Blog - Page 7 of 10 - Megan Hallier

To all the boys I’ve loved before…

I have spent much of my life trying to figure out what love looks like.

For so long I was mesmerized by the Disney princess tales of Prince Charming and knights on white horses. I lived for the glittery romance and thrilling passion of these love stories.

Over the years I have discovered that the real life versions of these stories come with so much more trials and heartbreak.

The frogs seem to outnumber the princes.

The days spent in high castles waiting to be rescued seem to be endless.

The happily ever after often requires tears and compromise and a whole lot of things which must be written in the fine print in the Disney tales.

But as brutal as it is, I love the tragedy of our real life love stories. I love the high stakes, the tangible expressions, the depth that cartoons cannot begin to capture.

I just wish I had known love wasn’t meant to be hard.

I think love should be soft like freshly washed sheets and warm like the morning sunshine on your back. Love should be gentle like a boat bobbing along a small stream and safe like your bedroom when a storm is battering outside on the windows.

You shouldn’t have to make them want to be with you. They should just want to be with you.

You shouldn’t have to become someone else for them. They should just love you for the wonderful person that you are.

You shouldn’t have to try so hard because love should be easy.

And so with this in mind I wanted to reminisce on my past loves…the lessons I’ve learnt from them and the poems they inspired.

To the ones that didn’t know I existed…

Oh how I obsessed over you. If you only knew all the silly nicknames I gave you. If you could only see all the journals I covered with your name.

You gave me a first glimpse of the intensity of love.

You showed me just how overwhelming, confusing and all-consuming these feelings can be. You taught me that I can bounce back rather quickly from heartbreak and that crushes aren’t really love at all.

Crushes are superficial and hardly ever based on facts. Whereas, love is substantial, built on truth and knowing more about someone than their favourite ice cream flavour.

To the one who didn’t want me…

I tried to be the girl for you, oh I tried so hard.

I laughed at your jokes before I understood the punchline. I walked at your pace even though my legs were working twice as hard as yours. I listened intently when you talked about politics though I thought it was about as interesting as watching the washing machine swirl my clothes around.

I suppose it’s not your fault, I fell for you and you didn’t even know it. But that’s the way you are, stuck inside your head you leave little room for emotions. So of course you had no inkling of mine.

But you taught me what a gift it is to feel so strongly. What I take for granted is such a struggle for some. You reminded me how precious it is to know love and how difficult yet thrilling it is to express it.

To the one who wanted to be ‘just friends…’

I thought you were different. I thought this time it might stick. I thought perhaps if I wished it hard enough, you would want me enough to stay.

But I was wrong.

We should have only ever been friends. You shouldn’t have toyed with my heart the way you did. You should have been honest from the start instead of allowing me to push you into a relationship you weren’t interested in.

But you taught me how much it hurts to love someone that doesn’t feel the same. And you reminded me how good it feels to love so even though losing you almost tore me in two, I knew I would search forever to find someone who would let me love them like you couldn’t.

To the one who loved me back…

I promised myself I’d never write soppy love poems or I’d certainly never publish them but for you I will make an exception.

Because I cannot talk about heartbreak and hopeless love without mentioning how it feels when it goes right.

So here it is. You are my sunshine, my safe place and my favourite song I could keep singing all day long.

You taught me how to love myself again. You showed me what trust looks like. You made vulnerability seem so effortless. You took the hardest thing in the world- opening up my heart again- and made it feel like the easiest.

It has always frustrated me that we have to live life forwards. With the knowledge we gain, in hindsight we would do things so differently.

But that’s the way life is. We can’t dwell on the past but rather try our best to make the future better.

It gives me great joy to know that the experiences I’ve had and the lessons I’ve learnt because of them have shaped me into the person who I am today. And that through these experiences I can help others learn from my mistakes and hopefully do better than me.

And so I hope that this will be true for you.

That you will continue to love with your whole heart but to only share it with those truly deserving of it.

Remember, love is really quite simple…if they love you, they’ll make sure you know it.

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In Seeking encouragement

Feeling like a failure… when life doesn’t go as planned

Yesterday I tried for the third time to make chocolate eclairs.

Because is there anything on this earth more divine than the combination of the light, fluffy pastry, thick, rich custard and silky, chocolate ganache?

Eating an eclair is such an alluring prospect that I am willing to struggle time and time again to make them perfectly.

And each and every time, I am stumped as to how it all goes so wrong. The first two trials I followed the recipe to the letter and still my eclairs looked disappointingly nowhere close to the picture.

But in my flurry to bake yesterday I misread the recipe and accidentally missed out an entire cup of flour from the pastry. And even though I noticed and quickly tried to make amends it was too late, the mixture refused to thicken.

I thought that adding the eggs would help coagulate the dough but to no avail. I then put my hopes in the cooking of the pastry.

But unfortunately, they came out of oven looking deflated like a rugby ball that had been mistakenly driven over by a truck.

By this point I was extremely put out. I’d already used far too many eggs and a tonne of butter so there really was no going back.

After a brief reprieve I returned to tackle the custard filling. I then carefully sandwiched pairs of the flattened, pastry blobs together and merrily sprinkled the whole lot with icing sugar.

They weren’t chocolate eclairs but the custard provided an adequate distraction so that everyone ate them without complaint.

If there is one thing I have learnt over the past year it is that life is full of these kinds of setbacks and surprises.

When embarking on new adventures and sailing into uncharted territory, we are bound to make a few blunders.

We hardly ever get things right the first time around. More often than not our chocolate eclairs look more like flattened footballs than the perfect image we found in a recipe book.

What has taken me by surprise is that the setbacks I most often come across are due to my wayward imagination and lofty expectations.

I’m a dreamer whose eyes are always starry with thoughts of the future. With dreams so vast and expansive it is hardly surprising that I find reality to be bitter and unkind.

I thought the year after graduation would be different. I thought I would breeze into a job and finally find my place in this world. I thought I would know what I want and I’d hop onto the career ladder just the same as everyone else.

But this year saw me working part time as a shop assistant, then unemployed for three months and finally working again as a waitress.

And a little part of me feels like a failure.

Because college graduates are supposed to have real jobs. Because adults should be working 9-5 and focusing on serious, obtainable goals. Because by now I should have a plan, a path forwards and an answer for when people ask me what it is that I want to do.

But I still have no answer. I still have no plan. I still don’t have a real job.

I’m not the woman that 12 year old me hoped I would become. As far as she is probably concerned, I am a failure.

But who decides what is success and what is failure? Who sets where the goalposts lie? Who has the right to tell me how I should live my life?

I do.

I’m only a failure if I believe so. I’m only a loser if I give up on myself. I’m only hopeless if once I fall, I refuse to get up and try again.

I suppose that success looks different to me now then when I was a little girl. It’s less about finding the perfect job, husband and house.

Success for me now means knowing who I am. It means being true to myself and living each day in a way that makes me proud.

Loving people even when I feel tired and impatient.

Creating something out of nothing and sharing it with the world.

Challenging myself to face my fears, push the limits and try new things.

What I am realizing is that following your own path instead of sticking to the status quo does not make you a failure.

Success doesn’t necessarily look the same for everyone so comparison is fruitless.

The truth is, nobody really has a clue what they are doing. Most of us are stumbling along, figuring it out as we go.

So perhaps my life doesn’t look they way I thought it would at almost 22 but that’s part of what makes life beautiful…its total unpredictability.

I’m going to attempt to make eclairs again. I cannot resist, the sweetness or the challenge.

I’ll probably fail a few more times but one day I won’t.

One day the choux pastry will rise and stay crisp. One day the eclairs will retain their proper, elongated shape. One day I will bake them, fill them, ice them and present them to the oohs and ahhs of my loved ones.

That’s what success looks like to me.

Never, never, never giving up.

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In Living intentionally

Letting go of control and making peace with uncertainty

There is a place for everything

and everything should be in its place.

Dinner comes before dessert.

Drinks served before dinner.

Jumpers should be folded.

Shirts should be hung.

Socks must be matching.

Shoes lined up beside the door.

Switches should be off when not in use.

Curtains should be drawn after the sun sets.

I find peace in rules and order.

I find rest in the harmony of precision.

There is no clutter I cannot tidy up.

No chaos I cannot return to calm.

But my rules they are a prison.

I am chained to them in fear.

Because I hate what is uncertain.

And I hide from what is not clear.

One of the most infuriating realities to stumble upon is a reminder of our lack of control.

We merrily amble through life, foolishly believing that we hold all of the keys to our future and we are in charge. But every now and then this fantasy is disrupted by an unfortunate event which leaves us teetering on our tiptoes.

With just a single phone call, a simple conversation, an unexpected, interruptance to our day we find ourselves very much in circumstances out of our control and it is utterly unnerving.

I find it particularly distressing as I am a grade A, run-of-the-mill, control freak.

I crave order, productivity and common sense. I am highly strung and up tight as they come. I need plans and certainty and I don’t work well if boundaries and guidelines aren’t clear.

I hate that off-kilter feeling that comes with wading into the unknown.

It has been a slow process but I am finally discovering how to let go of control and make peace with uncertainty.

I am learning how to delegate.

Because I can’t take responsibility for everything, I simply do not have the time nor energy. I know now that I really do need help and asking for it really isn’t as difficult as I once thought.

And when I do pass on the baton to someone else I am trying my best to release my grip completely. Forgoing the temptation to demand the task be done MY WAY.

So what if the potato wedges are cut thicker than I would have done them? Who cares if the laundry detergent is orange blossom scented instead of lavender?

I can see how silly it is to get caught up in the nitty-gritty details of life when the help I receive is worth so much more than the perfection I seek.

I am learning to be less possessive of the things that I own.

To share what I have with a generous spirit and to bite my tongue rather than remind the person to take great care with whatever it is that I loan them.

And when something breaks as it inevitably does, I am learning the art of shrugging my shoulders and saying, ‘oh well, it’s okay. Mistakes happen.’

Because things are not what are most important…people are.

I am learning how to go with the flow.

To appreciate that not everything need be done in a rush. Not every hour need be productive. Not every task need be completed today, THIS VERY MINUTE OR ELSE.

Taking the time to appreciate my coffee instead of gulping it down. Being flexible when people change plans. Accepting apologies and extending grace. These things are a sign of maturity.

See, I am learning to let go of control.

I am un-clenching my fists and extending open palms.

I am making peace with uncertainty.

Art and creativity have been healing for me.

There is nothing safe or certain when it comes to art. We often start creating without a plan or picture of where we are heading. The pieces fall into place as our paintbrushes strike the canvas and our fingers stroke the keys.

Perhaps this is why creating feels so risky to me. Every time I am breaking myself open and waiting to see what spills out.

It’s daunting even without an audience, but with a thousand eyes on me the feeling can be described as nothing short of terrifying.

Writing is painful in ways I cannot even express but it has cured me of my need for control.

Because as a writer I sometimes feel that I am under a spell. I am simply a messenger and how and when the words choose to come forth are not up to me.

There are days when I would love to publish something but try as I might, I cannot write a single word. And then almost arbitrarily there are days where I wake up before the sun and I’ve got so many ideas my fingers can hardly type them up fast enough.

So I have learnt that pressuring myself to write is no use. It’s as fruitless as trying to push toothpaste back into a tube once it has all been squeezed out.

Within all of us there is this pull to take control. A natural instinct that beckons us to bow to fear and wrestle for the reins.

But evolution calls for adaptability. There is no space for inflexibility.

To keep moving forwards we must let go of the monkey bars behind us. We must swing forward, stretch out a hand and hope with all of our hearts that someone thought to build another bar after the last.

It seems absurd and careless at times but in truth, abandoning the need for control is the most freeing feeling in the world.

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In Seeking encouragement

Authenticity and finding happiness by accepting myself

There is a temptation we face when we meet new people to put on a mask.

Strangers are blank slates. Yet to witness our baggage or keep a record against us. It is all too easy for us to morph into someone we’ve always wished we were.

If you are of the obliging sort like me, when you meet someone new you will agree to almost anything.

I so hate making waves that I will bend over backwards just to keep the peace.

I will nod along to their every suggestion. I will eat whatever is placed before me. I will go wherever they want me to go and do whatever they want me to do.

I’m a puppet on a string with a clumsy, oblivious master.

But after awhile of this masquerade I begin to feel exhausted. Worn out from pushing myself to be an extrovert, an adventurous type or the kind of person who stays up past midnight on weeknights.

I get this icky, sticky feeling of something not being right. The uneasy, conflicting feeling of not being true to myself.

Authenticity it seems is a necessity for me. Much like a lack of oxygen, without it I am breathless. Like an absence of food, I get queasy in my stomach. Like the deprivation of sleep, I get sharp and unkind.

I have been out of town for the past couple of weeks and with the change in routine I’ve found myself withdrawing from my blog and social media.

I haven’t written at all since I left and it has made me feel smaller and less valuable.

Because writing is a part of my identity. The part that makes me feel most connected to the world around me. The part that allows me to create and add something rather than just taking all the time.

Without my blog to fall back on, I have felt dry and empty. And like a vicious cycle, the worse I feel the less inclined I am to write which in turn makes me feel less and less useful.

On the other hand, my absence from social media has been refreshing.

I hate uploading every part of my day on Instastories. I hate retweeting pointless things on my Twitter feed. I hate the edited, filtered, lack of spontaneity that I see all over Instagram.

It just isn’t me.

It doesn’t align with my values. It doesn’t fit my brand. It doesn’t fill me with joy.

And yet as a member of the millennial generation I don’t know how to escape it. As a struggling creative who is desperate to share her work, I don’t know how to avoid it.

Authenticity is an internal struggle. A fight to remain the truest version of ourselves when all around us we are tempted to fix our flaws, patch up our problems and become someone better.

I have discovered that a lack of authenticity breeds discontentment.

It fosters ideas that something is missing from our lives and if we just had that one thing, we would finally feel fulfilled.

If only we could lose that last 5 kgs. If only we had a wider social circle. If only we had a supportive partner. If only we had more time to pursue our passions.

But it’s just a mirage. Chasing after an ideal that we can never obtain.

The pursuit of authenticity leads to increased creativity, deeper relationships and an abundance of new ideas.

When I am being myself I feel happier. Because I don’t waste energy pursuing things that drain me. Because I use my time to write, create, bake, and share, to do the things which make me feel alive.

When I am being myself I find more pleasure in the company of others. Without the fear of judgement or pressure to perform I find I have more patience to listen to other’s stories and more compassion for them.

When I am being myself I feel more inspired. Because I take the time to notice things I might otherwise miss. Because I feel confident, secure and comfortable in my own skin which enables me to stretch out, take risks and explore new ideas.

Authenticity requires courage. Looking in the mirror and accepting myself as I am. Going out and facing the world without make up to hide behind. Speaking up and sharing my opinions even though I could get shut down.

I’m a big fan of self improvement so I’m always looking for ways to extend and grow myself. I want to increase my productivity. I want to tap into my creative side more. I want to push myself to try new things.

But perhaps an even greater challenge is to grow into myself rather than trying to imitate someone else.

Maybe what I really need is to become more self aware and to live from a place of authenticity everyday.

For me I think that looks like withdrawing in social settings because I am an introvert and being around people for too long makes me feel exhausted.

Or making the time to write because of all of my hobbies it is the one thing that makes me feel most alive.

Or not posting all the time on Instagram because it feels like a chore to me. And when I do, not being fussed that it makes my feed look scattered and unplanned because that is what real life looks like.

Authenticity is a daily practice of accepting who I am and finding new ways to allow myself to shine.

Because I have spent a lot of time trying to change myself but I’ve never been happier than when I was just being me.

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

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In Seeking encouragement

Daring to be vulnerable and my fear of feeling joy

Behind every sun lit tree there is a lurking shadow.

Beyond every summer breeze there lies a winter chill.

No matter where I try to run, the sadness seems to chase me.

It’s a cumulus cloud, a tenacious oppressor,

Always on my tail.

All that is good is tainted by the darkness.

Everything sweet is shadowed by bitter.

All that is living is fleeing from decay.

These shadows they haunt us,

A reminder that everything is ephemeral.

The flowers will fade.

The grass will wither.

Our skin will become dust.

And these shadows too shall pass.

There is a feeling that rises within me every time I feel great joy. A sense of haunting sadness and a chilling panic. A cloud that sweeps across the clear blue sky and leaves goosebumps on my skin.

An awareness that soon the joy will pass. Without notice, the blinding happiness could be taken from me.

So I am quick to extinguish the joy rather than dwell on it. My mind scurries to latch the windows and draw the curtains.

I have this firm belief that it is better to shield myself than feel these overwhelming emotions.

So I smother them. The darkness and the light. The joy and the grief.

Brené Brown talks about this concept as a shield of armor we use to protect ourselves from feeling vulnerable. She calls this sensation, foreboding joy. In those moments of absolute bliss we are exposed, laid bare and defenseless.

When we feel love, connection or a sense of purpose, we are vulnerable because we have something to lose.

So rather than taking our time and sitting in the joy, we trample over it quickly with fear and sadness.

We picture these worst case scenarios. Our partner leaves us, one of our parents passes away, we lose our jobs, our plane goes down.

We prepare ourselves for the worst instead of living our best.

We think it is safer to keep our expectations low so that we won’t have to face the awful pain of disappointment.

I didn’t realise how often I was doing this until I recently read Brené’s book, Daring Greatly. I thought this shield of foreboding joy was just another idiosyncrasy I possess. That for me, everything was just a little bit tainted by sadness.

But as it turns out, I’m not the only one who lives this way. Darting from joy and dwelling on sadness.

It’s just another way that we try to escape that missing-the-last-step-stomach-drop feeling that comes with vulnerability.

None of us are particularly fond of the delicate balancing act we must undertake in order to find connection and meaning in this life. Wearing our hearts on our sleeves, sharing our art with the world, showing up wherever we go.

There is so much at stake. Sometimes the risk feels like too much to ask.

I’d rather stay in bed than face the fear of rejection or open myself up to the judgement and criticism of others.

Unfortunately, as I’ve got older I have come to realise that all the best bits in life require vulnerability.

Those laughing-until-you-can’t-breathe friendships. That flying feeling of sharing something you’ve created with complete strangers. The dizzy dancing rush of saying I love you for the first time. Blushing when someone compliments your cooking. Traveling some place not yet explored and losing your sentiment in translation.

I used to hide from the joy because I wasn’t brave enough to reach that depth of vulnerability.

But now that I recognize this problem I’m striving to have the courage to feel joy.

Whenever I find myself softened by happiness, instead of allowing the sinking feeling of weakness to set in, I’m practicing the art of gratitude.

Giving thanks in that moment for the joy. Taking time to lean out onto the ledge, the uncomfortable, unknown abyss that stretches before me.

Observing the way it makes me want to squirm and choosing to bravely trek onwards regardless.

So I’ll hug my friends extra tightly. I’ll smile even wider at the words I write. I’ll unclench my fists and relax my tense shoulders.

This is what it means to love loudly, to live wholeheartedly.

We share all of ourselves with others. Every last messy, imperfect bit. We know that vulnerability is strength not weakness so we force the shadows back and allow ourselves to feel the light.

I know now that feeling joy is incredibly courageous. It’s so very brave to allow ourselves to dive headfirst into such a powerful and unpredictable emotion.

But in the end both the joy and the sadness teach us what is truly valuable in life.

I consider it a privilege to feel sadness and to fear loss because it means I have something worth fighting for, living for, and loving with all I have.

For me, daring greatly means dropping my shield and welcoming the joy even though it terrifies me. That’s the most challenging, audacious and rewarding work that can be done.

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In Living intentionally

Facing up to the fear of rejection

I realized a long time ago that I am an introvert and not just that, but I am the worst kind of introvert.

A shy one.

For me, navigating social situations is as violent and harrowing an experience as walking across a minefield.

I come away feeling exhausted. The kind of tired that seems to stretch through your bones making you limp and lifeless.

As a child I remember the world feeling big and garish. Going new places or having to make new friends arose the same feeling inside of me as losing my mum in the supermarket. A wild-eyed, pursed-lipped panic.

I thought as I grew older the feeling would fade but I’ve carried the same trouble with me into adulthood.

The root of my shyness, as with most afflictions of the heart, is fear.

The fear that causes my voice to catch in my throat. The fear that suppresses my innate urge to love others. The fear that dulls the kaleidoscope of colours in this world.

The fear of rejection.

It has always plagued me. Sneakily crawling back into my life as it takes on new shapes and forms.

My fear of rejection causes me to shrink, inhibiting the hospitality that gives me life.

One of my greatest joys is welcoming people into our home.

I think that’s why I love food so much, because it brings us together. We gather around slices of pizza or steaming bowls of soup and we are united as one.

I’ve always hoped that someday I will be lucky enough to have a home with a gigantic kitchen and dining table so there will always be space to pull up one more chair.

But the desire to make people feel welcome, to talk to strangers and to make new friends is shadowed by this belief that they won’t like me.

So before they even tell me they have other plans or other friends I shut them out.

The fear of rejection has trampled all over romance in my life as well.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been infatuated with someone. Because loving feels as natural as breathing to me. I can hardly contain the swelling affection that sings within my heart.

But far too often I’ve found myself pining after someone for years because I’m so afraid that they won’t feel the same way about me.

Loving someone feels like far too much to ask. The risk of heartbreak seals my lips shut.

Rather than allow someone the chance to know and love me, I keep them at arm’s length and shy away from my feelings.

And in my day to day life, the fear of rejection makes conversations feel like an uphill battle.

I worry that my opinion won’t be heard or appreciated. I’m concerned that if I speak someone much more clever or witty will shut me down.

So I become disengaged. I smile and nod but do not venture to participate in the scene before me. I save my breath and try to take up as little space as possible.

Over the past month I’ve been unemployed and wrestling with this nagging feeling of unworthiness.

I have found myself withdrawing from my friends and wanting to hide rather than go out and be sociable and last night I finally figured out why that is.

Everywhere I go people ask me questions. What do I do? Where am I going? What is my plan?

And somewhere deep down I have this belief that what I do defines me. Right now I don’t do anything and therefore I feel like I don’t belong.

Without a plan, without a purpose, I am not valuable. I am not interesting. I am not worthy.

With every job application I send, I attach a little piece of myself to it. Every time they reject me or ignore me altogether, I get a little bit smaller.

The fear of rejection gains its power from the simple fact that we put our sense of worthiness in the wrong places.

We define ourselves by our career, by who we date, by the people we are friends with, by the shininess of our car and by the size of our clothing.

We fall into this same old trap time and time again.

We become crippled by shame. Overwhelmed by self-loathing. Infected with a lack of self worth. We shrink down and we shrivel up. We are wounded easily and we snap without warning.

But you know what, I’m so tired of being afraid.

I want to live fully. I want to love with my whole heart. I want to be actively engaged with life.

I need a reminder of who I am because I’m not too sure anymore.

Perhaps because it is so unbelievable that we could have any worth just by existing.

Maybe because of the subliminal messages we have received our whole lives that tell us we there is no elevator to success, we have to take the stairs.

But here is the truth…I matter because I AM, not because I DO.

You matter simply because you have life running through your veins and breath flowing in and out of your lungs.

We need not fear rejection because we already belong. We are valuable. We are loved.

Regardless of what others may say. Regardless of whether we fail or succeed. Regardless of whether we are picked first or last.

We are worthy.

It makes me feel needy that I require so much reassurance. But then I am reminded that I was created by a God who has an infinite capacity to fulfill this need.

So what a beautiful reunion it is when I place my heart back in His never-failing hands.

“If you look at the world, you will be distressed. If you look within, you will be depressed. If you look to God, you will find rest.” – Corrie ten Boom

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