ABOUT
I MADE A DIARY BECAUSE I HATED DIARIES.
I bought a lot of diaries. I spent a lot of money on their promises. I still sweat in stationery aisles. I also have a graveyard in my drawer of diaries briefly touched from back until 2016.
I spent most of my life thinking there was something wrong with me because I just couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t be organised. I’d forget the dentist. Important birthdays. I could make an appointment in the morning for that afternoon and, by the time the afternoon came around, I’d forgotten I’d made it.
I always had the best intentions. I’d start a shiny new diary thinking, this one’s going to be it. I’m going to write down my goals. I’m going to plan every week. I’m going to fill in the gratitude section. I’m going to drink the fucking water.
It never happened.
All they did was taunt me with guilt. Another thing I wasn’t keeping up with. Paper reminding me how much I hadn’t drunk and who I wasn’t going to be by Q4.
Then, in 2025, I turned 40 and decided I needed to change mine and my kids’ lives. So I set about figuring out some magical way to make money online, like the internet had spent the last decade telling every millennial we could.
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
So I started building digital products. Mainly, I started learning. And I did it. I built an entire body of digital products, six, to be exact. Really good ones, as well.
There was just one fairly significant problem: I couldn’t organise my own life.
So I thought I’d play around and make something I could print off and stick on my wall. I started thinking about how I could actually hold things in my head, and I started looking at all those diaries I’d bought and why none of them had ever worked for me.
I looked at traditional diaries versus how an ADHD brain actually works. Why I needed closed loops, dopamine, ownership. Why I needed to be able to see what mattered. How stationery was somehow still stuck in 2007.
I figured no fluff.
Fluff looks lovely. It helps quantify the price you’ll pay for the brick you carry around in your handbag for five days, but it just pisses you off when you don’t do it.
My paper started to work.
Then, mostly for a joke, I thought I’d get it printed and see what happened. It was awful. Honestly, ugly. It looked like something designed for the visually impaired.
But it carried on working for me, in it's huge grotesque glory.
I used it. I came back to it. It was essentially my brain splat in and all over a little book.
So I made another version. Still ugly. Then another. Still fairly ugly. Eventually, I asked a few women whose brains I knew worked like mine if they wanted to try one. No obligation. I just wanted to see if it worked for anyone who wasn’t me.
The next month, I asked them, Do you want another one? They said yes. So I made another one. The month after that, I asked them again. They said yes again.
They told me they reached for it more than their husbands. Women whose Anti-Diaries lived on the kitchen side, were touched all day, looked at, scribbled in and kept coming back to.
And I realised: this was the business.
The Anti-Diary built The Anti-Diary.
And, actually, it’s still building the business now.
I made it for myself. I built it to meet other women exactly where they are and help them become who they want to be in the future. I’m hoping one day it’ll work for men and teenagers too.
ANTI goals unless you make them.
ANTI hydration reminders.
ANTI dividing your life into 15-minute increments and pretending you’ll follow them.
It’s just a diary you come back to. It works with your brain. It leaves you breadcrumbs. It shows you what’s important, what you can drop and what you need to do next.
It catches your balls. That’s what I think a diary was meant to be for in the first place.