Take a breath

A few weeks’ ago I found myself hunched by my front door, gasping for air – alone. I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t talk. And I couldn’t look after myself. Just thinking about it makes my heart beat a little quicker. As the emergency operator encouraged me through each attempted breath, I grasped every particle of energy I had to stay conscious. I needed to let the approaching paramedics in. I worried they’d have to break down my door which would be: 1) inconvenient to fix, and 2) could injure me further.

In the midst of this experience I did the stupidest thing anyone experiencing terrifying symptoms should do – I Googled them. Why? Well, I was trying to convince myself that I was fine, that I was being a hypochondriac. A GP had visited me just three hours earlier (at 3am in the morning) and I’d been ‘fine’ when he left. Now my lungs were shut tight – no air was going in or out. I was projectile coughing mysterious, white foam all over myself, all over the floor.

My doorbell buzzed after what felt like an hour (it can’t have been longer than 10 minutes). I was greeted by the most attractive human I’ve seen in a long time. Seriously!?! I was in my pyjamas, covered in gross foamy stuff, a weird shade of blue and gaunt, getting rescued by McFreakingSteamy. It was all very dramatic and rather unnecessary.

As we sped along in the bumpy ambulance, I still didn’t realise how serious my condition was. I teased McSteamy as he stumbled a little, trying to sort out my nebuliser (so I could breathe) – yes, I am that shade of arsehole. I chatted with another paramedic who was born in Joburg and raised in New Zealand. I scoffed when we got to the hospital and they brought me a wheelchair, saying “you guys are all going to be very embarrassed when you realise I’m actually really not that bad”. But when I stood up I toppled over and lost my breath.

I was taken into A&E, checked and immediately moved into resuscitation. I had my own personal doctor (well, technically I had three) and two nurses working for some time to get oxygen back into my body, while (apparently) preventing my heart from crashing. I had no idea what was going on but it all felt unnecessarily theatrical.

I always thought being a paramedic was a bit of a gross job. People bleed and vomit on you and you have to jump on top of people to work at their stopped hearts. You work awful hours too. But when McSteamy popped past my bed and gave me a little nod on his way out of the hospital, I realised how cool his job is. He wore a look of humility-mixed-with-pride on his face that I’ll never forget. He knew he’d saved my life that morning and he was so very elegantly-smug about it.

As vial after vial of magnesium were pumped through my veins I felt incredible waves of warmth. As the warmth subsided and I began to feel stable, I felt alone. I dived deep into a moment of self-pity. Then I took another moment and realised that I hadn’t actually told anyone I was in hospital. I pulled out my phone and sent a few texts and immediately I had friends on the way and others calling through. I was on my own, I was not alone. I am never alone. I just needed to ask for help. And in the following days I’d have so many visitors that I’d have to stop them from coming so I could get some rest.

I’ve learnt a few lessons from losing my breath. Firstly, I’m learning to ask for help when I need it. I should have called for emergency help MUCH sooner (I was appropriately told off on my ambulance journey and later on by the doctors who likened the severity of my asthma attack to a heart attack). I should have called my family and friends when I was struggling in the night – not after I was admitted to hospital.

In the week that followed my escape from the respiratory ward, I stayed at a friend’s home, getting fed tea and snacks, while resting. I continue to accept that sometimes we need to let others look after us. As a tough, independent, don’t-need-anyone lady, I will continue to struggle with this concept. The amazing people who’ve cared for me, from my friend who flew from the States to move into my home and support me, to my friends and family who travelled and took time off to come see me, I’ve learnt that people really care – but they can’t care if they don’t know. We’re built for community, we’re designed to look after each.

Most poignantly, I’ve learnt to appreciate the life I have and the beautiful details around me – the kind you only notice when you slow down and dump perfection. How wonderful it is to take in a deep breath and feel my lungs fill with air – who cares about the unwashed plates in the sink? As I recall moving my bottles of gin from my ‘exposed’ butler’s tray into my kitchen cupboard at 3am, while gasping for air before my GP visit, I wonder why I was so worried about his perception of me.

I am blessed to be alive. I am blessed.

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Not sweating the big stuff

I was in central London on Wednesday, just a few days after the recent terror attack. As someone who’s been eye-to-barrel with a loaded gun, I’m understandably a little shaken when something violent like that happens. The sight of small children playing cowboys with water pistols can sometimes set me off. So before I ventured into the city I took a moment to prepare myself for the journey. I watched the news and focused on images of police officers and soldiers protecting the city – particularly the ones with guns.

I was really afraid of going in. Afraid to go on the underground. Afraid to travel on the buses. Afraid to be in busy areas filled with people, people who might be plotting something awful. Afraid to see a cloud of anxiety dampening the energy around one of the world’s most awesome cities. A city that represents the peaceful merging of multiple cultures.

When one of my colleagues suggested we meet on the platform in Guildford and head into Euston together as a team, I jumped at the opportunity. I usually avoid group activities. I’m vehemently independent, so much so that my actions can sometimes come across as rude. Though I’m an extrovert, I’m a little different to most. Sometimes I need more space to feel like I can breathe. Sometimes I need to think more than speak and listen. And often this means I don’t want to be in a group of people when I’m feeling uncomfortable.

After rushing around, believing I was late and had missed our train, I found myself on the designated platform half-an-hour early, mentally preparing for a challenging day. My colleagues found me in line desperately ordering coffee from a kiosk that didn’t accept cards (balls!) I then sent them scrambling for cash while all the suburb-to-city-caffeine-depraved commuters behind me made tut-tut noises under their breaths (yup – I was that asshole). I then took one sip of the murky, brown brew and then chucked it – it was truly terrible.

After all my rushing, squabbling and weirdness, I realised that I was the only person who was the slightest bit anxious. My colleagues were all cheery and completely relaxed; chatting about boring stuff like what new digital things they’ve tried recently. The voice in my head was screaming ‘Really? We’re going into a city where people died at the hands of terrorists four days ago and you’re chatting about memes and holidays and mundaneness? We could all die!’

That’s the thing about the English. They don’t panic. They don’t make a fuss. They go on. When their cities were bombed during the World Wars, they suited up, drank their tea, made biscuits from whatever rations they had and went about their daily lives like nothing of particular importance was happening. My granny sometimes spoke about calmly heading down into the underground when the sirens sounded. Those times must have been terrifying but they didn’t stop her from living her life. She fell in love, travelled, got married and ‘went on’ during the war.

More recently when a talented young, American pop star returned to head-up a benefit concert for fans injured in the Manchester Terror Attack, the English showed up in their masses and had a brilliant party. (btw I salute you Ariana.) When three idiots ran around Borough Market stabbing people in the name of religion (an act that seems far removed from the religious ideals they claim to uphold), Londoners banded together to help each other.

In my years in the UK, I’ve encountered only three things that can upset the English – obscure tea (anything that’s not English Breakfast, Ceylon or Earl Grey), bad biscuits and the weather. The first two are rather rectifiable and don’t cause too much offense. But the third is a bit of a pain – nothing brings the city of London to a standstill like three tiny flakes of snow falling on the train tracks. Nothing! This just goes to show that the despicable creatures who aimed to create havoc are weaker than a few flimsy flakes of frozen water.

My trip into London was almost-disappointingly uneventful on Wednesday. We even went ‘up the pub’ for a few pints and some Pimms after finishing our meeting a bit early – as you do. The city was its usual bustling, chaotic, orderly self. If anything, people on the tube were a little friendlier and slightly more polite than usual. I recognised the usual London I know and love.

In my initial months in the UK, I found the excessive, conversations around which tea biscuit is best and whether Jaffa Cakes are classified as cakes or biscuits (a conversation that starts politely but can set off rather vicious debate), and the lack of challenging views around politics and world affairs, rather frustrating. And I’ll probably never fully get it. But what I’m totally learning to subscribe to is the concept of not being flustered by anything that you can’t control.

We can’t control the attempts by some to diminish our order, our happiness and our democracy. So any attack on us will be brushed off. It will not stop me and others from embracing our cities and enjoying their energy, beauty and soulfulness. I can control the biscuits I eat and the ‘stupid, milky’ tea I choose to drink, so I will fight off anyone who dares to insult my snacks of choice.

I’m learning that sometimes it’s better to sweat the small stuff so you can manage the situation and get what you want (like complaining to the bank and getting £50 as an apology), and stick your chin up through the big stuff that can’t be controlled – like a Brit. Life goes on… we should go on too. Now just to get the railways to see snowflakes as the ‘small stuff’.          

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Plan B and beyond

I must confess, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m completely and utterly winging this adult thing. One day, people are going to find out that I’m really a 22-year-old living in a 35-year-old’s body (that day might just be today). Most of my friends are off celebrating their anniversaries and having more babies while I’m just hanging out working, travelling, writing and drinking all the gin – which makes me rather happy, really. 

When I think about Plan A, I realise how much I completely and utterly messed that up. My plan was to be an adult. Set up a picket fence. Change nappies. Arrange PTA fundraisers. Make homemade jam. Run marathons every now and then. Contribute to the world by being responsible and a good role model and stuff. Yet here I am. On a path so far away from Plan A that it’s impossible to even imagine what the plan was at the beginning. In fact, I’m not even living my Plan B. I’m on like Plan F.

Mysteriously my exercise app reached 10,000 steps yesterday and pinged ‘congratulations’ while I was shlumfing on the couch, with a sore head, shoving Ben and Jerry’s in my face, directly from the tub. I think, in reality, I’d done about 300 steps. To the bathroom. The kitchen. And to the front door to accept my food delivery. I was meant to go for a walk in the countryside. And for a drive around my new town to plan my future. Or alternatively head back into the city to visit the Tower of London with a friend from home. Instead I spent the whole day recovering from two straight days of wine, margaritas, GnTs and loads of fun.    

I was a calm twenty-year-old. I did a bunch of the usual privileged-brat things. But mostly I was a grown up. I didn’t drink too much. Or swear. I stayed away from drugs and experimentation. I was nice to my parents – most of the time. I went to church every Sunday and served in the greeting team. I spent a year volunteering at a male, juvenile prison over  weekends. I gave to the less fortunate. I had a long term boyfriend who I was completely faithful and committed to. I got a job reasonably soon out of uni and worked really hard. Despite being in advertising I avoided putting white powders up my nose – or anywhere else. All things considered, I was a saint.    

Fast forward to my thirties and I’m doing twenty better. I’m still fairly geeky (I’m not exactly experimenting with narcotics or prostituting myself - which is slightly disappointing, I know). A few months ago I met some colleagues for ‘a drink’ around 5pm on a Friday. I woke up the following morning with a whopping headache, feeling dazed and confused. I spent some time looking through my mobile phone photos to understand the timeline from the evening before. It involved four fabulous women, 11 bottles of bubbles (according to the receipt in my bag), pulling on the flat shoes, leaving my car somewhere in town and getting dropped off by a colleague’s boyfriend at 3am. I awoke with a careful sigh, mindful of re-drunking myself from the alcohol fumes. I felt a marvellous sense of achievement. I 22'ed myself. How completely irresponsible.

Despite the fact that it’s all gone wrong. That my plans have unravelled one by one. It’s all been quite perfect. I’m intolerably happy. I’ve learnt to let my hair down. But hold onto my values. Be a bit of a disaster. While keeping it together (mostly). Go on some terrible dates. Pick up the pieces. Go on more. Find myself living in a new country. Allowing my career to unfold in ways I never planned, or expected. And drink all the margaritas.

My inner control freak has moments of panic. When I take second to internalise that I’m not on script. That my narrative is completely upside down and inside out. That there’s no one waiting in the wings to support. That I used the picket fence as firewood. And the jam bottles for cocktails. I’m on my own in ways that many will never understand. There’s nothing quite like settling 10,000kms away from your family and friends to show you things about yourself that you never knew.      

Though on the surface, it seems like everyone around me has it all figured out, I know that’s not the case. We’re all just shuffling through this thing called life, trying to understand our purpose, be good people and be happy. We’re all in it together. We all have our successes and our failures. We’ve all missed Plan A in some way or another. And it’s totally ok. Here’s to whatever plan iteration you’re on – it's yours, may it make you happy beyond your own belief. Cheers!

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Being kind to my crazy

I need to share my feelings for a moment. I have so many recently. I even have feelings about having feelings. It's like they all had a conference, put a surprise strategy together, snuck up on me and slapped me silly. Maybe it’s because it’s the last stretch of winter and I need some sunshine. Maybe it has something to do with transferring all my money into my conveyancer’s bank account. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl and I’m stupid sometimes. And, yes, I realise I just demolished 100 years of carefully constructed feminism with that comment. I’m suitably ashamed.
   

You know, it's really tough being a woman sometimes. We have feelings that can’t always be categorised. That can’t be neatly filed in one of our brain cabinets and closed after sign off. We get a hard time about this. But do you really think we want to have so many feelings? Do you really think we want to hang onto them rather than file them away and forget about them? I know it’s inconvenient and annoying that we can reference the seven ridiculous things our partner did before 9:00am on the 12^th of March, 2002. But it’s also kind of amazing, don’t you think? No? 

A while back, after travelling through Europe for some months, I found myself lost on the underground. I was homeless. Unemployed. Unwashed. Exhausted. Heart-broken. And infected with all the bugs that backpackers collect from grubby hostels. I had no idea where I was headed and I had no idea where I was going (which are two entirely different things). I’d been following my carefully hand-scribbled instructions, which hadn’t considered that the tube may be undergoing engineering works – rookie error! My line, the Northern line, was down. I was stuck in the dark, scary, smelly bowels of London. Dazed and directionless.

Looking around for an unsuspecting guide, I realised I was well and truly alone in the busiest city in the world. Great! Then it happened. I had a wonderful brainwave. I needed a moment. A moment would solve everything. So I threw all my luggage on the filthy floor, flung myself on top of it and let go. I had a delicious sob. The kind of sob that empties all your feelings of despair and hopelessness and gives you space to think again. The kind of sob that makes models look like Freddy Kruger. It was loud, messy and downright ugly.  

Mid-sob, I felt myself being lifted to my feet. To my horror I faced three beautiful, burly men from the BBC who were off to film a football game. They’d been yakking so much they’d failed to hear that the Northern line was down and they’d crossed my path – the path less travelled. I thanked them for their kindness and asked them to leave me there to finish my moment. They refused. They were worried about my safety. I was a quirky Kiwi girl lost in London. I needed help. I cried more. They apologised for mishearing my Australian accent. I wailed. They picked up my luggage and dragged me onto the Bakerloo line and to Waterloo Station.

From there they helped me onto the train and gently shoved me and my luggage off at Clapham Junction so I could find my way to my bestie’s home. Somewhere along the journey they’d finally guessed my correct nationality. And had successfully managed to stop the tears, without actually telling me to stop crying. They’d even induced an odd smile and a giggle or two. It was like they were seasoned pros at dealing with emotional outbursts. It was like they thought it was normal to break down every now and then.

This all made me realise that there’s really no shame in having a good 'releasing the feels' moment every now and then. People are kind to our crazy sometimes – because we all have a little crazy in us. I usually try to pack my feelings into an air-tight bomb disposal unit behind my ribs and take a psychological holiday. But the unit slowly fills up with unfiled thoughts from my brain. Then I overthink, which leads to even more feelings. Before I know it I’m about to go nuclear – and no one needs to see that.

You know… girl, woman, guy, dude or anything in-between, it’s ok to release the feels (preferably in a safe space - but, whatever, I don't judge.) It may mean looking like a hideous swamp-donkey from time to time, and perhaps feeling like an idiot. But that’s ok. We all have our moments. We all understand. We're all imperfectly made up of complexities and too many feels.  

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A bit of a mess

I went away on a solo weekend recently. Because this year I’m going to visit the first ten places on my local travel list and two on the international. Well, at least try. On my first solo yolo I decided to head to Somerset. I splurged on a lovely little family-run, boutique hotel in Bath.

I was rather chuffed with my quirky little Victorian room. A four poster bed. Maroon velvet cushions. A bottle of South African merlot. And lots of other special touches. I felt like a princess. I quickly unpacked and prepared to head out into the city for the afternoon. Feeling rather parched after my drive up, I reached for my open orange juice with a little too much enthusiasm. Somehow I managed to knock it over and spill thick, sticky juice all over the cream carpet.

I acted quickly. I grabbed a toilet roll from the bathroom and used a good half of it to get the orange juice out of the carpet. Success! I was about to throw the orangey paper mess in the bin but then I realised it would look somewhat dodgy. And I didn’t want to cleaning staff to judge me. So, ingeniously, I threw it all in the loo and flushed. It took a few flushes to get the whole lot down. I felt a wonderful sense of achievement. Clean floor. Clear loo. Perfection restored.

Off I went on my adventure. I started at the Roman Baths and totally geeked out on swishing my hands around in the lovely, warm water that the Romans used to skinny dip in two thousand years ago. I stopped geeking out when I noticed the sign warning visitors that the water is ‘dangerous’ due to old, lead pipes and shouldn’t be touched. Oops. Next I headed to the abbey and then through the lovely city streets.  

After soaking up as much Bath, as I could in one afternoon and evening I stopped off for a curry. Then I headed back to my hotel, feeling smug. On getting back to my room I started to feel a little woozy. Possibly from the curry. Possibly from the lead poisoning. I made friends with the loo for some time. (Sorry). On flushing, the water began rising. I flushed more. Things rose more. Everything was coming up instead of going down. I desperately flushed repeatedly somehow making it worse. It was like being in a Ben Stiller movie.

Armageddon exploded in my bathroom. It was the end of my dignity. My germaphobia. My pride. And reception was shut. There was no one to help. I thought of calling 999, but quickly reconsidered when running through how I would explain my life-threatening emergency to the operator. I guess I could have called the hotel’s night line. Or a plumber. I could have packed my bags and headed to the nearest Holiday Inn. Most helpfully, I could have stopped flushing.

At some point, I gave up. I went to bed feeling very uneasy, hoping that when I woke up in the morning, the chaos would have sorted itself out. Because that kind of thing happens all the time. Because sometimes life sends you a ‘get out of jail free’ card. Guess what? That didn’t happen. I woke up to a half-flooded bathroom and all kinds of terror. I texted some friends that were staying nearby in an attempt to get help, advice or sympathy. I made a joke, suggesting switching hotels with them. They didn’t bite. I was on my own.

I somehow managed to shower and dress. Then I sheepishly crept down to reception to tell the owner that I’d destroyed his beautiful bathroom. Mortifying. I then disappeared for the day ensuring I wouldn’t have to face him ever again. I had a wonderful day and managed to forget the disaster I’d left in my wake. I avoided coming into contact with anything that could give me lead poisoning and I had a Subway for dinner, with no mayo, no chilli, no jalapenos. And when I made my way back to my hotel, I found my room fresh and perfect, as though nothing had happened.

On going to bed I couldn’t feel at ease thinking about how strangers had had to clean up behind me. I felt so weird about it that I struggled to sleep. I know it’s their job, but it’s still not fair. Passing the buck(et) after I caused chaos just felt wrong. The next morning I left an overly generous tip for the cleaning staff as I said goodbye to my room. It wasn’t enough, I should have left them the password to my bank account.

As I get through things that just aren’t fair and deal with the messes around me that I didn’t cause (on purpose) I will continue to remind myself that sometimes that’s just the way things are. We all have those days. We all cause those days (hopefully unintentionally). We learn the lessons. We take the hit. And we figure out to stop flushing.

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Miss Jones and me

A while back I told someone I loved them. Not because I thought it would change the world. Not because I saw us running off into the sunset together. But because I wanted him to know. To be mindful of my feelings. To be sensitive. In the same conversation string he affectionately joked that he'd recently watched Bridget Jones' Diary and that it reminded him of me. He saw me in her. Bridget. Not Superwoman. Not Erin Brockovich. Not even dorky Mary Poppins. My film persona, to him, is Bridget. Freaking. Jones. 

If you hear a little tinkling noise while reading this, that's the sound of my ego falling to a million little pieces. I don't drink excessively (though I’ considering it). I don't smoke (it’s too much effort). I don't show my bottom on live television (almost certainly a character flaw of mine). I also don’t wear giant knickers. Though I admit I do possess tummy-puller-in underwear for emergencies – in beige. But no one has ever seen these. Nor will they ever.

I’d spent a significant amount of time in a weird on-off, more-than-friendship ‘thing’ with said person. The kind of ‘thing’ that can’t be described using five words or less. The kind that didn’t even warrant the status of ‘it’s complicated’ on Facebook. The kind that meant nothing really. And that was always ok. Until it wasn’t ok. When I decided I’m worth more than a rushed few days of fake togetherness in the lukewarm English summer.

I’ve named this ‘thing’ the sit-down take-away. It’s not a one-night-stand but it’s not a genuine connection. It’s an instant, comfortable, short-term relationship with all the signs of something real. You share about your day, shop together, bounce advice and thoughts off each other, talk through that disagreement with your colleague, and snuggle on chilly evenings. There’s care, kindness and honesty. But it’s temporary. Because there’s too much going on. Because the time isn’t right. Because hearts are in healing. Because a plethora of meaningless reasons.

This kind of relationship lacks nourishment. There are no healthy greens. No carefully blended flavours. No balance of what you need topped with a giant slice of chocolate-covered cheese cake with cream on one side, ice-cream on the other and two forks. It’s all flash fried, easy come, easy go, single portions. Sit down, consume, stay a moment and throw the leftovers away – until next time.

This is normal – many single men and women in my generation will know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s so normal that we start to feel as though we’re not allowed to expect more. 

Call me old-fashioned. Call me a prude. Gosh, call me Bridget, if you must. As my New Year’s gift to myself this year, I’ve deleted all people from my circles who fall within or on the periphery of ‘it’s complicated’. I’m not making space for any Daniel Cleavers who talk sweet but are stale on their delivery. I’m surrounding myself with real friends, special family and maybe even a Mark Darcy.

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Gift box

Last week I received a gift box of goodies. It was one of those subscription boxes where you receive a collection of beauty products each month as a surprise. It’s an awesome gift and I love getting my monthly surprise. This one was a particularly good one, I got eyelash primer, face toner, blusher, a peach lip pencil and some cleanser – all of them completely new to me. I squealed in delight as I opened the lid, which prompted a few colleagues to come rushing over to ogle my booty (of the treasure variety, obviously).

My monthly beauty boxes have become something of interest in the office. As the foreigner in the team, mostly everything I do for the first time becomes a thing of interest in the office. Often a group of ladies will pop round to my desk and watch me unpack my gifts. So there was nothing unusual about this time. I pulled out item by item and explained the magnificence of every product. I got to the cleanser. I opened the lid, gave it a good sniff and proclaimed loudly that I couldn’t wait to use it (on my face). I got a few weird looks and the group soon dispersed back to normal life.

This Saturday while I was looking through each item reading the fine print, I noticed some detail on the cleanser that I’d missed. Firstly, it’s dermatologically approved (very good) and secondly that it is gynaecologically tested (wha-a-a-t?) Yep… it wasn’t face wash. It turned out to be a fairly common ‘intimate’ cleanser available from every store in the first world. It’s designed to help prevent ingrown hairs and the discomfort from shaving certain feminine parts. Perhaps not so appropriate to rub under my colleagues noses while proclaiming how good it’s going to feel on my skin. I. Could. Actually. Die.

Last month marked two years since I jumped on an aeroplane thinking I was temporarily heading off on an adventure. In some ways it feels like twenty years ago. In others, it’s like I just climbed off the boat and am adjusting to wobbly land legs. I’m still figuring out what some road signs mean (slightly scary since I’ve been driving for eight months). I have to Google English-English words from time to time. And for the life of me I can’t understand why the word ‘literally’ is used ‘figuratively’ so casually. I mean, what must the Queen think about that? This is England.

Since I’ve been in the UK I’ve experienced so many new things. Snow falling on my eyelashes. The first taste of Viennese Swirls (which I’m convinced was every bit as addictive as a first hit of heroin). Internet shopping with parcels bravely left outside my front door – including clothing, groceries, jewels and medication (mind blown). Strawberry jammed scones with clotted cream kindly baked by a wonderful colleague (yum). The Great British Bake-off. Walks in nature on my own. Walks through town on my own. Walks in general, on my own. Sleeping with the front door open – by mistake. Buying a down coat (actual tiny feathers – in a coat). Travelling on trains. Travelling on busses. Travelling in taxis.

Kissing French men. Sipping Prosecco. Pronouncing data, ‘date-er’. Going out without sunblock on. Going out in welly boots. Going out in flats and changing into heels at work. Putting on make-up on the underground. Getting my eyeliner straight while administering it on the underground. Going to the corner shop in PJ bottoms and no makeup. Going to the corner shop by foot – with my actual feet, every step.

My new life is a giant leap from my old one in so many ways – some good, some less good. I’ve been homesick, homeless, jobless, broke, lost, alone – so extremely alone. But what’s defined every step of the path is kindness. Every person I’ve reached out to along the way has extended a hand, a hug, some hope. The English may not be renowned for their warmth, but they sure know how to share it when they recognise it’s needed. From the comfort shared with me by my brand new housemate on the eve of Nelson Mandela’s passing, to the embrace from her mum the day my granddad passed and I needed a ‘mummy hug’. From the strangers who have helped me get un-lost to the acquaintances who offered their homes, their families, their special times. I’ve been overwhelmed by so much generosity and kindness.

Two years on I’m still Dorothy on this yellow brick road. I’m surrounded by different people who’ve brought many lessons and so much wonderfulness into my life. But there’s no place like home – kind of literally. Because on my journey I’ve discovered that home is less of a physical place than it is people and a collection of memories. My home is a memory box of love and experiences, gifts that I pack and unpack finding new surprises every time I open the lid. It’s intimate. Personal. Vulnerable. And filled with all the things that make me feel safe, scared, happy and incredibly brave.

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Not my cup of tea

I went on a blind date last week with a really nice guy. Nice like a cup of luke warm tea. Nice like a garden salad, no dressing. Nice like fat free, sugar-free yoghurt... You get the point. This was someone who was really good for me on paper – kind, gentle, smart, healthy. But after talking to him for about three minutes my mind drifted to how I was going to get home and what length of time constituted an actual date. I tried. I really tried to find him interesting. The old me would have thrown in the cocktail napkin within minutes, but the new, improved me gave it two and a half hours. That I’ll never get back. Ever.

At one point desperate to get conversation flowing, I pulled out my fail-safe ‘man card.’ Though I had no desire to launch into a chat about England’s brave, but average, performance in the Ashes series (sorry my lovely Englishes) or the highly anticipated upcoming Rugby World Cup, I had strong desire to break the awkward silence. So I asked the question... “Right, uh… do you like sport?” He paused for a moment, “I’m glad you asked that” said he, “I’m actually really into golf.” Great. I know nothing about golf. I’m pretty sure that it isn’t even technically a sport. I’m sure I get just as much exercise as golfers do from a successful shopping spree – and I carry my own bag. Just saying.

I tried to hide behind my humour – which, to be fair, is an acquired taste – and mentioned my shopping-golf analogy. He didn’t crack the faintest of facial movements. Not even a pity cackle. Nothing. Somehow we got onto the topic of football. Phew! I played a bit of soccer when I was a kid. I was confident I had the conversation back under control. I smugly declared that I knew the offsides rule and that he should test me. Score. He took a polite pause and then even more politely informed me that “most, or perhaps many, people (careful avoidance of gender stereotypes but he was practically screaming “women”) aren't aware that it's changed recently”. Not so smug.

After we finished our first round, he asked if we should get more drinks. “Sure” I answered, even though I was considering propping up my eyelids with ice cubes. He didn't budge. He was being a feminist. When I realised this I jumped up with a little too much enthusiasm and played fetch. Now, call me sexist, but where I come from, guys collect the drinks. If the woman you're with is balancing two glasses filled with ice and two bubbling bottles, stumbling through a crowded pub in heels, you have failed at life. So this weird shift in gentlemanliness left me slightly perplexed. I mean, this guy seemed so well mannered, so well brought up.

On returning from the bar, I downed the drink – I earned it. Then I announced my departure. He waited for me to pass him and as I reached the door awkwardly pushed past me and then clumsily let the door go. It swung back almost knocking this maiden over. At which point I was pretty sure he had no interest in me either. Things got weirder when he gave me the odd cheek peck thing and stated "it would be good to see you again." That’s when I did the swivel and dash. Shamelessly. I practically sprinted up the cobbled high street in heels. It hurt.

So it wasn’t a good experience, in fact it wasn’t even an average one. But I’m glad I went on the date. Because it was good practice. It took me out of my comfort zone and introduced me to a bunch of new things on the list of what I don’t want. Sometimes through experiencing bad, we get closer to identifying good. We learn more about what we truly desire – the right job, real friends, meaningful adventures, the perfectly imperfect partner. Maybe it’s ok to fail at small things, so we can grow and build towards getting the big things right.

After many little moments of wrong maybe one day I’ll meet someone right. Someone who sweeps me off my feet for the right reasons. Who appreciates my weirdness. Who connects with my self-deprecating, warped sense of humour. Who fetches the drinks. Who knows?   

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Drinks only, please

I’m of that age now where people keep reminding me to get on with it and settle down. “Maybe you’re being too picky” I’m told, “You’re not getting any younger,” “If you’re thinking of a family it’s time to sort that out. It’s now or never.” I get some polite insinuations and then some direct stabs about my ‘choice’ to be single and alone.

The thing is… it’s not a choice. Finding someone who fits your lifestyle and your heart when you’re set in your ways, living to work and no longer out partying with the entire population of your age group (who also happen to be single), is near impossible. 95% (possibly not a completely accurate statistic) of the good guys/gals are taken. You’re left searching for the remaining datable 5% who were focussed on their careers, on travelling or on dating the wrong person and who now also happen to be on the hunt. There are plenty of fish in the sea when you’re twenty but when you’re thirty and above you’re fishing in a puddle.

I may be single, but I’m not alone. I’m surrounded by amazing friends, supportive colleagues and a very loving family. I recently had a flashback to a time long ago. A time when I felt most alone. In this memory, I was lying on my bathroom floor, door locked, crying hysterically, half engaging with the drunk, raging words coming from the other side of the door and half wanting the world to stop for a moment, so the psychological warfare would cease. I was feeling hopeless, powerless, terrified, trapped, lost. In a relationship but so tremendously alone. I slept in my bath that night. My wash basket of clothes emptied into the bath and two towels laid neatly on top. It was surprisingly comfortable. The next day I would try to continue my life like everything was ok. But it wasn’t.

It’s been a long journey since that day. And I’m now able to tell a great relationship story, one about how I learnt to love myself again, to set my dreams free and make better choices about who I include in my life. I’ve seen some great people and I’ve been on some hideous dates (which taught me plenty in retrospect and have given my friends hours of entertainment). I’ve also let go of some lovely guys and missed opportunities with others because I wasn’t ready to open my world to someone else yet. I have no regrets about any of the things I’ve done or haven’t done. They’ve all helped me stitch closed some deep wounds and find an inner sense of peace.

So, here I am. 35 and (drum roll) single. I have no children and nor am I convinced that I’ll ever have children, which is ok.  First dates are so nerve-wracking to me that I can barely eat – so I always opt for drinks. On one first date, after much wining the gentleman thought it (justifiably) a good idea to do some dining and ordered everything vegetarian on the menu. He had no idea what I’d like (because I’m a foreign and vegetarian). I was absolutely horrified when tray after tray of food arrived and I could barely nibble on a piece of halloumi cheese without feeling nauseous. We didn’t go on second date, but I was truly touched by the way he tried so hard to impress me. While I was sitting opposite him feeling all those things insecure people feel – ugly, fat, stupid – he was finding me funny, interesting, attractive. I thought he must be an idiot!

Perhaps we judge ourselves most harshly. Which is possibly why we should lay off the criticism of others. You don’t know my story, my hopes, my fears, my dreams and I don’t know yours. How about we give the judgement a break? As the pressure on me increases (it’s clearly not going to ease up until I’m passed childbearing age) I’m just going to carry on doing the things that are right for me. I’m not going to settle for someone who isn’t right for me and I’m not going to enter into a bad relationship – just because it’s the right thing to do. I might not have a great love life, but I have a brilliant relationship with myself and with the wonderful people who populate my world. I believe I’m very lucky.

Being needy

I remember a moment many years ago. The moment when the first person who made my heart flutter, stood frustratedly in front of me on the pavement shouting: "Is there anything you need from me? Anything? You're so independent you make me feel useless." This was coming from a ‘numbers person’, someone (by his own admission) with a very limited emotional vocabulary. And I, with my endless words, was speechless. I’d thought being independent was a good thing. I’d listened to many, many guy friends complaining about their needy girlfriends. I was proud that I wasn’t clingy. I stood there one brow raised, as I do when I’m about to spit fiery words, but silence came out of my mouth.

Days later something was said. I don’t remember what. It was nothing meaningful or civilised and it was delivered loud and raging, lacking maturity or any thought of consequences. He needed me to need him and that infuriated me. I needed to not need anyone for anything. And so began my experiences of the complex modern relationship as my first love walked away defeated by my stubbornness. In time I would realise in winning that fight, I’d lost a much bigger battle.

At some point I went on to start choosing partners who depended me. That way they wouldn’t expect me to need them at all and I wouldn’t have to be one of those ‘needy women’. See? I could remain independent and in control even though I felt completely depleted all the time as I was carrying someone else. There was a point in my life when I was the successful one, the emotional backbone and the spiritual centre. I had learnt to keep giving with little in return. It made me feel powerful. It was the saddest, most exhausting, time of my life.     

I don’t have to run through the clichés of things women can do on their own – we all know the list. And, in the other camp, the guys are perfectly capable of doing all but one of those things on their own too. It’s not the 1920s. A woman doesn’t need a man to keep her financially comfortable and a man doesn’t need a woman to cook his meals and rear his children. We can all flit between the roles we need to (and want to). We’re all capable of surviving independently.

And yet we continue to pair up because life is a little nicer, a little more meaningful, in twos. As I move into a space of wanting to pair up again I’m learning to need. Because truly sharing your life means being vulnerable and letting your partner fill your inadequacies. That means admitting you have inadequacies. And it means admitting that as a couple you are better together than you are on your own. It means putting someone’s needs above your own and them doing the same. It means creating a new you that fits into an ‘us’. Redefining yourself within the boundaries of your relationship zone – and in healthy ways, a little outside of it.

There’s a lot to be said for independence. I’ve loved my years of being single. I’ve been fully self-sufficient, doing what I want, when I want to. I’ve rebuilt my heart, my core, my strength. I’ve taken risks, with little worry of the impact. I’ve made amazing new friends. Travelled to beautiful places. Slept across the whole bed. Spent ridiculous amounts of money on shoes. Eaten the whole box of popcorn, every last kernel, all by myself. I’ve been completely selfish. And as I begin again, I find myself ready to give all that up and willing to be needy. So far, it’s not worked out.

And maybe that’s the point. When a man meets a woman whose (healthy) neediness makes him feel like her hero rather than her parasitic host; that could be the beginning of something good. For so long I’ve felt uneasy about having needs and expectations – as have so many guys and girls that I know. And maybe I’m wrong but I’m letting go of that now. To have needs is to acknowledge your worth. I recently walked away from someone perfectly lovely who was completely unaware of (or interested in) my needs. As a result I felt worthless.

We deserve to have our needs met. Not just romantically, but spiritually, in friendships, at work, as consumers, as humans. We so often make excuses ‘I have to work late every night and over weekends I don’t have a choice’, ‘he really cares, he just doesn’t know how to show it’, ‘my boss is a good person, she just doesn’t know how to motivate the team better.’ The bottom line is that in making excuses for others you’re keeping your needs from being met.  

If I could go back to that moment on the pavement, I wouldn’t change the outcome, but I would change my response. I’d have accepted that I didn’t trust that person with my vulnerability. And that’s why it wasn’t right. And I’d probably have walked away adding a few things to the list of things I’d like in a future partner, rather than a list of things to change in myself.

In a dynamically equal world in which we all work hard to discover our place. It’s a constant compromise, a juggling act of priorities, where we sometimes don’t have a clue where our own needs fit in, or often what they are. The world seems to be pulling us in every direction, desperate for our attention, making empty promises and offering instant gratification. And yet, now more than ever we live in an era where we’re encouraged to focus on living our purpose. It all seems so very conflicting.

Even though it’s contrary to sound relationship advice, I’m going to keep giving neediness a shot (and I’m sure you’ll get to hear some tragic stories as a result!) I’m going to write down the things that I need – in life, love, at work – and I’m going to expect more from myself and from others. In being needy I’m also going to try be less selfish, because when you really think about it, a box of popcorn is tastier when shared.

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Power to the dream

Hello High Heelers

What a year it has been! It feels like 2014 has flashed past in a blink and before we know it, 2015 will have taken over. Talking about over, my diet is very much that. The festive season has been good to my taste buds, but less so to my belt buckle. As the New Year approaches, I’ll be making one of those resolutions to start exercising more and eating healthier – along with the rest of you. And by the end of January, I’ll probably be back on the couch with pizza and chocolate.

Oh, the promises we make to ourselves and break are worse than the promises we break to others. We seem far more comfortable letting ourselves down, than others. I already know I’m not going to succeed at my resolutions. And yet, come January 1^st I’ll be making a list of things I want to achieve in the coming year. When I make a promise to someone dear to me, I’ll stick to it with all my willpower. But when I make a promise to myself, there’s much less chance I’ll see it through to the end. That makes me think – if I really want to achieve anything on my list of ‘things to do while I still have all my hair and teeth’ then I better start being more reliable to myself.

I made a sweeping statement (as I do sometimes) a few months back. In front of my aunt, I casually blurted “I wish someone had told me in my twenties that stuff doesn't just happen - you have to make it happen.” Her eyebrows narrowed a little as she answered carefully “Oh I’m sure many people told you that, you just didn’t listen.” Well, fair enough. I’m sure they did. I was an idiot not to listen. And if I’m still learning the same lesson in ten years’ time, I’ll be even sillier.

Now, this is quite a straightforward concept, so forgive me for sounding so blatantly obvious and perhaps a little patronising – but it’s really something I’ve failed at epically at times (and maybe you can relate?) How about we place our lives on the path we want, by making the right choices? Want to marry a good guy? Start dating nice guys. Want to spend more time with your family? Spend less time at work and more time at home. Want a career at Google? Send them your CV, find out where they have skills shortage, match your skills to the gaps, do an extra course... turn up and impress. Want to be happy? Start doing things that make you happy. You can tell yourself that it’s not that simple. But it kind of is. The excuses we make (as practical and real as they are) are really just us cheating on our dreams with our fears.

Yep, the f-word. We give power to our fears by allowing ourselves to think about them, to fixate on them. As many of you know – I love to travel. Travel is more than a hobby to me, it’s an activity that is necessary for my wellbeing. To me home is not a place, it is the collection of places I’ve been that have touched my heart. Travel grows my experience, stretches my mind, and exposes me to new things and interesting cultures. I can’t function fully as my best self if I’m not travelling from time to time. But I’m terrified of flying. I’m extremely claustrophobic. From the moment I step onto a plane till the second the tires hit the tarmac at my destination I’m having a full panic attack – the kind that makes your heart race, palms clam up and your breath quicken to hyperventilation. The kind that makes you feel like you’re going to die.

I make choices based on this fear. I avoid flights at all costs and when I take them, I stress for days and my whole world feels upside down. I give into the fear. I let it win. I let my dreams die a little every time I choose not to go somewhere because I can’t face getting onto a flight (especially a long one). I’ve missed out on many beautiful moments, amazing places and lifelong memories – I’ve lost a part of my heart. Not to say that fear isn’t real – it’s very real.  But when I learn to not think about it and not worry about it I will start to free myself from it. I will start to own it, rather than allow it to control me.

As we sprint towards the New Year, why not make some real promises to yourself and actually keep them? I’m going to make a resolution in front of all of you reading this. I’m going to start to step away from my fear. I’m going to step towards my dreams instead. I’m going to go to new places on 2015. I’m going to be braver. I’m going to see new things. I’m going to be inspired, so that I can try to inspire others. I’m going to write more. I’m going to move and be moved. I’m going to do these things. I’m going to give my dreams more power than I give my fears.

Cheers

Jo

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Sole mates

“We should go out again, we could be sole mates” said the text. No, no we couldn’t because 1) I have other mates so you’re not the sole one, 2) we’re not feet or shoes, and 3) I’m not a fish. As most of my friends know, poor spelling makes me nasty (sorry), as does bad grammar. But I often ignore the rules of grammar and make up my own words when I write. So I’m basically a complete hypocrite. Still, if I bumped into McDreamy in a crowded bar and he wrote ‘hear’s where I’m headed, wanna meat their?’ on a napkin, I’d dry a tear of disappointment on that napkin before tossing it in the bin.

I’ll admit, there are far more important things to have at the top of the ‘no-go’ list. Like ‘shouldn’t have anger management issues’ or ‘mustn’t be a stalker.’ As if dating after your twenties isn’t hard enough, many singletons I know seem to have created these elaborate, mostly stupid, rules. Some of my girlfriends won’t date men who are divorced or have children – fair enough, if that’s your rule, but you’re in your thirties/forties no matter who you meet they are practically guaranteed to have a history and some kind of baggage. When I open my suitcase, it may not be filled with a messy divorce and soiled nappies, but it certainly has a few pieces of dirty laundry that could do with an airing out, if not throwing out. No one’s perfect.

Since I’ve been back in the dating game it’s been fascinating to see how people play (or don’t) into gender stereotypes on dates too. My guy friends seem to agree that a gentleman pays on the first date. It’s always the first question the lads ask when they want to know how a date went. From my perspective, this is not something that I lose sleep over – I’m quite happy to share the bill, or travel up to neutral ground to meet. I think it’s fair to meet halfway in a world of equality. We all work just as hard as each other. But if a guy pushes through a door in front of me or blurts out a string of expletives before we’re well acquainted, I’m out.

I’m beginning to realise that I’m actually rather old fashioned. I appreciate a little chivalry. It makes me feel respected. But this is not an area of agreement in my generation. A lovely guy-friend of mine recently dashed through a door in front of me and then mumbled “I’d have stepped back, but I know you women of today can take care of yourselves.” It was a loaded comment and after a little digging I found out that the last time he held a door open for a lady she shot him an angry “I’m perfectly capable of opening a door, I’m not a weakling.” Oh dear me.

Many of us ladies of today are establishing ourselves as independent, self-sufficient, ambitious equals. This is fantastic – go girls, uh, I mean ladies. But at the risk of losing popularity, I must admit that I’m beginning to think that in some ways we’re losing who we are in the process a little. Surely being equal means being equal as a woman. I sometimes think we’re trying to match masculine stereotypes (which aren’t necessarily true either) – sexual liberation sometimes becomes reckless promiscuity and expressing emotion makes us feeble so we repress our sensitivity. I could be completely wrong, but surely as equals women should make their own rules rather than strive to reject everything ‘weak’ associated with our gender?

The more I meet new people, date and socialise, the more I realise that there is so much confusion around what’s acceptable and how we should behave. It leads to much awkwardness and a good few giggles. Though it seems like it’s mostly us ladies who’ve rewritten the rules, which must be pretty confusing for the gents. I accept that some would argue we should move beyond gender expectations and should stop socialising young people – but that’s a separate, very complex, conversation. I suppose that’s the beginning of the point though – we’re all individuals. In a world that’s a collision of cultures, genders, beliefs and more generations living together than ever before, letting people know what your expectations are and making an effort to understand theirs, is important.

As I continue to live in another country and as I meet new friends, colleagues and possible suitors, my challenge to myself is to be a more open about accepting others’ expectations and faults (including typos) and be clearer about who I am and where I stand. By being a little more accepting without compromising what’s important to me, who knows, I might even find my sole (romantic) mate.

Epiphany

One morning around 2 years ago I woke up to the realisation that I can do whatever I want to do. It wasn’t a very gentle awakening either, it was all very sudden. I opened my eyes one morning and this epiphany literally slapped me in the face (because that’s what epiphanies do, of course). Ok, I know it wasn’t literal, but it felt that way. And this wonderful moment of piercing clarity has totally changed the course of my life, in a good way. When I realised I could make my own decisions. Go wherever I want to (provided I have a relevant passport), be friends with anyone and just be myself. I realised what my life really was – mine.

When I think about it, it sounds really stupid. And to many people right now, you’re probably wondering why I felt so disempowered in this day and age. Before that epiphanic moment, I’d pretty much lived a life that was not mine. I’d been in relationships from around the age of twenty, with only a few short breaks in between. So for my entire adult life, I’d been considering other people first. Putting someone else above me. When in most instances those people weren’t putting me first (or even fiftieth, for that matter). Most significantly, I shared my heart with a partner who developed serious dependency issues. I become addicted to helping him get better – even though he had no desire to get better. I dedicated all my free time to researching, obsessing and ‘helping.’ When I was really just breaking myself. Deciding to stop fixing other people and start fixing myself was the beginning of my healing process.

Being single in my thirties became a completely new experience. This led to some of the most obvious of existential questions – who am I? And – what do I want? At first these thoughts brought absolute panic. I didn’t know who I was on my own and even more terrifying I had no idea what I wanted. In the beginning I sometimes felt so alone that I was convinced I’d never survive.

Now to be fair to myself, being single after a long bout of coupledom can be very daunting. As many of you know, there is comfort in being in a partnership. You’re never alone, you share decisions, you have a partner in crime to share your fears, joys, ups and downs with. There’s always someone there to support you. Even when they’re mad at you. Choosing to be single felt like having the ground fall from under my feet. I thought falling in love was the best thing that could happen to someone – I learnt that falling out of it was the best way to get closer to myself, my dreams and my hopes. I had to learn to count on myself and become comfortable with the quiet around me. I had to learn to love myself, and draw from my own thoughts and desires. It was empowering. It was terrifying.

As time passed and thoughts processed, I became more comfortable with them. After that morning of clarity I really allowed my mind to run wild, I wondered ‘if I could do anything I wanted to do, what would it be?’ The answer was twofold and immediate – travel and publish a book. Neither of these dreams were new ones. They’re just things that I pushed out of my mind while carrying on with everyday life. They didn’t fit within the boundaries of the picket fence I’d built around my imperfect life. But when I really allowed myself to think about these thoughts and wonder what was preventing them from being real, I realised that the only thing holding me back was me. I was really happy with my job, home and social life. Following my dreams would unravel my stability and contentment – and everything I’d worked so hard to build. But as many of us know – ‘a comfort zone is a wonderful place, but nothing grows there.'

I don’t have all the answers. But I know that travelling through Europe and living in a different country has brought so much fulfilment, new perspectives and a lot of fun. It was absolutely the right thing for me and has been well worth the risk. I’m yet to publish my book – but I have written it and am seeking a publisher (hopefully, you’ll see my name on a shelf one day!) But if I never get published, I can at least live with the knowledge that I gave it a fair shot.

Now. We can’t all do whatever we want when we want to. There are partners, children, families, jobs, houses, mortgages, pets. All sorts of things. Real things. And beyond these really good reasons are a million others that logically prevent us from following our dreams and living the life we really want. What I’m beginning to learn is that taking risks and doing what you believe in, is about weighing up all the pros and cons, thinking seriously and pragmatically, making lists, thinking things through carefully, leaning towards making the logical decision and then just doing whatever you want. When you let your heart lead, you will always find a way.

The brain is a marvellous thing, but no matter how much your mind knows what you should be doing, your heart knows what you ache to be doing. Sometimes we think it’s selfish to do what we want. Sometimes we feel guilty about making decisions that allow us to shine. Sometimes the risk seems too immense. Sometimes these are real concerns. But, I’d suggest, at other times, when it really matters, we need to allow ourselves to be true, fair and kind to our own destiny.