On Failed Cakes and Linguistic Mistakes
Ahead of turning 27 tomorrow, I decided to give in to my whimsical side and bake a purple cake. For those unfamiliar with Eliza lore, there were a solid three years in uni where I dressed in purple every day, even becoming known by some as a “human Ribena bottle” due to my commitment to the aesthetic. All these years later, purple—aside from being my favourite colour—represents a version of me, and a part of my life, that I often feel distanced from.
I searched half way across London for ube extract to make an obscenely purple cake. I had no luck, but stumbled upon taro extract, and figured it would do the trick. After all, they both come from purple sweet potatoes. How different could it be? I came home early, put on my dragon audiobook, and got to baking. Since moving to London four months ago, I haven’t had many opportunities to bake cakes. So it’s only natural that, in spite of using my oven to cook non-cake food every day, I forgot it was a fan oven and required a 20° adjustment. 15 minutes into the baking time, I remembered. I launched myself off the bed, where I was scrolling absentmindedly through Instagram reels like the productive PhD student I am, and opened the oven. Blinded by steam, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I gazed into the oven, and the void gazed back. Even with a fan oven, 15 minutes at 180° shouldn’t cause a cake to burn. Face-to-face with the accidental goth cake, I realised that taro extract does not retain its purple colour when cooked. Instead, it turns black. And green. By the time the cakes were cooked on their green insides, they were burnt on the outside. I responded like the almost-27-year-old I am, and lay in the foetal position on a beanbag on the floor and tried not to cry.
My baking, apparently
I always tell myself that I’m not big on birthdays, and I think that’s a carefully crafted half-truth to hide the fact that I haven’t had many friends around me for the past few years, and it’s easier to be indifferent than lonely. So I bake cakes and face the melancholia that this time of year always seems to bring.
I was looking through the random assortment of photos saved on my phone, as one does when they have no signal on the tube, and I came across a screenshot of a tumblr post that read “what they don’t tell you about growing up as a very lonely little girl is that you grow up and still a part of you remains that very lonely little girl”. Which is a great way to start a Monday morning.
My life has changed so much since moving to London and starting my PhD. I’m so much happier here than I had been in Glasgow in years. I have friends, and I have a sense of purpose, and I get to learn new things every day, and my confidence has skyrocketed. I am happy here, burnt cakes aside. But it takes time to rewire your brain and change your long-held beliefs. In my 27 years, there were maybe four good years of friendship. Four years where most of the people I loved lived in the same city or even country as me. When I take stock of my life, I cling to those years like a lifeline, but the 23 years where friendships were scarce or separated by land and sea have the upper hand in defining my internal narrative. Since moving to London, I have tried so hard to rewrite that story.
Doing a PhD inoculates you against perfectionist tendencies. It’s a process of drafting and redrafting – in the literal sense, with your writing, but also with your ideas, your way of being, your frame of reference for how you view the world. I can feel those changes already, and I know the person I will be by the end of this is completely different to who I am now. I wanted to be perfect in September. I wanted to start my PhD in the right way. I wanted to look right and act right and make the right impressions and have the right self-esteem. Instead, I often found myself stumbling, feeling socially awkward. But I showed up. Every opportunity to make friends, make contacts, learn new things about my research topic. I showed up.
The other week I met a Ukrainian woman on the bus. She didn’t speak much English and needed directions to the train station. I’ve been learning Ukrainian for 2.5 years, but this was my first instance of needing to use the language in the wild. I tried to help the woman, and we communicated in broken Ukrainian and English. She told me in Ukrainian that she struggled to understand the English directions, and I felt relief at understanding her words. Luckily, she found her friend before I needed to give her directions, because I got my left and right mixed up. Not the Ukrainian words ліворуч і праворуч but the actual directions.
I was so embarrassed afterwards. I couldn’t believe I had made such a basic mistake. The following week, I told the anecdote to my Ukrainian teacher, and it was possibly the longest I’ve talked in class without needing notes or memorising a script. Somehow my failure had made me more confident. I remembered being 18 and lost in Tallinn, and the utter relief I felt when I found someone who spoke English. For the woman on the bus, I imagine my (albeit limited) ability to speak Ukrainian was comforting. She was at least able to express herself and feel heard, even if I couldn’t help her as much as I would have liked to.
As painfully cliché as it sounds, it’s better to try something and make a few mistakes, rather than waiting for some elusive standard of perfection that no mere mortal can obtain. Whether it’s learning Ukrainian or writing my literature review, these first few months of my PhD have taught me so much about the value of imperfection. Learning comes from the liminal spaces, the moment when you can feel a word on the tip of your tongue but it’s just out of reach. I’m so grateful for every failure that brought me to where I am right now.
This time last year I was up to my eyeballs in PhD funding applications, and mentally zoning out of my job and my life in Glasgow. Everything was up in the air. I had no idea if I would get funding, if I’d be able to move to London, but I already had one foot out the door. I was burnt out, clinging to a hope that felt further and further away. I had no doubt I would make it here, yet it felt impossible.
Now I’m four months into my PhD, still up to my eyeballs in a funding application because I only got partial funding this year. But I’m here. Imperfect and still learning, and here. Even at my most stressed, I am so grateful to be here.
I’ve tried to write about my life in London since moving here, and never quite found the words. Hopefully soon I will write about my PhD, and the things I love about London, or some of my interests outside of academia. I haven’t had much time for non-academic writing lately, but I want to learn to make time again.
I don’t know what 27 will bring. But I know that I’m where I’m meant to be, I know I’m happy, and I know I have more friends than I did this time last year. I’m not lonely the way I used to be, even if I still have my sad girlie moments from time to time. I’m confident and I’m achieving the things that matter to me. That confidence comes from allowing myself to make mistakes, to talk to strangers in languages I’m too nervous to speak, to make purple (green) cakes for the whimsy of it all.