LIV LITTLE
EMBRACING SOFTNESS BY THE SEA
THE DAY I PICKED UP THE KEYS TO MY FIRST home was emotional. I remember running down to the beach, smiling and then sobbing. Happy tears. Even on a choppy afternoon, the decision to move to the Kent coast felt right. It had all happened so fast. Months before, I had burnt out for the second time that year and reached a point where I felt so low that I had started to convince myself that the only way to find peace was to stop existing. I was a shell of my ordinarily energetic, optimistic self, and the sea brought with it the possibility of slowing down – a new beginning, a metaphorical cleanse. I left the city in search of a calmer pace and the soothing properties of the open water, and have been welcomed with such love, softness and care.
I didn’t ever think that I, a south London-obsessed city girl (it’s even the location of my debut novel), could live anywhere else, but now I can’t imagine going back. The most beautiful thing I’ve discovered about living in a seaside town is the warmth of the community. Before deciding to move, my partner and I researched whether we, two queer Black people, could call this environment home. Thanet is, after all, the spiritual home of Nigel Farage, and I had dedicated the previous five years of my career to cultivating creative work spaces in which I, and other marginalised groups, wouldn’t feel ‘other’. Still, although the community of people who look like me may be relatively small, its heart is strong, and the members are dynamic.
There’s a collective here called People Dem that holds space for Black and Brown people in this little seaside town. They deliberately engage with people of all ages and from all walks of life. The people I’ve met through this support network (they organise meetups, community learning and events) continue to inspire me through their eclectic interests and warmth. The beauty of small-town living is that I’ve forged friendships with people I may not have otherwise crossed paths with. One of the most special bonds I’ve been forming is with an older, queer Black woman who moved to Kent almost two decades ago. Everything about her is gorgeous and she has taken the time to share her skills (she’s an avid agriculturalist) and experiences of being Black and queer from decades before we were alive, and on top of that, when our friends have visited, she’s welcomed them into the fold.
Making time for others is one of the most loving things we can do, and when you live in a place where things move a little slower, it feels like there is more space for genuine moments of connection rather than quick hellos in between work commitments. Invitations for a dip first thing in the morning, sloe-berry picking or cycling along the coast are not a rare occurrence. As a creative, it has been refreshing to enter an environment where works-in-progress are encouraged, rather than needing every piece of work to be polished.
Mutual support seems to be the unspoken rule that governs how people interact with each other here – perhaps something to do with the fact that many of the people that have chosen to live here tend to be on their own healing journey, be that work-related stress, or the loss of loved ones leading them to reconsider the lives they want, or just those craving proximity to the sea. The gentleness I’ve experienced through living here hasn’t all been to do with the location for me, though. Much of the healing work I’ve been doing is embracing the fact that I’m allowed to feel gentleness. When you’ve constantly been acting against what your body and mind want and need, a lot of rewiring needs to occur. Moving here has, in many ways, saved my life. I feel fortunate to live in a place where my community is bursting with creative energy and equal quantities of gentleness. There’s so much pain, suffering and loss that we are not in control of, and so, for me, part of this next chapter by the sea is about embracing the magic in softness.