Everyone has a story, right? What I’d love to know is this: have you reached your “happily ever after,” or, like me, are you trying to learn from—and giggle at—your major life fuck‑ups while keeping the faith that someday, somehow, it’ll all fall into place?

I’ve always had a scandalous story—one that’s full of heart, love, loss, hope, pinot grigio-fuelled fumblings, and, dare I say it, plenty of good-looking, sweet-talking arseholes! Yet I’m still manifesting that my “happily ever after” will arrive on my doorstep and skillfully set my knickers—and soul—on fire. Much like an Uber Eats, but in the shape of a smoking-hot man rather than a fiery hot 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, and with my eight-year-old daughter and six-year-old son away on a summer holiday with my ex-husband, I unexpectedly spent 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—complete with supremely skilled, shovel-like hands and a very large, lively aubergine. Oh, Universe, thank you!

The experience was so electric, so deliciously made up of once-in-a-lifetime fodder, that my eyes still sparkle and I get goosebumps every time I think about it. As for the impact on all my womanly and hedonistic senses? Oh. My. Fucking. 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 stir up 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, if you have a partner, makes them roll their eyes, 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 in the fuck-it bucket. The one who, in time, will sit in their rocking chair, making their grandkids howl with laughter as they proudly declare, 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. And now, she won’t shut up about it. She doesn’t want to be told “be quiet,” “behave yourself,” or “sssssh” anymore. 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 its 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 HUGE risk. Will my family disown me? Maybe. Will the police put me in jail for my mischief? 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…”

While Croatia was heart, body 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, wiser hat prefers 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 while simultaneously trying to recreate the same intoxicating sensations I shared with him. It’s impossible. My feelings for him are real, and so is he. If only I could snap my fingers and be back with him in a heartbeat, I would. But life isn’t that simple… is it?

Picking up my pen, I write THIS IS REAL! across the top of the page in bold, capital letters, using a permanent marker. I know the title may change, and 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? And does that even matter?!

Overcome with nervous giggles, I imagine my beautiful children reading my book with adult eyes. In time, they’ll learn about the parts of me that very few parents would ever want their children to know about. Contrary to some, I see this only as a positive thing. I’ll always cherish my mum’s honesty, and I want the same open, honest relationship with my babies. If we can’t be honest with ourselves and our children, what's the point of living at all? I picture them looking at me in a few years, mouths aghast, saying, “Mummy, you didn’t!”

“Oh yes, I did!”

As for how my Croatia chapter unfolds, I need to live it first—which feels equally thrilling and downright petrifying. I have no idea what pen strokes I’ll put to paper, or whether he stays as the lead male character or fades into the background. Yet I do know one thing: 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 threatening to trickle down my cheeks, words form in my head—and I have no real idea where they come from: “Come on, Sacha. 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, much like an artist mixing colours and hues on a palette. It may lead to nothing more than one big chef’s mess, or it may become a vibrant artist’s masterpiece. Who knows?

It doesn’t matter either way. From this moment on, for the first time in my life, I know my personal mission: to write books inspired by my Croatian experience and its backstory.

On a bright pink Post-it note, I write, “Sacha, note to self: one day 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 tickle, I return to the 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 the best part of all? My soul fucking loves it.

Sacha 💋