Born in Manchester in 1985, Emma Barnett is a journalist and broadcaster. She studied at the University of Nottingham and Cardiff School of Journalism. Her career began in 2007 at the business magazine Media Week; she has since worked for the Daily Telegraph, LBC, BBC Radio 5 Live and Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour. Her book Period: It’s About Bloody Time, which chronicled her experience of endometriosis, was published in 2019. This year, Barnett joined the presenting team on Radio 4’s Today programme. She lives in London with her husband and two children.
My parents thought it would be a lovely idea to have an official photo taken of me. There is something about this image that is so strange. I don’t object to pink, or to jumpsuits – I don’t personally wear them, but I know people do – but it’s the assured corporate pose that I was put in by the photographer that makes me look businesslike and grown up. In spite of that, my grandpa, who was a doctor, had this picture framed and hung it over his desk.
Being an only child, I spent quite a lot of time in my own company, creating worlds. My main passions were reading, climbing and collecting troll dolls. I was very comfortable around adults. Not only was I the only child to my parents, but I was my grandparents’ only grandchild and my godmother’s only godchild. That felt like quite a unique atmosphere to grow up in; I was surrounded by love and adults who liked to talk and be talked to. I also grew up in a home that was very quiet. Whenever I’d go round to my friends’ houses I’d feel quite assaulted by the noise.
What makes this image even more poignant is that my grandma died just before it was taken. That was a seismic thing to happen to our family as she was the most important person in our lives, a true matriarch. There was no interruption of service in terms of how I was parented, however. I might have been suddenly conscious of how finite life was, but even though my mother was incredibly sad, she made it so that I was still thriving.
At school I was very talkative, pretty out-there, happy and imaginative. I was tomboyish, even though I’m dressed head to toe in pink. I’ve always been a curious person, so when we were allowed to dissect a sheep’s lung in our science class, I was really up for it. I went through a phase of wanting to be a fishmonger, too. I’d go on errands with my mum at the weekend around Manchester, and I always liked the idea of the guts and the gore of cutting up fish for a living. In that way, I suppose I was a bit of a thrill-seeker. That sense of wanting adventure carried on when I was at university; I ended up putting on plays, as well as acting and directing.
Growing up, I loved the excitement of living in Manchester, with all its subcultural identities. It felt like every day I was going to watch a different friend get a piercing or have their hair dyed pink. As soon as I was old enough, I was going to concerts – my first gig was Lauryn Hill, closely followed by the Spice Girls. I was massively into indie as well, and loved Oasis versus Blur.
Manchester was a brilliant city, but I was impatient too – eager to find out what was beyond what I was being presented. Thankfully, London was just as fun as I anticipated. I was living above a fried chicken shop right next to Ladbroke Grove tube station, and our flat shook with the reverberation of the trains and the buses outside. There was a really bad smell for a long time in my bedroom, which wasn’t me. It wasn’t until we were moving out that I discovered it was a dead mouse, but by that point it had fossilised behind the drawers. The Notting Hill carnival passed outside our window, and me and my best friend would have parties and eat free food from whichever media event we could get invited to. Even though the city was expensive, I was determined to stay.
In my 20s, I got a Sunday evening show on LBC. Broadcasting was never an obvious choice: there was always a radio on in our house, but until that point, the only time I’d ever had my voice recorded was when my cousin Harriet was dying of cancer in her 20s, and I used to record songs and little messages for her on my grandpa’s Dictaphone that he could take to the hospital. When I discovered radio, however, I practically floated home from the studio.
For a short period, I did the 1am until 5am shift on LBC, crashed at home for a couple of hours, then headed off for a normal day’s work at the Telegraph. It was an exhausting time, but the only way to properly earn my stripes. There were no callers, there were no guests, there was barely any news or weather or adverts. It was just me, my wits and a microphone. That was the most incredible training: if the line goes down now at the BBC, I’ve done the airmiles to know I can cope.
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I do have my bad days, of course. I’ve done a lot of IVF and any woman who’s had a difficult hormonal experience will tell you that it can make you feel less than brilliant. But there is a discipline there that sharpens the mind; and as soon as the red light goes on, I’ve got no choice but to do my job.
Part of my role is also being OK with not being liked; but that is something I’ve had to develop over time. We are living in an era of podcasts where celebrities interview each other, and while I am really enjoying that, journalism to me means you retain a distance from the subject because you have to reserve the right to ask tough questions.
Now I am on the Today programme, I get up at 3am and leave the house at 3.35am. I do need caffeine to get through those early mornings – I’m more of a tea drinker, but I have been having a bit of coffee recently, something I used to avoid because of my endometriosis and inflammation. After the show, I adjust to normality by breathing, breathing, breathing, followed by another cup of tea. Going for a walk with someone is a good idea as it gets some of the adrenaline out of my system. I’d like to say I had time and space to do a lot else with my day, but now I have two children I like to try to be there for them.
Back when this was taken, I had nothing on my plate. No ill health, no questions. Life was very blissful. But I’m still curious, I’m still up for trying new things and I still have that foundation of love, from my family, but from strangers, too. Someone might come up to me in the park and kick off a conversation about something they’ve heard me talk about that morning. In Cornwall a few weeks ago, I was walking with my husband and kids, and a woman approached me and said: “Can I do a cartwheel for you?” Apparently she was doing one every day to raise money for the nurses at UCLH, because she has leukaemia. Being a journalist and an only child has sometimes set me apart as an outsider – so it’s a joyful experience to enter other people’s lives.
