Assignment from Chapter 2 of Healing the Soul of a Woman: Draw and image to symbolize how God's Word is medicine to your soul. Look at the image often and remember to take your medicine.

I’ve hated this woman. I’ve not loved her at full capacity. I’ve fed her lies & told her she wasn’t good enough and have allowed others to tell her she wasn't good enough. I’ve allowed her to be broken. I've allowed others to treat her disrespectfully. I’ve allowed her to run through brick walls & battle for others who won’t even stand for her. I couldn’t stop individuals from abandoning her, yet I’ve seen her get up and stand to be a light to the world & love others despite all. I have stood paralyzed by fear while she fought battles in her mind, heart and soul. This woman has screwed up many times as daughter, sister, mum, or as a friend, because she doesn’t always say or do the "right things". She has a smart mouth, and she has secrets. She has scars... because she has a history. Some people love this woman, some like her, and some people don't care for her at all. She has done good in her life. She has done bad in her life. She goes days without makeup, or shaving her legs sometimes. She doesn’t get dressed up half the time. She is random and sometimes silly. She will not pretend to be someone she is not. She is who she is. Every mistake, failure, trial, disappointment, success, joy, and achievement has made her the woman she is today. You can love her or not. But if she loves you, she will do it with her whole heart, and she will make no apologies for the way she is. 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉 This Woman is a WARRIOR. She’s not perfect but God calls her WORTHY! She’s UNSTOPPABLE. Gracefully broken but beautifully standing. She is loved. She is life. She is transformation. She is Grace. She is BRAVE! ❤❤❤❤❤❤

Loof die Heer met blye galme O my siel daar's ryke stof. Sal solank ek leef my psalmvrolik toewei aan Sy lof en Hom wat Sy guns my bied, altyd groot maak in my lied. Bless the Lord, oh my soul & all that is within me less His holy Name. 2017&8 tried to take me out but God has redeemed my soul from the pit of anxiety & depression. I live to see another birthday & new opportunities to fulfill God's purpose for my pain. This is my year of reset, upgrade & transformation. For 48 years I've been stuck in my own pain & insecurities but 2019 will be my year of breakthrough & spiritual growth. I'm backed by a God who loved me so much that He gave His Son to die on the cross that I may live. Thank you Jesus for restoring the joy of my salvation & letting me wake up with a song on my heart again.

2018 felt like a year of breaking and reshaping — a time when everything I thought was secure began to crack open. As I look back over these pages, I see not just the pain of what was lost, but the tender beginnings of what God was quietly restoring. I started the year angry, confused, and weary from the weight of betrayal and injustice. My words in “When Irresponsibility Wounds Innocence” and “Picking Up the Pieces” poured straight from the ache — the kind that burns through every layer of composure until all that’s left is truth. It wasn’t pretty, but it was honest. Somewhere between the grief and the outrage, I began to see how God meets us right there — in the mess, not after it’s cleaned up. Through the pain, I began to recognise patterns — the Dominoes of Responsibility, the Domino Effect of Denial. I realised that healing starts not when others change, but when I own my part, however small, and let the Holy Spirit soften what’s become hard in me. Then came the miracle I never expected — The Gift of Reconciliation. After thirty years of prayer, the message I had longed for arrived, reopening a door I had assumed was sealed forever. It reminded me that God’s timing isn’t delayed; it’s deliberate. He had been preparing both hearts for that moment. In The Woman at the Well, I saw myself — the one who had spent a lifetime trying to be what others wanted, too afraid to show the real, broken me. Yet there He was, Jesus, waiting at my own well, offering living water to the parts of me that had run dry. Loneliness lingered in The Ache of Distance, and the longing to reconnect with myself deepened in Journal Reflection 2018. But through it all, God was gently stirring the embers of hope. My prayer in Sparks into Flame captured it perfectly: a simple cry for my tiny sparks to grow into fire again. 📖 “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3 (NKJV) Looking back now, I see 2018 as the year the Potter’s hands took hold of the shattered clay of my life. The breaking was not the end — it was the beginning of becoming whole. Each crack He filled with gold, turning what felt like ruins into something precious, radiant, and redemptive. What I thought was the end of my story was really the start of Healing 💔heARTs💖 — a calling born out of my own restoration. The beauty that rose from those ashes became the foundation for every painting, every journal, every gathering since. It was the year I stopped hiding my cracks and started seeing them as places where His light shines through. 🤲🏻 My Prayer Lord, thank You for being the Potter who never gives up on His clay. Thank You for holding me steady when I felt undone, for binding my wounds with Your grace, and for turning my pain into purpose. May every golden seam tell the story of Your faithfulness. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

God is good all the time. Today I identified myself with the woman at the well. Having lived with rejection & abandonment all my life, I have learnt to shut people out. Childhood emotional neglect as well as other traumas during my life have resulted in my lifelong struggle with anxiety & depression. This of course brought on feelings of shame, guilt & inadequacy which cause me to withdraw into myself & thus worsening the feelings of rejection & abandonment because people don't see the real broken me & I in turn think they don't care. I still struggle to grasp the Lord's "father" heart & love for me because I didn't have a loving earthly father. I shy away from relationships because I've spent a lifetime doing for others & being who I thought the wanted me to be so they wouldn't leave (which they did anyway) rather than being who God created me to be. Feelings I battle with daily include, inadequacy, insecurity, abandonment, guilt, shame, anxiety, lack of confidence & trust issues. Even worse, I have also shut God out. He has just recently redeemed my life from the pit & I am still struggling to work through all the emotional traumas of my life. Even though I can praise & worship Him now & I listen to sermons on my morning walks, I still struggle with building a relationship because I find myself at a loss of words when needing to express what's in my heart. I know He knows my heart, but sometimes it feels that I don't even know my own. There's an emptiness deep down in our gut that only God can fill through a healthy, thriving relationship with Christ himself.

Here we stand — on the edge of something new, something unknown. It feels like only yesterday I held a tiny bundle of warmth and wonder in my arms, and now... 21 years have passed. That bundle of joy, all grown up now, standing tall, finding his wings and preparing to fly. I had dreamed about this day for years — imagined a celebration so full of light and laughter it would echo in his heart forever. A grand send-off into adulthood. I wanted everything to be perfect for him. And yet, when the day arrived, I was overwhelmed by something I hadn’t expected: sorrow. A deep ache that whispered, "You’ve missed too much."

Here we stand at the dawning of a new era in our lives. 21 years ago we were blessed with a bundle of joy. That precious bundle now all grown up & spreading his wings. I've planned this special send-off into adulthood for so many years and now that it has arrived, I'm feeling overwhelmed. It was supposed to be the most joyous & spectacular event he could have dreamed of but instead the last years have happened & it feels like I have lost my boy...  If there's one thing I've realised lately is that in so many ways I have failed my boys over the years. My own lack of guidance & examples had left me ill equipped to prevent the scars of emotional neglect they too now carry. Hurt people, hurt people & I was hurting so bad I buried myself in work for the most important years of their lives. I loved them with every fibre of my being but emotionally I was unavailable.  Hell I still don't know how to handle all this emotional stuff. That is time I will never get back & scars they will carry for a lifetime. I wish I could have a do-over. I would change so much but all that remains for me is to ask forgiveness & pray that they will heal in time. I pray that they will find love & happiness and be ok. May they always find their ways back home if ever they meed us...

In October 2016 we took in our eldest's 18-year-old girlfriend & her 4-month-old son into our home straight from hospital because she was in so much pain & incapable of taking care of herself or her son. I loved them without boundaries like my own but was ill-equipped for the emotional rollercoaster & personal trigger moments that would follow. I was constantly worrying about the children’s safety. Over the following years, the kids' shenanigans, which I experienced as total disrespect & lack of consideration & appreciation for us would trigger many of my buried emotions & set me off on an emotional rollercoaster of note. The biggest one came when baby Sean's biological dad came on the scene 2 years after abandoning her for not aborting the baby & she insisted he should be involved. I cannot explain the anger that welled up inside me. This started causing issues for my son & subsequently total turmoil for the whole family. It seemed my family was falling apart & that would spiral me into the deepest, darkest pit of depression, anxiety & suicidal thoughts to the extent that I hit an absolute "rock bottom" & had a complete breakdown in July 2017. I was fortunate to find a very compassionate doctor who focuses on the wholistic approach to recovery & spent the next year on anti a very mild depressant just to take the edge of the extreme highs & lows I was experiencing. I also started with weekly, then bi-weekly & then monthly visits to the doctor for check-ups & to talk me through the emotions. One morning in October, I woke up to a WhattsApp message from my brother. For 30 years I had prayed for this relationship to be restored but I had finally given up. His first contact sent me spinning into a rage of anxiety. He had returned to the Lord 5 years prior & was reaching out to make amends & check if I was still serving God. I was afraid to trust or reconcile for fear that it wouldn’t last, but finally decided to tell him everything & where I was at. After I told him everything I had been dealing with & that I had given up on everything including life, he revealed the reason he messaged me was that I had appeared to him in a dream that night. I had stopped by his work & brought him a little girl, he knows personally, that had been molested & pleading him to please help her. There is no doubt in my mind that this was a divine intervention of God to pull me out of the pit. Stefan has been my constant support ever since & still messages me daily even if it’s just a quick hello. During this time Pastor Steven Furtick’s sermon started popping up on your feed. At the time he was doing the "Triggered" series, along theme of triggers, issues with anxiety & where are the outbursts coming from. Instead of mind numbingly scrolling through Facebook, I found myself binge watching sermons. God was working on my heart & I started to develop an immense desire to worship again. Suddenly Sean’s dad wanted to be involved in his life. Clive agreed he could come visit him at our home, but every time I saw him I was confronted by the anger of him wanting to abort this precious baby, but for the sake of mom & baby had to be nice & tolerate his visits. This was causing inner turmoil & by end of February 2018 the family turmoil had escalated to the extent that I totally snapped one night after the kids had a fight. I phoned my brother in such hysteria because I had totally lost it that he immediately planned a trip & came to visit for 2 weeks in April to help me through my crisis. I had gone from having a house filled with young adults that I had "adopted" as my own to an empty home with just hubby & our youngest. The loss was immense & strengthened my sense of worthlessness. To this day, I still miss all these extra children.

As I look back on 2017, I see a mosaic of tears and tenderness, struggle and surrender. It was the year my soul cracked open — the year I stopped pretending I was fine and began the long, trembling walk toward healing. There were days when anxiety felt like a cage around my chest and nights when sleep hid far from reach. I wrote through the ache — raw, unfiltered, searching for God in the fog. In those quiet, tear-stained hours, His mercy met me again and again. 📖 "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." — Psalm 147:3 (NKJV) Through depression, rejection, and the sharp sting of betrayal, the Lord was gently restoring what life had fractured. I began to write honestly — about exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure, about the loneliness that can exist even in a crowded house, about the longing to be seen and loved without having to perform. My journals became altars — places where I laid down fear, shame, and self-condemnation. Through every entry, God whispered: “You are not alone, beloved. I am still here.” 💗 Lessons in the Light 2017 was the year I learned that healing is not linear. It comes in waves — some tender, some fierce — washing away layers of pain until truth can breathe again. • Faith & Spirituality became my lifeline. When I couldn’t see a way forward, faith carried me — a thread of light through the darkness. • Love & Compassion deepened as I realised how desperately the hurting need gentleness. • Family & Relationships were tested and refined. The ache of fractured connections taught me to forgive and to keep loving, even when love costs. • Service & Kindness became healing in motion — helping others even as I was learning to stand again. • Creativity re-emerged as therapy. Through mixed-media art and digital scrapbooking, I discovered beauty in broken textures, colour in sorrow’s shadows. 📖 "For we walk by faith, not by sight." — 2 Corinthians 5:7 (NKJV) Each brushstroke, each word, became an act of worship — a quiet rebellion against despair. ✨ A Heart Reawakened By December, I realised that though much had been lost, something far more precious had been found — hope. Not the naïve hope that everything would suddenly be easy, but the sacred knowing that even pain has purpose when surrendered to God’s hands. Faith was no longer a distant concept; it became breath itself. Creativity, once buried under fear and fatigue, became a divine dialogue — my way of speaking back to the One who had never stopped listening. 📖 "We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair." — 2 Corinthians 4:8 (NKJV) 2017 taught me to rise — not as I once was, but as someone softer, wiser, and anchored in grace. 🙏 Prayer of Gratitude Lord Jesus, Thank You for the gift of survival, for teaching me that even when my strength fails, Your grace remains. Thank You for the courage to face my brokenness and for turning pain into purpose. May every word I write and every colour I paint bring healing — first to my own heart, and then to others walking a similar road. In Jesus’ Name, Amen. 🌸 Closing Thought The cracks in my story are no longer symbols of shame; they are golden seams of grace. What the enemy meant for harm, God is already weaving into beauty. Healing begins where honesty meets hope.

One morning I was sitting on the swing in the park at Schnapper Rock, numbscrolling through Facebook. I had hit rock-bottom but suddenly this photo my friend, Wendy had taken appeared on my feed & I heard the Lord say "You will soar like an eagle because My love will carry you through this pain."

In their drunken stupor, they suddenly realise I might not make it. That I might not want to stay. And so, they beg — Please don’t leave us. We can’t live without you. And I wonder… Why? Is it because they need someone to pick up the shattered pieces they leave in their wake? Someone to cook and clean, to do the quiet, thankless work of holding things together? Is it because someone has to put their drunk, heavy bodies to bed while the baby cries in the next room, hungry for something — anything — that feels safe? If I disappear, who will carry the weight? But the thing is — when the alcohol wears off, so does their memory. Their sorrow, their promises, their pleas… all vanish like mist. The damage they’ve done becomes a distant blur in their minds. But not for me. No, I carry it all. I hold the aftermath. I cradle the consequences in my arms like a child — weeks, months, sometimes years later. The bruises on my spirit linger long after their hangovers fade.

I still treasure those morning family cuddles — no matter how big they get. Arms tangled together, soft breathing in the early hush, a quiet that feels sacred. Just a pity they’re so few and far between these days. Life moves, children grow, and those simple, golden moments become memories we hold onto with everything we’ve got. Today was another beautiful Mother’s Day. Truly. I felt loved, seen, celebrated. But as night falls and the world quiets down, a familiar mist rises — memories and pain I’ve long kept buried stirring softly in the dark. It’s bittersweet, this day. Full of joy, yes, but laced with sorrow too. Because even as I smile, my heart remembers. The older I get, the more I realise: I will never forget the babies I lost. Four of them. Precious lives that flickered briefly and then were gone. Miscarriage isn’t something you get over — it’s something you learn to carry. The ache may dull, but the love never fades. Maybe one day, I’ll stop blaming myself. Maybe I’ll grow stronger and find the courage to walk alongside others in their grief. Maybe, with time, I’ll be able to say it out loud — that I’m a proud mom of six. Even if only two are still here with me. Tonight, my heart is also heavy for a different kind of loss — the slow drifting of one child’s heart away from mine. It’s a grief that’s hard to name, because he’s still here, just not... here. I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know how to bring him back into the fold. I only know that I love him fiercely and endlessly and that I’m not ready to give up. If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of your own silent sorrow — I feel your pain. I see you. And I believe healing is still possible, even when the night feels long.

I couldn’t sleep again last night. There’s a heaviness that visits me around this time every year — a silent weight that presses down on my chest and lingers, no matter how many years have passed. Today marks twenty-one years since I lost my baby to an ectopic pregnancy. Just over six weeks along. My second of four miscarriages. And it still hurts like hell. I know, some might think I should be over it by now. I’ve heard the dismissive comments — “It was barely a pregnancy,” or “At least it was early.” Words meant to comfort, maybe, but they only deepened the silence I locked myself into. I bottled it all up because that’s what seemed expected. Because my grief made others uncomfortable. Because I even blamed myself. But grief doesn't follow rules or timelines. And there’s no expiration date on love. I find myself wishing I could just get over it — whatever that means. But the truth is, this loss carved out a space in me that still aches. The memory doesn’t fade. It lives quietly inside me, rising up like a tide I can’t hold back, especially on days like this. Yes, I’m a mother to two incredible rainbow babies — now 20 and 14 — and I thank God for them every day. They are joy in human form, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But their presence doesn’t erase the ones I never got to hold. Grief and gratitude aren’t enemies. They sit side by side in this heart of mine, each telling a different kind of truth. So here I am, twenty-one years later, still navigating the waves of loss. Still learning to let myself feel. To not apologise for the tears that come uninvited. To honour the small life that changed mine forever, even if the world never got to see their face.

This letter is a whisper from my heart — a love song to the baby I carry now, and a tribute to the baby we had to let go. It’s about the ache of remembering and the beauty of beginning again. For any parent who’s walked through loss and found hope on the other side, I pray these words bring comfort, connection, and the reminder that love never forgets. This is for every child who came before and every child who came after — each one held in our hearts forever.Would you like me to help format it directly onto your website or pair it with a painting from your collection?

The year 2016 unfolded like a tapestry woven with both storm and stillness. Each thread carried traces of pain and beauty, loss and awakening — and somehow, through it all, grace stitched me back together. This was the year I began to reclaim my wholeness. It was not with grand gestures or visible triumphs, but through the small, sacred choices of each day — to breathe again, to create again, to believe again. In many ways, 2016 became a bridge between the woman I once was and the one I was becoming. I remember moments of deep weariness, when my body and mind cried for rest. Yet, in those valleys, God whispered life into weary bones. I began to understand that strength isn’t always about doing more; sometimes it is the courage to stop, to surrender, and to let the Holy Spirit do the mending. There were quiet victories, too — rediscovering creativity as a form of prayer, learning to see beauty in brokenness, and allowing forgiveness to soften what once felt like stone. Family bonds were tested, but love endured. Relationships deepened, and slowly, compassion began to replace bitterness. I saw how every challenge was shaping me into a truer reflection of Christ — teaching me to serve without expectation, to love without fear, and to hope without visible proof. 📖 “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” — 2 Corinthians 5:7 (NKJV) Faith became my anchor again — not as a concept, but as a living, breathing presence. My home grew quieter, yet richer with meaning. My heart grew softer, yet stronger. Through tears and tender prayers, I rediscovered the power of authenticity — to be real before God and gentle with myself. By year’s end, I could sense the slow, sacred restoration of joy. My creative spark, once dimmed, flickered to life. I realised that what I had lost was not gone forever — it was being refined, purified, and prepared for something new. Reflections from the Core 2016 mirrored your Core Values — the living roots of your soul: • Faith & Spirituality: Your anchor through transition and pain. • Love & Compassion: Learning to love without losing yourself. • Family & Relationships: Mending and strengthening the bonds that matter most. • Service & Kindness: Serving quietly, even when unseen. • Creativity: Healing through colour, texture, and imagination — a foretaste of the artist emerging in you. • Balance & Rest: Learning that rest is holy, not indulgent. • Courage & Freedom: Choosing truth and authenticity, even when it costs comfort. Each value was tested, refined, and re-rooted deeper in Christ. Prayer for the Year Ahead Father, thank You for carrying me through this year of gentle rebuilding. Thank You for teaching me that brokenness is not the end but the beginning of beauty. May I enter the next season with renewed courage, grace, and faith — trusting Your timing and resting in Your love. May every brushstroke, every word, every act of kindness reflect Your heart. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

When we "adopted" a friend’s 22-year-old as a son into our home in September 2014 because he’d run out of money to pay rent whilst studying. Unfortunately, we didn't foresee the influence he would have on our on sons then 17 & 13. My eldest's 18th birthday & subsequent exposure to alcohol & desire for freedom pulling him away from the family would be the first of many to trigger my childhood experiences with drunkards & fears for his safety. The boys would go out at night & often not come home without telling me they were sleeping out. This would send me off in a tangent because I’d stress about how they could be lying somewhere in a ditch having had an accident or something & I wouldn’t know where to even start looking for them. My inability to communicate my experiences & fears effectively, caused me to lash out in anger & frustration, sending the kids running away. I started to feel my family crumble & all my hopes & dreams for my boys & our future were slowly fading away.

Today I reached breaking point. Not the dramatic, scream-at-the-sky kind. No, it was quieter than that. Just a slow, silent overflow — like a cup that’s been filled for years and years, unnoticed, until suddenly it's spilling over everything. Dorothy asked if I was okay. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t say “I’m fine.” I told her the truth: No. Meltdown. She gently probed — not in a way that felt invasive, but in the way someone who truly sees you does. “Can you pinpoint it?” And there it was — not one thing, but all the things. Years of bottling up. Stress about my adult children. Worries that feel too big for my tired heart. The ache of giving endlessly without anyone noticing that I, too, am bleeding. My cup isn’t just full. It’s overflowing. Not with joy or abundance, but with the weight of what I’ve held in for too long. I told her how I’ve struggled — how I’ve asked God to heal the deep wounds from my childhood. But I still wrestle with rejection. With feeling worthless. And then the guilt — oh, the guilt — for even feeling that way. Dorothy reminded me of something I know in my head but often forget in my heart: that God’s love is not earned. That He sees me, accepts me, loves me — as I am. Not because I’ve “held it all together” or kept giving when I was running on empty. Not because I’ve survived trauma or kept smiling through pain. But simply because I am His. Still, I admitted the truth that haunts me: I’m tired of doing this alone. I feel like a used-up orange — squeezed dry. I’ve been there for so many, but when my world falls apart, there’s no one. No family, no friends who check in. Just silence. I told her about the teenage trauma no one acknowledged. The miscarriages I had to mourn on my own. The way I was taught — literally — to hide my tears. My mother pushing my head under cold water when I cried, as if sorrow were a stain to scrub away. No wonder I learned to swallow my pain. But lately, it feels like it’s all rising up — like grief doesn’t care about timing. I want to sit in a corner and never stop crying. And yet I don’t. Because the inner voice echoes — “don’t be weak,” “you’re too much,” “no one will catch you if you fall.” And I keep wondering why I feel so unsupported. Why I keep building walls. Maybe it’s because I’ve learned that vulnerability too often ends in abandonment. I also shared about the church. How, after my gran’s death and the deep depression that followed, there was no support from leadership — even after years of faithful service. That betrayal felt like another layer of grief. Another space where I gave and gave… and left emptier than before. I’m learning that grief doesn’t always look like sobbing — sometimes it looks like silence. Like numbness. Like feeling nothing at all. Or like whispering to God in the night, “Are You still there?” Dorothy said something that made me pause — “Go cry before the Lord.” So maybe I will. Not with eloquent prayers or brave words. Just tears. Just presence. Maybe that’s enough for now. Because today, even if I feel empty and unseen, I want to remember: God collects every tear. And He knows how to hold what no one else has ever held.

My washing machine broke down this week — a small thing in the grand scheme, perhaps, but one that quickly becomes a big deal when laundry piles up like an avalanche waiting to happen. So today, I found myself at the laundromat, quarters clinking and strangers folding clothes around me. Funny how it's on days like these that you realise just what a blessing it is to have a working machine at home. That gentle hum in the background — once so easily ignored — suddenly feels like the sound of grace itself. Needless to say, I’ll be more than a little relieved when it's back up and running. This evening brought a bright spot — pizza and pudding shared with Carrie and Hugh. It was good to laugh, to talk, to remember what it feels like to belong. But even as we caught up, I felt that tug. Time flies, doesn’t it? And with it, the little rituals that once grounded me — like my morning walks with Carrie. I miss those meandering chats, the ones where I could speak freely about things that my boys simply wouldn’t understand, not because they don’t care, but because they see the world through a different lens. Lately, I’ve been feeling completely out of step — disconnected, weighed down, even depressed. And yet I can’t quite seem to let the feelings out. What I long for is a good, honest cry — the kind that unclogs the soul. But instead, I find myself swallowing it back, again and again, until it builds like steam in a kettle. One day, I fear, I might just boil over. There’s a memory that haunts me — one I wish I could forget. I was just a child, crying in a moment of helplessness, and my mother, impatient with my tears, shoved my head under cold water to silence them. That moment etched itself into my nervous system. Even now, long after she’s gone, I still hesitate to let myself cry. Somewhere deep down, I still fear that showing emotion — especially in front of others — might invite rejection or disapproval. And then there’s Jesse. This weekend he didn’t come home from a friend’s place — didn’t even let me know he wouldn’t. I try to remind myself he’s growing up, making his own choices. But worry has a way of clawing its way in when silence stretches too long. Clive, of course, takes a different stance. “He’s an adult,” he says. “You’ve got to let him go.” As if it’s that easy. As if letting go doesn’t feel like tearing off a part of your own skin. We've gone back and forth on this so many times that I’ve lost count. And if I’m honest, I’m outnumbered here. The truth is, there are values in today’s world that simply don’t sit right with me — things that clash with the way I was raised, the way I see love and responsibility. That clash, that tension, has become the soundtrack of too many conversations lately. So instead of arguing, I bottle it up. I nod, stay quiet. But every now and then, the pressure wins. And I explode. I’m learning — slowly, painfully — that it’s okay to feel what I feel. That maybe the act of holding it all together isn’t always strength. Sometimes, the braver thing is simply allowing myself to fall apart in safe spaces, and trusting that the pieces will be met with love, not judgment.

Today, I really wish I didn’t care so deeply for people who seem so indifferent to my love. I wish I could just flick a switch and detach myself, protect my heart, and stop pouring so much of my emotional energy into those who don’t seem to notice — or worse, don’t seem to care. I spent the entire day tangled up in worry over Jesse. He didn’t come home last night. Then, when he said he’d be back by a certain time, that didn’t happen either. No explanation. No message. Just silence. Zane, of course, brushes it off — says Jesse is “very responsible,” especially compared to what he himself was like at that age. That’s fine and well for him to say. But it doesn’t still the storm inside me. It doesn’t quiet the fear, the tightness in my chest, the knot of anxiety that keeps growing. Jesse is just “enjoying his new-found freedom,” they say. But to me, it feels like watching someone dance at the edge of a cliff — oblivious to the danger, while I stand on the sidelines, holding my breath and bracing for the fall. And Clive? He’s no comfort either. “He’s an adult now,” he says. “You have to let him go.” But I beg to differ. Nineteen may be technically an adult, but it’s also dangerously close to reckless. So many life-altering mistakes can be made in moments of impulse. It terrifies me. Because I see the potential for a future derailed — not by malice, but by sheer youthful ignorance. And it breaks my heart that I seem to be the only one who feels the weight of that. Right now, I feel completely stretched thin — emotionally frayed and barely holding on. If I could, I’d crawl into some quiet, hidden corner, curl up into myself, and just cry until there was nothing left. But even that feels forbidden. That memory still lingers — the shame of it, the sting. Having my head shoved under cold water because I dared to cry. Because I dared to feel. That wound still hasn’t healed. So here I am. Full of unspoken rage. Frustration. Pain. Loneliness. I’m tired of always being the one who feels too much, while everyone else floats above the mess. I don’t want to be the strong one today. I just want to be seen. Heard. Held.

In February 2016 I joined Auckland Chorus to sing again & also to find something to do other than being home alone all day. It took me 6 tries at passing the audition because every time I had to audition anxiety would freak me out & set me up for failure. A massive inner conflict of needing to achieve & want to run away ensued. The 3 hours singing on Tuesdays would carry me through the week despite the social anxiety that I had to fight to get there. Many a day Clive literally booted me out the door to go. Singing enabled me for those 3 hours to switch off the thoughts that so constantly bombarded me. It got me through another week.