So why write….?

Everyone has a story, right? What I'd love to know is, have you reached your 'happily ever after,' or, like me, are you trying to learn from and giggle at your major life f*ck ups whilst keeping the faith that someday, somehow, it’ll all fall into place? 

Whilst I've always had a scandalous story, one that's full of heart, love, loss, hope, Pinot Grigio-fuelled fumblings, and plenty of ‘good-looking’ ar*seholes, I'm still manifesting my ‘happily ever after’ will arrive on my doorstep and skillfully set my knickers and soul on fire. Much like a Deliveroo, except in the shape of a very hot MAN as opposed to a fiery vindaloo. I'm talking about a delicious, single, emotionally available, honest, kind, athletic, sexy, soulful, clever, loyal, funny, financially secure, very well-endowed man. Too much?!

Feeling wild, wise, and free in my early forties, whilst my eight-year-old girl and six-year-old son are on Summer holiday with my ex-husband, I unexpectedly spend seven blissful days and seven blissful nights on the Dalmatian Coast with a 35-year-old, six foot two, muscular, bilingual, soulful, intelligent, fun, attentive, tanned, Croatian sex God with supremely skilled shovel-like hands and a very large and lively aubergine. Oh, Universe, thank you!

Oh yes, everyone, regardless of your age and sexual preferences, this is a story you'll all want to read, and whether you relate to some of it or all of it, I guarantee you it'll not disappoint. How can it? It's naughty, it's real, and my holiday to Croatia has had an impact on ALL my womanly and hedonistic senses…… Oh.My.F’king.GOD!! 

Come on, we all have that crazy in us, don't we? You know, your inner doppelganger, your naughty girl or boy twin who loves to leap out of you and cause a spot of good-humoured mischief from time to time. The one who gets saddle sore from laughing so much because they've grabbed the bull by the horns again. The one who your partner, if you have one, rolls their eyes at and your friends LOVE, pleading in stitches, 'Again, again, AGAIN!’ The one who grins from ear to ear, picks up your tiresome ‘to-do list’ and chucks it with carefree abandon in the ‘f*ck it bucket.’ The one who, in time, will sit in their rocking chair, making their grandkids howl with laughter when they proudly state with a mischievous glint in their eyes, 'Yep, I did it ALL and MORE!' You know THAT girl or boy of yours.

Well, right now, I'm so grateful to THAT girl of mine because she led the way for my experience in Croatia. The experience was so electric, so deliciously made up of 'once in a lifetime' fodder that my eyes sparkle, and I get goosebumps all over my body every time I think about it.

And now THAT girl of mine won't shut up. She doesn't want to be told 'be quiet', 'behave yourself', and 'sssssh’ anymore. She's found her voice, and she's ready to shake things up a bit. In fact, I can hear her shouting in my earholes right now, 'What more do you want from me, woman? I've given you your 'happily ever after of sorts,’ so if you don't get out of your own way, I'm telling our story anyway!' 

So, despite my sensible, shy side quaking in my boots, I'm doing as instructed. I'm getting out of my own way, and I'm giving my THAT girl airtime, which is a considerable risk given much of my life has been in the dark, icky, and often socially taboo spots. Will my family disown me? Maybe. Will the police put me in jail for my mischief? Hmmh, possibly. ‘Yes, Constable, sex in public is a criminal offence….. Yes, Constable, I did see the 'No Drugs Allowed' sign; I just didn't see you….'

I'm not all bad. Those that know me might conclude that due to one of life's major knocks, I partied to pause my pain, which I now realise was as effective as whacking a snooze button on a smoke alarm for years.  Funnily enough, my pain never left; it just grew. 

So here I am, all these years later, when not sipping ice-cold Pinot Grigio in the sunshine, trying my very best to process my grief and figure out who I am and what I'm doing with my life; no mean feat given In the last three minutes I've gone from, ‘I'm brave to I'm broken,' ‘I'm falling into place to I’m falling apart,' ‘I'm focused to I'm clueless,' ‘I'm frazzled to I'm zen,' ‘I'm weak to I'm strong,' ‘I need wine too I'm on a detox’, ‘I can to I can't’ … and ‘if not now, when?’ Talk about layers. 

A guy I was seeing joked that I was more onion than human with all my layers and bought me a pair of neon pink onion goggles to catch my tears, even when I wasn't chopping onions. 

One evening, as we were preparing dinner, he got drunk as a skunk and revealed one of his layers to me: ‘I'm a closet gay!’ Thinking he was joking, I grabbed a kiwi fruit from the fruit bowl, chucked it at his forehead, and declared, ‘See, I told you onions aren't the only food that can make a human cry!’ As I laughed, he slid down the kitchen cabinet and sobbed. Within moments, we were sitting side by side on my kitchen floor, sobbing and laughing together at our hopeless situation, whilst I tenderly pressed a pack of frozen peas to his swelling forehead. We'd never been so connected yet so disconnected. We even had sex afterward, which is kind of weird now I think about it. SO many layers. The following morning I thanked his drunk tongue for being an honest one, and given I'm a sucker for honesty, I know I'll never convince myself or others I'm nailing this life shizzle. I never have, I'm not now and I never will. Sambuca anyone?!

Croatia has added yet more layers to my many layers of life as an onion. Whilst it was body, heart, and soul MIND BLOWING, I'm not stupid. I've been around the block more times than most people can shake a stick at, and I know how ‘this side’ of life works. I've got to prepare myself. It might be the start of something wonderful….. Or, given my English postcode versus his Croatian postcode, it might be another sorrowful stay in ‘Heartbreak Hotel,’ or what my older and wiser hat likes to call ‘A Growth Opportunity.’ Grrrrr, punch, kick, scream, surely I've had enough of those? 

Maybe it's not him, the Croatian God I'm missing, but the feelings he gave me? Shutting my eyes tightly, I try to bat all thoughts of him aside whilst simultaneously recreating the same intoxicating feelings I shared with him. It's impossible. My feelings for him are real, and so is he. If only I could click my fingers and be back with him in a heartbeat, I would. But life isn't that simple… is it?

As I pick up my pen, I write, 'This Is Real!' across the top of the page in bold, capital letters in a permanent marker pen. My story is real. No filters, no bullshit. It's a real story about a real girl with real-life experiences. If it was anything but real, what would I gain from writing it, and what would you gain from reading it? If I'm not willing to be so honest with my story, how can I possibly stand a chance of making people laugh, cry, nod their heads in agreement, shake their heads in shock, raise their eyebrows in disbelief, and maybe, just maybe, pick up some pointers to avoid making the same, often ridiculous and highly avoidable, heart punching muck ups as me? 

I've no idea how long my story will take to tell. It may be one book, two, or even a trilogy. I honestly don't know. I've never written a book before, I'm not an author, and I certainly don't have an English degree. Grrr, why am I here? What am I doing with my life? Will anyone read it? Does that even matter?!

Giggling nervously, I've visions of my children reading my book with adult eyes. They'll get to learn about the parts of me very few parents would EVER want their children to know about them. I picture them looking at me, mouths aghast, as they say, 'Mummy, you didn't!' 

'Oh yes, I did!'

Yet, by giving an honest account of my experiences, they'll appreciate that with the life experience and personal understanding I've gained to date, my take on it is that as we spin around on this planet called Earth, we're also steering our very own roller coaster of life, which is as unique to us as we are unique to the earth. From the moment we're born, we try our best to navigate not only the twists and turns but also how our life situation changes from one moment to the next, how the people on our roller coaster can change through choice or circumstance, how we ourselves change, grow, evolve, how our perspective changes and how our dreams of where we hope our ride's final destination will be, can change in a nanosecond. As our roller coaster moves through time and space, it forms a blueprint for ‘our story.' Whilst I'm determined the magnetic spark between the Croatian God and I only leads to light and not Rock Bottom's basement (I can assure you it has one, I've been there many times), do any of us really have a choice about where we end up, or is everything about ‘our story’ simply written in the stars? 

As for how my Croatia chapter unfolds, I need to live it first, which feels super exciting and downright petrifying in equal measure. I've no idea what pen strokes I'll put to paper and whether he stays as the lead male character or fades into the background. Yet, I do know the author is learning self-love and how to be tough, so I'm hoping she won't let me down.

Stubbornly blinking back the tears that are threatening to trickle down my cheeks, words form in my head, and I've no real idea where they come from, ‘Come on, Soho, heart strong, head high, with or without him, let's go fly!’

So, with a beautifully blank canvas to fill and a strong beat of hope, I view my life as a painting and myself as the artist. I picture myself standing at the kitchen hob, stirring my different life experiences, thoughts, and feelings together in a spacious saucepan with a large wooden spoon as an artist mixing various colors and hues on their palate. It may lead to nothing more than one big chef's mess, or it may lead to a vibrant artist's masterpiece. Who knows?

It doesn't matter either way. From this moment onwards, for the very first time in my life, I know my personal mission: to write a book about Croatia and the backstory of my story. 

On a bright pink Post-it note, I write, 'Note to self: someday I'll make you sooooo proud!' and stick it on my fridge door. Making myself a strong cup of black coffee and giving my beautiful black and white cat ‘Pickle’ a quick stroke, I return to my kitchen table to write. 

Despite feeling floored and heartsick about leaving Croatia, am I happy? Of course. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, pouring my heart onto these pages, and my soul loves it.

Grief and life lessons

I'm acutely aware that not all experiences are uplifting. Sometimes, something can happen to us that knocks the wind out of our sails, and there's seemingly nothing we can do about it. At 24, I didn't know how to handle what happened to me any differently. Then again, receiving a phone call from my sister, Sienna, in 2002, when I was backpacking in Australia saying, ‘It's back,’ was a pretty sh*tty phone call to receive and no doubt a pretty sh*tty one to make.  

But the consultant was right; it was back, which meant just over a year later, my dear Dad, Hector, lost his darling wife, Felicity, of forty years, to cancer, and my older sisters, Sky, Sienna, and I lost our beautiful Mum. If I could have, I would have died that day, too. Whilst I've never admitted this to anyone before, for years afterward, I'd often fantasize about how I’d kill myself. Would I jump in front of a fast-moving train on my way to work, plan a fatal cocaine overdose, or accidentally, on purpose, stumble into London traffic whilst high or drunk? During those jet-black years, my life without my Mum felt so deathly to me. Honestly, what was the point in living? 

I used every trick in the book to cover up my pain: only ever looking outwards for something or someone special to ‘fix’ me, turning to alcohol and cocaine as my daily painkiller of choice, joking around and acting the life and soul of the party to mask my misery, allowing myself to fall for any cheesy chat up lines which meant hundreds of empty one night stands in the vain hope they'd lead to true love and I'd feel whole again. Yet, I was beyond broken, and none of my 'tricks’ worked; the more I tried to run away from my grief, the greater it became. 

Despite the love of my friends, family, and my so-called ‘career’ in recruitment, without my Mum, the meaning of my life was lost on me. The person I loved most in the whole wide world had died, and from my viewpoint, anything that happened to me from then on was not my fault. I became a ‘victim’. I was a mess.

Losing my Mum has been the most inescapable pain that still, at times, knows no end. When I wear my 'victim’ hat, I still feel so cheated that my adult self has been robbed of the opportunity to get to know my Mum much more and her me. I expect, over the past twenty years, our relationship might have evolved to a depth of understanding whereby we can clearly see through each other's mind's eye. I can only imagine how much of a blessing it must be to have a Mother who understands, loves, and champions you as an adult. But life isn't fair. Like a pack of cards, we're each dealt a number of pivotal experiences to be had in our lives, and whether we deem them good or bad, it's up to us how we handle them. 

There's still a lot for me to learn about why I've dealt with my Mum's death the way that I have. I suspect I need to lean more into the lessons as opposed to clinging so tightly to the hurt. But the grief has become so familiar to me, like an act of loyalty to her, that I'm reluctant to let go. Then again, how can I let her go? You never met her, did you? 

Of course, I've managed to let some things go since Mum died; I've had to. I've let go of my childhood dreams about love, my idea of a ‘happily ever after,’ and what raising a family looks and feels like for me.  Approaching things very differently during my divorce than when my Mum died; my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter and six-month-old son were my rocks and reason to rise. Instead of sinking, I learned how to swim. Fast. 

Roll in deep soul-searching, determination, readiness to change, painful lessons to be learned, heartfelt sobs, frustration, anger, and extraordinarily extravagant expletives I never knew my brain could form. Hand on heart, I gave my 'rising’ my all for my children and myself. 

Whilst my friends, family, and energy healers were phenomenally supportive, and my gratitude for them has no end, it wasn't their experiences, their lessons to be learned, or their pain to carry; it was mine. Choosing self-care over self-medication, instead of reaching for a bottle of wine or two to drown my sorrows, for years, I embraced sober sensations. Whilst snuggling up in bed with my sleeping babies, I read endless books on self-love, gratitude, the forgiveness of self and others, trusting your intuition, present moment living, letting go, keeping the faith, fearless living, personal boundaries, sobriety, knowing your self-worth, heart-broken to heart-open, the law of attraction, raising your vibrations, calm parenting, finding freedom, happiness, inner peace, the power of meditation and anything remotely ‘spiritual.’ When I wasn't reading about the evolution of self, I listened to podcasts on the subject matter. Like a toddler with a new toy, I was utterly obsessed, and like superglue, the main messages began to stick.

As time passed, I could sense my inner world changing. I wasn't interested in joining WhatsApp groups called ‘Men are D*ckheads!', marching on ‘Anti-Men’ campaigns, or attending 'Divorce Parties.' Aside from looking after my babies, I craved peace and solitude to dive inward and reflect. I wanted to understand my suffering with the hope that if I could give my suffering meaning, in time, it would cease to feel like suffering and feel more like a gift. How had I contributed to the breakdown of our marriage? What needed to change about me so that I didn't face the same heartache again? 

My mind kept going over a heart-to-heart that my ex-husband and I had weathered early on in our relationship while sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. I told him that even though I loved him deeply, I didn't think I was cut out for a relationship after all and that it was probably best if we ended it there and then. When he replied, ‘Soho, I love you, and I'm here to stay; please don't push me away,’ it was as though a curtain had been lifted, and I could see how little I loved myself. The last thing I wanted to do was push him away, but he was right; I had been doing exactly that, purely because I didn't think I was worthy of his love: I was terribly insecure, I got jealous at the drop of a hat, I worried non stop he'd realise I was a worthless pile of cr*p because I really thought I was, and I felt easily replaceable. Whenever an attractive girl walked past us, despite him always keeping his eyes firmly on me, I'd feel a surge of burning hot energy rise within me. Reaching boiling point, I'd too often make a flippant, totally unfounded, and very spiky remark to him. Whilst I knew it was all ‘my stuff,’ I was at a total loss as to how to stop it. How could I ever accept or expect anyone else to love me if I didn't truly love myself?

Whether he was always going to fall into the arms of another behind my back or it was partly my fault for pushing him away, I'll never know. However, all the trust in our relationship had gone, and as the scales tipped, the prospect of staying in a toxic marriage became far worse than the prospect of divorce. It was over. It was time for me to take a long, hard look at myself. Instead of pointing my finger at my ex for the entire breakdown of our marriage and being swept up in society's 'blame’ culture, I chose to work on the three fingers pointing back at me. And, like an avid archaeologist digging deep, so began my journey of awakening and self-discovery. 

Perhaps writing my story will prove to be the biggest act of self-discovery I'll ever do, whereby the voice I've silenced for so long is the very voice that sets me free. Maybe, by gaining a deeper understanding of myself, I'll be able to let my beautiful Mum go and unearth that the greatest love story for us all is, in truth, the one with ourselves. And maybe, when aglow with unwavering self-love, instead of manifesting my ‘happily ever after’ in the shape of a man, I'll be like the wise old woman who said, ‘F*uck that sh*t!’ and then lived happily ever after.

Blog Post Title Three

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Four

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.