I Don’t Sleep Well in Strange Places: Alignment, Charity Shop Therapy & the Gospel According to the Sugababes

I Don’t Sleep Well in Strange Places...and no, it’s not just because my back has beef with anything that isn’t memory foam.

Chimamanda said something the other day that hit me right in the sleep-deprived feels. I’ve been away from home the past three weeks, living out of suitcases, hopping between spare rooms and guest beds. Every place I laid my head? Technically lovely — crisp sheets, memory foam, even a rogue goose-down pillow in one spot. But listen, my body said nah sis. It refused to fully surrender.

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Because my bed?That’s not just where I sleep.That’s my safe space. My altar. My sanctuary.It’s where my body finally exhales. Where my soul and my partner’s soul meet mid-snore, mid-dream, mid-night fart. A sacred ritual of comfort only we understand.

You could offer me a bed fit for a member of the British Royal Family in a five-star suite with room service and a view — I still wouldn’t sleep right.If it’s not my bed? The sleep ain’t sweet.

It got me thinking…

Life’s like that too. You can be in the shiniest setup — glossy Instagram feed, title that makes your mum proud, bag secured — and still be off. Still tossing and turning inside.Because when something ain’t aligned? Your soul will start squirming, There will be an unease.Like wearing someone else’s cute shoes one size too small — adorable, but you’re limping with toes curled in discomfort.

You can try to contort yourself to fit. Smile through the Team's meetings, or daily catch up.s IRL. USE ALL the corporate Jargon like you’re fluent in Corporate-ese. But that little voice inside whispers…“Sis, this ain’t it.”

The thing is, Your body?She always knows. Way before your brain’s ready to admit it.

Alignment isn’t a buzzword — it’s survival.It’s learning to listen out for the quiet yes and the loud no.To feel what drains you and what lights you the hell up like Harrods at Christmas.It’s ease that feels like truth. Flow, not force.

You don’t chase alignment — you listen for it. Start with the small stuff. Clock what feels good. Protect your peace like it’s your PIN number. Midlife has zero tolerance for performative living. We’re here for peace, purpose, and a proper night’s kip - 8 hours now adays.

I’m learning. Slowly.

I’ve got walkie-talkie energy with the universe now — I speak, she responds. Sometimes by sitting me down with a "let’s try this again, babe" moment.20-year-old me would've rolled her eyes like “hippy-dippy nonsense.”40-something me? F**K YEAH the hippies were onto something.

So I’m leaning into the pause. Embracing the reroute.Trust me, as a creature of habit with serious control issues, this ain’t easy. But I’m trying.

Speaking of joy…You know what gives me unfiltered serotonin? Not Vinted. Not Depop nor Ebay Not some over-curated, overpriced vintage bougie shop BS.

I’m talking about proper charity shops.The old-school joints. OXFAM, ALL ABOARD, etc those ones.The ones you hit first thing in the morning, rubbing shoulders with Nana Joyce and her pink rinse, both of you eyeing the same vintage fur hat.

The kind where your mum dragged you around post church on a Sunday, bribing you with Ribena.The thrill of the hunt. The rush when you bag a look for £4.This ain’t new to some of us — we’re the children of Jumbo Sale warriors.We were raised in the thrift trenches.School halls, church basements, community centres — tables piled high, your auntie giving you side-eye if you dared walk past the jeans without checking for Levi’s.

Even back in Nigeria, I remember the “bend down boutiques” in Aswani and Balogun markets which I went to with my aunties — rummaging for gold among chaos.For most of my childhood in lagos, idea of buying new clothes from a shop was Alien concept.

If it wasn’t made by “Tailor Le Rant” the Tailor or seamstress your family had on call and lived down the road, it came from the market.

Then came the Oxford Street Saturdays — my first taste of solo shopping.Piggy bank emptied, coins counted, me and my cousins and friends hitting up Topshop, Miss Selfridge and Tammy Girl like we were on a mission. Those were the glory days of the high street — and they’re long gone.

These days I try to shop with intention.Slow. Mindful.But let me not lie — ZARA, that devil shop, still has me in a chokehold.

It’s like that toxic ex you know ain’t good for you, but the minute you see them looking fine, you forget your worth.That’s me, arms full of denim , satin shirts and fake leather trousers every damn season that I don’t need.

This week, I hea