Musings · Poetry · Wellness



Cat calls from rooftops and perving from cars, wandering hands, in clubs and in bars. Pawed at on pavements, on holidays walking, harassed in the pub where I sit with friends talking. He gets aggressive when I ask him to go, but I never asked for his company you know.

Groped at on stairs that were empty at work, and he just laughed it off, when I went berserk. ‘I’m playing’ he told me, and ‘I thought you were cool,’ then winked at me every time we passed in the hall.

Friend of a friend says ‘I’ll walk you home.’ Insists it’s not safe now, to walk there alone. I couldn’t have known, though I blamed myself later, that it’s not always strangers who turn out a danger.

He held me too tightly, attempting to kiss, and I pushed him away, a ‘lucky’ near-miss. I was mad at myself for not knowing before, but who expects to get jumped on, outside their front door?

My body is mine, and my choices are too, so I’ll stand with my sisters, and yell, yes #metoo

Musings · Spiritual · Wellness

Yoga: Finding my Quiet.

A fine drizzle drifts lazily through grey mist, coating the businessmen who hurry by in somber suits. Grim faces pass, dead eyes fixed doggedly ahead. I duck and weave among them, skilfully avoiding a mass assault with the sharp edges of my umbrella.

It’s autumn, but I’m in denial and refuse to dig out my warm winter coat just yet. Instead, I snuggle deeper into my colourful shawl, a gift from a friend in India, whose deep pinks and reds remind me wistfully of a long summer sunset.

I’m heading to yoga; my midweek routine for over three years now. Not for the first time, I wonder where the time has fled to. I’m certainly a different person to the fresh-faced girl I was then. Physically I’m stronger, but it’s so much more than that.


I have discovered more about myself than I ever knew I wanted to. I’ve brought the best and the worst of myself to that tiny studio, embracing my heartache and my grief, my sins, and my love, listening to the rain bouncing steadily off the low tin roof like a mother’s heartbeat.

My husband has ditched class tonight, his early morning decision throwing my resolve. Now I’ll have to walk alone from the ferry in the dark, battling the driving rain. Suddenly the hour trek each way feels too far, too much effort.

I’m already sore from two days of exercise and a small voice inside encourages me to go home and jump in a hot Radox bath, to drink tea and read. I long to listen, the comforting thought of home almost winning me over.

‘But, you love yoga’ my friend reminds me. ‘You are always so happy once you have been.’ And she’s right.

So, I focus on the gift that the opportunity presents tonight. The chance to slow down, to reflect. The 1.5-hour pause in a life that is constantly abuzz with work, exercise, friends, hobbies and thoughts. Constant ideas about the things I need to do, the people I plan to spend time with, the adventures we are plotting, the things that inspire me. The noise is a dull roar in the back of my mind. Even the creative part of my soul, who reads and writes, draws and dances, finds freedom, but not always quiet, in those treasured moments.


Yoga is different. The sound of my breath takes me to the ocean, the tidal rhythm a soothing companion. All I think about is connecting with my body, removing the toxins and letting my energy flow with the rise and fall of my chest.

I follow the sun salutations, and the world ceases to exist. There is only now the strength of my arms and the bend of my back. There is only my teacher’s soft voice reminding us of what we should remember when we leave our mat: breathe in, hold, breathe out.

At the end of tonight’s class, my teacher notices I am beginning to cough, and hurries to fetch me her spare cardigan. ‘Wear this darling,‘ she tells me, ‘you must stay warm and look after yourself.’ She hugs me goodbye with genuine affection and I am filled with an overwhelming sense of well-being.

This love, this care, reminds me why I come here, week after week. It’s not for the exercise alone; it has never been just that. I come for the opportunity to sit quietly with my thoughts, for a safe space to be myself. I come for the chance to connect with good people, who care deeply for the community that we have built together. I come to release the negativities and exhaustion of my day. I come to find my quiet.

Musings · Wellness

The Prison of Things


“The secret of happiness, you see, is not found in seeking more, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less.” ~Socrates

It started young. I was a sentimental soul, clinging to the objects that represented memories of people or places. I cherished them, tenderly placing them in their own special ‘homes’ around my room. A museum of tributes.

Hearing my dad’s heart-wrenching sigh as he trudged up the stairs of our childhood home had me reaching for an ornament my nan had given me. She was in hospital and I knew right then before my mums anguished scream that she was gone. I clung to that little bird, tears streaming down my face, believing I could keep her with me, holding her close with this small token of her life. I was wrong, of course.

And yet, over 20 years later- I hold it still. I can’t bear to throw it out with the refuse, unloved, unwanted. It represents the way her face lit up as our tiny feet charged fearlessly into her house, the way she let us destroy her garden patio with our finest chalk art, her soft powdered scent as she kissed me goodbye. It is not a beautiful object in itself, but she was a beautiful soul, and somehow, wired in my brain, it became the same thing.

I justified my treasures to myself. ‘They portray a story about me,’ I told myself. ‘They make my home interesting.’ And they did, to a degree. Souvenirs of travels to exotic places nestled amongst colourful friendships laughing from photo frames. My guests stopped and moved from item to item, learning my history and asking me questions about my adventures. My heart swelled with gratitude reflecting on the life that I had led.

And yet.

There was a niggle in my head. A part that whispered cruelly in the quiet moments. An observer that looked around and saw the clutter for what it was. Too much stuff packed tightly into too little space; shelves and cupboards full to bursting. I began to feel suffocated, closed in. There was too much weight in these tiny trinkets and they were taking gradually their toll on my life.

I found myself exhausted, not sleeping well. I would wake in the night, thinking about to-do lists and the chaos that demanded my attention slithering just outside the safety of my bed. It became hard to concentrate. Clutter created a white noise that stifled my creativity; my drawing and writing dwindling as my attention slowly waned.

A serious cull was needed, but I didn’t know where to start. I began half heartedly, picking each thing up and turning it over fondly in my hands; dusting it down before telling myself I still needed it and putting it back in its place.  A few hours in I realised that I was getting nowhere fast. I had more excuses than willpower and I needed some additional help to get this done.

With some research into decluttering, and taking inspiration from Marie Kondo’s ‘life changing magic of tidying’, I armed myself with some strategies to overcome my resistance. I started small; one room or task at a time, so as not to become overwhelmed by the amount there was to do. I created a vision of what my perfect living space would look and feel like, then asked myself whether a particular item would fit with that vision. William Morris captured it perfectly when he said: ‘Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.

Even with this mindset, some items were harder to let go of than others. Here are my suggestions for dealing with the pieces that tug on your heartstrings:

  1. Memory Lane

You know the stuff: that cute drawing from when you were five, boxes of old photos and birthday cards, journals full of teenage angst, your grandmother’s doll…The list goes on and on. These were the memories that mapped out my journey from childhood to adult; a record of who I had become. In attempting to declutter, I would become lost for hours down memory lane, slowly reminiscing over every magical piece, running to show my partner each treasure as I re-discovered it.

There were some things that I simply wasn’t willing to part with, and I let that be ok. Decluttering is less about having no stuff at all, and more about not letting your stuff own you. An intentional decision to keep something that brings you joy is an equally good outcome from a sorting session, but you have to keep yourself honest on that potentially slippery slope.

My tips for sentimental sorting:

  • Take photos of bulkier items as a digital reminder, then sell, donate or chuck the physical object
  • Save a virtual copy of any paper based items (photos/ letters/ cards) and create a dedicated Dropbox folder for safe storage.
  • Create a physical memory box for the really precious items that you know you will treasure.
  1. Gift Guilt

Gifts, I discovered, were particularly hard to part with. The fact that someone had taken the time to think about what I might like, and spent their own money on making me smile, tore at my conscience. This was particularly true when the giver was no longer with us, and I perceived the gift as a precious link to our relationship.

After he passed away, I held onto a spice rack that my stepdad had given me for many years, despite the fact that I no longer had use for it. I felt that I was betraying him by giving it away, that it meant I wouldn’t have anything to remind me of him. Reflecting on this thought-process logically, I knew this to be untrue, but I couldn’t shake the guilt. My love for my stepdad went way beyond anything he could have given me, our memories together filling much more space than a spice rack ever could. Talking it through with my mum, I realized that I had other, more treasured items from him; handwritten cards and my favorite red shirt, and I didn’t need to keep every single thing he had ever given me, just because he wasn’t with us anymore.

My tips for present purging:

  • Don’t let the gift become a burden, it’s not what the giver intended. Remind yourself that the joy of the gift was in the process of both giving and receiving, in the love and thought that went into choosing it, and the way you felt, rather than the importance of keeping the physical object itself.
  • Keep one representative gift to remind you a special person or connection, rather than feeling obligated to keep all of things they ever gave you.
  • Re-gift- (without pretending that you bought it)- to someone that you know would get more joy from it than you.
  1. ‘I might need it someday’ syndrome

A relic of my childhood is the mantra from the generations before me: ‘Waste not, Want not.’ I remember our cupboards: ice-cream tubs full of spare batteries, light-bulbs and the disembodied plugs from discarded appliances. Imagine the scene from the little mermaid where she is looking around at her treasure trove, and you’ll get a feel for my old home.

I get it, of course. There is a certain security in holding on to things ‘just in case’ you need them in the future. No one likes declutter regret. But if the item has sat untouched for years, how likely is it that you will need it anytime soon? And even if you do need it, chances are you’ve forgotten that you have it, or wouldn’t even be able to find it hidden amongst all the other stuff.

My tips for jolting the ‘just-in-cases.’

  • Use a ‘Maybe box’. Put your item(s) in a box, put it away, and if you haven’t missed or needed it by a specified date- chances are that you won’t and it’s time to get rid.
  • Look up how much it would cost to replace the item, should you need it in the future. If the financial cost and time-effort is low enough for you not to have to worry- then there is no real need to hold onto the item.
  • If the cost is prohibitive, or the item hard to procure, allocate a certain amount of space for it in your home, and don’t let it creep beyond that boundary.
  1. Sunk Cost

Rows and rows of clothes, shoes, and handbags line my wardrobes. Some of them still have the labels attached, much to my great shame. Throwing these items out unused feels so wasteful, yet I know, deep down, that if I haven’t worn or used them by now, I likely never will. Part of the reason it is so difficult for me to remove them, is that they represent money spent, an investment I have made. I cling to the idea that I WILL wear that perfect dress if the right occasion comes along, and I’d much rather keep that expensive top that looks terrible on me, than admit that I made a big purchasing mistake.

My tips for unleashing the unused

  • Remind yourself that the money is spent the moment you bought the item, so the loss happened back then, not now, regardless of what you choose do with it.
  • It can help to think of the happiness you felt when you bought the item as your return on the investment you made.
  • If someone else can make better use of it, why not sell or donate it, where it can bring joy to it’s new owner, rather than rotting away in your cupboard.
  • Be honest about whether the pieces reflects who you are today and where you are headed- if you are rooted in the past, or saving it for the future, it shouldn’t be taking up space in your present. If you were at the store, would you buy it today?

Today my home is my peaceful place. I feel a sense of calm as soon as I walk in the front door and into the energy that flows throughout the rooms. It’s still not perfect of course, and there’s always more that could be done. Every small step moves me closer to my vision, and if I’m honest, the imperfections give it a character that I love. Home really is where the heart is, so I’ll keep striving to make it one I am proud of.

Originally published on DirtyandThirty

grief · love · Wellness

Emotional Health is the new sexy

“I’m seeing a counsellor.”

My face burns and I look down at the floor. I don’t want to see the pity reflecting in your eyes—I know what you think. At least, I tell myself a story about what you think.

My counsellor taught me that. He also explained to me what other people think of you is none of your business,which is a gem that fits this scenario particularly well.

It’s a mantra I’m still working on—I’m not there yet.

The stigma of there must be something mentally wrong with me or I’m not able to solve this problem alone, therefore I’m weak or stupid or damaged still applies to counselling, even today in this supposedly enlightened society of ours.

I want to set the record straight once and for all, so gather ‘round my friends and hear my truth: therapy is brave. Therapy is empowering. And therapy is sexy. I’ll tell you why.

Therapy is brave.

From the moment I sat down in that chair, I knew I was opening a can of worms in the deepest, darkest region of my soul—a can of worms that, once unleashed, could never be re-sealed again. It was a big decision. One that would have me questioning my thought processes completely, my fundamental beliefs and feelings about my life, my relationships and my childhood.

Everything I thought I knew, and all my mechanisms for getting by in this world were discussed, dissected and sometimes destroyed, and to let that process unfold takes some serious tenacity.

Every bone in my weary body screamed at me to run away—to stay safely wrapped in the warm cosy blanket of ignorance, to bury the feelings deeper where they couldn’t hurt me. I stayed in that chair. And I returned to it every week for a year. I’m still there today.

How many people can honestly say that they have stood their ground as their demons surrounded them,tormenting them in the darkness? Who among us has found the courage to gaze, with fearful eyes, into the void that we try so desperately to compensate for, and acknowledge the emptiness that lingers there?

It takes a certain kind of brave to sit with the agonising pain of grief as it crushes your chest—to acknowledge guilt, to accept loneliness, with tears streaming down your face. My voice cracks with emotion, but I talk on regardless, bringing my monsters to life with my words and then trying to find the strength to begin to slowly slay them. Until I can see them and accept that they are real, I cannot fight them.

There is a warrior in all of us waiting for that opportunity.

My counsellor lets me pour out my hurt in a torrent. There is no judgement. He encourages the floodgates to open and is a witness to my distress, to my story. We all need a witness in this life. I believe it’s one of the reasons we connect with others so deeply—to know that someone cares enough about us to see us, to really see us for who we are as we move through life’s journey.

He questions me in ways that make me think beyond my comfort levels, to see an alternate perspective. My current ways of thinking have not always served me well and he is not afraid to push me hard beyond them, even if it makes me cry.

My insides have been pulled out, examined, cleansed and put back inside on a weekly basis. Exhausting? Yes. Valuable? Beyond measure. I am more myself than I have ever been, which is the best gift I could have given myself in this thirtieth year of my life.

Therapy is empowering.

Coaching and mentoring are seen as the path of the enlightened, the driven, and the achievers. Counselling, on the other hand, is perceived by many as an inability to cope with the world. I have news for you, ladies and gents; counselling is a form of life coaching, too.

It gives me the ability to recognise negative patterns and behaviours, and the tools and awareness to deal with them without melting down. It lets me get comfortable with ambiguity and to sit with my sadness without dissolving into it to a point where I can’t cope or recover from it.

I can apply these lessons across the board: at home, at work, walking down the street. I can understand the motivations and fears that drive people and myself, which is powerful beyond words.

I’m still learning, and I make mistakes, but I am more aware of them now. I’m only human—I still get angry with people, but I ask myself what the positive intention was in their behaviour. I finally understand that no one in this world has the power to make me feel anything.

I create, promote and allow the feelings and behaviours that I want in my life and I give to myself the things that I want to experience.

Don’t love me? Fine. I’ll love myself enough for the both of us. Knowing that no one external can take that feeling away is liberating.

Therapy is sexy.

There is nothing more attractive than a person prepared to own his or her shit. We are all messed up in some way or another; it’s just a matter of how, and to what degree. To accept that fact is to be a real adult in this world—to take responsibility for our own happiness and to stop blaming others when life is hard, or when they don’t meet our expectations.

If a man is willing to face his issues, my god is he a man in my eyes. If he is able to work on himself with the intention of becoming the best version of himself that he can be, for himself, and subsequently for his relationships, that is a serious turn-on. I know that he is going to show up for me, for his family, and he is going to address the issues that he doesn’t want to pass onto his kids.

A good father is hugely appealing.

The fact that you care about your mental health is as significant to me as you taking care of yourself physically. Mental grooming is way more important than working on your washboard abs (though I won’t deny, I like those too).

We don’t have to be perfect; heaven knows that I’m not. We just have to be willing to participate in our own growth, and that will speak to my mind, my soul and to my body in ways you could never imagine.

Originally published here at Elephant Journal

grief · love · Spiritual · Wellness

Tears in Savasana


Familiar excuses skulk uninvited into my thoughts:

‘I’m totally exhausted.’

‘I won’t get home until so late.’

‘One week off won’t make a difference anyway.’

Lethargy assaults my limbs, bringing me close to tears at the thought of the gruelling 1.5 hours of class ahead. I tap away at my keyboard, ignoring the enticement of home. The easy option.

Sometimes I surrender to temptation; my tight shoulders wrapped in a cloak of guilt, punishing me for my choice. Most times I close the door on it quickly, banishing the unwanted trespasser stealing quietly through my mind.

The studio doors open to a secret world. Soft melodies drift ethereally around me, quieting my busy mind. There are no lyrics to distract me. The low lights glow like a midsummer moon in whites and purples—a welcome change to the unforgiving glare of my day.

I relax.

My routine is clockwork and comforting. I greet my teacher, change quickly, and roll out my equipment in the same spot. I stare up at the Chinese lantern suspended above me like a white cloud. I imagine the stories it could tell of this very room.

Laying back on my bolster I start to take notice of my breath, imagining that the sea rises and crashes within my chest.

Sometimes it does.

The roaring waves take me and slow me. They caress me with their undulating rhythm until I am calm.

My stiff body screams out with the first pose and I fight to hold for my pain. Every part of me cries out to drop to my knees, to relief. I refuse. I know that this is part of the process.

Oh body, you cannot beat me.

Life teaches us to avoid discomfort at all cost. Yoga shows us how to embrace it, to use our life force to battle our physical limitations. To breathe on through it. Inhale deeply. Imagine the roaring river of oxygen flowing to the parts that rage against you in violent protest.

Exhale. Feel your muscles relax. Let them go. Sink lower than you ever realised you could. Inhale.

Salute the sun. Become a warrior. A dog. A cobra. You can be whatever your body desires now. The world is yours as you twist, stretch, lift and bend your way through the hour. Time is meaningless here.

I embrace my inner goddess. My limbs flex in ways I never imagined possible and my cares exist only in dreams. I can do anything. My world is only my breath, in and out, and my appreciation for my strength, for my balance and for the stillness in me.

I have much to learn, watching my teacher in awe. But I am not overwhelmed, rather inspired by possibility. She symbolizes a path dappled in sunshine, and I hope to walk there too someday.

We finally reach the point that I have waited patiently all week for: Savasana- The Corpse Pose.

A rare fifteen minutes where there are no distractions. No phone. No talking. No pain. Alone with my breath, and my thoughts.

My mind reaches out in shadowy tendrils to a place beyond conscious. Beyond memory.

And as happens so often this year in this place—I find you.

You walk towards me on a cobbled street, white snow falling around us. You are wearing that winter overcoat that you looked so handsome in and your hands are shoved deep into your pockets.

You flash me a cheeky grin and the nine months that you have been gone fall away in an instant. Your eyes are alight with mischief and it makes me chuckle. I’m not scared. I’m pleased to see you and I hear your voice, and your laugh. They are etched into my heart.

We talk. I tell you all the things I would say if you were still with us. All the things I wish I had said.

I tell you just how much I miss you and what your life has meant to me, to my family. The best part is, you talk back.

Tonight I actually felt your hand in mine. It dawns on me that I no longer fear death for I know now that you are waiting for me there.

The fabric separating sleep and waking is delicate in this place. If I am dreaming I don’t want to wake up yet. There’s so much more to share. Tears stream from my eyes silently, dripping onto my mat. Let them fall. There is no one to witness my silent sobs, and no one to judge me. You are here, and I cry for the days that you are not.

They are a small price to pay to transcend to your world, and I give them freely, my gift to you, these tears in Savasana.

Originally published here on Elephant Journal

grief · love · Spiritual · Wellness

Beating the grey clouds

You can find my original article on elephant journal here


The dark clouds of misery suffocate me.

They suck the colour from my life, banish the light. It feels like I am losing the essence of who I am inside; that I will never be happy again.

I wrestle with urge to give up and let despair take me. Surrender to the agony of grief. What more can it take from me? I have nothing left to give its greedy strangling hands when they creep into my nightmares.

Fighting the dark clouds is a battle that rages daily. I fight for the motivation to crawl out of my warm bed each morning to confront the punishing dawn. Choosing what to wear feels like scaling Everest and the very thought of talking to people leaves my stomach in a hot tight knot.

The voices in my head tell me that I can’t do it, and I whimper and cringe apologetically before them—I believe them.

On those days I ache to be soothed. To regain the strength I need to put one foot in front of the other. It’s hard to know where to start.

Slowly, I’m identifying the methods that help me banish the dark clouds when they descend. And on the days where I have no fight left in my battered body, they give me a place to curl up safe to weather the storm until it passes.

I want to share these with you in the hope that they might help you find your own light in the darkness. And if you have suggestions that work for you, I would also love to hear them.

1. The Ocean

Nothing equals the peace that quietens my soul whilst watching the swell and fall of the ocean. The understanding that we are all part of something bigger and more powerful than our tiny lives is truly humbling.

I am forced to submit to the constant churn of the deep, and there is a comfort in that surrender. I can no more deny my soul it’s happiness than I can stop the surf crashing onto the white sand, embracing each grain with the knowledge that the tide will eternally shift, and they will never have this moment together again.

I close my eyes and listen to the melody of unrelenting waves, a constant in a world of unknowns. I listen to birds calling and how their freedom echoes in the early morning calm. My heartbeat slows and my mind clears.

The sea breeze caresses my hair like the gentlest lover soothing me to sleep. I let it blow away the cobwebs of indecision. The salt erodes anger, sadness, and pain. I let the darkness soar away, a kite sailing on the soft wind.

Perhaps I’m alone on that beach. Eyes fixed on the sapphire horizon, knees drawn to chest, toes digging into wet sand. Perhaps I allow someone I love to share the moment. Maybe I let them hold me, without talking, but breathing in the magic with me and letting my tears rain gently onto their chest.

A lifeline in the depths of the darkest place I tread, tethering me back to the light. Maybe they can’t follow where I go, and maybe I’m too heavy for them to pull back right now, but I know that they hold me safely. I know that their strength answering my weak tug promises a place where the sun shines still, awaiting my return, when I’m ready.

‘The cure for anything is salt water – tears, sweat, or the sea.’ ~ Isak Dinesen

2. Tea

As a child my mother made me tea every morning and every evening without fail. I remember the first few times feeling like a real grown up, being allowed to drink out of one of her beautiful cups, adorned with gold leaf and vibrant flowers. The flavour didn’t matter as much as sharing a moment with someone I adored

I came to know tea as part of my daily ceremony, to help me face the morning, and to discuss the going-ons of the day before bed. Opening my heart to my mum in order to make sense of the world, as the hot liquid gold spread comfort through my entire body.

Even now, aged 29, tea makes me a small child snuggled up next to my mum. There’s no situation that a cup of English breakfast can’t make better. Shared socially with friends from the same cherished pot, or being brought a cup in bed to tell you that you are loved.

Photo: David Leggett on Flickr.

In times of grief, pressing small shivering hands against the warmth of the mug reminds you that you are still alive. I don’t remember how many cups of tea I made when I lost my stepfather, but I do know that the ritual brought me normalcy and hope for the future. For where there is tea, there is another day dawning, and another morning where I will wake and face the world once again.

‘Come, let us have some tea and continue to talk about happy things.’ ~ Chaim Potok

3. Baths

Foamy Bubbles. Lots of them. Water as hot as I can manage before my skin blisters, run to overflowing. Lights out, candles flickering gently, a book and of course, tea.

I sink into that blissful pool of deliciousness and feel no guilt. No sense of time. No thoughts of housework, or to-do lists. I listen to music, or I don’t. Read, or don’t. I close my eyes. Dream. Let the water wash away the heartache, the resentment, the suffering. It sinks below the surface, trapped in rainbow bubbles. Later it will be sucked into the plughole, gone forever.

I feel my muscles relax in the heat and admire my body where it peeks out at me from its soapy landscape. I appreciate how my skin shines in the wet and let my hair drift like seaweed, embracing my inner mermaid.

Baths cleanse my soul from the outside in, taking me back to my happier self. Having the bathroom window open to let the cool breeze contrast with my warm body has been one of my favourite sensations since childhood. It evokes memories of carefree summers and long light evenings. No responsibilities yet, and no scar of loss.

I remind myself that showers are practical and baths are luxurious. And also that I deserve that luxury when I am hurting. I set up a shrine to my inner water goddess and let her sparkle.

4. Good Friends

Cliché? Maybe. But where would I be without them today? I’ve closed up shop and boarded my windows to the pain that prowls close by. Yet still my friends wait outside, patiently. They sit on the doorstep swinging their legs. Sometimes they slip a note under the door to let me know they are still there. They demand nothing. Not even a response. But they wait.

Sometimes they play just next-door so that I can enjoy their laughter from afar and not be left behind. And when I peek out of a gap in the panelled wood of my mind, they turn and they smile at me—the kind of smile that only a true friend can give you. A ‘Hey, I’m so pleased to see you,’ and a ‘No we don’t have to talk about a thing, or even try to fix it. We can just sit here and be’ kind of smile.

The hard days are a gift in disguise because they let us know these friends exist. And that it’s ok not to be ok. I reach out to these angels when I can. Sometimes I do it even when I am exhausted with the world, because they remind me that they think I am wonderful.

They prove to me that I am not as broken as I think I am. They show me, again and again, that though it may be different to what I once knew, one day, the world will be a beautiful place to be once again.

adventure · grief · love · Poetry · Spiritual · Travel · Wellness

Heart Song (Poem)


She sits alone with pain and listens to her heart song.

Its echoes in her soul, subdued these days, unused to being heard over the din of her ordinary life.

It speaks of brilliant waterfalls that splash turquoise-hued rainbows over the world and make it new again.

It tells of enchanted forests, where life flourishes, if you know just where to look.

It whispers of fairies dancing in clearings untouched by human hand or eye.

It yearns for the places where sunlight cannot reach. Dappled beams through ancient branches, faces etched into trees, watching her, waiting for her life to start.

The shackles of the corporate world burn into her ankles, making her cry out.

Salty tears come in ocean waves. Tears she could drown in.

They were supposed to be temporary binds

To anchor her whilst she learned, which way to travel in this world,

But over time, they grew tighter,

Curbing the flow of magic to her heart, strangling the dreams of childhood innocence.

She deceives herself for a while.

Convinces her brain that this is a path, as good as any. Respectable.

Successful by someone’s definition.

She shines, because she always does. It’s expected.

Prizes she doesn’t care for, honours that cant hold her attention for long.

Tight prison walls of expectation hold her tightly with iron grip.

The cruel and painful grasp of accomplishment.

Her sparkle dims with every passing year, her soul retreating softly away.

She screams inside and begs someone to hear her.

No one does. Only she can save herself.

What happened to the girl, who dreamed of African plains

Stretching endless into the abyss?

Of the majesty of lions roaring in the darkness to dangers unknown,

Of the burning setting of the sun, lighting the world’s colours for all to see,

What happened to the girl, who longed for adventure?

For passion and frenzy in the heat of a moment,

Decisions felt with the heart, not made with the head.

What of the girl, whose words want to dance across pages?

Giving graceful glimpses of her soul to those who dare to read.

Sometimes the words bruise like stones as they tumble out of her mind

So intense that she can barely breathe until she has expelled them.

Where is she now?

She wants the intensity.

She wants the pain because it shows her she can feel.

That she is alive.

She wants the life less ordinary. And she wants it to begin now.


Originally published on elephant journal here