The realisation set in that you are now learning how to let go of dreams too. It would be best if you didn't have to learn this at nine years old, but children are at the mercy of the decisions made around them and have to learn lessons before it seems fair. It'll be okay, and you'll be okay because I'll talk to you about navigating the changes.
As adults, as plans change and life moves around us, we tend to hold onto our hopes and dreams loosely. However, you'll come across dreams you don't want to let go of – you want them to come true. And there are hopes you hold in the secret places of your heart, which you will never let go of.
I have some of my own.
Family and you and Solomon being home all the time. Noisiness within our space, laughter, joy, peace. I don't want to let go of those, even when they cause me pain because the thought of them brings so much fullness to my heart. I think fondly of the holidays and weekends away which haven't happened yet. I'm letting go of the thoughts of more siblings for you and Solomon. Deep down in my heart, there's part of me in the secrecy that doesn't want to let go of these. 
 I want them. I have always longed for these hopes, and there have been glimpses of them coming to pass, but they've never quite gotten there, and I know now they won't. At least not how I imagined.
So how do we let go of old dreams? The ones we so desperately wanted and still want? We allow, in the heartache, for ourselves to make new dreams.
Still the holidays, still the constant cuddles, still the joyful and loving family, still the adventures. They will look different, but it doesn't make them any less or mean they have less worth. 
 My dream is to run again, finish my study, and take you and Solomon to where I grew up. They still exist, and while I'll still grieve my old plans and hopes, I won't stop making new hopes and dreams because of the heartache.
Although letting go of the old is sad and painful, especially when you don't want to do it, I think the real tragedy lies in not creating new dreams and not learning to look forward due to the risk of disappointment. I would rather dream and hope and end up disappointed than not dreaming. I would rather the sadness than knowing I've stopped my heart from beating and growing like it's designed to do. 
I've always wanted to give you and Solomon a beautiful, safe, complete and loving home where your hearts are inspired and your feelings are validated. Our home is all of these things, and although our surroundings have changed, this goal has not. It's the same dream, just in a different space, emotionally and physically. This is what I'm still doing and will forever be my aim. 
It might look different – but it still looks beautiful.
It's all still so bloody beautiful!

The Building 

​The​ preacher stood on the stage, one hand on the microphone and one hand on her heart.

"This Jesus I'm talking about," she said, with the conviction in her soul coming out of her mouth, "it's not a religion. It's a relationship. Just like you would have with a friend, only better, only more, because Jesus saved you!"
The crowd responded, encouraging the preacher to continue.
"Good word!" one congregant responded. So, the preacher, feeding off the encouragement the crowd offered up on a golden platter, pressed on with her sermon.
"This is not a religion—it doesn't come with a set of 'dos and don'ts'. There are no rules. God doesn't force you to change. He isn't forcing you to be in this relationship—it's totally up to you! When God created us, He created us to have freedom of choice, which means we can be as close to him as we want to be. Christianity is the only belief system where the creator came to his creation. It's the only belief system where God seeks out the people and the people don't have to seek out their God."
The preacher spoke with passion. She believed in her message with all her heart. She would have died for her belief and lost her soul in the process. She wouldn't lose her soul for the God she spoke about, she would lose it for the church and trying to impress those within the church.

This preacher had spent her life surrounded by the Christian faith and beliefs and, in her mid-teens, became heavily involved in the church.
All else fell by the wayside as she focused her passion, her time, and her energy into being part of the church and serving God. While it was said over and over that there was nothing anyone could do to impress God, that God loved every one of us, not for our works but for our humanity, the preacher watched those around her and saw how hard they worked. And she did the same. Friday nights, Saturday nights, Sunday mornings, Sunday afternoon leadership meetings, mid-week prayer meetings, weekend conferences, Easter services, special Christmas services. There was nothing she wouldn't do, nothing she would say no to.

Except for the friends with who she no longer spent time, worrying that they were unequally yoked, not on the same page, that they would taint her and corrupt her new view of the world. 
She no longer drank and decided never to date again unless it was with the intent to marry.
She was happy to sacrifice these things though—none of them was as important to her as the God she loved so dearly. She thought she was serving God; all of her sacrifices were to advance God's kingdom. Sacrificing time with family and time for self-care was worth it because she was doing something which stretched far beyond her. The legacy she was building would surpass her lifetime; it would last for generations to come. She no longer desired to work in mainstream roles; she only wanted to become a preacher, a pastor, spending all her time at church, changing the lives of all those she encountered.

And then, she was given a chance to speak on stage, in front of people—the ultimate honour. She secretly idolised those who spoke every week. How did they know so much about God and life and saving souls? People looked up to them, she looked up to them. Their height on the stage declaring to this young and deeply impressionable, want-to-be preacher that they were closer to God than she was. So, she trusted what they said. She didn't ask any questions because there was no way they would lead her astray. And now it was her turn to talk to everyone about communion—the ultimate sacrifice of God, the giving of his son. This was the reason she was doing all she was doing, the reason she was giving so much of herself. So she spoke, hands and voice shaking, her words flowing too fast, without taking a breath. It finished just as quickly as it had started.
It wasn't a good communion talk, so the budding preacher, youth pastor, maybe even one-day senior pastor, sat down with those she trusted so they could offer her constructive feedback on how to become better, be more prepared, set herself up for success next time.

Again, and again, and again, they gave her the chance to speak. She wasn't great—but they constantly told her that God had a great plan for her, God was doing his work, God was mending her self-esteem issues. It was like they knew exactly what her deepest fears were, and they did, God was telling them everything they needed to know about her. Her confidence slowly increased—but only whenever they told her she was good enough. When she was alone, she would feel guilty, like a fraud, and imposter. She would think about drinking, she would masturbate and lust after males, and feel jealous of her colleagues' nights out. She would lie to others (and herself) and when she was alone, she would swear. She would often speed in her car and she had developed a shopping addiction. She would feel, say and do all the things she was meant to be free of now that she was connected to the church, connected to God.
She was doing everything she was meant to do though. She was up the very front every weekend, she was encouraging the preacher, jumping and dancing to the music. She was there weekend in and out, one of the first to arrive and one of the last to leave. She raised her hands in worship, showing God that she had an open heart. She tithed her money, the first 10% of her wage, before tax, went to the church. She "faith promised" her money and anything extra she earned, or was given, went straight to the church because God had given that money to her so she should pay it forward to the church. She didn't agree with sinful things such as being gay or abortion. She certainly didn't believe in sex before marriage, and to make life easier for men, she made sure she dressed as modestly as possible by covering the three B's—boobs, bum and belly. She tried to read her bible and pray every day. She listened to Christian music so that God could talk to her through it. She believed that her faith was the only true faith and that everyone else had been deeply misled, which was the devil's fault. She never questioned the bible or any person that presented the bible. She went to week-long conferences, and she went overseas on mission trips. Any outreach focuses the church had, she would be there, helping however she could. Community assignments, school outreach, children, youth, Christmas extravaganzas. She pulled people up on their lack of commitment to the church as it showed their lack of commitment to God. And finally, when she was given a department to lead, she expected the same from all those in it—it was an honour to be there, an honour to serve God and an honour that the church would even allow them to serve, so she forced them to take it seriously. There were lives at stake!

For someone who believed that you didn't need to work for God's love, she was certainly working very hard.

But there was one thing she couldn't do; she couldn't speak in tongues and she could never understand why. She was so ashamed and embarrassed. So, she made it up, she pretended she could. But she would go home and cry because she knew the truth and she believed it was God holding back from her, which she couldn't understand. She was doing everything right. She was following all of the rules that weren't rules; she was walking the walk and talking the talk. She started to feel that it must be all about how you presented yourself, so she would get dressed in her coolest clothes, sit at the front of the church, clap, dance, raise her hands and pretend. Pretend, pretend, pretend. And no one saw past the façade she had built.
The more she went on, the more she lost herself in pretending, in pushing herself to be all that the church needed her to be. When she found out she was pregnant, she was devastated, fearing the church wouldn't want her anymore after she had become a mum. And when her beautiful baby came into the world, her mental health declined even further. But she had become so good at pretending, and people who love God don't struggle with mental illness because God is the giver of life. She continued going to meetings, clapping her hands, preaching on stage, pretending, pretending, pretending.

Until one day, she did the wrong thing and could no longer pretend.

She cheated on her husband.
​
Alexis, let's stop for a moment. I need to take a breath.
I need you to know that this preacher, she was me.

​

I sat in the car, preparing myself to run. It was more than mental preparation that was taking place; there was an internal monologue taking place within me.
“Kate, it’s only five kilometres. You’ve done this plenty of times!”
“Getting out of the car is winning half the battle.”
“It’s okay if you need to walk.”
“It’s not about time. It’s not about pace. It’s just about doing it.”

How was it possible that a five kilometre run was causing me anxiety? I was right, I had done this before. Plenty of times. This wasn’t new to me. Yet, here I was, my heart beating faster and faster, my body clammy with sweat. I had run a handful of marathons, heaps of ten kilometre runs. I had run up mountains, completed an ultra. Five kilometres was nothing in the grand scheme of things and, yet, within this moment, it was huge and terrifying!
Again, I was reminded that anxiety isn’t restricted to a certain time or place, instead occurring at random and often for seemingly no reason. It doesn’t come with a trigger warning and isn’t based on convenience.
The difference between now and many years ago is that, in the past, I would have driven away, I would have let the anxiety inside me win. I would have gone home, climbed into bed and rested for the day. Today was different; acknowledging my anxiety, I left the car and walked to the starting line. Everyone gathered to listen to the safety briefing. Meanwhile, I stood at the back, hoping (and praying) I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and if I did, that they wouldn’t talk to me.
The siren sounded to let everyone know the run had started and I took off. The second I started, it was as though I left all my anxiety back at the starting line. Although it was only a short time I was running for, I used the time to reflect.
Motherhood is just a series of contradictions. I long to be alone, but the second I am, I wish that you and Solomon were there. You spend half of your time with your Dad, so I overcompensate when I am with you. I also don’t want to leave Solomon for longer than required because I don’t want to miss out on his life either.
I immerse myself in you both, not knowing who I am when you aren’t there. I don’t know what I have to offer the world when you aren’t around. My worth rises and falls based on who I am to you. And that’s bloody scary. I want you to see what it means to be a female who isn’t just a mum.
I realised that I have always based my worth on what I do—the jobs I have, what I do (or did) in church, what I’m creating, crocheting, or writing, and how much I’m running. I realised that I’ve never based my worth on who I am. And I wonder if anyone does? All humans have value, but does anyone base their worth on that? Society pushes us to value what we do, what we contribute. Even now, at the young age of 9, you’re being asked what you want to do when you grow up. Even now, you have reports written about what you do and don’t do; your performance is either celebrated or criticised. Even Solomon, at the age of 1, is being judged by what he can and can’t do. Can he walk? Can he talk? Can he feed himself? When we start looking at the big picture, we see that our foundation, our worth, and our value is based on what we do and what we contribute to society. While I do believe we need to contribute to society, I don’t believe our value as a human should be based on that alone.
And so, this trap, which we all fall into—focussing on ‘doing’ rather than ‘being’—means that when I’m not with you and Solomon, when I’m not doing something, I don’t know who I am or what I should be doing.
And when you two are not with me, I don’t have a distraction; I have nothing to hide behind. When I am left with just me, I am forced to look internally. There is a touch of fear within me when it comes to being alone; I used to be very good at it, but now I avoid it. I surround myself with people. The only time that I’m alone, in the car, I listen to a podcast.
I used to work so hard on myself and my personal growth. I think this was deeply connected to my running. Running offered me the time to get lost in my thoughts and force me to look within myself. The parallels between running and life continue to astound me.
As I’ve stopped running, so have I stopped working on my personal growth and development. Different life stages require different parts of us, and it makes sense to me that a new born requires a different amount of effort and energy than a 9-year-old—which explains a lot. I miss myself and I miss knowing myself. I miss knowing who I am when I’m not with children, not working and not around other people. I miss intimately knowing my life’s direction and the trajectory I want it to take. Looking internally scares me a little now. What if I don’t like who I find inside? What if you don’t like who I find?
In becoming a mum again, I have experienced a loss of self. One which I tried hard to hold onto. I promised myself that when Solomon was born, I wouldn’t lose myself again, but I don’t know if it can be avoided. I think it’s a part of life, the way it ebbs and flow. I think you re-discover yourself in every stage of life, and moving forward means losing the old you in favour of the new you. In every new stage, maybe even every new day, you are meeting a new, unknown version of yourself.
Maybe I never actually lost myself in the journey of motherhood and life, maybe it’s more that I’m finding a new version of myself daily.
So, here I go again, looking and searching and discovering. At 33, I thought that I would know who I am; I thought I would know what my life was meant to look like. That was, until this morning, when I realised that if I ever stop learning about myself it’s because I’m dead. I will forever be changing, shifting, and learning that my worth isn’t based on what I do—because what I do changes from day to day.
So, right now, when I have an 20-month-old and 9-year-old, it makes sense that I don’t know who I am away from you two, but I will. One day, when I’m not feeling like all I do is cook and clean and breastfeed, I will learn who I am again.
But, for now, while I’m in this phase, I will try and appreciate it for what it is.
Instead of feeling lost when I’m not with you both, I’ll enjoy the silence and getting to know who I am again.

I still miss you though, and that's okay!

I recently read that, between the ages of eight and ten, children start to view themselves based on their understanding of how they perform in school, their capacity to make friends, and their physical appearance. 
 
They also start to understand that they can feel two emotions in one heart—I like playing with my friend, but I don’t like the way they talk to me. 
 
Between eight and ten years old, children start to feel that a sense of belonging and being accepted by their peers are very important. 
Between eight and ten years old, children start to develop social skills like empathy and compassion. 
 
Alexis,
In the last year, your little mind and heart have been through a heck of a lot. And there is still a lot more to go.
It scares me when I think about how fast you are learning and growing, and how important it is becoming for you to fit into the world. Your first sense of identity and self will come from how you perform and how others accept you. It will be a long time before you realise that your worth does not boil down to what others think of you, even when it feels like it.  
When fitting in is important, which it will be, you will change your standards, how you think and how you act, based on who you think those around you want you to be. These adjustments you make to yourself aren’t for you, they’re for those around you.
 
Soon, you will focus a lot on pleasing others.
You’ll squish yourself into the little box of society’s expectations. In this box, you will look, talk and act a certain way. This box, this society, will tell you not to be too loud, too confident, too large, too shy, too outgoing, too activity, too assertive. This box will tell you small is best. Small boobs, small brain, small voice, small waist. It’ll tell you that females should fall into line; their opinions should be gentle and graceful as should their movements. The box will tell you to shave all your body hair, cover all your flaws with make-up or with a filter, to only have smooth, shiny hair with no flyaways. The box will tell you not to have your own style, not to think for yourself, to put your feelings aside so that others will feel better about themselves. This box, once you are in it, will tell you that your most important relationship is with a male (one who fits into a similar but different box). Alexis, to fit inside this box your nails need to be done, you need to pose a certain way in photos. You’ll need to take 8,000 photos to find a single acceptable one to share, so you can feel validated by society and people you don’t know on social media.  
I had a box. A squishy, little, perfectly acceptable box. Although, my box looked a little different. My box told me not to have any sexual desires until I was married and that if I did, I was sinful. It told me not to drink, not to smoke, not to swear. This box told me I needed to go to meetings on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. It told me that working myself into the ground would let me achieve acceptance and approval. It told me to cover my body to make others feel more comfortable. I was in a box that told me, “Don’t agree with gay marriage or relationships”, “Abortion is wrong”, and “The LGBTQIA+ community is confused”. This box told me that every religion, except for one, is wrong. 
 
We all have a box that we squish (or are squished) into, and we stay cramped up in there just to show just how acceptable we are. It’s only with age that we start to find our way out of the box.
 
I don’t have a box anymore, but I do have a handbag. This handbag allows for me to take parts of me out and replace them with the parts I need in any moment. When I need to be calm or brave or protective, I can be.
 
We are ever-changing and our personality is fluid; it expands, shifts, moves and changes daily. Who we are and the parts of ourselves we choose to reveal depends on where we’re going, who we’re with—sometimes even how we slept the night before. For example, on a workday, I have a certain way I dress and act; I push my mum expectations to the side of my bag to make room for Work Kate. When I’m at work there are standards and expectations I have to adhere to. If I leave work and go out for a drink with a friend, I replace Work Kate with Friend Kate. Friend Kate is a little louder, maybe a bit funnier, a bit more willing to talk about controversial issues. Then I come home, and Mum Kate takes over. I give you and Solomon cuddles, I soften my voice, spend time with you and try to forget my hardships from the day. 
 
Do you see how in different times and places, I have to adjust who I am? It can be confusing sometimes to remember what Kate is expected in what place; what I’m taking out of the handbag and what I’m replacing it with. But here’s the thing, there are some things that I always keep in my handbag. Kindness, empathy, compassion, laughter, and manicured nails. Mum Kate, she is always in there. Runner Kate also exists (even though I recently misplaced her), as well as Family Kate, Customer Kate… There is a different me for everywhere I go. However, all of these versions of me, although they are different, they are all the true me.
All these versions are the true me, because I am showing up to the world how I choose to—not how I am told to.
 
I’ve tried hard to learn which values and expectations I will accept from society, and which I won’t. For example, my weight isn’t important to me, but my mental health is. I exercise and eat well not to be thin (because I don’t think that is an indication of health), but to feel good. I don’t wear make-up every day, because I feel better about myself when my flaws are on display. 
 
The box which society encourages us to fit it to, its purpose is to limit us and our ability. Sure, society celebrates those who do well, who are successful—but only if it is in a way that society deems successful. Not when it’s demanding or outspoken or expects too much from others. I am okay with being demanding and outspoken and expecting too much when I need to… but I haven’t always been okay with it.
 
Alexis,
What I have tried to create is the ability for me to adjust, shift and change. The most important relationship in my life is the relationship I have with myself; everything I say, do, think, and feel comes from this relationship. It impacts my relationship with others, with you. My relationship with myself impacts what I say and do, the treatment I accept from others, and how I treat others. It’s not my relationship with a male that gives me my identity and makes me relevant (or irrelevant) to society, but how I invest in myself.
​
I am not as concerned about my looks as society might think I should be, but instead more concerned about my heart. Yes, I care, but I accept my flaws and while there are some I want to erase (such as my very pale skin), there are others I’m proud of. The stretch marks you so regularly point out, the mum tum, the saggy boobs which fed two babies. I am not ashamed of these, despite society’s low opinion of them. 
 
Alexis, what I believe about myself now, I started to believe when I was young. It was all forming inside me when I was your age. 
 
Between the ages of 8 – 10, when you’re discovering your place in the world, you start moving into the little box based on how you perform at school, how you make friends and the way you look. You adjust your place in the box when you see how accepted by others you are. Here is what I hope you learn this year:

• Your worth is far beyond how others do or don’t view you. 
• Your worth is not based on popularity. Popularity does not mean you are well-liked, it means you are well-known. The quietest person in class can be the most well-liked because they are genuine. 
• It’s more important for you to like yourself than for others to like you. If you do something that you are not proud of, that is not what you should be doing. 
• Who you are is fluid. Who you are at school, at home (at your home with dad and at your home here), and at sport, these people are all the true you. 
• A good physical appearance doesn’t make you a good person; a bad physical appearance doesn’t make you a bad person. 
• Sometimes it’s hard to do the right thing—like being nice to someone who doesn’t deserve it or sticking up for someone your friends are teasing—but it’s always worth it.
• Listen to your gut. Your body will physically tell you what you already know deep down. When you know something and ignore it, your body responds in a physical way to force you to listen. If you can learn this now, it will save you from a lot of heartaches and potentially dangerous situations. 
• If your body, gut, heart and mind tell you something is wrong, believe it. Know that listening to your body and your emotional response, even if that means saying no to something, is more important than being accepted.
• Stand up for yourself and for others who have no one to stand up for them. 
• Although life isn’t always beautiful, don’t run away from the hard times. They are never fun, but they are always beneficial. 
• No matter what, laugh, try new things, and believe in yourself.
• Train for Ninja Warrior, Beast Master, Survivor—the things that society says are for men—they’re wrong. They’re for you. Being strong means you’re focused on what you want to achieve, be and do. If you want to train, I hope you know that I believe that you can and will do it. 
• I hope that I can teach you about moving, shifting and adjusting your expectations of yourself—and I hope I can start to teach you how to let go of society’s expectations.

 
I want to share with you this extract from Glennon Doyle’s book Untamed. Although I wish I wrote it for you, I will read it for you instead.
 
I love you, my darling, and happy birthday.
_______________________________________________________________________
 
Two summers ago, my wife and I took our daughters to the zoo. As we walked the grounds, we saw a sign advertising the park’s big event: the Cheetah Run. We headed toward the families scouting out their viewing spots and found an empty stretch along the route. Our youngest, Amma, hopped up on my wife’s shoulders for a better view.
A peppy blond zookeeper in a khaki vest appeared. She held a megaphone and the leash of a yellow Labrador Retriever. I was confused. I don’t know much about animals, but if she tried to convince my kids that this dog was a cheetah, I was getting a Cheetah Run refund.
She began, “Welcome, everybody! You are about to meet our resident cheetah, Tabitha. Do you think this is Tabitha?”
“Nooooo!” the kids yelled.
“This sweet Labrador is Minnie, Tabitha’s best friend. We introduced them when Tabitha was a baby cheetah, and we raised Minnie alongside Tabitha to help tame her. Whatever Minnie does, Tabitha wants to do.”
The zookeeper motioned toward a parked jeep behind her. A pink stuffed bunny was tied to the tailgate with a fraying rope.
She asked, “Who has a Labrador at home?”
Little hands shot into the air.
“Whose Lab loves to play chase?”
“Mine!” the kids shouted.
“Well, Minnie loves to chase this bunny! So first, Minnie will do the Cheetah Run while Tabitha watches to remember how it’s done. Then we’ll count down, I’ll open Tabitha’s cage, and she’ll take off. At the end of the route, just a hundred meters that way, there will be a delicious steak waiting for Tabitha.”
The zookeeper uncovered Tabitha’s cage and walked Minnie, eager and panting, to the starting line. She signalled to the jeep, and it took off. She released Minnie’s leash, and we all watched a yellow Lab joyfully chase a dirty pink bunny. The kids applauded earnestly. The adults wiped sweat from their foreheads.
Finally it was time for Tabitha’s big moment. We counted down in unison: “Five, four, three, two, one . . .” The zookeeper slid open the cage door, and the bunny took off once again. Tabitha bolted out, laser focused on the bunny, a spotted blur. She crossed the finish line within seconds. The zookeeper whistled and threw her a steak. Tabitha pinned it to the ground with her oven-mitt paws, hunkered down in the dirt, and chewed while the crowd clapped.
I didn’t clap. I felt queasy. The taming of Tabitha felt… familiar.
I watched Tabitha gnawing that steak in the zoo dirt and thought: Day after day, this wild animal chases dirty pink bunnies down the well-worn, narrow path they cleared for her. Never looking left or right. Never catching that damn bunny, settling instead for a store-bought steak and the distracted approval of sweaty strangers. Obeying the zookeeper’s every command, just like Minnie, the Lab she’s been trained to believe she is. Unaware that if she remembered her wildness— just for a moment—she could tear those zookeepers to shreds.
When Tabitha finished her steak, the zookeeper opened a gate that led to a small, fenced field. Tabitha walked through and the gate closed behind her. The zookeeper picked up her megaphone again and asked for questions. A young girl, maybe nine years old, raised her hand and asked, “Isn’t Tabitha sad? Doesn’t she miss the wild?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” the zookeeper said. “Can you ask that again?”
The child’s mother said, louder, “She wants to know if Tabitha misses the wild.”
The zookeeper smiled and said, “No. Tabitha was born here. She doesn’t know any different. She’s never even seen the wild. This is a good life for Tabitha. She’s much safer here than she would be out in the wild.”
While the zookeeper began sharing facts about cheetahs born into captivity, my older daughter, Tish, nudged me and pointed to Tabitha. There, in that field, away from Minnie and the zookeepers, Tabitha’s posture had changed. Her head was high, and she was stalking the periphery, tracing the boundaries the fence created. Back and forth, back and forth, stopping only to stare somewhere beyond the fence. It was like she was remembering something. She looked regal. And a little scary.
Tish whispered to me, “Mommy. She turned wild again.”
I nodded at Tish and kept my eyes on Tabitha as she stalked. I wished I could ask her, “What’s happening inside you right now?”
I knew what she’d tell me. She’d say, “Something’s off about my life. I feel restless and frustrated. I have this hunch that everything was supposed to be more beautiful than this. I imagine fenceless, wide-open savannas. I want to run and hunt and kill. I want to sleep under an ink-black, silent sky filled with stars. It’s all so real I can taste it.”

Then she’d look back at the cage, the only home she’s ever known. She’d look at the smiling zookeepers, the bored spectators, and her panting, bouncing, begging best friend, the Lab.
She’d sigh and say, “I should be grateful. I have a good enough life here. It’s crazy to long for what doesn’t even exist.”
I’d say:
Tabitha. You are not crazy.
You are a goddamn cheetah.

“Mum,” you asked me, “can I have a Band-aid for my nose?”
You had a pimple on your nose. It's the only pimple you ever get and it only rears its ugly head once a year—right around the time of school photos.
The Band-aid, you explained to me, was to cover the pimple so you wouldn’t look silly in your school photos.
I didn't understand your logic, but I didn't dare to ask any further questions. I knew that you had probably thought deeply about it and this was the conclusion you had come to.
I simply explained to you that the Band-aid would be a lot more obvious than your pimple.

As the morning progressed, I started my morning skincare routine. As I started to apply my makeup, I considered offering to apply concealer to you face to hide your pimple.
I thought about what this would mean; what message I would be conveying if I offered it to you. I wondered, what lesson would you take away from me offering to cover up an imperfection?

Would it tell you to hate or fear those parts of you that are flawed?
Would it teach you to be ashamed of the marks you carry on your body?
Would I be teaching you that only perfection is good enough?
Would I be telling you to hide the real you behind glamour and falseness?

So, I didn't offer you any makeup.

When I look at you, I don't see the pimple on your nose; I see the girl who wanted to have matching hair with her best friend on school photo day.
I notice your flaws and I acknowledge them, but they aren’t what I see. I see you, Alexis.
I see your beautiful nature, your loving heart, your confidence, and your loving spirit.

Throughout your life, you will gain many marks and blemishes. They might be pimples on your face, scars on your body, or cracks in your heart. Don't hide them. Don't be ashamed of them. Don't fear them. These flaws are what make us unique, beautiful and whole. They create character and develop our strength and perseverance. They are marks of who we are and they do not deserve to be hidden.

I can't wait to see your school photo. I can't wait to see your smile and your spirit shining through your eyes. I will see your pimple, but that pimple won’t be my focus. That flaw is just a part of the beautiful human you are.
In life, flaws are a given, so wear them with pride.

Loving you with everything I have, forever and always,

Mumma xx

Sweet Alexis,

Lets start with another story and then learn together.

​I needed to get out of the house. I wanted a relaxing outing, so I went for a walk through Salamanca Markets with your brother in his pram. Despite COVID-19 still hanging around like an unwanted guest, it felt like a normal overcrowded market. There were people everywhere. It was slow moving. “Sorry,” I heard myself say as I tried to weave the pram in and around other market goers. “Sorry, excuse me.” Time and time again these words left my lips.
When Solomon had gone to bed for the night, I reflected on the day with the word sorry ringing in my ears.
I stood in the shower, water running over me, and I thought about why I had apologised to all those people. They weren’t apologising to me. They were just going about their day, enjoying themselves, probably not giving me a second thought. I wonder if they had even noticed that I was in their way. I wonder if they even understood my apology. I wasn’t the only person trying to get through; the markets were crowded and everyone was moving slowly. So, why did I feel the need to say sorry?
Where did this need to say sorry (even when I’m not) come from?
Let’s start at what I think is the beginning—I was born female. I think this is something that males need to hear.
Alexis, last year you were attacked by another student at school. A male student. You were held up against a wall while he threated to kill you. This, however, was not your first encounter with him. There were times when he punched you, pushed you, and verbally abused you (and your female peers). I spent a lot of time in the school, working through strategies suggested by your teacher and the senior staff. They would say things to me like, “Alexis was in the way”, “Alexis can sometimes be bossy, which is frustrating for him”, “Alexis knows not to go near him when it’s a busy time because that’s when he is triggered”. Despite where it should clearly lay, the blame fell upon your shoulders.
And this is where it starts. It’s starts when we are young. For girls, the way other people treat us is our fault, rather than theirs. So we start apologising for all the things that are ‘wrong’ with us, even though there is nothing wrong at all. And it becomes a habit; the more we say sorry to others for who we are, the more it drip feeds guilt and shame into our hearts and minds, reinforcing that everything is our fault. It’s our fault they yelled at us, hit us or attacked us.
Having learnt this, we start to apologise for other thing we do, we apologise for making honest mistakes, we apologise for asking questions, we apologise for things that are completely out of our control; things that don’t warrant an apology at all. Saying sorry not only makes us think less of ourselves, but it can also encourage others to think less of us.
I’ve said sorry for the way I look, for not wearing make-up, for choosing to wear comfortable clothes. I’ve said sorry for trying to get a waiters attention (“Uh, excuse me, sorry, can I please…”). I’ve apologised for having a messy house. I’ve apologised for being tired, even though I have 2 children and work and study and exercise.
Then I met a person who made me feel bad for everything I did, every word I spoke, every thought I had. When I communicated how I felt with them, he disregarded what I felt; he told me my emotions were wrong. He told me that the way he treated me was my fault. I believed him. I apologised for the feelings I felt; I apologised for his treatment of me. I stopped sharing my thoughts and feelings. If what I was feeling wasn’t right, I would keep it to myself. I apologised more and more. Not just for my actions, but for who I was. I was apologising for the very values and ideals I held dear.
Fast forward to me walking through Salamanca with Solomon in the pram…
I wanted to go to Salamanca for a relaxing afternoon, but it wasn’t relaxing at all. I spent the entire time thinking that I was in the way. Years and years and years of apologising have conditioned me. So, as I walked, the shame of taking up space and being in the way overflowed and spilled from my lips.
You’ve always been quick to say sorry. Anytime you do something you think is wrong, you apologise over and over and over. You already carry this shame; this shame that I carry, you have it too.
And I hate to think how many other girls out there are also carrying this shame.
I’ve thought long and hard about the word ‘sorry’. I want to break it down for you; I want you to know when you should and shouldn’t say sorry.



​

​​​



​Things you should never apologise for:
Taking up space
This includes walking through a busy market. You have every right to be there, to be anywhere, and you should never feel the need to apologise for your existence.
 
Expressing your opinion
Your opinion is the heart and soul of your values, your belief system and who you are. You should never have to apologise for it. Over precious time, opinions are formed and created. The journey you’ve been on to form these values, morals and beliefs is precious. Apologising for your opinion is apologising for who you are as a person and you should never apologise for that.
 
How someone has made you feel
One of my biggest annoyances in life is when someone has the audacity to tell me my feelings are wrong or that they just don’t agree with them. My feeling are not there to be analysed or critiqued by anyone else. They are not there to be dissected or torn apart. My feelings belong to me. However I feel in a situation is right because that is how I feel.
Think about those times that I have used my grumpy voice when speaking to you. Even if I didn’t mean to, if it hurt you then that hurt is real to you and I need to apologise for that.
Our feelings and our emotions are our truth; if they are our truth, they cannot be wrong.
 
Protecting your emotional health
There are times in life where this is going to seem selfish, but you’re going to be in situations where you need to step back because the impact it’s having on your mental health is too much. There are times you’re going to have to say no, because you (and your mental health) are not okay. You don’t need to say sorry for looking after your mental health or for fighting for a healthy mind, body, soul and spirit.



​

​Things you should always apologise for:
​Hurting someone’s heart
One day, you will do or say something hurtful. You might not think any more about it, but the person you said or did it to will continue to dwell on it because it hurt them. If they come to you and tell you about how you made them feel, you have the following options:

• Tell them their feelings are wrong, they are overreacting and that it didn’t even happen like that. (This is called gaslighting and this is never okay. We’ll talk about gaslighting when we talk about red flags, tinder and restraining orders).
• You could say “I’m sorry you feel this way”… but please don’t. I hate this response. You may not realise it but this is you telling them that you disagree with them because their feelings are wrong. You are essentially denying all responsibility for hurting them. Remember, their feelings are just as valid as yours.
• Say to them, genuinely and gently, “I’m very sorry that I made you feel this way. I didn’t intend for my words/behaviour to hurt you but I can see that it has and I never wanted that”. You can ask them to elaborate, so you can empathise with them and build trust with them again. Ask them what you can do differently next time. Your actions hurt their heart and, whether you meant for it to or not, the fact that it did should hurt your heart as a result.

Breaking promises
This one’s a tough one. I believe in caring for yourself first and foremost, but I also think we need to care for others. Care is something you need to both give and receive. If you promise your support to someone, you need to deliver on that.
Sure, cancel a coffee date with a friend if you need rest, but if that friend is going through a hard time and needs wine, chocolate, a couple of ciggies and a cuddle and you’ve said you will be there, you get your booty over there. And if you absolutely can’t be there, you need to offer them a genuine in-person apology. When people are counting on you, when they need you, keep your word. And if you can’t keep it, don’t give them your word.
 
Acting in a spiteful, disrespectful, or unkind way
This one doesn’t need much explaining. Treat people well because they’re people and if you don’t, say sorry. Remember how I mentioned saying sorry over and over drip feeds shame into your mind? Well, being spiteful drip feeds negativity and bitterness into you. The more you act in a spiteful way, the more likely it will become part of your character; it will become your reflex response. So, say sorry because no one deserves to be spoken to like that and say sorry because your heart and mind deserve better than that, too.  
 
To wrap up…

Before you go to say sorry, ask yourself “am I willing to change this action?” I say this because I believe that the word sorry indicates that you intend to change your behaviour or work to fix the problem. When I say that I am sorry for using my grumpy voice, it means that I am genuinely sorry and I will try to do better, to communicate better, to explain myself better. I am saying that this is an action I want to change and self-reflection journey I want to go on. At the markets, though, I wasn’t willing to change my behaviour or fix the problem. As much as I said I was sorry, I clearly wasn’t. I didn’t leave the market or try to find another way through. I didn’t take the pram back to the car and put Solomon in the front pack instead. I continued to move forward, along the same route, looking at the stalls as I walked.
Actions speak louder than words. Saying sorry is useless, empty, and meaningless if it isn’t followed up with action and the intent to change. If you say sorry without action, your apology loses all meaning. Eventually, those you say it to will stop believing that you are sorry. Your apology will mean nothing to them, just as it means nothing to you.

Maybe we can find new phrases that don’t include “sorry”.
Instead of saying sorry for being in the way, we should say “thank you” to people who go around you.
Instead of saying sorry for being late, we should say “thank you for waiting”.
Instead of apologising for having a question, we should ask “can I please have a moment of your time?”
And when a friend supports us, instead of saying “sorry for dumping all of this on you”, we should say “Thank you for listening. Thank you for giving me your time, heart, thoughts and advice.”
Maybe we can stop saying sorry for every little thing.
Remember, you are not an inconvenience. You are not in the way. You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to be yourself.

Love you and your wild ways always 💕

I think about you, about when you’re older, and I wonder what your favourite childhood memories will be. What memories will bring a smile to your face or a tear to your eye? I hope that, when you’re my age, you can look back and say that you had a beautiful childhood too. I worry though, I worry you won’t. Your siblings are so much younger than you, so you don’t have that close sibling/friend to fight with, learn with and play with. There aren’t any other children your age where we live, at least none within walking distance. I wish we lived on a larger block of land where you could run around and get up to mischief. A place where you could explore and sit outside on mild nights to look at the stars. I wish you had somewhere to build forts, get covered in leeches while walking though the bush, get dirty and hurt yourself.
I want you to have a magical childhood. Just like I had.

I love the magic of childhood, there is no other time like it and it disappears so quickly. One day it’s there, with barbies scattered on the floor around you and the next it’s gone.

When you first asked me if Santa was real, I felt like a bit of the magic had died. I tried so hard to keep it alive.
“Do you believe Santa is real?” I asked you.
It didn’t take long for you to respond. “Yes.”
“Well, Alexis, if you believe in Santa then he is real.”
“But, Mum,” you continued, “do you believe in Santa?”
The answer is no, I don’t believe in Santa. But I didn’t want you to know that, not yet.
“Alexis, I believe Santa exists because he creates magic in our lives, he exists so that we can all give and receive at Christmas time.”
The answer seemed to suffice. You rode away on your bike and continued to play. I breathed a long sigh of relief. I hoped that it would be enough for a few more years. It wasn’t. On boxing day, when I picked you up, I asked what Santa had brought you. “Nothing, Mum. You know that. Daddy gets my presents and so do you.”

Disappointment washed over me, despite the fact that you seemed fine. It didn’t last though. You told me recently that you wished you could still believe in Santa. You told me that you wished you didn’t know it was just grown-ups pretending.
I don’t know if you believe in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. Based on your responses, you seem to believe. You inspected the Easter Bunny’s flour footprints, commenting on the size of them and measuring your feet up against them. You jumped from one set of prints to the next, seeing if you could make the leap. You talked to your friends on Facetime later and told them all about the Easter Bunny--about the chocolate he left and the mess too. There was a light in your eyes as you raced around. A light that indicated to me that you believe, or that you enjoy the game of it at the very least.
I think you believe in the Tooth Fairy. One of my favourite memories is when you lost your tooth under the couch, thinking you had swallowed it. You sent the tooth fairy a text message and told her about it, she let you know that she would still fly over and drop off a coin. During lockdown, you messaged and asked her if we should leave the tooth in the letterbox as we were practicing social distancing. You were so excited to read the response and send a reply.

Children believe with such joy and purity of heart.
They don’t overthink everything and aren’t distracted by the comings and going’s of life.
Alexis, you never question where your next meal will come from or if you’ll go home to a loving environment; you just know it will happen. You believe that if you don’t brush your teeth, the tooth fairy won’t want them when they fall out. You don’t question if I’ll come in and say goodnight; you just know I will. You’re at an age where your toys come to life when you leave the room. You think the glow in the dark stars on your wall light up magically every single night. There is magic in the simplest things in life and I love that you remind me of that.
One day, you will ask me why I told you these things, why I told you the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa were real. This is what I’ll tell you.

I will tell you, Alexis, about all the magic you experienced and the fun you had when you believed. I will tell you about how your eyes glowed and a smile spread across your face when you saw a coin with glitter around it, when Santa left a note or the Easter Bunny left footprints. The magic of those moments was magnificent and I didn’t want to rob you of those moments by just giving you the boring truth.
I will tell you that believing in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny encourages you to believe in the impossible, to believe that your dreams can come true.
I will tell you that believing in Santa lets you see there is good in the world, even when so much of the world isn’t good.
I will tell you that Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny teach children and adults that you can give without receiving and, perhaps more important, you can give without needing recognition.
I know a family who have created a magical creature just for their child. They placed a little door on top of a skirting board and told their son that a mouse gnome lives in there. The mouse gnome is one of Santa’s helpers. I just love that this child will look back and realise how much effort his parents have put into encouraging him to believe in the impossible. This is why parents do ‘Elf on the Shelf’ and advent calendars. They go to such great lengths at Christmas to bring joy and magic into their children’s lives, which brings so much joy and magic into their own lives.
I can’t give you the magic from my childhood, but I can give you the magic of your childhood. You bring magic to my life and I want to bring magic to yours. Sometimes, I let you have too much screen time and sometimes we don’t do anything exciting. I promise, though, that I will try hard to find ways to bring some sparkle and a little more magic into your existence. And if this means cleaning up after the Easter Bunny and the footprints he left all around the house, so be it.
If it means going kicking a soccer ball, even if I don’t enjoy it, so be it.
I will stop focusing on what we don’t have and focus on what we do have we will find magic in our little abode.
I will tell you about fairies in the rainforest, watching your mind open up to the possibility of magic everywhere.

Alexis, life is magic! There are lots of yucky bits, but it’s full of wonder and possibilities. For you to remember the magic as you grow, I will help you see it now.

I’ll be happy if you can look back at your childhood and remember the fun, the adventures and the magic—just like I do.