I had my baby boy in July 2024 and never did a blog about it, because it turns out that creating then raising a little human is pretty fucking time consuming.
But as I sit here writing this, Iâm preparing to return to my full-time âpaidâ work tomorrow. If you have trouble sleeping tonight because you can hear noises outside, itâs just my gentle sobs coming from Cronulla.
Donât get me wrong, I know on many levels, that this will be really good for me. To be back with adult friends talking about something other than Leo and his feeds / nap times / swim lessons etc, to be back in a beautiful airconditioned office in Double Bay and to be back to a full bank account will feel so good for the soul. But to walk out my front door and spend an entire day away from the little person that my body created, for the first time since he was born, will absolutely break me. And picturing him missing me, will be a dagger to the heart.
I wanted to get back to work early. I knew I was never the type of person that could handle a long maternity leave. I like structure & routine, I like to keep busy, and I like to have a purpose. But it feels so unnatural to be separated from this tiny human who relies on me to provide him everything he needs, so soon. I donât feel ready in my heart, I donât feel ready in my soul.
I know itâll work out, but Iâm acknowledging the chasm in my chest, and Iâm sitting with it for a minute.
How can you leave the house with this little face staring at you?
As hard as that factor is, itâs probably not the worst part of it. I work hybrid and my husband and I are taking turns solo parenting Leo whilst the other is working. Two days a week Iâm in the office, but three days a week Iâm EVERYTHING. Iâm the primary caregiver to an infant just about to start crawling, Iâm doing all of the housework, Iâm doing a full-time job with increased responsibilitiesâŚand throw in part-time podcast host whilst youâre at it.
Iâm absolutely fucking terrified for the impending burnout. No matter how I structure all of that, I will get burnt out. Itâs par for the course.
Iâm starting to think that society is just not designed to nurture and support working mothers. Something that honestly never crossed my mind before having kids. How in the hell do single, working mothers do it?!!!! They deserve a God damn parade. No, they deserve full-time hired help. Sometimes relying on family or paid childcare is not feasible. Sometimes, youâre just it.
Itâs a truly paradoxical time in a womanâs life.
I always knew I wanted to be a mum one day, and I figured Iâd be good at it, but I delayed it as long as my body would allow because I had other interests I wanted to pursue before being tied down. I can tell you now, I had absolutely no idea how much I would absolutely love motherhood and the insane amount of love I would feel for my son. From the second they cut me open, held up this perfect little human and placed him on my chest, I had to have him on or near me at all times. It feeds my soul in a way I never imagined possible. To feel the depths of this magical love, and on the polar opposite, feel so insanely exhausted and pulled in a million different directions, is really overwhelming. All you want is to bask in the glow of motherhood, but you’re too exhausted to get off auto-pilot. Millennial mums are working and financially contributing to the household expenses just as much as the dads. And yet, weâre still doing all of the other stuff mums did in previous generations, because they didnât work, and their husbands were at work all day. Throw in your side hustles, your gym workouts, your social life with multiple groups of friends, your dry brushing, your yoga & meditation, and your hundreds of beauty & medical appointments, and what you have is a recipe for implosion. They say the biggest mistake people make financially is spending more than we earn. Well I can tell you right now, that every woman my age is spending more energy than sheâs recharging. And thatâs a major fucking problem.
Whatâs the solution? Well free childcare is a good start. But there definitely needs to be massive physical and emotional support for mothers, from all areas of her life.
Who were my absolute saviours during pregnancy and early motherhood? Other mums my age. Theyâve just been through it. They get it better than anyone.
I said to one of my mum friends the other week, that I found a version of myself in maternity leave that feels like a long-lost friend. Like 15yr old Steph who used to hang out with her friends all day, then lay on her bed listening to Tori Amos on her CD player and stare out the window and watch the stars. The girl who was so excited about life and her future, who knew how to unwind and daydream for hours.
Gif courtesy of https://giphy.com/
Iâve been working non-stop (aside from the occasional trip) since 1998. Iâve been in rapid âgo modeâ my entire adult life. I donât know how to relax without medical assistance. Iâm rarely in my body, always ten steps ahead. And the last six months, I got to play. Really play like a child. Iâd take Leo for a walk along the beach, and weâd stop halfway, sit under a tree and watch the clouds. Weâd jump on the bed and kiss & cuddle. Weâd play music and have a dance party in the living room. At 2pm on an idle Tuesday, weâd sit on the bed in our underwear, throw our legs in the air and rock side to side in the happy baby pose. I ask you, how can I go back to sitting behind a laptop for at least 8hrs a day when Iâve been doing the happy baby pose in my underwear?!!!
It’s a good, good life.
I fell l in love with this version of myself, as much as I fell in love with my son. And whilst Iâll miss Leo when Iâm busy working, this version of myself is who Iâll miss the most.
That, my friends, is what you call âmotivationâ. Thatâs my ultimate motivation to make 2025 my biggest quantum leap year yet. Iâve played it safe the last few years. Iâve had a steady incline of success, but Iâve made small steps because itâs safe. Itâs comfortable. Iâm gonna get really uncomfortable this year, and carve out a life for myself that means I dictate my schedule, and I will âhappy baby poseâ, anywhere, anytime.
Gif courtesy of https://getyarn.io/
Itâs gonna be a big year kids, mumma feels it in her waters. I thank you for sticking around and reading words that mean a lot to me. And if you havenât already, please check out my podcast âCan I Get A Refillâ for even more (and far more regular) thoughts.
Wishing you a very magical 2025. I hope you get really uncomfortable.
I’m sitting here feeling a little queasy, a little anxious and just all over blah. Kind of like a hangover after a big night, but being that I’m nearly 6 months pregnant and sitting here braless, in pants almost the size of a fitted sheet, it can’t be booze. Suddenly, I realise what my issue is; a vulnerability hangover. Gross.
I recently started recording episodes for my very own podcast called ‘Can I Get A Refill?’ (Dropping late April on all major poddy platforms…no apologies for shameless plug). And tonight I released a one minute teaser reel on insta. I’ve been in hiding a bit in recent months because I’ve had a really difficult pregnancy. Other than the first trimester seeing me couch-ridden with extreme morning sickness (all day and evening mind you) it’s been the remainder of the pregnancy that’s been so challenging. I was born with a neuro-muscular disorder called Myotonia Congenita. It’s a bit technical to explain, but basically every single skeletal muscle in my body from my eyelids and tongue to my arms and legs, go very rigid and stiff if I’ve been stationery for more than 60 seconds. It’s been incredibly difficult but somewhat manageable, to the point that I was able to hide it from anyone I never lived with for most of my life. What I didn’t know, however, was that it would greatly increase during pregnancy and there’s nothing I can do about it. I spent last year doing singing gigs, high intensity workouts, running up the sand dunes and travelling Europe. This year, I need a walking stock to hobble around the block and require assistance from a loved one to cross any major roads. To say that my mental health and self-esteem have taken a hit would be the understatement of the century.
So I’ve been spending a lot of time laying low, trying to just push through this challenge and focus on the excitement of meeting my son in July. But putting up a video where I talk about vulnerable things, letting people hear that my voice is slightly nervous because it was my very first episode and new things are scary, posting a video of me where I look about double my size since many people last saw me (fuck you baby…I mean hormones), and just basically attempting something new that I might not nail and people might laugh at…is a little fucking scary. Hence the queasiness.
(GIF courtesy of https://memes.getyarn.io/)
I was feeling a little ill and having an out of body sensation, but then I caught myself. I didn’t say or do anything I don’t believe in or am ashamed of. My current condition that’s deteriorating my muscles (temporarily) is not my fault. Not being able to exercise the way I’m used to is entirely out of my control. Gaining weight and having hormonal shifts when you are literally creating and growing a human with your body is completely normal. I might put out a few shit podcast episodes. I might look back and cringe at my early attempts. I might not get many views on my reels or downloads on my episodes. And many people might think I look and sound shit and they might feel the need to write that in the comments (Fuck you, if you do btw). But you know what? Maybe none of what I’m feeling has anything to do with anyone else. Maybe it all has to do with the pressure I put on myself and the unrealistic standards I hold myself to thanks to my perfectionist personality.
The first episode of my podcast is about diving in and trying new things. About starting something where you’re at and not waiting for the perfect circumstances (because they don’t exist). It’s about being brave and how courage is not the absence of fear, but pushing through in spite of the fear.
(GIF courtesy of https://getyarn.io/)
Anything that I’ve ever been proud of myself for, has been done in a moment of fear. When I dug deep and found the real Steph and let her Wonder Woman that shit all the way to the end. My greatest fear in this world is mediocrity, living with regrets, always wondering what might have been. I don’t love that I get nervous. I don’t love that I suffer from acute anxiety. And I sure as hell don’t love that I think far too often about what others might think of me. But you know what I really love about me? That I’m tenacious. That now as an adult, I try all the things I ever wanted to try. That’s what victory looks like to me.
If the first episode of my podcast is about trying new things, then it’s super apt that my voice sounds nervous, particularly at the beginning of the episode. I can’t imagine that anyone would expect me to be brilliant at my first attempt at something. As stated in the episode (which you’ll be listening to of course so you’ll get to hear this), WD40 stands for ‘Water Displacement 40th Attempt’. You realise what this means don’t you? That they had 39 failed attempts before they perfected it. If they gave up on the 15th attempt, the whole world would sound like creaky doors! But the 39 attempts were not failures of course. They were part of the success. They were crucial stepping stones.
We’ve become so accustomed to seeing hi-light reels and finished products on social media, that we’ve almost completely forgotten that anything worthwhile in this life takes effort and patience as we learn and grow. I feel like Mary Poppins’ cleaning scene set us up for unrealistic expectations of the work that would be involved in adult life.
(GIF courtesy of https://tenor.com/en-GB/)
I’m currently embracing my vulnerability as I try something new and dig deep for courage. On a project that is bringing me so much joy and creative fulfilment and hopefully will bring others some entertainment and healing (as I say out loud in my morning affirmations). I’m currently embracing vulnerability as my body and appearance take a massive hit, whilst I perform the ultimate miracle of bringing a child into this world.
As for my fitness, my social life, my youthful energy, my singing career and my love of a good bottle of Veuve, they’re not over. I’m choosing to think of myself as a sling-shot in the pulled back position, just waiting for the right time to launch. 2022 saw me working 3 jobs to get myself into a better financial position and I knew that it would be the grind year, just as I knew that 2023 would be my year of reaping the rewards. And it was, in spades! I entered 2024 with very few short-term goals because I knew this would be my time to go inward and embrace my feminine energy as I sit in my ‘being’, rather than the ‘doing’. And that’s OK. Life, like the weather, is seasonal. Not every year can be all about the celebration, some years have to be about putting in the work. Not all the years can be about striving for success, some have to be about rest and cooking up creative ideas. Rest is always a crucial part of success that many skip.
I watch a really great vlogger on YouTube called Shayla Quinn, who grew up in Southern California and moved to New York City about two years ago, which is when I found her content because my phone is playing NYC content 24/7! I’m obsessed! She said something that I always think of because I relate to it so much. She said that she loves that NYC has 4 very different seasons because Sunny California is basically Summer all year round. And you can literally see her struggling to walk her dogs in the snow or hating how the sun sets so early in Winter (I hear that girl), but she loves the different stages because the dark and the cold helps her appreciate the warm and the bright so much more. I literally could not agree more! I’m always so excited when a new season starts. I’m loving life right now because as a tired pregnant woman, the heat was getting to me and I just adore the cosiness of Autumn. I love watching the rain on the leaves outside my window as I work, I love playing Harry Potter ambience music on Youtube, I love all those bullshit Pumpkin Spice Chai Latte drinks at Starbucks (decaf for this anxious bitch please).
Seasons of your life are exactly the same. Sometimes you need to hibernate, sometimes you need to create and sometimes you need to celebrate.
I’m embracing the stage I’m in and I’m also acknowledging the struggle of losing mobility at the moment, and the massive impact that’s having on multiple areas of my life (although my hot pink walking stick is kinda hot). But I’m also so grateful for the endless love and support around me, and I look forward to hanging out with my kid next year, hitting the gym harder than I ever have, and getting my stride back as an independent woman.
I’m learning to find some patience, sit in the uncomfortable and embrace this relatively new concept of vulnerability. Because as a very wise Dianne Wiest says in Practical Magic, “With the sweets, come the sour”.
2023 was dubbed by many as the year of the girl, although because we always refer to men as men rather than boys, for the purposes of progress, we’re gonna rework that into ‘The Year of the Woman’.
(gif courtesy of https://giphy.com/)
Taylor Swift and Beyonce single-handedly upheld the US economy. Tay Tay has already broken the record for the highest grossing tour before it’s even completed and graced the cover of Time Magazine as Time’s Person of the Year. Beyonce broke a long-held record by taking the crown for the most Grammy wins in history. Viola Davis became the next EGOT. Margot Robbie, Greta Gerwig and the greatest marketing team in history smashed the box office with everyone’s (maybe not Joe Rogan’s podcast listeners) favourite film of the year with Barbie (Hi Barbie!) America Ferrera delivered us the speech we waited our whole lives to hear, but couldn’t quite phrase it adequately enough to articulate just how impossible it is to be a woman (I always did feel like Ugly Betty understood me). We realised just how awesome and how mis-represented Victoria Beckham was. The Matildas stopped the nation and proved just how brilliant (and under-funded) women’s sport is. Look I could go on all night, but you get the gist. We dominated. And yet…this year I saw more online vitriol towards women than I’ve ever encountered and more than once a week, saw the face of an Australian Woman who was murdered at the hands of a man she knew. The contrasts were very stark. It was a year all around of very high highs, and very low lows. I’d be very surprised if you didn’t find the need to hide under the covers at least a few times throughout 2023.
(gif courtesy of https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/)
I have personally always loved the number 23, and had a deep sense that this would be a big year for me. After many years of absolute grind, working 3 jobs, paying off debt, supporting others as they achieved their dreams, I knew as 2022 came to an end that I was about to enter the year where I would finally start reaping my rewards. And boy did I.
I started the year completely debt free, with massive joint savings and pre-approval for a home loan with the old ball & chain. I welcomed dear old friends back into my life and the friendships took off exactly where they left off. I said a hard no to someone trying to come back into my life after always having his back for 20 years as he abandoned me at my time of need over and over again (there’s a fine line between supporting and enabling). I celebrated my 40th birthday 3 times with all whom I hold dear in my life. My husband and I had the most thrilling 4 week trip throughout Morocco, France and Italy, I even got to introduce him to my relatives in Sicily and show him my Nonna’s old home which holds a very special place in my heart. I had so many regular singing gigs which brings more joy and creative fulfilment to me than you’ll ever know. I took a step back from one sided friendships that have never once in 20 years invited me out for coffee or dinner but rather relied on me every single time to do the planning. I’m not an event planner, I’m an equal part in my relationships and if people don’t show effort, there are no hard feelings, but I will withdraw myself. I tried new things, I chose bravery when I was really scared. I spoke my truth in every single situation, with tact and dignity. I called people out when they demonstrated unjust or toxic behaviour. I then removed myself from the room / situation / relationship if they couldn’t see why. I upheld my boundaries and pushed back when they were not respected. I continued to work with the kindest, most compassionate, creative and powerhouse women I have ever worked with in my life (it’s amazing how much you thrive in the right environment). I worked less hours and spent more time on my creative pursuits. And as the year came to a close, my husband and I just bought our very first property together! I cannot express how proud I am of him and I for how hard we’ve worked and how positive and focussed we have been as we continue to work towards our goals. There are honestly even more amazing things that happened this year but I’ll stop there or you may close the page. But I will say, that the very best thing that happened to me this year was getting my first ever dishwasher!!! I am not joking, that shit is daily convenience and you should see how long my nails have already grown!
The reason this year was so special was not just the list of achievements, but rather how much I “showed up” this year.
If you knew me well and knew how far I’d come, you’d see the shift in me. In high school, I was so insecure and frightened of life, I would jig school, catch the train back home and hide in the public toilet on Hurstville station with a stack of books and stay in that dirty, stinky toilet all day long. I’ve literally never told another living soul that.
I didn’t know myself in any way shape or form. Any time I used my voice to express my opinion or feelings, I was shut down. I lived in fear of being scolded. I was taught to be a good little girl. Good little girls don’t speak up for themselves, that’s disrespectful. Good little girls don’t talk about their periods, that’s dirty and might offend the men. Good little girls don’t have sexual feelings, that’s shameful. Good little girls wear prissy dresses, not black midriff tops even though I had abs that should have been shown off every single day. Good little girls do more work around the house because they’re just better at it, even though they get half the pocket money their brother got.
That insecure girl in the dirty public toilet grew up to be a woman with a louder voice but she wasn’t anymore confident. Not until very recently. I think I wanted to like myself for a long time, I was just never shown how to, or taught that it was OK to.
I sit here as a 40yr old woman with a body that doesn’t move half as well or as quick as it did in my 20’s. But I like this age so, so much. I like myself very much. And that’s such a beautiful thing. It should be celebrated.
There is something about personal growth though, that triggers something in others.
(pic courtesy of thirdeyethoughts instagram)
Louise Hay once lived in abusive relationships, and as she became the woman we admire today, she said “I am no longer on the radar of these men”. Look I would agree with that. After multiple unhealthy relationships and one very violent and abusive relationship, it was when I did the inner work and became the woman I am today, that my wonderful husband popped up in my life when I stopped looking. He is a particularly secure man and once I was on his level, I popped up on his radar. I do believe that’s how it works for romantic relationships or any new relationships. However, for already existing relationships with family, friends or colleagues, be prepared to ruffle a few feathers as you grow into a stronger version of yourself and find your voice. I believe they are triggered for one of two reasons, either your stark contrast to them makes them feel inadequate in themselves because they haven’t done the work they need to do. Or they fear that as you grow, you will grow away from them.
If someone is in a loving, supportive relationship with you, they shouldn’t fear you growing apart. However, If they have been taking advantage of your weaknesses to assert their dominance, they will definitely fear you outgrowing them (Stockholm Syndrome much?)
I have experienced this and continue to experience this with a couple of women in my life (gen X and Baby Boomers of course, us millennial women have a tendency to have each other’s backs). They are visibly triggered by me when I enter the room, even though I enter it with a warm smile. I am not greeted with a warm hug like my male counterparts are. I am criticized, judged, shamed, picked on, competed with and subtle but constant passive aggressive digs are made at my expense the entire time. They do this with other women too (not to the extent that I receive it) and yet my male counterparts continue to be spared any of it. But it must be me, right? I leave feeling distressed and unwell. After spending all of my days with positive uplifting people, I leave these people feeling what can only be described as having a severe hangover. The emotional toxicity does such a number on my health that it’s akin to drinking an entire bottle of cheap scotch. It then takes me days to recover. I’m not complicit in this, I have certainly voiced my concern multiple times, raised my white flag and even taken several long breaks from such people in the past, but sometimes, crossing paths is unavoidable in certain circles.
There is nothing more toxic than someone who treats you like shit and then says “You know I love you, right”? We wanna see it, we don’t wanna hear it.
It’s just so sad. It’s so unhealthy, it’s so unnecessary and can only be described as a form of misogyny, if if this type of behaviour is only projected at women. What is gut-wrenching, is that most often for me, the misogyny is coming from other women. It’s just a tragedy. But it does make you wonder if at the end of the day it’s because these generations grew up in a time of staunch patriarchy. They’re brainwashed. They’re most likely a lost cause.
I will not let it affect me as it used to. I am surrounded by wonderful people who discuss important worldly topics instead of discussing other people behind their backs. I am supported every day by strong, compassionate women. I will not stoop to their level. I hope they see the error of their ways before the clock stops ticking. But if they don’t, it’s not my cause. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Join me in leaving the following shit behind in 2024 and feel free to add to the list:
Being a good girl (apparently they seldom make history).
Explaining yourself to uneducated fuckwits.
Remining in a conversation / room that is sucking your soul like one of Harry Potter’s Dementors.
Saying yes to shit you don’t want to do.
Apologising, unless you have fucked up, then own it with grace and move on, we all do it.
Spending more than you earn to fit in.
Drinking too much if it’s no longer serving you well.
Being scared to use your voice. Use it even when it shakes. In fact, use it especially when it shakes.
Being scared to try something new.
Taking Ozempic unless you really fucking need it for health reasons.
Neglecting check ups (please touch your own boobs tonight).
Getting upset when we can’t get emotionally stunted idiots to see our truth. You know your truth, that’s enough.
Pleasing others. Fuck ’em.
Criticising our bodies.
Over packing your schedule. Burn out in general.
My word for 2023 was “authentic” and I lived up to it in every sense of the word. As my body urges me to dial it back and enter my soft girl era, my word for 2024 is “gentle”.
I’ve been in my ‘masculine’ ‘doing’ energy for what feels like my entire life. If I’m not on the go and achieving something, I have a tendency to berate myself for being a slacker. But we’re not going to do that anymore. I am entering my ‘feminine’ ‘being’ energy and it’s daunting, new and a little scary, but it’s all part of the journey and I may just discover some new talents and perhaps even a new purpose for my life.
I’m scared and excited, and that’s how I like to start every new year.
Thank you for taking the time to read words that are very important to me. Please send me any of your work that you are proud of and I will be happy to share the love.
Let 2024 see us believing in ourselves and lifting each other up. And please know, that you’re doing a really great job. I got your back girl.
If youâre a long-time reader of my blog, you might know that whilst tackling some more serious issues, I usually take a light-hearted approach with some fun GIFs. Weâre gonna stray the course on this one.
Anytime Iâve sat down to write a blog or an article, I usually bang it out in one sitting, as the words keep flowing like Wonkaâs chocolate river. Iâve sat down to write this article, at least seventeen times. Why? Because this is the one that matters.
On average, one Australian woman a week is killed by domestic violence. One a year would be too many. This figure should terrify you.
If the following words help to keep one woman in this statistic alive, then itâs the most important thing Iâve done with my life thus far.
Please read these words, please share these words.
I recently told a male friend of mine about my past experience in a five-year domestic violent relationship. Heâs a good friend and we really get each other. His response was unfortunate and more common than you could ever imagine: âWhy did you stay so long?â
Admit it, you had a similar thought. You may have even used this line before. Hereâs why you should never say it or even think it again: YOUâRE PUTTING THE BLAME ON THE VICTIM. Here are two completely acceptable alternatives: âIâm sorry you went through that,â or âGood on you for finding the strength to leaveâ.
If you met me today, I guarantee you, you would never guess that a man ever laid a hand on me. Not just because my biceps are bigger than most of your ex-boyfriends, but because Iâm confident, Iâm loud, I seem completely in control of my life. And I pretty much amâŚnow.
Every woman who has been in a domestic violent relationship will wholeheartedly relate to the âfrog in boiling water analogyâ. If you put a frog in boiling water, it will immediately hop out. If you put it in room-temp water and gradually heat it over time, itâll just sit there. A woman who ends up on the receiving end of DV, is quite literally groomed over a period of time. If I was slapped across the face on my first date, do you honestly think there would have been a second date? Fuck no!
For the first six months of my relationship, there were subtle red flags that I recognise now, such as financial abuse and controlling behaviour. When we decided to move in together (AKA when he was moving out of his rental and wanted someone to pay half the rent in a new place) he forced me to take out a loan to pay for furniture and bond, even though he had plenty of savings to cover this. When we used to do our weekly grocery shopping, he wouldnât split the bill, I had to hi-light my items and pay for them because my healthier options always cost more than his meat pies and tomato sauce. He wouldn’t permit me to spend money on such frivolous things as magazines, but I was celebrity obsessed so I bought them every week and hid them under the couch. As a now forty year old woman, of course I would either laugh in the face of such suggestions, or not even be in the situation where this was asked of me. But a wide eyed twenty-two year old, moving out of her family home for the first time, hasnât necessarily yet developed that set of skills to speak up when something feels off. According to www.ourwatch.org.au, women 18-34 experience significantly higher rates of physical and sexual violence than women in older age groups.
As you can imagine, over time, the controlling behaviour increased and gradually, violence accompanied it.
Image courtesy of www.news.com.au
He once requested lamb roast for dinner. So, I bought lamb roast. When he saw the price tag, he complained that I spent too much and slammed my head into a cement wall.
Once after sex, whilst I was still naked, he strangled me out of a window, three stories up. I donât remember what he snapped at that time, but I do remember how I felt. Doesnât get much more vulnerable than naked, post-coital, dangling out of a window from three stories up.
Once we were playing that board game âGuess Whoâ, where you have to describe the characters to the other person. One of the characters shared a name with a guy at work he accused me of flirting with. So he pushed me on the ground, punched me in the stomach and dragged me along the carpet. Took so long for that carpet burn to heal, it got so infected. I always kept disinfectant powder in the cupboard. Iâve never been able to play that game again. Canât imagine why.
My best friend was killed in a car accident in 2008. Itâs been thirteen years, but there are parts of me that have never recovered. Six days after her death, he asked why I wasnât over it yet. A fight ensued, and he stomped on my skull with two feet. I thought for sure that when I stood up my cheekbones would be crushed. I went to her funeral with some visible bruises. It was the middle of February, it was really hot, I couldnât wear long sleeves. My friends started to catch on. One beautiful young woman in a coffin, another thinking she may accompany her soon.
Once, I took him as my spare ticket to a Tori Amos concert. Sheâs my favourite artist of all time and seeing her live is close to a spiritual experience for me. It was at the beautiful Sydney Opera House. He didnât speak a word, so I sensed something was coming. On our walk to the car, just past the foot bridge of Darling Harbour, I canât recall what the verbal exchange was (it was never of any importance) but I got pushed to the ground and into a shrub, emerging a few moments later covered in leaves, scrambling to catch-up to a pathetic excuse for a man because I didn’t have any money to get home without him and knew he’d lock me out again. I can still picture the red dress I was wearing. The whole incident is burned into my memory. There were at least a hundred people around. No one said anything, no one came to see if I was alright. NO ONE CAME. And the overwhelming feeling that consumed me was shame. Not because I did anything wrong, but because, what an embarrassing situation to be in. Let me tell you this, even if youâve done nothing wrong, shame takes many years to scrub off your skin.
Shall I continue? Maybe thatâll do for now.
Image courtesy of www.nytimes.com
I did notice over the years that he was very careful not to put marks on my face. Very clever not to leave a trail (of course I was taking photos of every mark on my body). Honestly, no one in my life knew the extent of what was happening. My family certainly had zero knowledge of the violence, or they would have broken down the door and dragged me out. Rightly so.
I would see it before it happened most of the time. Like a dark cloud would come rolling in and take over his eyes and then his body. The calm before the storm.
I happen to have a neuro-muscular disorder, so my muscles need to be warmed up before they can be properly used. So many nights, I would hide next to the fridge so I could warm up my arms, ready to defend myself. I can vividly remember the last time he placed a hand on me. It had been a long time, Iâd had enough. Something had shifted. I had found a little bit of myself again, a little bit of strength. I was spending time with friends who felt like warm sunshine on my face after a long winter. I had started at a singing school and was performing regularly and even song writing (a lot of man hating songs at the time). I remember that last time, because I didnât cover my head for protection, I went full Rocky Balboa mode. I literally beat the shit out of him. I can still picture him cowering on the floor against the wall, with his ripped wife beater singlet (ironic outfit choice). His head was down, his arms were up covering his head. And I screamed with rage âwho the fuck do you think youâre dealing with?!â I was a ball of rage. Itâs not a good quality, and I donât condone violence, but I canât express to you how pivotal this moment was to me. It wasnât about him. It was never about him. I lost myself. I forgot who I was. And in that moment, I was proclaiming, not to him, but to myself and to the world, I was back. And it’s time to make some changes.
Image courtesy of www.newcastleherald.com.au
If any of this sounds familiar to your current situation, I would like to remind you that this is NOT your fault. You didnât cook badly, or buy the wrong food item, or wear the wrong outfit. Heâs fucked up, he has issues with women (most likely repressed anger from something his mother did â but now Iâm generalising â that was my experience) and heâs using you as his outlet. I am very sorry if this is happening to you, but please understand that you canât help or fix him. He needs therapy. He needs to work out what is making him feel this way. But he needs to get to that place on his own.
Let me tell you something very valuable that I have learned. You donât have to stop loving him. You can love him from a safe distance. You can wish him well and wish him away.
But let me tell you this, you donât know how many tomorrows you have left. You have to leave, and you have to do it now.
The violence will come again, and the apology will follow. Your next breath may not.
Repeat after me: taking care of myself, is my most important role.
Thereâs one more lesson that works for this and every life situation that isnât safe: NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU. If youâre my age, youâre not to blame for this mindset. We grew up with the most fucked up Disney princess storylines, rife with controlling behaviour and Stockholm Syndrome relationships. Sure, I admit it, I cried on my bathroom floor, hoping a beautiful, kind, loving and strong man would knock down my door and come get me. I didnât think it every day, but when youâre weak, that Danielle Steel shit creeps in there. I had a lovely High School friend who became a cop. We always had a soft spot for each other. I never called him when things were bad, but he heard through friends what was happening. I would close my eyes and picture him busting in my front door during a violent onslaught, scooping me up, cradling me into his chest and taking me to a safe space where I could drink hot chocolate and thank him for saving me. But what would that have done? How would I have grown? Would I have just gone into another relationship with similar issues?
I didnât need a saviour. I was always my saviour. Saving myself helped me learn the lessons to set the tone for what I would allow in my life again. There is no better saviour for you than yourself.
For those of you who still canât understand why I didnât pack up and run earlier, there are two reasons it took me five years to reach that point:
1.) I no longer believed in myself.
2.) I was terrified of what he might do to me if I left.
After years of verbal, mental, emotional, financial and physical abuse, I felt weak. I lost faith in myself and my ability to take care of myself. I donât think I was ever in denial, I think I was aware of how much danger I was in, and how sad I felt, but I think I went a little catatonic. Some days I couldnât get out of bed because Iâd become a shell of who I used to be. Some days, I never wanted to leave the office, I never wanted to go home. It wasnât the place Dorothy spoke about when she clicked her ruby heels three times. It was a warzone.
I was also terrified of what might happen if I left. Statistics will tell you, that this is a very common time for women to be killed at the hands of their partner.
The whole point of these abusive relationships is control. The reason for control, is because theyâre terrified youâll leave. You are not a partner, you are a possession. You are not loved, you are controlled.
I realised that I couldnât leave when he was there. I spent a few days planning my escape. I was taking clothes out bit by bit. I packed up the remainder in the middle of a work-day, had the girls from work waiting in the car outside (because he owned my car, I had to leave it behind), and I left him a goodbye letter on the hall stand. I met him in a food court sushi train for lunch the next day to talk and say goodbye. His exact words were âOf course you left me, Iâm a monsterâ. Ironically, the most amicable break up I ever had. He wished me well on my trip to Italy that I had booked as a celebration present for myself (after seeing Eat Pray Love at the cinemas three timesâŚplease, hold your judgement) and we parted ways. Iâm no fool, it could have been a far more dangerous ending. I am fortunate that it ended the way it did, this wonât be the case for others.
I recently babysat my parents’ pet cockatiel whilst they were overseas. An average life-span for these birds is 10-15 years, this little guy just turned 20! We used to have him walking and flying all over the house. He used to sit on my head or perch himself gently on my foot. In 2005, we got a Cocker Spaniel, the bird then refused to come out of his cage. My beloved doggie passed away in 2017, but this bird still refuses to come out of the cage. We eventually stopped trying. Whilst looking after him, I figured his days were numbered, and seeing him locked behind bars made me feel really sad. So, I unlocked the cage, threw the whole roof open and walked away. I tried this every day for five days. He looked up at the open top, I put my hand in to show him it was open, and he moved further down the cage. Backing away like I just set-up a trap. He made no attempt at freedom. It actually broke my heart.
You know when you watch those prison movies where guys are released after twenty years but either re-offend and return to prison or die on the outside? Itâs because being behind bars is what theyâre used to. It might be a shit situation, but itâs familiar. You ask any therapist; weâre creatures of habit, and weâre all repeating patterns because whatâs familiar is comfortable, even if itâs unhealthy.
This bird remained in the cage, either because he no longer trusted his wings, and he felt safe behind bars. Or because he was scared of what would happen to him if he left. Scared of the unknown.
I was the same. And countless women across the country right now, are laying their heads down next to a man who might soon take away their last breath.
I know now that what really helped me to believe that there was a better life out there for me was being reminded of what life could be like without him. Not being given an ultimatum to leave immediately. Laughing with my girls. Cuddling my dog on my bed watching The Vampire Diaries, knowing that no one was going to burst into my room. Overtime, these patterns showed me the light at the end of the tunnel and my decision became very clear and very easy in the end. If youâre worried about a loved one and think that forcing them out is the right thing to do. I get it, youâre worried about them, but you have to prepare yourself for the fact that this might make them more protective of their partner. Theyâre essentially in a Stockholm Syndrome situation, and what comes naturally to them, is to protect their partner. Spend time alone with her, help her to laugh and feel free. Help her see the beautiful life that awaits her, beyond the abuse.
I hope that she gets out. I hope that she remembers who she is. And I hope that the authorities can be more equipped to deal with these life-threatening situations.
I was fortunate enough to have a warm bed to go home to. Not everyone is as lucky. I am forever grateful for my loved ones for providing a support network for me, and I am forever proud of myself for spending years getting to know myself, and getting to really love myself.
Pass this article on to whoever you can. Conversations like this are important for potential victims of DV to spot red flags and make a move before it’s too late. I could have been another statistic. If I stayed one more day, week or month, I may not be here to write these words.
I really canât stress this enough; I am so fucking proud of myself. I am so grateful for the woman I have become. So please, save your judgement for the perpetrators of violence, not the survivors. We deserve a God Damn parade for the shit we endured and the scars we’re still healing.
Image courtesy of storytellergirlgrace.com
*If you or anyone you know is dealing with the effects of Domestic Violence, please contact someone who can help:
Iâm on the precipice of turning 40 and feel that my grace period of delaying childbirth may be coming to an end. Donât get me wrong, I love kids and have always pictured having them, that was never a question. I just got here so much faster than I could have imagined. Iâm gonna say the thing that so many of you have thought but havenât wanted to say for fear of sounding selfish or insensitiveâŚIâm scared.
I swear to God, I was 15yrs old a few weeks ago, looking out the window in my parentsâ house, dreaming bigger dreams for my life than you could ever imagine. And nearly all of them centred around my creative pursuits. I dreamt of singing on the world’s biggest stages, creating beautiful music, meeting new people, travelling the world, having mind-blowing sex like all those highlighted pages in my Danielle Steel books, and kissing in the rain like Gwyneth Paltrow and Ethan Hawke in Great Expectations.
(GIF courtesy of aliasledger.tumblr.com)
I always knew I’d have kids with the love of my life one day, I just never spent time lying on my bed daydreaming about it.
For so long I was a child under the rule of my parents and teachers. Then I went into controlling relationships with older men who thought part of loving me was dictating my doâs and donâts. The last few years have been magical, but my freedom was slightly hindered by the massive debt I was working 3 jobs to pay off. For the first time in my adult life; Iâm debt free, Iâm in a relationship that perfectly combines support & freedom, and Iâve rekindled lifelong friendships that set my soul ablaze. My mind is old enough to make good choices, my legs are young enough to cut some serious dance moves (anyone catch us at Marly Bar last Saturday?) and I have a voice that speaks my mind the way I always wanted her to (my greatest achievement to date). Without a doubt, I am living my absolute best life, and I just know that in years to come, my mind will revisit these days with much gratitude and nostalgia.
Iâm so excited for my next chapter, but I feel something in my chest that Iâve felt before, in darker times. Itâs grief.
To be able to embark on any new chapter: a new relationship, a new job, a new home, there had to have been a closing of an old chapter. It is in no way disrespectful to your new chapter to feel sadness and grief as you bid a fond farewell to something that was part of you for so long.
Iâve been Steph for nearly forty years. I wake up and think of my needs first. I meditate, I do yoga, I drink my juice, I put on a vlog and get ready, I go to the gym, I login to work, I go for an infrared sauna, I curl up on my bed and read a book. Perhaps not much of this will change when I become a Mum or perhaps most of it will. For a while, my needs will take a backseat. And as rewarding as I know in my gut motherhood will be, that concept is fucking terrifying.
For so many years, I lived a shit life. I felt really bad about myself, I had severe depression and many times contemplated ending a life that caused me so much pain. It was through sheer grit of working on myself and my needs that I clawed my way into an existence full of joy and purpose.
This is a hard thing to talk about because there are so many wonderful mums-in-waiting who have been struggling with infertility and miscarriages. Iâve had to be very careful who Iâve shared my fears with, to not be insensitive and cause them further pain. But I want you to remember that the severity of someone elseâs struggles does not shrink yours. Your story is your story. Your feelings are always valid.
I know in my gut that Iâll be a great Mum. I adore my nephews and my niece like nobodyâs business, but Iâm really scared for the baby stuff. I never had babies around me and I have no freaking clue what Iâm doing. I just wanna take a long nap after conception and wake up to a 4yr old who comes home from pre-school and tells me funny shit about their day. The stage where I can sleep through the night without toothless screams, where no one will shit on me and where I can be back in the gym every day.
(GIF courtesy of giphy.com)
I recently shared these fears with some close friends and how Iâm frantically trying to fit in all the fun stuff before kids come along (singing gigs, nights out with friends, travel) and the husband of one of my besties said âUm, itâs not like youâre dyingâ. I literally heard my voice in my head reply âIsnât it though?â All well and good for you Dads to say, your tits wonât be pointing to your shoes, your insides wonât be stretched open and you wonât have hormones forcing you to shed buckets of tears. When you travel for work, you wonât have keyboard warriors mum-shaming you.
I know, you parents out there think Iâm being a dramatic bitch, but the truth is, Single Steph is dying, and this is her fucking eulogy OK, so sit down and pay your last respects. It’s been a hell of a ride.
(GIF courtesy of memes.getyarn.io)
Slight diversion approaching but stick with it, I have a relatable point…
Iâm a HUGE tennis fan, and watching Roger, Raffa and Serena has been an absolute privilege. Do you know what really fucking irks me? When theyâre winning streak starts to taper off as fresh blood comes in (after 15 years of absolute dominance) and these losers on their couch start saying; âoh just retireâ, âjust let go alreadyâ. You know when theyâll let go? When theyâre good and ready to let go. On their terms. When I see an elite athlete having to bow out not because they want to, but because their body is forcing them to, it absolutely breaks my heart. For so many years I cared about nothing but achieving greatness in my creative field. I had horse blinkers on. I find it so incredibly sexy and inspiring when someone gives their craft their absolute all and can only imagine that having to step away from a life that is literally all youâve ever known, must be excruciating. That, my friends, is grief.
I feel like I grew up in a time where I was told who to be and how to act. My aim is to take a different tack. Iâm so excited to meet my kids to watch them flourish. I hope I make them feel loved and supported but I pray to God I never make them feel judged or suffocated. I hope I can give them good advice when they need it and shut my mouth when all they want is to feel heard. I hope we share experiences together and I pray they never feel the need to screen my calls. I hope they love themselves more than they ever love another and make good choices not because I tell them to, but because they know theyâre worthy of that. And most importantly, I hope I donât fuck them up.
To all my girls out there reading this and feeling seen. Please know, youâre not alone. I share your fears. And your feelings are always, always valid.
And to my future kids, donât be offended by this, you donât exist yet. Iâm sure Iâll take it all back, as long as your first word isnât Dad.
Now wish me luck as I embark on a 4 week adventure through Morocco, France and Italy. Overshare time: I’m ovulating in Paris so it’s possible I may not see as many museums as I would like…
Can we please stop applauding men who âstayâ with wives who have gained a few kilos? Itâs as bad as praising men for looking after their own kids. Itâs not babysitting if you made them, itâs just parenting.
During one of my lovely visits from our old mate COVID last year, I was on the couch doing a little scrolling and came across two articles that were, how shall I put this? Outrageously tone deaf.
The first, and I cannot believe Iâm still hearing this same story, is that God Damn tale of Pierce Brosnan being a wonderful husband for sticking by his wife, even though sheâs gained weight. Yes, youâre actually reading these words. This story was inappropriate five years ago when it first started circulating. I had to check it wasnât an old article but nope. Shame on anyone for publishing such drivel. To clarify, Pierce Brosnan seems like an awesome guy (although I was always team Doubtfire and his drive-by fruiting) but how on Godâs Green Earth are we still acting like a man deserves a medal for staying with a wife who gains weight in 2023?!!! Do we EVER say that when a woman stays with a man whose appearance changes over time? No, we donât. Magazines just have a cute little jab at celebrities rocking a dad-bod (to clarify, I don’t think we should comment on ANYONE’S body).
Bodies change as you get older. Bodies change after you give birth. Itâs not a bad thing, itâs not a good thing. It just is. Up to two years ago I used to walk around with backless maxi dresses and no bra and God Bless my wonderful C-cup boobs that used to sit up on their own. Out and proud. Now, they slightly resemble deflated frowny faces. But you know what, my body recently fought off a major virus without breaking much of a sweatâŚtwice. What a fucking machine!
The question is not just, why are we judging anyone on their appearance, especially when itâs COMPLETELY normal to change shape, but why are we still doing it more to women? Iâm sure Pierce had much more attractive testicles when they met. Iâm sure they swung about 3 inches higher than they do now. Where’s her medal for putting up with that?
The second article my fingers scrolled upon was about female celebrities finding love after 40. Which apparently is a miracle! Lucky I got married recently, just before turning 38, because apparently this year my bodyâs gonna shrivel up and die. Such a shame I was locked inside for two years of my life as a relevant, youthful person.
The picture above the headline showed the very sexy Sofia Vergara standing next to her equally sexy, Magic Mike stripping, True Blood werewolf husband Joe Manganiello. Next to them was a picture of Calista Flockhart, our trailblazer for weird girls in the 90âs, long before Gaga donned a meat dress, linking arms with her very high profile hubby, Harrison Ford. There was a speech bubble over Calista pointing out that she didnât marry the love of her life until she was a massive 45!!!! And yet, nothing over her hubbyâs pic to point out that he was a ripe old 67 when they tied the knot. I did the very unhealthy thing of jumping straight into comments to see if everyone was as outraged as I was. There was less outrage for the weight article, more for the age article.
One charming, fuckwit, expert on everything commented on the latter article:
âThatâs great for them, you can find love at any (legal) age. However, the difference is that womenâs geriatric pregnancy starts at about 30. So if you want kids itâs probably not idealâŚbut still possibleâ. Actually dickhead; itâs 35, but thanks for pointing out that my ovaries should be in a nursing home. I really canât hear that enough.
He went on to bless us with more of his wisdom by pointing out that âmen donât hit their prime until their 40âsâ. Iâm sorry, where is that Scientific evidence? Prime of what? According to Looking for Alibrandi, a manâs sexual peak is at 17 and the womanâs at 34. He also believed that women look for someone who can âbuildâ and âprotectâ and a man looks for someone to give them âchildrenâ and âpeaceâ. I really wanna know where he got that market research from because my husband canât build much more than a sandwich, Iâm yet to give him kids and I rarely offer him much peace. I guess weâre fucked then.
But never fear, Chris, the Facebook expert on everything closes his argument by assuring us that he happens to prefer an older woman for maturity. Oh bless. Sounds like his home could do with a little emotional maturity.
(GIF courtesy of tenor.com)
Here I was thinking that my biggest problem of the week would be returning The Iconic parcel sitting at my front door. Linen pants, what was I thinking, theyâre so Goddamn itchy!
You do of course realise why these archaic beliefs are still circulating donât you? Itâs not just what these idiots are taught from their parents or peers. It all comes down to representation. Who and what is being represented in media and entertainment has been subconsciously programming our brains from the second we sat in the little basket of our parentsâ shopping trolleys, looking at magazine covers while we waited in line, reaching for the Caramello Koala and Grape Hubba Bubba at the checkout.
I went to High School in the golden era of the late 90âs. The era of the belly button ring, vanilla Impulse body spray, belly chains, hot pink Ericsson T10 flip phones, Nokia 3210âs where you could change the covers to match your nail polish, Crazy Frog ring tones, purple blow-up couches, futons that your 3 best friends spooned on each weekend, overly tweezed eyebrows that resembled the Nike tick, weird beads hanging from your bedroom doorway, TV Week posters, Dawsonâs Creek, Mariah CareyâŚ.ahhh I could go on and on. And most importantly, no social media! It was a great time to be alive no doubt, but it wasnât without its problems, itâs just that a lot of the problems were swept under the rug back then. Yeah we had The Spice Girls, The Charmed Ones and Buffy guiding us through the Girl Power era. But we were really only scratching the surface.
(GIF courtesy of tenor.com)
What many of us didnât really realise at the time, was that representation of females in the public eye was very white, very young and very thin.
I was a dancer when I was younger. I went to Newtown High School of the Performing Arts and in year 7, youâre separated into classes based on how you got into the school. There were the Dancers (my class) the Drama class (usually well -spoken and from money) the Music students (they were down at the oval smoking bongs â my favourite peeps) and the Area class who were really the coolest of us all because they were true locals who showed us the best hangouts after last period.
Suffice it to say, being in the dancer class, where some were even rhythmic gymnasts, everyone was incredibly thin, even the few boys. I had the thickest thighs without a doubt. One day, our science teacher decided do some sort of experiment around âvolumeâ by making us all jump into a Sulo Bin filled with water, one by one to measure the remaining water. We had to change into our swimmers and stand in the middle of the school waiting to jump in. My palms are sweating as I type this, to say that this is quite triggering is an understatement. I was terrified for anyone to see my thighs (even though looking back, I was as fit as an athlete). I spent the whole time covering them with my hands and still to this day look at my thighs in the mirror before and after every shower. I donât want to do it, but my eyes just go there. Perhaps it was the asshole ex-boyfriend who sent me a text saying âYOU HAVE FAT THIGHSâ after I broke up with him (probably still cries every night because he misses those thighs tbh) or it could have been that I saw zero representation of my shape on TV or in magazines when I was growing up, thereby determining that different equals lesser than. I vividly remember when Alicia Keys first showed up on our radar. What a Queen. Yes I fell in love with her voice and her lyrics but more than that, I felt seen because here was a girl who had a body that looked just like mine! She’s stunning, she’s so talented and she’s unapologetically herself. The mid 90âs were all about the waif thin look; Gwyneth Paltrow, Debra Messing, Kate Moss, Kerri Russell, Claire Danes etc. No judgement for these beautiful women, they are equally gorgeous and talented but you have to admit, that ‘thin’ was extremely glorified back then. No one and I mean NO ONE talked about squats.
(GIF courtesy of tenor.com)
It wasnât just over-representation of thin women that was the problem. Women of a certain age werenât represented either. We grew up watching Brian Henderson read our news (bless his soul) but the oldest female anchor was Sandra Sully. Sure, there have been some improvements over time but we still donât see a 65 year old, woman with grey hair and glasses reading our news do we? No, because people like to see a young, pretty face. But it doesnât matter for the guy right? We all love Kochie but you gotta admit, his certain look is more acceptable because he doesnât own a Vagina. And we still donât have anyone of colour reading our news on any of the major channels during Prime Time. I guess their resumes are still only being read at SBS. I only have to catch one Cityrail train throughout Sydney to see people of all ages, shapes, sizes and backgrounds. Shouldnât current TV represent current society?
And yet, some still resist change. The people who donât want change are the people who are already represented.
I didnât have influencers like Amy Sheppard showing off her beautiful healthy body with dimples when I was in High School. I didnât have Barbie dolls with thick thighs and darker skin when I was in Primary School. Could you imagine how many of us would have improved self-esteem and self-image if we did?
I recently heard a podcast (Law of Attraction Changed My Life by Francesca Amber) where the host, a white Mum of 3 daughters of colour noticed that her eldest, only a mere 4 years old kept looking at herself in the mirror and told her Mum that sheâs ugly. Listening to Amber try to tell this story truly broke me. She had to continuously stop the recording to have a cry and come back again. She believed her daughter felt this way because she didnât see girls like her in picture books or on TV. She stares at her reflection in confusion, trying to understand why she looks so âdifferentâ.
In the movie adaptation of the highly acclaimed 2006 non-fiction book âThe Secretâ, Author and motivational speaker Lisa Nichols, explains that she struggled through unhealthy relationships earlier on, as she relied on another to show her, her beauty, because she didnât see her own beauty. That when she was growing up, her heroes (or her Sheroes) were The Bionic Woman, Wonder Woman and Charlies Angels, and whilst they were wonderful, they didnât look like her with her full lips, round hips, Mocha skin or tight curls.
(GIF courtesy of tenor.com)
Imagine how many healthy, functioning adults there would be in society today if we felt seen, heard and represented within the broader community during our formative years.
During this same podcast episode, host Amber went on to tell a story about her elderly grandmother not wanting to join her daughter and granddaughter for a dip in the ocean on a rare warm UK day because she believed no one wanted to see her in a swimming costume. Amber felt so saddened by this revelation, saying âimagine, not knowing how much time you have left on this earth and passing up on opportunity for a really enjoyable day because youâre afraid that someone might judge how you lookâ. It made me think how many times Iâve said no to a swim because my tummy was bloated, my thighs were retaining a bit of fluid, I hadnât done my weekly tan or my Brazilian wax was overdue. Iâll tell you; a lot of times. I missed out on making a lot of happy memories because I didnât feel I looked my best. That shit is just sad. I always imagine that once Iâm of a certain age I wonât care anymore but maybe thatâs not the case, going by this story. Maybe thereâs no time like the present to abolish such detrimental thought patterns. Lifeâs just too short to not say YES to a day at the beach.
When did we get to this place of having to look picture perfect every day? Oh I know, when we started posting all those photos and checking to see who liked them. Dang.
When the day comes for me to birth new people into this world (Oh Christ thatâs a nerve-wracking thought, I need more time!!!) I will do my very best to expose them to all different cultures and areas of life. Iâll do my best to compliment them for acts of kindness rather than pretty hair. But Iâm human, Iâll occasionally falter. I just hope by then, we live in an even more evolved society that stops talking about our size and our age like itâs a measure of our validity. Yawn.
We must embrace and incite change wherever we find someone hurting. I mean, itâs the least we can do right?
PS, thanks for everything Lizzo. You’re a Goddess.
This year I finally pinpointed my most accurate label by diagnosing myself an ‘Extraverted Introvert’. You all have a friend like me; the one who talks the most and the loudest at each party but probably had a panic attack on her way over because, well, people. And so many of them. The friend who keeps entering herself in talent and quiz shows for the thrill of it, but spends the night before crying on the floor in her underwear, asking her husband why he lets her do shit like this. Oh I know why, because I entered during my Extrovert mode, but my Introvert self has to show up in the morning. God damn my Jekyll and Hyde-ness. Side note: tune into the first new episode of Millionaire Hotseat for the new year if you wanna see me bomb out on a question about Korean Street Food. You can’t miss me, I’m in a bright green top. Unfortunately, it did not bring me quite enough luck that day.
Youâd likely meet me and be certain that Iâm an extrovert, but you know how you can discover a closeted introvert? By how they recharge. I love the occasional get together, as long as itâs with high vibe people, but I can never ever do back-to-back functions and my recharge place is definitely the fortress of solitude. You might spoil yourself with a champagne brekkie with the girls, but I spoil myself with a night out at the movies on my own with the kombucha and dark chocolate that I snuck in under my jacket.
Every time I start a new job and thereâs an upcoming work function, my signature move is to search my brain for a fake event I can claim to be at, or a fake illness I can diagnose myself with, but it has to be something I havenât used in a while (how do you spell shingles?) Iâm so loud and chatty at work that my new colleagues always presume Iâll be the last one standing at the Christmas PartyâŚ
(Gif courtesy of tenor.com)
I remember over a decade ago, going to Italy on a two-week Contiki tour with a great bunch of people. One of the girls said “I reckon you’ll be so much fun on a night out”, cut to us in a nightclub a few nights later, I was the first to smoke bomb from the dance floor and make my way back to the hotel. But hey, I got to appreciate all of those beautiful sunflowers through Tuscany the next morning, while they all slept on the bus with the curtains pulled closed.
And yet, this year’s work Christmas Party I was on the karaoke floor all night, even though my ENT specialist gave me strict instructions of vocal rest to heal these nodules. Perhaps I was in Extrovert Mode, or perhaps it’s because my work girls are just so damn loveable. Come to think of it, I was ovulating, it is after all the most social time of the cycle, it’s when your genetics are screaming out for you to get out there and find a mate so you can procreate. Hey, I was with a bunch of straight girls, but it didn’t stop me from pulling out some of my best dance moves.
All I know is that I have short bursts of energy followed by the most primal need to shut down and regroup. I used to work in a Call Centre with the most beautiful friend who was an excellent people watcher and had a knack of pin pointing everyone’s idiosyncrasies. She described me as the Terminator. I’d make noise and movements for a while then sudden silence, where she knew I had hit ‘power down’ mode. Within an hour, I’d power back up and start belting out some Gaga. It’s all a matter of balance you see.
(Gif courtesy of fetcherx.com)
I was recently talking to a friend of mine who returned to her role at a major TV Network after having her first baby. I’m somewhat terrified of having a baby myself, not for the birth itself but for losing my identify as ‘Steph’ and becoming ‘Mum’, so I find myself interviewing new Mums, particularly notoriously independent women to see how they navigated such a stark contrast to their routine. My dear friend, who gave birth to possibly the most gorgeous child I’ve ever met, told me that she misses only one thing: her solitude. She sees her friends all the time, most now have children of their own, so she doesn’t feel like she’s missing out on any social aspect of life, but she told me that having solid time completely alone, is near impossible. That word SOLITUDE really hit me in the chest. It hi-lighted for me how important that is to me. Her and I spent most of our teens locked in our rooms reading Anne Rice, and most of our twenties locked in our rooms watching Buffy or The Vampire Diaries, so I get.
Being around lots of people for long periods of time can be not only draining for me and many others, it can be really overwhelming. These feelings can be really exacerbated at this particularly social time of year.
If you’ve watched a lot of lame Hallmark Christmas Movies like I have (now boycotting anything with Candice Cameron Bure – her and her brother have really perfected that middle class, white American, anti-gay image) you may have this idea in your head of how Christmas should be. Calm ambience with a beautiful soundtrack of gentle Christmas music, beautiful deep red gowns and coats, soft snowfall, roasting turkey, people looking lovingly into each other’s eyes before telling their partner of a week that they’ve quit their awesome job in the city to move to the country to be with them. When in reality, someone just cut you off on the way to Westfield and gave you the finger, you realise you don’t have half the money required to buy gifts this year, you’re working right up until Christmas Eve and there’s no freaking way you can hand out gifts to everyone or bake enough cookies in time, you spend Christmas Eve wiping away boob sweat because you insisted on a traditional Turkey dinner but you don’t have AC and you celebrate this holiday in the middle of Australian fucking Summer, then Christmas Day swatting away flies from the food, scratching mozzie bites on your arms and hearing Aunty Shazza scream at the top of her lungs because she’s had one too many and someone left the back door open.
I was recently listening to one of my fave podcasts ‘We Can Do Hard Things’ with Glennon Doyle and Abby Wambach, and they talked about just this, the pressure to make Christmas ‘The most wonderful time of the year’ when in actuality, it’s ‘The most EVERYTHING time of the year’. It’s the most anxious, expensive, overwhelming, loving, scary, joyous, magical, emotional time of year. I heard the other day that statistically, the most common date of breakup is 12th December. I actually broke up with a long-term boyfriend on that date many years ago! Perhaps it’s a time when we question if we’re ending the year where we really want to be, and maybe if you break up before Christmas, you can start the new year fresh. Or maybe emotions just run WILD in December.
I love a good classic Christmas Movie but when I watch Four Christmases or Daddy’s Home 2, that both centre around visiting all of your divorced parents and their new partners, fighting with your siblings or trying to share custody of your kids with your ex, I just feel so much better about myself. I would imagine that more families feel represented in the newer films and therefore feel less pressure to create a perfect Christmas.
(Gif courtesy of tenor.com)
If someone feels the need to take a breather from the family dynamic over the holidays, maybe it’s not a bad thing, maybe they were drowning and saying that they need a time out is their way of waving the white flag. Do all the traditional shit you want this year, but feel free to bin it if you’re just not feeling it. There’s nothing in life that brings me more pure joy than Christmas. I love Carols and play them from August! I love driving around looking at Christmas Lights, and this year I’m super excited to go back to midnight mass for the first time in 8 years (right around the time I met that heathen husband of mine – coincidence?) But I’m really not feeling the traditions this year. I feel beyond drained. After a year of bronchitis, glandular fever, nodules, the worst gastro of my life and two bouts of COVID, I want nothing more than simplicity. We all had two years of doing nothing and going nowhere and I know you’ve all had an overwhelming social calendar this year. My wallet, my liver and my mental health all need nothing more than a little solitude. It’s my Christmas Gift to myself and guess what? Fits like a glove!
Speaking of podcasts, ya’ll know there’s no one greater on this earth than my Queen, Oprah. On a recent episode of Oprah’s Super Soul, she said that when you pray for patience, God doesn’t magically beam down a big dose of patience in a white light, he sends you challenging situations to help you learn patience. Queen O went onto say that sometimes when she prays she says “God, I don’t wanna learn nothin’ today”. Well that’s my feels for 2023. In the last year I worked three jobs and guess what? A few weeks ago I became debt free for the first time in a decade! Super fucking proud of myself. I feel like the last twelve years for me, and in particular the last two have been spent learning so many lessons that have helped me develop into to the person I always wanted to become. I have spent so much effort laying the ground work for a brighter future, but I have no plans on working this hard in 2023 and no plans on learning a God Damn thing! I’m not making a list of goals, and I’m not going to kill myself grinding away. I picture 2023 being one long Great Gatsby style party with beautiful glittery dresses and flowing champagne. But of course, I’ll probably duck in and out for solitude because well you know, people. Eek.
Merry Christmas to you dear reader. Thank you for being a part of my community for another year. May your 2023 be filled with joy, adventure, abundance, and if you’re anything like me, just a little solitude x
The last few and first few weeks of the year really are such extremes. The week heading into Christmas feels like a blur of cooking, planning, shopping, wrapping, cleaning and catching up with everyone youâve ever met. I remember being a kid and never understanding why my Mum loved Boxing Day. I hated it, because it meant the magic was over. For me, itâs always been about Christmas Eve. This time around, as I collapsed into a heap of exhaustion on the 26th, I finally got it.
The week between Christmas and New Year is like Walt Disney waking up from his cryogenic freezing in 100 years. You donât know what time, day or year it is, and where are my pants? It actually reminds me of the happiest time in life, that brief period between finishing school and starting full time work. You drink and eat anything you want, sleep till lunchtime and no one expects a God Damn thing from you.
A mere three days later and youâre back in your work clothes answering hundreds of emails. Itâs a shock to the system. I really need to pop out some kids, just so I have a legit excuse to take all of January off.
No one likes to talk about New Year, New Me anymore. I get it, itâs marketing bullshit. Every diet company starts campaigns with their new celebrity showing off âbefore & afterâ pics, convincing you that life is better now because they have more energy to play with their kids. Seriously though, if I see one more Noom ad, the TVâs getting tossed off the balcony. HmmâŚthat sounds like too much effort, perhaps if I were a Noom customer, Iâd have more energy for such activities!
GIF courtesy of tenor.com
All cynicism aside though, I love opening my brand new Typo diary on the 2nd of January (the 1st of January was nothing but Hydralyte, Panadol and the stale taste of Aperol on my breath). Back into full body workouts and feeling amazing, and you name a health appointment, Iâm booked in for it this month: acupuncture, lymphatic drainage massage, foot detox, colonic hydrotherapy, Vitamin IV Drip. A freaking cocktail of wellness coming my way!
Making all the life plans though, well thatâs just a little tricky right now isnât it? If youâre in Sydney, you might remember that a matter of weeks ago, we were averaging 200 cases of COVID per day. With the emergence of the Omicron variant, today we hit over 35,000 cases. And letâs be realistic, itâs probably double that, because who wants to spend over 4hrs waiting for a PCR test? Youâd like to think you can have the back-up plan of getting a Rapid Antigen Test and isolating at home until you get a negative result, but alas, every pharmacy is sold out of them or are cashing in by price gauging. So letâs presume that there are a hell of a lot of us walking around out there, infectious in the community. Some might think it doesnât matter because theyâre double vaxxed, but what about the vulnerable members of the community who are completely unprotected and very scared right now?
There are certain Sport Stars who may think that theyâre invincible because they already fought COVID once and continue to win major tournaments. But getting a free pass into this Country without being vaccinated, is shoving your privilege in the face of those who couldnât say goodbye to their dying parents, or those who had to close the doors on the business they spent their life working on, or even for the rest of us who are literally struggling to get groceries because the God Damn shelves are empty! I completely understand the nervousness amongst parents of little ones right now too. They canât have the peace of mind of having their most treasured humans vaccinated, so do they even leave the house right now? Can their kids go to birthday parties? Weâve been in limbo for two years and we donât know what the fuck to do anymore! I try to keep my outlook positive and not join in the Twitter posts that very aggressively slam those so called leaders but the people are angry, and rightly so. Our absent leader was in Hawaii when the land we stand on was quite literally on fire (Peter Garret was right all along). And this time around, he was presumably skiing in Aspen while the rest of us were running into pharmacies, trying to sniff out a RAT. Â But hey, how goodâs the cricket?
GIF courtesy of tenor.com
Youâll have to excuse me if I donât join in the prayers for those young healthy footy stars who marched in anti-vaxx protests and now lie in comas due to COVID related health issues. I like my prayers to make good, logical sense and I worry that God might say âUm, I sent doctors, scientists and vaccines, but they opposed themâ. You were given the resources to protect yourselves, you chose to oppose them with baseless arguments and now you put our health system and your community at great risk.
I just canât argue with stupid anymore.
My amazing, Sicilian Father will be celebrating his 50 years on Australian soil this month and do you think we can organise a big party for him? My best friend was engaged nearly 3 years ago and do you think she can plan a wedding with British in-laws and half a bridal party from the US and UK? Weâre nearly 40, she wants to start a family and everything is on freaking HOLD! STILL!!!
But by all means Joker, fly on in, because the way you hit a small yellow ball over a low net is the backbone of this community.
If youâre feeling angry, depressed, scared, frustrated. I feel ya. Let it all out, be authentic, donât feel the need to sugar coat a thing. I do hope that this year starts to see the improvement of how we deal with this virus, and I hope to never learn another letter of the Greek Alphabet. We’re missing out on so much.
Image courtesy of Dean_Nye Twitter
I am grateful for the lessons and many blessings of 2021 but all in all, it was one of the hardest years of my life, as I’m sure it was for many of you. I was happy to wave goodbye to it. It may have been the year I got married to the most wonderful man Iâve ever known, but to me, it will always be remembered for two things; the year I found my first grey hair, and the year they took Betty White from us.
As our truly Golden Girls are probably sitting around a table in heaven right now, nibbling away at a cheesecake, I canât help but think that what the world really needs right now, is a good ol’ St Olaf story.
I recently downloaded the audio book âThe 4-Hour Work Weekâ by Tim Ferris. Youâve probably read it or at least heard of it. A brilliant concept of figuring out clear and concise methods to condense a weekâs worth of work into 4hrs, with the income continuously flowing in so that you can travel the world, spend your mornings surfing or doing yoga and generally living an awesome life. A brilliant read, worthy of its accolades but when he started in on complex math equations, I hit pause and am yet to revisit. I will…âsomedayâ. There is one line of his that stuck to my brain like Grape Hubba Bubba under â90âs school desks:Â
âMost people think that the opposite of happiness is sadness. Itâs not. The opposite of happiness is boredomâ.
Read that again.
The further we get into this pandemic that prohibits us from any form of adventure and the further I sink into the mundane responsibilities that encompass adult life, I realise that this is 100% my problem. I AM BORED OUT OF MY FREAKING MIND!
Hang in there Hils. (GIF courtesy of tenor.com)
Some of you might think this odd of a girl (oh sorry, Iâm a woman, keep forgetting) who recently married the love of her life. Donât get me wrong, my husband is an absolute gem of a human being. His company is a true gift. But Iâm still an individual person, as is he, with our own desires of creating a life full of adventure and wonder and I can’t say that I feel much of either lately.
Itâs important to note that I actually wrote most of this article in early June, a few weeks before this very lengthy Sydney lockdown was imposed. Please donât interpret my words as boredom of only this lockdown, but also boredom of the âbusyâ life I was leading before June 26.
Many of us were already so bored with the busy-ness of our daily routine. Just because youâre tired and have a to-do list longer than Mariah Carey’s hotel demands, it doesnât mean youâre not bored (that was totally not a judgement, Mimi provided the soundtrack of my childhood and if she demands my kidney, it’s hers). You have to ask the question; how many of us are feeling fulfilled by our insanely busy lives? Are we busy because weâre carving out the path we always dreamed of, or because weâre doing what society has convinced us we âshouldâ be doing? Are we going to the gym because we love it? Or because we only feel seen as successful if we have a toned booty? Are we throwing big birthday parties for our kids because we enjoy it? Or because weâre worried weâll be mum-shamed if we donât?
Itâs the intention behind our movements that can mark the difference between enjoyment and obligation.
My current admin role has a tendency to suck the living soul out of me on a daily basis. It doesnât mean that Iâm not grateful to be one of the few who is blessed enough to have retained her employment throughout a pandemic and two lockdowns, but I canât be true to myself or to you if I donât admit that being seen as the bicky bitch makes me wonder where I took a wrong turn. Paying my dues with mundane tasks at 18 made sense, but at 38 I canât help but think, how the fuck did I get back here?!!!!
Not actual footage of me, but not far off. (GIF courtesy of tenor.com)
I spent most of my early life on stage, dancing and singing. I danced in the opening ceremony of the Sydney Olympics, I danced in an NRL Grand Final Opening Ceremony, I sang on The Voice. Now Iâm filling up the biscuit container, collecting and distributing mail, taking everyoneâs mouldy coffee cups to the dishwasher and being frowned upon for wearing bright red dresses or giant hoop earrings. I think the words “try to blend in” were actually uttered to me before last year’s staff photo. Iâm just not quite sure they really âget meâ.
But hereâs the clincher, itâs not anyone elseâs fault. I canât blame anyone but myself here. Thatâs my God Damn job. It was my choice to take a job that has a steady income to pay the bills, when I know it will not bring me joy. I chose âsafetyâ over âadventureâ. I hate to admit it, but I think somewhere along the line, I stopped being brave.
We all want to be seen and to be heard. And more than anything, for our individuality to be celebrated. If itâs not, youâre probably in the wrong place. When I was in a toxic relationship, full of despair and self-loathing, I wrote a sentence in my journal that I have recited to myself many times since:
âYouâre a sundial in the shade, youâre not broken; youâre just in the wrong placeâ.
I vividly remember staring out of the window in high school Maths class (give me Art and English any day) transporting myself into a little cafĂŠ in Paris, covered in vines, seated inside looking out at the trickling rain, smoking on my cigarette and sipping my hot chocolate (I invented that fantasy way before you were old enough to get a passport Emily in Paris).
We all have places we transport ourselves to in times of boredom, but the question is, can we turn that visualisation into reality?
As a child, I would fantasize about the abilities of Mary Poppins, jumping into chalk drawings and being whisked away to magical lands of riding merry-go-round horses in a horse race, eating candy apples and bursting into song and dance with penguins. I just always believed that I was magical like Ms Poppins. Now I fear I may have turned into grumpy old Mr Banks who likes things neat and orderly. Some will surely read this and find me ridiculous, but trust me when I say; in every second of every day, I would rather be ridiculous than mediocre.
Wait for me Mary! (GIF courtesy of makeagif.com )
A woman of 38 is expected by society, almost demanded, to put away seemingly childish quests in place of being sensible. To make a good wife, mother and daughter. To hold a steady job and create a beautiful home (soooo much more to say on this topic, but I’ll save that juice nugget for my article on the patriarchy).
I had recently lost my effervescent optimism in place of this nagging irritability and I realise now, itâs because Iâm going against my true nature. The way a bird locked in a cage feels, when her wings were created to soar above the clouds. The nature that wants me to run barefoot in the rain and spin in circles. The nature that makes me aspire to find my next singing gig instead of scrolling through the Baby Bunting site looking at cribs for my future babies. The nature that makes me sit at work thinking of my next three blog topics instead of topping up the bowl of Mentos in the boardroom or the Tim Tams in the kitchen.
If youâve seen that Goddess of a woman Lady Gaga in her Oscar Nominated performance in A Star Is Born, you might recall the opening scene of her working in a restaurant, late for her singing gig because her boss makes her take out bags of trash before she clocks off. She walks slowly up the ramp of a dirty basement, in plain work clothes, with plain swept up hair, spinning around slowly as she sings the words to âSomewhere Over The Rainbowâ:
âWhen all the world is a hopeless jumble and the raindrops tumble all around. Heaven opens a magic lane. When all the clouds darken up the skyway There’s a rainbow highway to be foundââŚ
As the words A STAR IS BORN slowly emerge on the screen. A girl who most might walk by as just another invisible person. But inside, she is a superstar.
In the words of real life Gaga herself: âIâve always been famous, itâs just no one knew it yetâ.
My Queen! (GIF courtesy of https://makeagif.com )
I simply refuse to believe that we were put here to merely go to the gym, wash the dishes, go to work, have zoom meetings, make dinner, wash and hang the laundry, sleep and repeat. To be âgood girlsâ. To follow the rules. To get praise from our parents, our teachers, our bosses. To make a good home for our husbands and children and host insta-worthy parties. Although if I do host a party, youâd best believe that thereâs a damn good cheese platter onâhand and the Aperol is flowing. As an Italian, there are just standards that must be up-held, for the love of good food and drinks (not because thatâs whatâs expected of me of course).
At least Iâm one of the lucky ones who married a guy with values that mirror my own. He has no expectations of me other than to do what makes me happy, because heâs woke enough to have noticed that on the days when I do something amazing for myself, I come home with beautiful energy that in turn, makes me a better wife, neighbour, colleague, daughter, sister, aunty, friend.
This year marked ten years since my first solo trip overseas. I had just exited a highly dangerous, toxic relationship and sent myself to Italy for two weeks on a Contiki tour. I could have visited multiple cities throughout Europe, but it felt cathartic for me to stick only to Italy and visit so much of my heritage as I rediscovered myself. I really found a special part of Steph there, and she lives in a little pocket in my chest always, licking on hazelnut gelato and immersing from the ocean onto rocks so damn hot I can almost feel them burning right now.
We must live a life that sets our souls ablaze. If we canât travel yet, we must find something else. Thatâs when the magic finds us.
Many times throughout life and particularly this lockdown, I have lost myself. As Iâm sure many of you have. But eventually, I always find myself again. I feel the veil lift, I open my ears to The Universe, and she recommences speaking to me in her riddles that make me know Iâm part of something special and much bigger than me.
As the lockdown restrictions begin to ease in a matter of days, donât forget that it allowed you a breather. Time to rest and discover something about yourself. It was a re-set. An unravelling and putting back together.
Because maybe, just maybe, the journey isnât so much about becoming anything, but un-becoming everything that really isnât you.
Kramer knows what’s up. (GIF courtesy of gfycat.com)
If youâre in Sydney at the moment, chances are youâre glued to your couch watching the Olympics because letâs face it, youâre in lockdown and thereâs fuck all else to do. But also, the Olympics are God Damn awesome!
After setting the benchmark for the rest of the world on how to handle a pandemic, the tables have turned for Sydney; weâre into our sixth week of lockdown with numbers continuing to climb, people of all ages being infected with the virus, not enough vaccines to go around, small business failing and yet to see a cent from the Government, and simply no clear end in sight. Cheering home our victorious Olympians has provided a small spark of hope in an otherwise eerie world. Â
Letâs start with Emma McKeon taking home enough medals to have ranked herself as an individual Country on the medal tally. Scoring her 11th Olympic Medal of her career, sheâs broken Ian Thorpe and Liesel Jonesâ record of nine each (ahh Thorpie, youâll always be the King of my poolâŚthat came out a lot dirtier than I intended, but how good is it having that champ back on our screens?!)
We loved watching Kaylee McKeown slay that pool then drop the F-Bomb in a poolside interview (Aussie Royalty). Logan from Logan taking home the first ever Gold in BMX Freestyle after building ramps in his backyard and subsequently pissing off his neighbours (might be in for a few less noise complaints now). And Iâm pretty sure the number one image in your mind of these games is Ariarne Titmusâ coach; throwing around his mask like a stripperâs G-String and dry humping a barricade in celebration of his protĂŠgĂŠâs epic victory. This man is my absolute spirit animal and Boxall, mate if youâre reading this, would you consider hiring yourself out to non-sporting types such as myself? I just think Iâd be a lot more successful in life if you were walking behind me and pumping me up as I went about my daily affairs. COME ON BRUNO!!!!!
(GIF courtesy of vulture.com)
Can I get an Amen for the 62 year old Andrew Hoy, taking home a Silver and a Bronze in what was his 8th Olympics, becoming our oldest ever Olympian? Sixty â bloody â two!!! Youâll never catch my 38yr old ass complaining about a burpee ever again. And a dude from Hurstville competing on the world stage in the Table Tennis event. I spent the first twenty-something years of my life in Hurstville! I could have passed our very own Forrest Gump in the fresh produce aisle at Coles, we could have squeezed the very same avocado! You donât know.
My big waterworks moment came from watching Peter Bolâs family partying like itâs 1999 from back home in Perth, watching on as their man continues his pursuit of Olympic glory. His family fled war-torn Sudan when he was only 4, eventually settling in Australia, without speaking a word of English, in the hopes of creating a new, safer life for their brood. Now families all over Australia scream his name from their living rooms, edging him closer to that finish line. Today, Iâm a very proud Aussie indeed. Can I get an Oi Oi Oi?!
Like anything in life; with the sweets, comes the sours. Â The amount of pressure on these young athletes, from themselves, their coaches and their Countries at large, is perhaps too much for anyoneâs shoulders (even those giant swimmer and gymnast shoulders). The high-highs and the low-lows of such a highly competitive field can very often take a large toll on oneâs mental health. I can barely watch my screen knowing that someone has trained hours on end, nearly every day for the last four years (or many more) only to stumble on a hurdle or fall off the uneven bars. I canât bring myself to look at their face as all of their hopes dash before their very eyes. To spend years perfecting your craft and having, in some cases only a few seconds to prove your worth is just a ridiculous amount of pressure. I know my mental state wouldnât handle it.
This year, we watched two of the absolute best athletes of our time; Naomi Osaka and Simone Biles put up their hands and admit, itâs too much. I canât cope, and I choose my mental health.
Letâs be clear, in every single situation, we should always choose our health; physical, mental or emotional. Time and time again.
(image courtesy of reddit.com)
Yesterday at work I was having a chat with one of my favourite colleagues (just so freaking excited to see another human being in the flesh!) We were discussing this very topic until he mentioned that he thought Biles was a cop out because she took someone elseâs place in the squad and didnât go through with it. Argghhh a dagger through my heart! I was crushed that he had taken this view, especially given that the last few weeks, he and I had spoken at great lengths about our extreme concern of everyoneâs mental health during the pandemic. We had both been studying the increase on suicide rates over the last few years and fear that the extreme isolation during lockdown could tip anyone over the edge who was already struggling to keep it together.
Hereâs what kills me, if Simone Biles pulled a hamstring or broke a leg, everyone would be standing and applauding her brave exit from the floor and just âunderstandâ that she could not physically continue. No one would question it. It would just be a given that she was âunfit to continueâ. Then why, when it comes to mental health, do the Keyboard Warriors awaken from under their pile of Uber Eats bags to condemn the perceived weakness of someone who is simply exercising her right of self-preservation? This clearly demonstrates that the stigma of mental health is still alive and well.
I can only imagine itâs because it is invisible and therefore un-measurable by others.
Having spent my entire life with a neuro-muscular disorder (thatâs a whole other story for another time) I can guarantee you that most people will always doubt what they canât see. I look fit, I have defined muscles and workout a lot, so when I canât move because my legs freeze up, people think that Iâm âfaking itâ. When I canât open my eyes because my eyelids have frozen, people think Iâm goofing around. When I canât respond to a question because my tongue has gone stiff because I havenât spoken in a while, people think Iâm being rude (that one hurts the most â I freaking love to talk more than anything in the world!) Even just recently Iâve experienced grown men thinking itâs funny to make fun of the way I walk upstairs, thinking Iâm doing my best impersonation of Frankenstein. I used to get really worked up or I used to pretend I was tying my shoelace or looking for something in my bag, these were in the days before I was diagnosed and just didnât know what to tell people. Now I calmly say, âNo, I was born with a neuro-muscular disorder, this is how I walkâ. They never know what to say after that, and they never apologise, they mostly look confused and I can see their brains trying to figure out if Iâm joking or not. If I had my leg in a cast, or was in a wheelchair, they wouldnât look confused. I then continue my slow and difficult climb up the stairs at my own pace, reciting the words over and over in my head âIâm doing the very best I can, thereâs no need to rushâ.
I canât express to you the relief I felt when my condition was given a name (Myotonia Congenita, in case you want to look it up). It was so freeing. I still get upset (thatâs actually a huge understatement). Every single day of my life is hard, physically and emotionally. Simple tasks are often quite impossible for me. But I no longer carry the burden of hiding my disability or apologising for it in order to make someone else comfortable. I can simply be me. In all my perfectly imperfect glory.
That mindset and diagnosis really would have come in handy during Primary School when a substitute teacher didnât believe me when I said I couldnât run after standing still for so long. She thought I was a bad child telling lies. She subsequently grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me along the cement in front of all of my peers. My legs were covered in cuts, scrapes and blood. But they healed. The damage that particular situation did to my mental health, never healed. I never told anyone that story until I was in my twenties. I guess it took me that long to realise that it wasnât my fault.
When you doubt someoneâs story, especially their struggles, youâre not only preventing them from healing, youâre adding shame to their already heavy load.
As a person with a seemingly hidden disability and my own share of mental health issues, I am so proud of Naomi Osaka and Simone Biles. They are so brave and so smart in the choices they have made. Theyâve essentially taken one for the team. Their actions could set in motion a whole new movement of kindness and compassion. Which could create a world where no one will ever be afraid to admit they need a time out. This could very well save lives.
Osaka and Biles donât owe the general public anything. They donât owe us an explanation for their pain, the same way my colleagues donât need to know when I have period pain or when I canât get out of bed because depression has sapped the strength from every muscle in my body. I use to text my bosses a really long-winded explanation for when I couldnât make it into work, and when it was depression, Iâd always say I had a stomach bug. Now, I just say âIâm unwell and canât make it in todayâ. If youâre unfit to work, youâre unfit to work, no apologies or long-winded explanations required. I guarantee you, the world will keep spinning and no one will remember that day you had off, in five yearsâ time.
(image courtesy of tennis.com)
I think sport is a wonderful recreation to be involved in, and full credit to anyone living out their dream. That’s truly magical. But sport is not everything. It ‘s merely one facet of an athlete, in their already rich tapestry of who they are as a person. I hope that when they retire, they realise that there is a lot that they can offer the world, not just their sporting skills.
I was recently in hospital for a routine procedure in which my body encountered a slight complication. In my heady state of anaesthesia and feeling like hell, I remember calling out to the nurse who had spent the most time with me. She stroked my hand and stayed with me until I felt well and I just remember thinking, âWell shitâŚfooty players run into work and have 80,000 people cheering them on. These Doctors and Nurses work so hard keeping us well and alive and no one applauds them when they walk into work.â It’s a topsy-turvy world.
Once I got home, I sent those Doctors and Nurses a box of choccies and a card telling them that the people of Sydney are so blessed to be looked after by people like them. Not all heroes wear capes, but heaps of them wear scrubs.
Hereâs to the trailblazers. The brave and the vulnerable, the kind and the compassionate. The broken and the healers.
And to you, reading my words right now. If youâre struggling today, Iâm so sorry youâre in pain. I hope that tomorrow is a better day for you. One full of hope.
This really is such a beautiful world.
(image courtesy of https://twitter.com/phlpublichealth)
If you or anyone you know needs immediate support, contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or via lifeline.org.au. In an emergency, call 000.
