Content Warning: Description of death and hate crimes

Fifteen years ago when I tentatively started writing this blog, unsure of what I had to say or how I wanted to say it, there were a handful of people whose gentle support, tireless encouragement, interest and love gave me the confidence to keep going and to write about complex, nuanced experiences with care and honesty. Two of these people are Liz and Michael, the parents of our co-artistic director Matthew. Almost every post to date has been thoughtfully read and edited by them.

Liz died suddenly this week, with Michael and Matthew at her side. Knowing that Liz will never get to read this post fills my heart with deep sadness. But I want to make visible her quiet, persistent care that made Touretteshero possible and helped shape who I am.

I’d known Liz and Michael for a long time before they started editing my words – their home was a place of comfort and refuge for me, although I don’t know if they knew how much. It was a place of organising and plotting, a place to warm up after a protest, or to sit and write emails as we fought for the things we cared about – all this long before Touretteshero was even an idea.

When I first tried telling Liz about my tics, I was so nervous she thought I was talking about having indigestion and offered me water and Gaviscon. Matthew clarified for me what I didn’t yet have the words or confidence to say for myself. Writing this blog slowly helped me build the language I needed to share my experiences, and it created opportunities that my younger self could never have imagined. Liz, Michael, and Matthew have done the hard slog of this with me, giving me huge amounts of time, energy, and support. By valuing my perspective, they helped me value myself and I can’t overstate the positive difference this has made to me.

Liz and Michael have cheered us on at every stage, from the very first Touretteshero event where Liz ran the cloakroom, to helping put my book together on their living room floor. They let us film involuntary horoscopes in front of their bookshelves, came to our first show Backstage In Biscuit Land and helped write the letter we wrote to Edward Beckett asking for permission to perform Not I. I can’t imagine Touretteshero as it is today, without them having shown up for us in million different ways, large and small.

But it’s during some of the hardest times that I remember Liz’s strength, kindness, and advice most clearly. After I had experienced a shocking hate crime on a bus in 2017, Matthew, upset by what had happened and frustrated that I hadn’t advocated for myself more strongly, suggested I speak to his mum. This was exactly the right thing to do – Liz was thoughtful, patient, and empathetic, and I felt so much calmer and more grounded after speaking to her. She encouraged me to write about the experience in all its rawness.

I’m writing now, in the rawness of her death because I’ve learnt from her the importance of connecting with the truth of what you feel and finding ways to express it.

Liz expressed herself creatively through drawing, painting, and sculpture. She was a prolific artist. On the wall in front of me is picture she gave me a few years ago: it’s small and glorious, with snatches of bright blue sky, layers of whites and greys forming clouds, with birds scattered across it catching the breeze. It manages to be clear and complex at the same time and I love it, just as I love Liz in all her clarity and complexity.

Liz and Michael are Londoners but spend their summers in Harwich, where, over the last few years, they’ve transformed a derelict yard into an incredible garden. Last year we took my niece and nephew to visit them and had a gorgeous lunch in this wild and colourful space – it’s so clearly the result of their shared labour, intention, and care, as is Matthew, Touretteshero and the many communities and movements they’ve been a part of.

In 2023 after watching Burnt Out In Biscuit Land, Liz emailed saying:

“Thank you for tears of laughter, for letting us see the possibilities for change in action, and for putting them with such authority and generosity.”

Reading this back, I realised I would say something very similar to Liz.

Liz – artist, sculptor, thinker, supporter, and friend – thank you for the years of care and connection, for helping us see the possibilities for change, and for sharing your knowledge, skills and insights with such authority and generosity.

You are deeply loved and already missed. You are present in everything we’ve done and in whatever we do in the future.

Matthew will be off work for the next few weeks, but our team will continue to work as we hold his family in our thoughts.