, symbolic, political, feels like the closest we’ve ever come to capturing the truth behind the legend.

📝 Final Thoughts

You don’t have to love the balcony scene. But if you find yourself furious about it, maybe take a moment and ask:

Is the production failing you? Or is it challenging you?

Because in this case, I think it’s the latter.

And personally? I think Eva would have loved that. 

Why I’m Breaking Up with Google AdSense (and Choosing the Soft Life Instead)

 

There’s a certain kind of shame in admitting this, but I’m going to say it anyway:

I’ve been earning around £60 a year from Google AdSense.

That’s… five pounds a month. A flat white. A particularly enthusiastic wax melt order. And in return for this fiver? I’ve had to turn my blog — my precious, once-pretty blog — into something that looked like a spammy newspaper from 2004.

Autoplay ads. Clashing fonts. Pop-ups. Rows of boxes selling insurance and clickbait cat food articles. All slapped across my most heartfelt writing like a bargain bin sale sign on a Monet.

And for what?

A cheque that wouldn’t even cover my monthly biscuit budget.

So I’m done.

This is my soft goodbye to AdSense. Not with rage. Just with relief.

💡 Why I’m Walking Away:

Because the ads didn’t feel aligned with me anymore.

Because the earnings weren’t worth the eyesore.

Because this blog is part of my soft life, and nothing about AdSense felt soft.

It was noisy. Messy. Disruptive.

And I’ve spent too many years building peace to rent out my calm for pennies.

🧭 What I’m Doing Instead:

I’m shifting to a more intentional kind of monetisation:

• Amazon links to products I genuinely love (and already talk about).

• Travel content with affiliate suggestions woven into my actual stories.

• Occasional gift guides that feel helpful, not pushy.

• And one day, maybe, a proper ad network that pays like it means it (hello, Mediavine… we’re not there yet, but I’m waving).

But mostly?

I’m writing again.

And I want my readers to have a clean, calm, ad-free space to come and sit with me in the chaos.

Because the blog deserves better.

I deserve better.

And so do you.

Explore my favourite finds on Amazon — quietly curated, no chaos.

The Soft Life Manifesto: A Declaration from a Woman Who’s Had Enough of Hard Things

 

💛 The Manifesto

I didn’t grow up believing life should be soft. I grew up believing it should be earned—hustled for, shouted about, survived. You worked hard, you didn’t complain, and you certainly didn’t rest unless you were practically dying. And even then, only for a bit.

But somewhere in my 50s, I realised something radical:

I’m not doing that anymore.

The Soft Life isn’t about being idle. It’s about choosing peace over performance. It’s walking away from people who drain you—even if you once loved them. It’s buying the fancy soap. It’s giving up the idea that everything has to be a struggle. It’s dressing for comfort, saying no without guilt, and living in a way that feels like a long exhale.

As a neurodivergent woman who’s worn every mask, played every part, and ticked every box—this is me tearing up the script.

I will not sacrifice my well-being for algorithms, expectations, or the grind.

I am not a brand.

I am a human being with cats, chronic exhaustion, and a cupboard full of wax melts.

I choose softness, even when the world tells me that softness is weak.

Because they’re wrong.

Softness is radical.

Softness is survival.

Softness is the loudest “no” I’ve ever shouted in a whisper.

This is not a phase.

This is not a rebrand.

This is a revolution, scented with lavender and served with a side of fidget toys.

Explore Mandy’s favourite soft life finds on Amazon

Romanticising My Life When I Feel a Bit Broken

There are days when I feel like the heroine of a Nora Ephron film—hair slightly windswept, lighting softly golden, cats purring in the background as I potter about being charming and slightly neurotic.

And then there are days like today, where I feel like I’m running on 17% battery, my kitchen smells vaguely like bleach and disappointment, and I’ve cried at an advert for dishwasher tablets.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s soft life now. With a side of mild emotional collapse.

But here’s the thing—I’ve realised lately that romanticising your life isn’t about waiting for everything to be perfect. It’s not about beige sofas, morning yoga, or journalling with a £40 pen. It’s about finding tiny things that make you feel like you’re still here. Still trying. Still you.

For me, it’s been:

1. Making protein iced coffee like I’m auditioning for a Scandinavian lifestyle reel.
2. Cleaning the kitchen with a Fabulosa spray that smells suspiciously like designer perfume and pretending I’m in a montage about getting my life back together.
3. Putting on trousers that aren’t actively offensive.
4. Playing music while I cook and convincing myself I’m the main character in a TikTok video no one will ever see.
5. Sitting with a cat (or five) and whispering “you’re the only one who understands me” like it’s completely normal.

It’s ridiculous. And it’s keeping me afloat.

I don’t have any grand insights. No big life lesson to tie it up in a bow. I just know that on the days I feel slightly broken, the answer isn’t always to fix everything. Sometimes, it’s to romanticise the mess.

To find beauty in a quiet five minutes.

To make your kitchen smell like Winter Angel and call it therapy.

To light a wax melt and pretend it’s emotional progress.

And if that’s where you are too, then just know—you’re not alone. You’re not failing. You’re just human. Possibly hormonal. And doing your best.

And honestly, that’s more than enough.

Why I’m Choosing the Soft Life — and Taking My Content with Me

 I’ve made an intentional decision — not just to live the soft life, but to work through it too.

You might already know that I’m what some people would call an accidental influencer. I never set out to be a content creator, but here I am — with multiple platforms, an Amazon storefront, and a TikTok shop presence that’s been quietly evolving behind the scenes.

If you’ve read my recent post about TikTok imploding, you’ll know that one of the reasons I believe the platform is struggling is because everything’s gotten louder. The voices are more frantic. The energy is more frantic. “Buy this now! Flash sale! Only 2 minutes left!”

And lately, that energy has crept into lives too — creators shouting about countdown deals like they’re auctioneers at a car boot sale. I tried it over the weekend. I hated it.

Because here’s the truth: I don’t want to live a “buy this now” life.

I want to tell stories.

I’ve always been a storyteller. That’s why I became a professional photographer — not to take pretty pictures, but to capture moments that say something. Telling stories builds community. It helps people see themselves in your world. And if someone buys a product at the end of that? Amazing. But if they leave feeling seen — that’s even better.

So yes, you’ll start to see a shift in my content.

More soft life. More honesty. More calm.

More quiet moments with cats and coffee and trousers that make me feel like the main character.

If it all falls apart and I can’t pay the rent, then fine — I’ll shout into the algorithm void and fight for my life like everyone else. But for now? I’m taking a multi-platform approach across my blog, TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Amazon. I believe that somewhere in the middle of all of that, I can build something sustainable — something that feels like me.

Because I want to create content that inspires people, not overwhelms them. I want people to feel welcome in my corner of the internet. I want to work in a way that doesn’t cost me my soul.

And if you’re still here — still reading — then maybe you’re looking for that too.

So let’s build it. Slowly. Softly. And on our own terms.

The TikTok Rollercoaster, My Rogue Bra, and an Accidental Fashion Win

Let me tell you about the TikTok rollercoaster. Not the metaphorical one you imagine—though yes, emotionally it’s very Space Mountain—I mean the actual one. You know the ride at the fair that’s equal parts thrilling and mildly traumatic, where you’re clinging on for dear life and slightly wondering if the whole thing’s going to collapse mid-ride? Yeah. That one. That’s TikTok for creators.

For weeks now, I’ve been posting daily, trying every format, every funnel strategy, every half-whispered rumour about what might please the algorithm gods. I’ve been methodical. Strategic. Possibly a little bit obsessed. And for the most part, it’s been… quiet. Not awful. Not great. Just that kind of deafening silence where you start wondering if TikTok’s shadowbanned you for having too much personality.

Then something weird happened.

I posted a video—a comedy skit about my bra, of all things. A silly little moment where I’m minding my business (and by that I mean not wearing a bra), and Auntie Brenda phones in with her usual menopausal rage about underwire and the structural failures of modern support garments.

It wasn’t meant to sell anything. It wasn’t polished or aspirational. I was just wearing an outfit I liked—good trousers, soft oversized tee—because it happened to be clean. That’s it.

Except then… it took off.

The video got over 12,000 views. People started asking where my trousers were from. Where my T-shirt was from. I’ve been trying to get people to buy fashion through my account for two years, and I’ve never seen that kind of reaction.

In the past 24 hours, I’ve sold multiple pieces from that video—three pairs of trousers and two tees, just by existing in a mildly exasperated state and letting Brenda do her thing. No big call to action. No link in the caption. Just a moment of actual life.

So what does this mean? That bras are cursed? Possibly. That people respond to realness? Definitely. That you can spend weeks planning your content calendar only to accidentally make sales in a video where you’re being bullied by an off-screen character you made up for a laugh? Absolutely.

I don’t have a neat conclusion here, except this: if you’re a creator, especially one trying to sell things, don’t underestimate the power of being yourself (or being your chaotic alter ego’s unwilling sidekick). I’m going to keep experimenting, keep posting what feels good, and maybe—just maybe—listen to Brenda a little more often.

Because apparently, she knows how to shift product.

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Postscript: The Algorithm is a 1980s Council Slide

Honestly, the TikTok experience is less “tech platform” and more “makeshift amusement ride built in 1984 by someone from the council with leftover scaffolding and a dream.”

Gen X will get it: those metal slides that were either freezing cold or scalding hot, shot you down at 80mph, and deposited you in bark chippings with permanent emotional damage. That’s TikTok. Every day.

Then there’s the Jeff Bezos fantasy:

Jeff turns up at my house and says,

“So… do you want to join Amazon?”

And I’m just there in my comfiest loungewear, lighting a wax melt, going,

“Sorry Jeff, can’t talk now. Brenda’s on the phone about bras again.”

And finally, we arrive at the Euthanasia Coaster.

If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a (very real) concept rollercoaster designed to gently kill you with a series of increasingly intense loops. Honestly? That’s how this app feels sometimes. It starts off all excitement and promise, then slowly spins you into existential despair.

But despite it all? We’re still here. Still creating. Still uploading. Still selling trousers by accident while trying to survive the ride.

TikTok may be the Euthanasia Coaster of content creation—but I’m still strapped in, arms up, screaming into the algorithmic void.

Depression, Doomscrolling, and the Dreaded Decline into the Pit of Existential Gloom

Let’s talk about that delightful little brain trick where the second you feel even slightly sad, you go full Sherlock Holmes on yourself trying to figure out whether it’s just a down day or the start of another trip down the depression mine shaft. Spoiler alert: there are no clear signs. No flashing neon that says “This is fine” or “Welcome back to the void.” Just vibes. And not the good kind.

This week? The vibes have been terrible.

It started with one thing—one stupid little thing—toppling. And like any good neurodivergent woman, my brain took that as an excuse to spiral into a full symphony of what ifs, what now, and oh god not again.

Because here’s the truth: when you’re autistic and life loses its comforting sense of constancy, your mental health is usually the first to file for divorce. We like stability. We like the known. We do not enjoy surprise plot twists. Especially the ones that come without commercial breaks or a warning at the top that says “this episode contains scenes of emotional peril.”

I’ve done all the things this week. Manifested like a woman possessed. Hugged my cats like they were emotional support therapy cushions (because they are). I’ve sipped ceremonial matcha and whispered sweet nothings to the universe while wondering if my brain is quietly sabotaging me behind my back.

Because once you’ve had depression—proper depression—you don’t just feel sad anymore. You interrogate the sadness. Is this depression again? Is this hormones? Is it burnout? Is it because Mercury’s retrograde and I haven’t saged my living room recently? Or am I just reacting normally to circumstances that are, in fact, a bit shit?

The answer, unfortunately, is probably “all of the above.”

And layered on top of that is the charming internalised monologue of my mother telling me I was born to make people unhappy and ruin lives. Lovely stuff. Really puts a bow on the whole experience.

So yes, I’ve spent too much time thinking this week. I’ve tried to soft life my way out of it with cosy corners and scented candles. I’ve tried to remind myself that just because I feel low doesn’t mean I’m doomed. But there's still a niggling fear at the back of my mind that happiness isn’t for people like me. That maybe I manifested too hard and the universe’s returns policy has kicked in.

But I’m still here. And if you are too—reading this, nodding along, wondering if you’re the only one panic-checking your mental health status every time your mood drops—then please know you’re not alone.

We’re not broken. We’re just human. Neurospicy, overthinking, cat-hugging humans trying our best to get through the week without crying on the bus.

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🔗 Soft Life Tools for When You're Falling Apart (But Aesthetically)

• Ceremonial Matcha Powder – The one I actually like, because no one needs bitter grass water when they’re already emotionally fragile.

• Milk Frother/Hot Chocolate Maker – For people who want barista energy without the burnout.

• Scented Wax Melts from the Northumberland Candle Co. – I call this one 'Emotional Stability in Scent Form'.

• Weighted Blanket – Like a hug, but from capitalism.

🧠 Neurodivergent Comforts

• Noise-Cancelling Headphones – Block out the world and listen to rain sounds while pretending you have it all together.

• Sensory/Fidget Tools – For when you need something to do with your hands besides doomscroll.

• Books That Soothe the Chaos Brain – Gentle reads for existential dread.

❤️ Mental Health Resources

• Mind UK – Coping with Depression

• Autistica – Mental Health in Autism

• The Blurt Foundation

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If you're someone who's been googling "how to know if you're depressed again" or "how to stop overthinking everything at 3am", welcome. You're in good company. This blog is filled with soft life comforts, neurodivergent tools, and tiny hacks that sometimes (just sometimes) help stop the spiralling. You’ll find my favourite matcha, the only wax melt that smells like emotional stability, and the cat-approved blanket I basically live under when life gets a bit much.