Tag: blogging

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Do they make a pill for a vulnerability hangover?

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”.

(GIF courtesy of https://gifer.com/en)
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Character developments, the year of the woman, and the crap we’re leaving behind in 2024.

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:

  1. Being a good girl (apparently they seldom make history).
  2. Explaining yourself to uneducated fuckwits.
  3. Remining in a conversation / room that is sucking your soul like one of Harry Potter’s Dementors.
  4. Saying yes to shit you don’t want to do.
  5. Apologising, unless you have fucked up, then own it with grace and move on, we all do it.
  6. Spending more than you earn to fit in.
  7. Drinking too much if it’s no longer serving you well.
  8. Being scared to use your voice. Use it even when it shakes. In fact, use it especially when it shakes.
  9. Being scared to try something new.
  10. Taking Ozempic unless you really fucking need it for health reasons.
  11. Neglecting check ups (please touch your own boobs tonight).
  12. Getting upset when we can’t get emotionally stunted idiots to see our truth. You know your truth, that’s enough.
  13. Pleasing others. Fuck ’em.
  14. Criticising our bodies.
  15. 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.

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The one question you should never ask a Domestic Violence survivor

If you’re 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. We’re gonna stray the course on this one.

Anytime I’ve sat down to write a blog or an article, I usually bang it out in one sitting, as the words keep flowing like Wonka’s chocolate river. I’ve 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 it’s the most important thing I’ve 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. He’s a good friend and we really get each other. His response was unfortunate and more common than you could ever imagine: “Why did you stay so long?”

Admit it, you had a similar thought. You may have even used this line before. Here’s why you should never say it or even think it again: YOU’RE PUTTING THE BLAME ON THE VICTIM. Here are two completely acceptable alternatives: “I’m sorry you went through that,” or “Good on you for finding the strength to leave”.

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 I’m confident, I’m loud, I seem completely in control of my life. And I pretty much am…now.

Every woman who has been in a domestic violent relationship will wholeheartedly relate to the ‘frog in boiling water analogy’. 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, it’ll 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 wouldn’t 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, hasn’t 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 don’t remember what he snapped at that time, but I do remember how I felt. Doesn’t get much more vulnerable than naked, post-coital, dangling out of a window from three stories up.

Once we were playing that board game ‘Guess Who’, 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. I’ve never been able to play that game again. Can’t imagine why.

My best friend was killed in a car accident in 2008. It’s been thirteen years, but there are parts of me that have never recovered. Six days after her death, he asked why I wasn’t 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 couldn’t 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. She’s 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 didn’t speak a word, so I sensed something was coming. On our walk to the car, just past the foot bridge of Darling Harbour, I can’t 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 you’ve done nothing wrong, shame takes many years to scrub off your skin.

Shall I continue? Maybe that’ll 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, I’d 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 didn’t 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 “who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with?!” I was a ball of rage. It’s not a good quality, and I don’t condone violence, but I can’t express to you how pivotal this moment was to me. It wasn’t 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 didn’t cook badly, or buy the wrong food item, or wear the wrong outfit. He’s fucked up, he has issues with women (most likely repressed anger from something his mother did – but now I’m generalising – that was my experience) and he’s using you as his outlet. I am very sorry if this is happening to you, but please understand that you can’t 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 don’t 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 don’t 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.

There’s one more lesson that works for this and every life situation that isn’t safe: NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU. If you’re my age, you’re 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 didn’t think it every day, but when you’re 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 didn’t 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 can’t understand why I didn’t 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 don’t 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 couldn’t get out of bed because I’d 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 wasn’t 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 they’re terrified you’ll leave. You are not a partner, you are a possession. You are not loved, you are controlled.

I realised that I couldn’t 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 “Of course you left me, I’m a monster”. 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 times…please, hold your judgement) and we parted ways. I’m no fool, it could have been a far more dangerous ending. I am fortunate that it ended the way it did, this won’t 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? It’s because being behind bars is what they’re used to. It might be a shit situation, but it’s familiar. You ask any therapist; we’re creatures of habit, and we’re all repeating patterns because what’s familiar is comfortable, even if it’s 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 you’re worried about a loved one and think that forcing them out is the right thing to do. I get it, you’re worried about them, but you have to prepare yourself for the fact that this might make them more protective of their partner. They’re 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 can’t 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:

1800 RESPECT: 1800 737 732

Support Services
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Even the best life changes can incur a period of grief

I’m on the precipice of turning 40 and feel that my grace period of delaying childbirth may be coming to an end. Don’t 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. I’m gonna say the thing that so many of you have thought but haven’t wanted to say for fear of sounding selfish or insensitive…I’m scared.

I swear to God, I was 15yrs old a few weeks ago, looking out the window in my parents’ 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 do’s and don’ts. 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; I’m debt free, I’m in a relationship that perfectly combines support & freedom, and I’ve 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.

I’m so excited for my next chapter, but I feel something in my chest that I’ve felt before, in darker times. It’s 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.

I’ve 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. I’ve had to be very careful who I’ve shared my fears with, to not be insensitive and cause them further pain. But I want you to remember that the severity of someone else’s struggles does not shrink yours. Your story is your story. Your feelings are always valid.

I know in my gut that I’ll be a great Mum. I adore my nephews and my niece like nobody’s business, but I’m really scared for the baby stuff. I never had babies around me and I have no freaking clue what I’m 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 I’m 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 “Um, it’s not like you’re dying”. I literally heard my voice in my head reply “Isn’t it though?” All well and good for you Dads to say, your tits won’t be pointing to your shoes, your insides won’t be stretched open and you won’t have hormones forcing you to shed buckets of tears. When you travel for work, you won’t have keyboard warriors mum-shaming you.

I know, you parents out there think I’m 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…

I’m a HUGE tennis fan, and watching Roger, Raffa and Serena has been an absolute privilege. Do you know what really fucking irks me? When they’re 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; “oh just retire”, “just let go already”. You know when they’ll let go? When they’re 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 you’ve 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. I’m 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 they’re worthy of that. And most importantly, I hope I don’t fuck them up.

To all my girls out there reading this and feeling seen. Please know, you’re not alone. I share your fears. And your feelings are always, always valid.

And to my future kids, don’t be offended by this, you don’t exist yet. I’m sure I’ll take it all back, as long as your first word isn’t 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…

(GIF courtesy of www.today.com)
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Representation matters

Can we please stop applauding men who ‘stay’ with wives who have gained a few kilos? It’s as bad as praising men for looking after their own kids. It’s not babysitting if you made them, it’s 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 I’m still hearing this same story, is that God Damn tale of Pierce Brosnan being a wonderful husband for sticking by his wife, even though she’s gained weight. Yes, you’re actually reading these words. This story was inappropriate five years ago when it first started circulating. I had to check it wasn’t 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 God’s 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 don’t. 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. It’s not a bad thing, it’s 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 sweat…twice. What a fucking machine!

The question is not just, why are we judging anyone on their appearance, especially when it’s COMPLETELY normal to change shape, but why are we still doing it more to women? I’m sure Pierce had much more attractive testicles when they met. I’m 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 body’s 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 90’s, 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 didn’t marry the love of her life until she was a massive 45!!!! And yet, nothing over her hubby’s 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:

“That’s great for them, you can find love at any (legal) age. However, the difference is that women’s geriatric pregnancy starts at about 30. So if you want kids it’s probably not ideal…but still possible”. Actually dickhead; it’s 35, but thanks for pointing out that my ovaries should be in a nursing home. I really can’t hear that enough.

He went on to bless us with more of his wisdom by pointing out that “men don’t hit their prime until their 40’s”. I’m sorry, where is that Scientific evidence? Prime of what? According to Looking for Alibrandi, a man’s sexual peak is at 17 and the woman’s at 34. He also believed that women look for someone who can ‘build’ and ‘protect’ and a man looks for someone to give them ‘children’ and ‘peace’. I really wanna know where he got that market research from because my husband can’t build much more than a sandwich, I’m yet to give him kids and I rarely offer him much peace. I guess we’re 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, they’re so Goddamn itchy!

You do of course realise why these archaic beliefs are still circulating don’t you? It’s 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 parents’ 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 90’s. The era of the belly button ring, vanilla Impulse body spray, belly chains, hot pink Ericsson T10 flip phones, Nokia 3210’s 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, Dawson’s Creek, Mariah Carey….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 wasn’t without its problems, it’s 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 didn’t 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, you’re 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 – 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 ‘volume’ 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 don’t want to do it, but my eyes just go there. Perhaps it was the asshole ex-boyfriend who sent me a text saying “YOU HAVE FAT THIGHS” 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 90’s 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 wasn’t just over-representation of thin women that was the problem. Women of a certain age weren’t 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 don’t 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 doesn’t matter for the guy right? We all love Kochie but you gotta admit, his certain look is more acceptable because he doesn’t own a Vagina. And we still don’t 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. Shouldn’t current TV represent current society?

And yet, some still resist change. The people who don’t want change are the people who are already represented.

I didn’t have influencers like Amy Sheppard showing off her beautiful healthy body with dimples when I was in High School. I didn’t 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 she’s 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 didn’t see girls like her in picture books or on TV. She stares at her reflection in confusion, trying to understand why she looks so ‘different’.

In the movie adaptation of the highly acclaimed 2006 non-fiction book ‘The Secret’, 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 “imagine, not knowing how much time you have left on this earth and passing up on opportunity for a really enjoyable day because you’re afraid that someone might judge how you look”. It made me think how many times I’ve said no to a swim because my tummy was bloated, my thighs were retaining a bit of fluid, I hadn’t done my weekly tan or my Brazilian wax was overdue. I’ll tell you; a lot of times. I missed out on making a lot of happy memories because I didn’t feel I looked my best. That shit is just sad. I always imagine that once I’m of a certain age I won’t care anymore but maybe that’s not the case, going by this story. Maybe there’s no time like the present to abolish such detrimental thought patterns. Life’s 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 that’s 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. I’ll do my best to compliment them for acts of kindness rather than pretty hair. But I’m human, I’ll 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 it’s a measure of our validity. Yawn.

We must embrace and incite change wherever we find someone hurting. I mean, it’s the least we can do right?

PS, thanks for everything Lizzo. You’re a Goddess.

(GIF courtesy of tenor.com)
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It’s the most ‘everything’ time of the year – and the rise of the extroverted introvert

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.

You’d likely meet me and be certain that I’m 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 it’s 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 there’s 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 haven’t used in a while (how do you spell shingles?) I’m so loud and chatty at work that my new colleagues always presume I’ll be the last one standing at the Christmas Party…

(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

(Gif courtesy of tenor.com)
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The year that delivered my first grey hair and took Betty White from us.

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 you’ve 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, it’s 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 don’t 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 you’re back in your work clothes answering hundreds of emails. It’s 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, it’s marketing bullshit. Every diet company starts campaigns with their new celebrity showing off ‘before & after’ 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 TV’s getting tossed off the balcony. Hmm…that sounds like too much effort, perhaps if I were a Noom customer, I’d have more energy for such activities!

New Year New Me GIFs | Tenor
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, I’m 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 that’s just a little tricky right now isn’t it? If you’re 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 let’s be realistic, it’s probably double that, because who wants to spend over 4hrs waiting for a PCR test? You’d 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 let’s presume that there are a hell of a lot of us walking around out there, infectious in the community. Some might think it doesn’t matter because they’re 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 they’re 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 couldn’t 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 can’t 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? We’ve been in limbo for two years and we don’t 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.  But hey, how good’s the cricket?

Smell A Rat GIF - The Departed Drama Jack Nicholson - Discover & Share GIFs
GIF courtesy of tenor.com

You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t 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 “Um, I sent doctors, scientists and vaccines, but they opposed them”. 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 can’t 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? We’re 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 you’re feeling angry, depressed, scared, frustrated. I feel ya. Let it all out, be authentic, don’t 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 I’ve 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 can’t help but think that what the world really needs right now, is a good ol’ St Olaf story.

A Thank You To My Second Momma | Golden girls quotes, Golden girls, Funny inspirational quotes
GIF courtesy of imgflip.com

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Is boredom the opposite of happiness?

I recently downloaded the audio book ‘The 4-Hour Work Week’ by Tim Ferris. You’ve probably read it or at least heard of it. A brilliant concept of figuring out clear and concise methods to condense a week’s 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…‘someday’. There is one line of his that stuck to my brain like Grape Hubba Bubba under ‘90’s school desks: 

“Most people think that the opposite of happiness is sadness. It’s not. The opposite of happiness is boredom”. 

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! 

Hillary Clinton Bored GIF - Hillary Clinton Bored - Discover & Share GIFs
Hang in there Hils.
(GIF courtesy of tenor.com)

Some of you might think this odd of a girl (oh sorry, I’m a woman, keep forgetting) who recently married the love of her life. Don’t get me wrong, my husband is an absolute gem of a human being. His company is a true gift. But I’m 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.  

It’s 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 don’t interpret my words as boredom of only this lockdown, but also boredom of the ‘busy’ life I was leading before June 26.

Many of us were already so bored with the busy-ness of our daily routine. Just because you’re tired and have a to-do list longer than Mariah Carey’s hotel demands, it doesn’t mean you’re 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 we’re carving out the path we always dreamed of, or because we’re doing what society has convinced us we ‘should’ 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 we’re worried we’ll be mum-shamed if we don’t?

It’s 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 doesn’t mean that I’m 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 can’t be true to myself or to you if I don’t 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 can’t help but think, how the fuck did I get back here?!!!!

Wine Under Desk Crying GIF - Wine Under Desk Crying Robin - Discover & Share GIFs
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 I’m filling up the biscuit container, collecting and distributing mail, taking everyone’s 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. I’m just not quite sure they really ‘get me’.  

But here’s the clincher, it’s not anyone else’s fault. I can’t blame anyone but myself here. That’s 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 ‘safety’ over ‘adventure’. 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 it’s not, you’re 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: 

“You’re a sundial in the shade, you’re not broken; you’re just in the wrong place”. 

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 café 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.  

Mary Poppins Chalk Drawing Scene on Make a GIF
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, it’s because I’m 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 you’ve 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 ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’: 

“When 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 found”… 

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: “I’ve always been famous, it’s just no one knew it yet”.  

Lady Gaga - National Anthem - Super Bowl 2016 (HD 1080p) Full Video on Make a GIF
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 ‘good girls’. 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, you’d best believe that there’s a damn good cheese platter on–hand 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 that’s what’s expected of me of course).  

At least I’m 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 he’s 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 can’t travel yet, we must find something else. That’s when the magic finds us. 

Many times throughout life and particularly this lockdown, I have lost myself. As I’m 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 I’m part of something special and much bigger than me.  

As the lockdown restrictions begin to ease in a matter of days, don’t 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 isn’t so much about becoming anything, but un-becoming everything that really isn’t you.  

Top 30 Blew My Mind GIFs | Find the best GIF on Gfycat
Kramer knows what’s up.
(GIF courtesy of gfycat.com)
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Taking home the gold in mental health

If you’re in Sydney at the moment, chances are you’re glued to your couch watching the Olympics because let’s face it, you’re in lockdown and there’s 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; we’re 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.  

Let’s 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, she’s broken Ian Thorpe and Liesel Jones’ record of nine each (ahh Thorpie, you’ll always be the King of my pool…that 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 I’m pretty sure the number one image in your mind of these games is Ariarne Titmus’ coach; throwing around his mask like a stripper’s G-String and dry humping a barricade in celebration of his protégé’s epic victory. This man is my absolute spirit animal and Boxall, mate if you’re reading this, would you consider hiring yourself out to non-sporting types such as myself? I just think I’d 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 – bloody – two!!! You’ll 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 don’t know.

My big waterworks moment came from watching Peter Bol’s family partying like it’s 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, I’m a very proud Aussie indeed. Can I get an Oi Oi Oi?!

Like anything in life; with the sweets, comes the sours.  The amount of pressure on these young athletes, from themselves, their coaches and their Countries at large, is perhaps too much for anyone’s 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 one’s 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 can’t 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 wouldn’t 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, it’s too much. I can’t cope, and I choose my mental health.

Let’s 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 else’s place in the squad and didn’t 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 everyone’s 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.

Here’s 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 ‘understand’ that she could not physically continue. No one would question it. It would just be a given that she was ‘unfit to continue’. 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 it’s because it is invisible and therefore un-measurable by others.

Having spent my entire life with a neuro-muscular disorder (that’s a whole other story for another time) I can guarantee you that most people will always doubt what they can’t see. I look fit, I have defined muscles and workout a lot, so when I can’t move because my legs freeze up, people think that I’m ‘faking it’. When I can’t open my eyes because my eyelids have frozen, people think I’m goofing around. When I can’t respond to a question because my tongue has gone stiff because I haven’t spoken in a while, people think I’m being rude (that one hurts the most – I freaking love to talk more than anything in the world!) Even just recently I’ve experienced grown men thinking it’s funny to make fun of the way I walk upstairs, thinking I’m 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 didn’t know what to tell people. Now I calmly say, “No, I was born with a neuro-muscular disorder, this is how I walk”. 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 I’m joking or not. If I had my leg in a cast, or was in a wheelchair, they wouldn’t 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 “I’m doing the very best I can, there’s no need to rush”.

I can’t 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 (that’s 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 didn’t believe me when I said I couldn’t 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 wasn’t my fault.

When you doubt someone’s story, especially their struggles, you’re not only preventing them from healing, you’re 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. They’ve 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 don’t owe the general public anything. They don’t owe us an explanation for their pain, the same way my colleagues don’t need to know when I have period pain or when I can’t 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 couldn’t make it into work, and when it was depression, I’d always say I had a stomach bug. Now, I just say “I’m unwell and can’t make it in today”. If you’re unfit to work, you’re 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 years’ 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, “Well shit…footy 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.” 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.

Here’s 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 you’re struggling today, I’m so sorry you’re 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.

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‘Tis the season to hit reset

There are only two occasions that cause me to look at the world through rose coloured lenses and make me want to hug every human in sight. One is Christmas, the other is my last day of work before moving on to another company. There’s no drug quite like nostalgia that makes me tell colleagues whose death I was plotting a week ago for not filling the ice tray, that I’m going to miss them soooo much and be sure to stay in touch on socials.

Christmas really does deliver that magic in the air though. The first few weeks of December are full of road rage and Westfield carpark rage, but on Christmas Eve, when I walk around looking at Christmas Lights to the sounds of Mariah, Bublé & Wham! – something child-like and pure washes over me. There’s also no other time like Christmas morning that makes me want to run up to random strangers on the street, packing their cars with pressies and trifle, and scream out “Merry Christmas!”

Elf GIFs - Get the best GIF on GIPHY

But this year, I find myself in a little bit of a pickle. I appear to have lost my Christmas Spirit. Me! I’m one of those nut jobs who starts playing Christmas Carols and watching Christmas Movies in August. I love the anticipation. I did it all this year, had all my presents bought and wrapped by mid-October, had the tree up in November, wore the Christmas earrings everyday throughout December, and I was feeling it a little, but over the last week, I lost it. I even tried baking my specialty Christmas Cookies last night and dropped them off at the Wayside Chapel this morning. That felt great, but I still don’t feel like watching Elf or The Polar Express. I just keep binging old reruns of The Vampire Diaries where sexy, shirtless vampires drink scotch and fight over a schoolgirl (spoiler alert: there’s very little writing of the diaries).

Ok, so it’s been an absolute shit show of a year. There’s really no other way to describe it. Sure, we all have ups and downs throughout the year but this year, the whole world is hurting and you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel it in your soul. My mind has become a series of Harry Potter lines swirling around in ominous blacks and greys: “these are indeed dark times”.

For me personally, there were a lot of plans that just didn’t eventuate. Every day I’m grateful for all of the beauty in my life, but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt when you put hours, days, weeks, months and sometimes years into career aspirations only to have the door slammed shut in your face multiple times in one year. A lot of wounds need to be licked. But, if Ross Gellar taught us anything, it’s to pivot.

F.R.I.E.N.D.S — PIVOT!

Maybe I’m just tired and stressed. Work is always exhausting this time of year. And planning two Christmas Dinners and a Wedding ain’t no easy feat. Seriously, only a COVID bride will understand.

Last night I was staring out the window, hoping to see Santa doing a dry run through the night sky, but all I heard was a drunk dude bashing his mates, his girlfriend screaming, followed by Cop sirens (ahhh the Holidays). Then I decided to grab my phone and do a little research about this upcoming celestial event I’ve been hearing about (you might want to do a little Google search on December 21st 2020, the grand conjunction and the 5th dimension).  Turns out this extra depression and anxiety we’ve been feeling this year may not just be COVID related, but influenced by the stars.

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As we welcome the Summer Solstice this year, there is an event that many different cultures from Aboriginal, to Mayans to yogis have been preparing for. The grand conjunction is the first Jupiter and Saturn alignment since May 2000 but is also the closest alignment since 1623! This significant event may have astrologers buzzing but it’s the rest of us who may just need to hop on board and take note. It’s believed that the energy shift taking place in the atmosphere will create higher frequencies that will influence humanity. A time to keep our vibrations high by being true to ourselves rather than being in the constant pursuit of feeling positive. And possibly becoming more aligned with our true purpose.

Whether you believe in astrology, meditation or anything woo woo or not, you can’t deny the science that everything is energy, including us. And tomorrow evening marks a major energy shift.

If you’re a regular meditator or have never sat still for one second in your life, my one Christmas Wish is that you set your alarm to meditate at 9:02pm Monday 21st December. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and connect to yourself and to the universe. Let all of your thoughts be on love and joy. You just may take part in a rescue mission. And if not, what have you got to lose?

I’m sure that over the course of the next few days, my trademark Christmas giddiness will re-emerge and I’ll be thankful to be one of the lucky ones.  I had my favourite word tattooed on my body as a reminder that I always believe in magic. And there’s no better time of year to truly…

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Wishing you a very Merry Christmas everyone, thank you for being a part of this journey with me, take care of yourselves and each other. Eat everything in sight on Christmas Day, and when the clock strikes midnight on the 31st, hit reset and know that we can only go up from here. We may be bruised, but we are not broken.

Give 2020 your best hair flick and three departing words; Nice Try Bitch.

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