The Queen of Coping

Why the piece I promised isn't here yet — and what I found when I stopped glossing over the truth. Written and read by Nicole Cody

Hello, Friends.

Last Monday I sat down to write an article for Substack. I had an idea, and I thought I’d just bang out a draft, edit it, and be done.

But that’s not what happened.

As I wrote — a relatively light-hearted piece — I joked about the time I got stuck in a bathtub, fully dressed, on a solo writing retreat. But the words on the page didn’t come close to the lived experience. It had been terrifying. Life-changing. That wasn’t the tone of the essay, though, so I stuffed the memory back down and kept writing.

What I didn’t tell you — and have never quite admitted to myself — is that being stuck in that bath wasn’t only frightening. It was the moment my coping first cracked. I had spent my whole life certain that every situation was a problem to be solved, or managed. And there I was, unable to lift myself out of a bathtub, and no amount of coping would change it.

On Tuesday I finished. I edited it, recorded it in my own voice, and was about to upload it when I was called away for a family emergency. That’s alright, I told myself. I can publish it on Wednesday morning.

Then I sat with what I’d written overnight — after a day when I’d already been confronting fears — and I realised I hadn’t been brave enough with my subject matter. The things that mattered, the ones that really mattered, I’d glossed over.

Why did I do that?

The answer was obvious — or the easy version was. I don’t like to make people uncomfortable. But that’s not quite true, is it? I’ve written about death, and grief, and illness, and none of that spared you. The real answer was underneath: I didn’t want you to see me frightened.

I am the Queen of Coping. The Queen of Suck It Up And Move On.

All of what I’d written was true. I’m coping. I’m fine.

But I hadn’t told you the deeper truth. I’m still terrified.

A little later, drinking tea and trying to muster the courage to go back to the article, another thought arrived.

Why am I here, on Substack? What am I trying to share, and why does it matter?

I went back to my own words — the ones I’d written about why this space exists — and one line stopped me cold:

They notice more than they say, feel more than they show, and often assume they are the only ones living this way.

I wrote that. About my readers. And there I was, doing the very thing — feeling far more than I was letting show.

Okay, then. I’d promised you honesty. Transparency. I’ve always given you that. But I haven’t given you everything.

Reading back over the draft, I could see all the places where I’d dropped something heavy — a bomb, really — and then brightly announced: nothing to see here, people, move along. Which does you a disservice. And me.

So I sat down and framed up some hard questions — the kind you ask when you actually want the truth, not the comfortable version — and went back over the work again.

I was so conscious of getting something published by the end of the week. But the days rolled on, with a lot of tears and a lot of cups of tea, and the deeper I went, the more clearly I knew: I couldn’t rush the excavation.

Not for you. For me.

I write to discover myself. To look at things in a way that shows me my truest thoughts and feelings. Until recently that work has lived in my journals, and I’ve only ever shared the sanitised version. I don’t want to do that anymore.

Slowly, across this year, I’ve been gathering the strength to reveal myself more fully. 2026 has been a big spiritual year, and I’ve been walking a long path of enquiry — trying to reach the heart of what matters to me, and how I want to spend my precious, limited time.

These next essays come from that harder place.

Even now, writing this, I can feel the habit. I tell you a hard truth and immediately want to reassure you — but I’m coping, I’m fine, life goes on. And I am coping. But the reflex to tidy the frightening thing away, to soften it so neither of us has to sit in it — that’s the very thing I’m trying to put down. So I’m going to try to leave the hard sentences standing, without rushing to make them comfortable.

Like: I’m still terrified.

See — I wanted to soften that. I didn’t.

I’m taking away the last places I hide. I’m frightened. And I’m doing it anyway. The hiding hasn’t been serving me — or you.

If not now, when?

All my love,
Nicole xx