I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the void. Defined by Oxford languages as: noun: a completely empty space, ‘the black void of space’.

A vast emptiness, a concept to describe the incomprehensible. The void has become a catch-all among my generation for the general lack of purpose or feeling of belonging many experience when moving through the universe. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I’ve never considered my place in the world, who I am and why I was put on the planet. I’ve read about existentialism; not from philosophers, but from women my age on the internet. I’ve scrolled through relatable viral tweet after relatable viral tweet about the vast emptiness of existence. I’ve even double-tapped a few. But on the whole, as someone who was diagnosed with a chronic illness in their late teens, the void itself has never been something I’ve fully understood or felt.

Growing up in the early age of social media, I was surrounded by my peers, wondering where they fitted in. First through the lens of teen angst and coming-of-age girl rage, filtered through confessional Tumblr posts and autobiographical artwork dealing with the trials and tribulations of growing up. I gazed at my laptop screen as accounts I followed banded together to take on the world’s wrongs, to make sense of the mess that is femininity, and to push against the still restrictive stereotypes projected onto girls both on and off the internet. I admired those around me filling their voids with a sense of community, belonging and purpose. I gorged on the work published by people much more confident than me, unable to fully comprehend their confusion about our reality, but awe- struck by their ability to post their thoughts without fear of judgement.

Book of the week: read an exclusive extract from Poor Little Sick Girls by Ione Gamble