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Feeling lost and finding your purpose

The dry season is the hardest.

When the ground is parched and cracks under foot.
When the grass withers beneath the incessant sun.
When the waves of heat ripple across the pavement all day long.

Faith is no struggle when the rain falls without prayer.
But when there are no clouds in sight, that’s when faith becomes more than a silent obligation.

The wilderness is a lonely place.
Dry and unforgiving.
Empty and deafeningly quiet.

The only place I know where being lost means finding yourself.

Do you ever feel as though as soon as one thing goes right, another falls apart?
It seems to be one of those rules of life.

A truth of adulthood.

We fix the broken tap and find a leak in the roof. It is almost impossible to stay on top of everything, all the time.

Lately I’ve found myself falling into a state of stress because I can’t decide what I want to do with my life.

I feel this rising panic in my chest because I don’t know where to place my feet like I’m constantly walking down the stairs and missing the last step.

I hate to be a cliche but it seems that is what I have become. The college graduate having an identity crisis…what’s new?

But to be completely honest, I feel totally lost.

Before this, everyone was always telling you who you are. And most of the time you are encouraged to fit in and be the same as everyone else.
You dress in a uniform, you take the subjects your parents think are best for you, you go to college and then suddenly…the voices stop.

You are on your own.

The silence is chilling. The blankness is unnerving.

The choices are all yours and you suddenly find yourself wishing for the comfort and familiarity of those loud voices you once despised.

For the first time in my life I have found myself becoming despondent.

There are too many options I could possibly choose and it leaves me feeling so exhausted that I choose nothing. I choose to remain stagnant.

I freeze up in fear of what might happen if I were to open one of the doors before me and step through it.

This despondency appears as a lack of inspiration. Words used to flow effortlessly from me. My fingers would caress the keyboard and my ideas would come to life before my eyes.
But now I struggle with that blinking cursor. It taunts me as I stare at the blankness of my screen.

An absence of words shows an absence of peace. I am restless. I am wallowing. I am floundering.

This is the wilderness.

The dry, empty, lost place. The space where we find ourselves wandering around blindly. The spot where we struggle to remember who we are and where we belong.

The wilderness gives us an opportunity to grow.

In this place of nothing and no one we are reminded of what matters most to us.

For me, that is people, my pace of life and my passions.

People.

When I feel lost, nothing sets me straight like spending time with those I love most.
Those who know me, truly know me and love me all the same.

Those who have been through all of the previous wilderness places with me and have the postcards I sent them to prove it.

Those who challenge me everyday to be better and try harder because they believe in me, even if I don’t.

When it comes down to it, there are a handful of precious people in this world who will always have your back.

They’ll hold you when it feels like your world is falling apart. They’ll show you how to laugh when sadness is all you know. And they’ll gently guide you till you find your way back home.

Pace of life.

Nothing causes me to burn out faster than overfilling my plate and over committing myself.

But recently I’ve realized this issue runs deeper than the fullness of my schedule, it’s to do with my entire environment.

I hate the hustle and bustle of living in the city. I hate that everyone is always in a hurry, so impatient, so unforgiving. I hate that this concrete jungle consumes us. Swallows us whole and spits out these grumbling, flustered, irritable people.

I miss the fresh air of the country. I miss seeing people I know and actually taking the time to chat with them. I miss driving anywhere and finding a free parking spot.

So it is the wilderness that reminds me to slow down. And perhaps to seek out calmer places for me to live, work and stay. The city is fine for a while but I know now that my heart belongs in the country.

Passions.

In this confusing place I’m seeking out the things that make me feel most alive. The things that make me feel happy and excited to get up in the morning.

The things that make me, me.

I miss dressing up everyday. I miss wearing pretty outfits with matching shoes and fun accessories.

I miss feeling inspired to write. Carrying around an ideas notebook and stopping randomly to fill a page because I simply must spill my ideas down immediately.

I miss taking the time to prepare food that I love and that makes me feel good rather than shoveling food into my mouth as I rush out the door.

I hate the wilderness.

It feels so unnerving. So lonely. So indefinite.

But perhaps, the wilderness is what I need.

Maybe wandering out here is necessary before I leap forwards into something new.

Because in the wilderness we are lost and we find ourselves.
We are broken and remade.
We are emptied so that we can be filled once more.

The wilderness doesn’t last forever…eventually we will find our place again.

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In Seeking encouragement

My body, my home

Mirrors, they are forever betraying me.

Enlarging my flaws.

Highlighting my weaknesses.

Pinpointing my insecurities.

A sheet of glass that always manages to find my achilles heel.

Why are my eyes so puffy in the morning?

Are my thighs really always that big?

I scrutinize every inch of myself until my stomach feels sick.

But it’s not the mirror who despises me.

It’s not the glass that leaves me feeling this way.

It’s my own head, my own thoughts that betray me, conditioned to believe beauty is only skin deep.

I shake the horrible thoughts out of my head. I hug my arms around myself.

I will not fight my own flesh anymore.

This is my body, this is my home.

I have always had a tentative relationship with my body.

There have been times when I have treated it poorly. Depriving it, over exerting it, attempting to squeeze it into jeans that were never designed for these hips.

Our relationship is one filled with one-sided animosity.

It seemed unfair to me that as I grew up, I expanded in some areas and not others. Like a balloon blown up all wonky instead of precisely into the standard shape.

I thought that women came in a standard shape too.

Blonde hair, check. Blue eyes, check. But what happened to my large breasts and tiny waist? Where is my golden tan and long, lean legs?

It seemed some pieces were missing from this perfect puzzle.

So I wrestled with my body for years. Desperately trying to manipulate it into that ideal shape and degrading this home of mine in the process.

Allowing weeds to take over the flowerbeds. Letting paint start to chip. Not worrying about the cracks in the ceiling or wallpaper beginning to fade.

Making it look from the outside as though everything was as it should be but on the inside I was crumbling into disrepair.

But I thought I had put all of that behind me. I thought I had made peace with my body. I thought I was finally free from this crippling, self-loathing mindset.

In the back of my mind I always knew that my body would eventually change, I was under no illusion that I would stay the size of a twenty year old forever. I just didn’t expect gaining weight to affect me so much.

But it has.

I was surprised how quickly the tears would come when I looked at myself in the mirror. I was shocked just how easily I allowed guilt to dictate what I ate. I was saddened to watch myself slipping back into the same old habits and not knowing what to do to stop it.

Because it’s easy to love your body when it fits the mold. It’s not difficult to have self compassion when you believe you are the right size.

It’s when my jeans began to feel too tight and my stomach still stuck out a little even when I was sucking it in that I discovered how difficult self love really is.

Self love is not something that comes naturally like taking a breath as you come out of water or blinking when a bright light flashes.

Learning how to love myself, my new self has been hard.

Possibly one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Which perhaps makes me sound vain and conceited but in a world which constantly reminds me that I need to change in order to fit in and be lovable, it’s not surprising at all.

I’ve been down this road now a few times and I’ve learnt that restriction and shame are not the answer. Loathing myself or fighting against my body just doesn’t work.

So it seems that a new attitude is in order.

I cannot be at war with myself anymore. It’s too exhausting. I cannot just sit idly by while the place I live begins to fall apart.

This is my body, this is my home.

And so I remind myself each and every day…

My worth is not dependent on my weight.

While this body is my home, it is not my full person.

I am singing along to country music with the windows down driving along the highway. I am laughing at the ocean waves lapping around my ankles and squealing when the water gets too high. I am giving a cheeky wink to my Father on stage at our school production.

You cannot contain me within the walls of this body, I am more than layers of flesh and a foundation of bones.

I am a gentle warmth, a cool breeze, a soft whisper.

My body is remarkable and it deserves my utmost respect.

To diminish its purpose to simple aesthetics is outrageous.

This body can run for miles and miles. This body can hear a rhythm and melt into the music. This body can heal itself, transform itself and grow another whole human being inside of it.

This body is incredible.

Change is inevitable, adaptation is crucial.

Nothing in this life stays the same forever. It has often been said that change is the only constant.

Therefore, I will not be surprised nor phased by change, I will simply adapt and move forwards.

A changing body means a life that is progressing. We are growing older and wiser. We are tracking towards new adventures and achievements.

Women aren’t like balloons. We don’t come in a standard shape or size. We are unique and that is something that should be celebrated rather than diminished.

Trying to squeeze us into one mold is a crying shame. There is so much beauty in our diversity. There is so much wonder in our individuality.

When I look at the women in my life I feel that this is a battle that might not be won overnight. Because I’ve seen these precious ladies fighting against their bodies my whole life.

But that makes me no less determined to win this war of self compassion.

If not for me than for my daughters, my nieces, my best friends. For every woman who looks up to me and watches how I treat this place I call home.

I hope they will see something different in me. A deeper respect, an honest disposition, an abundance of grace.

A woman who bears the wrinkles of decades of laughter. Who proudly wears stretch marks from bringing new life into the world. Who has freckles from glorious summers in the sunshine and perhaps carries a little extra weight for all the meals that make life worth living.

I believe that in the end, the struggle is worth it.

Because this is my body, this is my home.

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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 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

The antidote to shame

You will never be enough. The voice whispers over me. You don’t belong. It calls out as I go to sleep in the all-encompassing darkness. You are just an impostor. It greets me as I open my curtains to the beckoning morning light.

Then there is this sticky feeling, like molasses poured over my head. It drips down over me until I’m covered from head to toe. I’m blanketed in it. Blinded by it. It discolours everything that I look at. It destroys everything I touch. So I withdraw. Better that I wallow in the sticky fog than drag anyone down with me.

Shame.

The thick, blinding fog that mars every thought, misinterprets every encounter and paralyzes my fragile heart.

Its’ barbed tongue pierces my delicate flesh.

You are too young, nobody will take you seriously. You aren’t pretty enough, you aren’t clever enough, you aren’t fun enough…nobody will want you. You are too emotional, it’s exhausting for everybody around you.

I find myself crawling on my hands and knees to church every Sunday. Weighed down by these lies that shame hums over me seven days a week.

The first song starts and I stand motionless, gripping my hands together. I can’t look anyone in the eye. I can’t even look myself in the mirror. I can’t face a God who is so without fault.

So I stand as my fellow church-goers and friends sing a rising song. Shouting their adoration, clapping the rhythm of their joy.

I’m bitter. I’m empty, hollow like a crystal vase. You can see right through my pitiful display. I’m not fooling anyone.

They can see my failure. They know my shame.

The guitar keeps twanging. The drums keep beating. The worship leaders keep singing. I remain glued to the spot.

I close my eyes. I bow my head. I slowly whisper the words, not the ones they are singing but the ones in my heart. The ones I’ve been hiding all week. The ones I’m afraid to say. Am I loved? Do you see me? Am I enough?

My heart is drumming as I await an answer. I expect a booming thunder. A roaring wind. A blaze of light. And instead the room begins to glow. Gold light shimmers down from above. I’m swept in a glow. The antidote to the dark, sticky molasses.

Love.

Gently the gold glitter rains down on me. Settles on my hands which are now outstretched, on my eyelids, lips and shoulders. Seeps into my skin and filters right down to my core.

A thousand failures disappear. All my shortcomings are erased. I slip on this new robe of grace and it is well with my soul.

How can it be?

How can the one without fault find me under my blanket of shame? How can He lift my chin from the ground, meet my eye and love me all the same?

I was wrong about Him. I thought he would be mad at me for all the ways I’ve let him down. I thought he would be disappointed in the little I have amounted to. I thought he would agree with that voice I hear day and night…I thought he WAS that voice.

I was wrong.

Where there is light, there is no darkness. Where there is truth, there is no deception. Where there is love, there is no shame.

He doesn’t care if I can’t sing the words the others are. He doesn’t notice that I haven’t washed my hair in three days or that my socks don’t match or that I sang that note out of key. He’s just glad I’m here. He’s absolutely delighted that I came to him.

I hear whispers from neighbours. I see glances from people on the street. I know that there are people in this world who want to take advantage of me. There are people who only want me for my body, my success, my superficial attributes.

And their approval feels good. It lifts me up and for a few seconds I’m flying. But it’s a temporary buzz. Over almost as quickly as it began. And I’m sinking again. Because all they saw was my pretty face and funny story.

I’m thirsty for attention. I’m parched. Absolutely desperate for love.

Their attention and affection fills me up but like drinking salt water it only leads me further into dehydration.

I need more.

I need love that’s unconditional, unfailing, unending.

So I keep crawling back to church every Sunday. Not because I was raised that way. Not out of habit or to impress anyone. Not because I need the affection of the other desperate souls I find there.

But because I’ve found a well there. A well that springs up a different kind of water. A living water that finally quenches my thirst. In this place my need for love and approval is met. I find my worth and I am unquestionably different because of it.

I’m anointed with oil and the shame won’t stick. It drips down and slides right off me.

I am healed. I am whole. I am home.

“When you get to a place where you understand that love and belonging, your worthiness is a birthright and not something you have to earn, anything is possible.” – Brene Brown

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In Seeking encouragement

Here’s to the ones who dream

I used to be afraid that eventually I would run out of ideas.

That all of my words would run dry and I’d have nothing left to say.

But I’ve learnt that my writing is a gift.

It’s God’s abundant grace spilled out in black and white.

It’s limitless.

It’s infinite.

It’s not something that can be lost because it’s within me.

As long as I have breath in my lungs, I can write.

Because my DNA is the alphabet strung together.

My blood is the stories of my ancestors.

My heartbeat is the poetry of life.

I create because I was created.

This is my purpose, this is my life, this is me.

I think my whole life I’ve been trying to squeeze myself into a box.

There is this particular type of person who I’ve always believed I am supposed to be. This girl is intelligent. She’s scientific and she’s loud. The kind of person who always knows the answer and readily volunteers it. The kind of person who always sticks their hand up, voices their opinions and doesn’t let anyone scare them.

I’m am slowly coming to the realization that I am not that girl.

Since finishing my studies and stepping away from the arduous pursuit of intelligence. For the first time I’ve given myself permission to be the creative, romantic, whimsical person I’ve spent my whole life suppressing.

Suddenly, no longer bound by the labels of a major I have been free to pursue the things that really make me feel alive. Namely words and the compelling task of piecing them together perfectly.

And it feels as though I’m fighting everyday to prove my worth.

Because society says success looks like a hefty paycheck, a stable job, a clear direction. I had this wonderful idea that once I graduated I would glide effortlessly into a job. That I would jump into the world of adulthood and land gracefully on my feet.

Except that daydream was promptly shattered about five minutes into job hunting when I realized that path was not going to be for me.

Endless piles of paperwork are not for me.

Sitting behind a desk all day is not for me.

Mindless work to secure a salary is not for me.

My heart longs to pour itself out in poetry. My hands ache with this need to create.

It seems that my art is no longer just the thing I squeeze into the hours I have spare but what my whole day revolves around.

And art is anything but certain.

Art is mystical, emotional and ever-changing.

This calling makes me uncomfortable because it’s anything but conventional. I feel the pressure to conform. To be the university graduate who gets a steady job and makes her parents proud.

I, like so many others have bought into the lie that my worth is found in other’s opinions of me.

It’s not true. Their opinions don’t matter. It’s all just noise. Noise that prevents us from doing the real work; the daring work our hands were called to.

So of course my opinion doesn’t matter either, but I will give it nonetheless.

And to that end I will say, here’s to the ones who dream. Thank you. All of you for the work you do. You are all valuable. Your work is important and necessary.

Thank you all you authors and poets, you give words for the feelings I cannot express. Thank you to the scientists whose minds are never satisfied. The ones who cannot sleep until they figure out how things work, even if that means pulling things apart and stringing the pieces back together again.

Thank you to those who spend their whole lives working on puzzles I cannot begin to fathom. For the ones who design buildings, take stunning photographs and raise children.

For the ones who make history come alive again, give me music to dance to and fix me when I fall apart.

Each and every one of you make this world go round.

And my heart breaks at the thought of us carelessly snuffing out your song.

Imagine a world where musicians never played, philosophers never pondered, teachers never instructed, astronauts never flew. Imagine a world where we never dared to dream.

We are quick to celebrate those who frequent stadiums, operate in theatres and grace the red carpet. But there are the humble few whose work goes unnoticed and unappreciated. Those whose worth is underestimated.

So to you I say this, don’t give up. Just because we fail to recognise your worth, does not mean your work isn’t valuable. Keep creating, studying, showing up and giving it your all.

As for me, I’m sick of being a square peg in a round hole. Squeezing myself into a box I was never meant to be in.

I’m tired of trying to live up to the unfair expectations that others place upon me.

I long for this world to be a safe place where all of us are free to be our most authentic selves. That choosing vulnerability wouldn’t be considered brave but commonplace.

But I guess it starts here. With me writing these words to you. I will lay my cards on the table in the hope that you will do the same. My courage will spark courage in your heart and yours in anothers.

So this is me. I’m not loud, scientific or overly intelligent. I’m a writer. A dreamer. A hopeless romantic. I’m a square peg.

I might not fit society’s definition of success but that will not deter me.

“The world needs dreamers and the world needs doers. But above all, the world needs dreamers who do.” – Sarah Ban Breathnach

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