Writer. Blogger. Survivor. Warrior. Word Alchemist.
Warrior. Dreamer. Creator. Writer. Fighter of all that is beautiful and good. Advocate for the underdog. Truth-teller. Empath. Passionate soul. Lover of land and ocean. Coffee drinker. Gentle spirit. Sensitive soul.Wild heart. Survivor. Writing her first manuscript.
Columnist for elephant journal, work also published by The Motherish and the Sydney Morning Herald.
Married to a farmer in the Limestone Coast of South Australia. Mother to four astonishing children.
We're tired of not taking an hour off. We're tired of striving to accomplish more than we can fit into each day. Tired of running our houses, running our businesses, raising our families, building our careers, and feeling the pressure to do it all with shaved legs, shaped eyebrows and three days a week at the gym.
In a world where women are banned from wearing a burkini or forced into arranged marriages, and children are trafficked into slavery, and thousands die of malnourishment and disease every day -- why are we, the privileged, so unsatisfied?
Admittedly, in the past I've been lured into the romantic notion of flying. Oh, to jump aboard a plane and only hours later land in a new and exotic location anywhere in the world. But the fact is, there's nothing romantic about flying with a family.
It's fair to say when you hold your newborn child in your arms for the first time you are clueless to the road ahead of you. When I embarked on this journey of motherhood at 21 years old, I knew there were many things in life I still needed to learn.
Years ago, I held my first baby by the romantic light of an open fire in our quaint farm cottage and began to make equally romantic plans about what our family would be like. We would be a camping family. And so we suffered through camping trip after camping trip from hell.
Though a Cancerian and made for romance, you would be hard-pressed to find anything I detest more than Valentine's Day. It's not just my dislike of commercialism. Or that I've become somewhat bitter and cynical. But it's the thought of all that expectation which makes me shudder the most.
We've all heard the stories of the other woman. The one who watches the man she's in love with go home every night to his family, a spectator of the life she longs for. But, it occurred to me recently that a similar pain is experienced for those of us who have lived as the 'other daughter'.
I could have followed my psychologist's advice. I could have become a lesser version of myself. A less real, less honest, less feeling, less bleeding version of myself. But if I had done that, I would've taken the essence of who I am and traded it for a cheap imitation.
Every year I tell my husband I'm not doing it again. I'm not doing Christmas. I tell him we should all pack a bag and fly far, far away and not return until January and maybe that could be the family present this year.
While there may be no cure, there is awareness and there is understanding. There is healing in coming out from the shadow of our shame and bringing our stories into the light. As we begin to mend ourselves, we begin to mend each other. There is hope in simply knowing we are not alone.
I can't have that moment back with my daughter. I'll never get the chance to make that moment right. Nor can I make right the many other moments where I have failed in my role as a mother. This is the paradox of time, that we cannot appreciate the moment until it's gone and we can never get it back.
Sixteen years ago, I had no idea about life, about love, about how hard it would be to choose to wake up every morning and stay married. How hard it would be to choose to hold tight, when all I wanted was to run.