Fifty-Two Fridays: your turn

Why the usual stuff hasn't worked

You don't need more inspiration. You need to be held to the work.

You've probably tried some of these. None of them are the problem, exactly. But none of them moved the needle either:

The journal that filled up with feelings and emptied of action.
The retreat that felt incredible for a week, then dissolved.
The course you bought, started, and never finished.
The vague promise to "make more time for yourself" that nothing ever held you to.

Every one of those gives you more to consume. What's been missing is the opposite: less input, one clear commitment, and someone on the other end who notices whether you did it.

What it actually is

One project. One year. One email every Friday.

Once you're in, it starts with a call, just the two of us, where we turn the thing you've been circling into a real, defined project with a clear finish line twelve months out. Your book. Your relocation. Your career pivot. The work, treated like it matters, because it does.

Then, every Friday, you get an email from me. You answer three questions. The same three questions, every week, for a year:

[ Friday ] from your corner

What did you do this week on your project?
What will you do next week?
Anything else you want to tell me?

You reply. Ten minutes, no performing. I read every word myself, and I write back. Not a bot, not a template. A real reply, from someone who's walking her own version of this beside you.

No group to keep up with. No course to fall behind on. No platform to log into. Just you, the work, and a standing Friday appointment with someone who's paying attention.

How it works

Four moving parts. Twelve months.

We meet, just you and me

Once you're in, we start with a call, just the two of us. This is where I actually meet you, hear the thing you've been circling in your own words, and where we turn "I want to feel like myself again" into a real, defined project with a finish line twelve months out. It's the hour that shapes the whole year, and it's where the work truly begins.

You report, every Friday

The same three questions, week in, week out. The sameness is the point. It becomes a rhythm your week organises itself around. What you measure is what you move.

I write back

Encouragement, a nudge, a question, the occasional honest "you know what's really going on here." Whatever the week needs. The reply is the whole point. It's what makes this a room and not a reminder.

You arrive somewhere real

Fifty-two Fridays later, the thing that was just a someday is a thing you actually did, or well on its way. Not a vaguer, tireder version of the intention. A finished draft, a booked flight, a life that looks different because you kept showing up.

Honest fit

This is for one specific woman. It might not be you.

I'd rather be clear now than polite later. The room only works if the fit is right.

It's for you if

You've already built things: a career, a family, a life. You're not starting from nothing.
You mostly know what the thing is. You just keep not doing it.
You'll commit to one project for a full year, and treat that commitment as real.
You want someone paying close attention to whether you actually move.
You can be honest about where you are, not where you'd like to look.

It's probably not for you if

You're after community, group calls, or a cheering section. There's no group here, just the two of us.
You want someone to tell you what your project should be. That part's yours; the holding-you-to-it is mine.
What you're really after is rest and permission to slow down. That's a good thing to want. It's just not what this is.
You want a course, worksheets, or more to consume. This is deliberately the opposite.

And if you're reading the "not for you" list with a knot in your stomach, worried you're not disciplined enough, or that your thing isn't big enough, or that you'll have quiet weeks, that's not a reason to stay out. That's just fear, and fear is welcome here. The nervous, serious woman is exactly who this works for. We'll sort the rest out together on the call.

If you read that list and knew, you don't need the rest of this page to tell you.

Join the founding cohort

Your counterpart

Why me

Me, the woman you'll be writing to every Friday — Hello. I'm the one you'll be reporting to, every Friday, for a year.

Because I'm not on the far shore waving. I'm in the water.

I'm not a coach who did this a decade ago and now talks about it from a podium. I'm living my own version of exactly this. Coming back to work that's mine, one committed week at a time, with all the fear and the bad weeks and the small returns that come with it.

Here's my version, so you know I mean it.

I learned to surf in 2023, and it gave me back something I'd quietly lost. A feeling of freedom I hadn't touched since childhood. That weightless, wheeee feeling you forget you're allowed. I found the words for it in Diane Cardwell's Rockaway, her memoir about learning to surf. She wrote about being free, and I read it and thought, yes. That. That's exactly it. Out on the water, I remembered a version of myself I'd let slip while the rest of life filled in.

The problem: I live in London. Cold water, and I only get to surf a week at a time, on holiday. Jamaica, where it went deepest, is too far to be sustainable. But Senegal is five hours away, in my own timezone. It has the surf, extraordinary food, and, honestly, a lot of cats.

My work travels. My son has flown the nest and is off seeing the world. So the only real obstacles left are learning French and sorting the logistics of two London cats.

So I'm doing it. Gradually, three months at a time, building a rhythm between my London life and my surfing life, learning to live inside a new culture, a new language, a whole different way of being. I've moved countries before, in my twenties, so I know what it costs. Doing it now, with a built life to consider, is a different kind of nerve. But I know that photo up there, the one of me on the wall in Gorée Island, the cat beside me, doesn't have to stay a holiday. It can be anyday I chose.

The fear is real. The honest voice asks: am I mad, at this stage? And the honest answer is the only one that has ever moved me. There's no someday. There's now. So I'm going to do it now, scared.

That's exactly why I built this. Because I know precisely how it feels to have a thing that's yours waiting on the other side of a fear. And I know the only way across is to be held to it, week after week, by someone who's in the water too.

Me in Senegal, the place I'm moving to — Gorée Island, Senegal. The place I've stopped just visiting, and started moving toward.

I'm doing this too, out loud

I'm not asking you to do anything I'm not doing myself. My own project, over the next twelve months, is a real one with a real finish line:

I'm relocating to Senegal. Not "someday." Over these twelve months. The place to live, the language, the cats, the quiet, unglamorous business of actually going, done gradually, three months at a time.

So you won't be reporting to someone who's finished. You'll be reporting to someone in the middle of her own version of exactly this, working her own project week by week, which is the whole point.

I'll show up every Friday for a year. I'm asking you to do the same.

Before you join

Fair questions.

Why would I pay to be asked the same three questions every week?

Because the questions aren't the value. The accountability is. You already know what to do. What you're paying for is someone real on the other end who notices whether you did it, and who you'd rather not disappoint. That changes behaviour in a way no app or journal ever has.

What if my "project" isn't a business?

It almost certainly isn't, and that's the point. The book. The move abroad. The career change. The creative practice you abandoned at 25. Anything real and yours, that can be defined clearly enough to report on each week. We sort out exactly what it is together, on our opening call.

Do we actually speak, or is it all email?

Once you've joined, we start with a real call, just the two of us. That's where I meet you properly, hear your thing in your own words, and help you shape it into a project we can actually track. After that, the year runs on the weekly emails. So you get the human connection up front, and the light-touch rhythm that makes it sustainable for the rest of the year.

What if I'm not sure my thing is "big enough"?

Then that's exactly what the opening call is for. Some of the most important projects look small from the outside. If it's real to you and it's been waiting, it counts. And once you're in, we'll shape it into something worth committing a year to, together.

What if I have a bad week and did nothing?

You report that you did nothing. Honestly. The bad weeks are the useful ones. They're where we find out what's actually getting in the way. There's no performing in here, and no shame for a quiet week. Just the truth, and a way forward.

Do you actually read every reply?

Yes. Personally. No team, no AI writing the replies. That's the entire promise, and it's the thing I won't compromise, which is also why the founding cohort is small.

Is what I share confidential?

Completely. Your reports are read only by me. Nothing you write is ever shared with anyone. That's the contract.

Why a year? Can't I just try a month?

Because the things worth doing take longer than a month, and the dip (the point where you'd normally quit) usually comes around week eight. The year-long commitment is precisely what carries you through it. That's the whole design.

You know the thing you've been putting off for years.