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Victory lap

Are you also a sucker for a victory lap? Do you also get chills when witnessing that moment of hard-fought glory after all the blood, sweat and tears? I’ve always loved a good victory lap. Even before I had any real interest in participating in physical activity, I shed a few tears as I watched someone’s hard work come to fruition.

Recently, I had my own victory lap – completing the Knysna Half Marathon. I didn’t win, nor was it my first half marathon. I didn’t run my personal best either – in fact this is the longest I’ve ever taken to run 21 kilometres. None of that matters though, because this is the proudest I’ve ever been while running a race. The entire thing was my victory lap, too, not just the bit where I crossed the finish line and got handed a medal.

Why? Well, because 4 months ago I didn’t think I would be around to run. There was a part of me that believed that I would, in some way, not be present anymore. 2019 has been the hardest battle I’ve fought in my life, because I had to face years of toxic patterns and destructive thoughts that, up until now, I had somehow coped with. Last year I put this race on my bucket list, and in true stubborn style, I trained for it (haphazardly at times, I must admit!) over the past few months. I ran on days when depression nipped at my ankles, luring me back to my dark bedroom. I learnt that some days, “done” was even better than “perfect”. I started listening to my body again, reconnecting to it and respecting it. I began to talk to my body and my heart with love again. Not because I always felt like it, but because I had made a very public promise to do this, and achieving in the eyes of others has always been a particularly good motivator for me. Not a healthy motivator, mind you – but at this point I took what I could get.

Running this race, feeling the blood pumping through my veins, reminded me in the most tangible way that I am here. I am alive and I get to experience all the aches and pains and metaphorical hills associated with that. I get to see the beauty of nature and experience the camaraderie of the other beautiful humans all trying to make their way to their final destination. So, this has become my victory lap, the symbol of every day that I choose to get up and fight.

Looking back today, I can say that it was by no means easy. Then again, the human experience will never be easy all the time. There will always be periods focused on putting in the work and making tough choices. I know that there will be times of pain and discomfort and paralysing uncertainty. The same is true for you – because you are gloriously and imperfectly human. In those times that we battle through the darkness, may we all be reminded of the victory laps we’ve run before. After all, it’s the pain and bitterness that we’ve tasted that make the triumph especially sweet.

    Break

    I have a mountain of admin to sort through at the moment, the type of admin I feel we really should be warned abut before signing up for adulthood. Somewhere along the way, while looking for a document (which, by the way, I have yet to find), I stumbled across this piece I wrote almost 4 years ago. The events and circumstances I describe in it may have changed, but the message still rings true:

    Relief.

    That’s what tears taste like today. Relief.

    Okay, let me backtrack. This has been a week where I’ve been so acutely aware of everything I am bad at, everything I do wrong and all the things I let fall by the wayside.

    I’m not exercising enough. I don’t call my grandma often enough. My romantic life, or lack thereof, is laughable. Seriously, there is some great material for a romantic comedy here. With the emphasis on comedy and the “romantic” referring to my current relationship with my bed.

    I’m also in the process of doing my Master’s degree, which is awesome because I’m a total nerd (owning it); but it’s also scary. I’m scared witless of failing at this because I truly care about it. I’m scared because there have been so many things I’ve tried to control or succeed at that only ended up broken.

    So, the tears come into play here: I received feedback from my supervisor. Good feedback, with kind words. That’s all. I bawled like a baby (while in my pink pyjamas in my beloved bed – don’t judge me, I have the flu so a pyjama day is allowed). I cried and cried and cried because I was so relieved that this wasn’t broken. That I wasn’t broken.

    I guess that’s what today was all about, me realising that I’m not broken. Even if the feedback was horrible, even if all my work had to be started over and had come undone –  I’m not broken beyond repair. Yes, I feel broken and in many areas of my life I’m not functioning the way I want. That doesn’t mean I’m useless. It doesn’t mean that my heart is any less valuable. A broken heart still beats within my chest, and although I’m convinced that sometimes there’s an unsteady staccato where the reassuring heartbeat should be, it’s still there. I’m still here.

    So maybe, just maybe, I should be redefining my view of the word “broken”?

    Broken means I’m trying.

    Broken means I’m brave.

    Broken means I’m being vulnerable and open.

    Broken means I’m present and aware.

    Broken does not give me permission to lash out, but it does give me permission to ask for help.

    Broken does not mean I’m allowed to be bitter, it does mean that I can say “This hurts.”

    Broken does not mean I have no value, it means I’m going through a period of refinement.

    There is beauty in broken, because there is hope for restoration and new beginnings.

    And in admitting that something is broken, there is relief. I’m not holding it all together by myself, trying to keep the pieces from falling on the ground. I can let them fall and shatter even more. In doing this, I can pick up the pieces and sift through them. Keep what I want, hold on to the things that are good for me. Discard the things that are of no use. The shattered pieces I choose to keep – those are the pieces I can use for my mosaic. The others I can acknowledge and let go. Breathe in, breathe out. Broken is  hard place to be, but it is a good place to be.

    Play

    Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

    You know how sometimes, you pull out an old jacket from your cupboard, one that you haven’t worn in a while, and slip it on? You’re surprised at how comfortably it rests across your shoulders, or you find money you forgot about in the pocket, or maybe you remember why you loved it in the first place. The act of rediscovering something you’ve forgotten about seems to carry a hint of magic.

    Writing is like that for me. Whenever I write, it’s like I’m getting reacquainted with myself, shining a light into all the nooks and crannies of my soul. I have come to the realisation that writing is part of who I am, and that it makes me happy to see a page filling up with words, to create something new, to present these efforts to others as a gift of our shared experience.

    To be honest, it’s been a while since I wrote anything other than grocery lists or to-do lists, both of which included the word “sanitizer” much more than I had ever thought possible. It would be easy to blame 2020 – we’ve all seen the memes, after all. I suppose this year has contributed, to some extent, to my silence. Whatever I wrote felt contrived and far-removed from the realities so many people were facing.

    So, why write now? The circumstances in the world haven’t changed. All the excuses I had not to write are still there. What has changed is that these past few weeks, there’s been an insistent whisper, signs from everywhere, reminding me what I love to do. I fully believe this now: I owe it to myself to write. It’s not even the only thing I need to do, but it is something I have to do. It’s a non-negotiable. I can see it like a golden thread, woven through my life. I owe it to the little girl who loved books ferociously and dreamed of writing her own book one day, spending hours making up stories and writing them down. I owe it to the teenager who dreamed of being a magazine editor. I owe it to the part of me that tells stories to my friends’ children, wanting them to experience the magic of the world of words, even for a fleeting moment. I owe it to the people who love me, who see these parts of me and celebrate them.

    We all have the thing we owe ourselves, and I tend to believe that these things rarely have to do with tax returns or buying groceries. Somewhere inside of us, we have something that makes our soul jump around and splash in puddles and play. This happens when we get real and messy, when we sing and sew and dance and cook, when we help others and build things and dream big. It happens when we do the thing we’ve always loved, but let go of because it wasn’t practical. It happens when we do the thing we want to do when we’re retired. I have seen too many people miss out on that promised old age, this year more than ever. So, I’ll be allowing my soul to play this year. Will you be doing the same?

    Celebrate

    One of my yoga teachers often reminds us to start a physical practice, or any specific asana (all those awesome poses) the way you want to end it. Start with balance and strength and a clear mind, and that’s what you’ll carry throughout your practice. It’s difficult to recover balance when you’re halfway through a posture and your mind is in a million other places. Not impossible, but difficult. I’ve started to implement this for my day-to-day as well. A day that I start with a steady and calm mind is generally easier to navigate than a day started in a rush.

    I turn 31 today, and as most people in my life know, birthdays are a pretty big deal for me. This is especially true this year. There were times in this year when I was certain that I wouldn’t be celebrating my birthday this year, yet here I am. I am here, and I am complete. I am living fully into my truth, while remaining aware that I am always a work in progress.

    So today, I am thinking about how I’m starting this year, and what tone I’m setting for the year ahead through my actions.

    I got to start my 32nd year on earth by moving and breathing in an early morning yoga class. This year I’m committing to moving my body in ways that feel good. I will honour my body, not with the goal of looking a specific way, but because it is home to a remarkable spirit. I will remind myself that exercise is self-care, not a competition or a form of punishment. I will be present in my body and my process.

    I am sitting in sunshine with excellent coffee and a perfectly baked croissant beside me. This year, I will remember to stop and savour the little perfections in my day, and my life. I’ve been thinking that maybe the thing that makes life an exciting ride is the contrast between the perfect and the broken, the tension between what we have and what we hope and work for; and I’m planning on delving into that in the coming year.

    Sounds that feed my soul are playing through my headphones while I pour my heart out on this page, knowing that these words get sent out into the world, with the hope that they mean something to someone out there. I promise myself that this year, I will keep writing. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of being a writer but as I grew older, I became jaded and insecure. Now I know that I don’t need a degree or anybody’s permission to write and I don’t need to write the next great novel; I only need to write what moves me.

    I am seeing some of the people who colour in my life these next few days. Some of them have walked beside me for years, some people I’ve only recently met. In this year, I will celebrate these people and enjoy every moment with them; while remembering that nothing needs to be permanent to be significant, and that some relationships go through seasons of distance and closeness – and that is okay. It feels like a treasured secret, one that makes you smile for no reason, to know that we are all walking each other home.

    The biggest gift I have been given this year so far was the opportunity to live again. Fully. What a thrill it is to feel each heartbeat, each breath, and know that I have purpose. Whenever I get to feel excited or upset or afraid or angry, I am reminded that to feel is a privilege. That is when I remember the isolation of numbness and the haze of days lived on autopilot, and I am so thankful that I sometimes become physically overwhelmed by the rush of gratitude.

    I have so many hopes and dreams for this year, so many goals I want to accomplish. But this year, I will remember that it is not about the finish line, and it’s not about what I will accomplish by 6 November 2020. These are the daily intentions I will celebrate my life with:

    Movement.

    Breath.

    Presence.

    Gratitude.

    Vulnerability.

    Sharing.

    Connection.

    Feeling it all – and being brave enough to live it.

    Reflect

    You know those people who can make a decision in a split second? I am not one of them. I hardly ever make decisions based on impulse. I am the queen of pro and con lists, and cannot imagine even ordering something at a restaurant before I’ve consulted the entire menu (honestly, people put time into those so it’s rude not to read them, right?). I cried for hours on end in Grade Six because I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a living one day, and this was a problem because how was I supposed to make such a major choice with SO LITTLE TIME?!

    “Let me think about it.”

    “I’ll get back to you.”

    “I honestly don’t know yet, I’m still trying to decide.”

    These words roll over my lips much more often than I care to admit, and I hear them regularly too.  Some of us are paralysed by the idea of making the wrong decision, so we end up in a decision-making purgatory of our own design. We are so aware of the intricacies and possible outcomes of every single option that nothing seems like a good choice anymore.

    I recently made the big decision to resign. My job has been my greatest constant in the last 8 years of my life. When I was grieving, it was my safe haven. When I changed my life and decided to be the healthiest possible version of myself, work was there. My career was my grounding force as I fell in love and made new friends, and it was my solace when I had my heart broken and said goodbye to people who I had whispered the word “forever” to. It has become, largely, how I define myself. Being a workaholic was my drug of choice and badge of honour. Being constantly busy is still a socially acceptable addiction, and I was its poster child.

    Please don’t misunderstand me. I love my job. I am thankful for how I have grown in it and through it. It has been the place where I met some of the people that most impacted my life, where I met colleagues who became housemates who became best friends who became chosen family. I have learnt more from my patients than I could ever teach them, and I carry their stories with me in my heart everywhere I go. I’ve been allowed to take on challenges that I didn’t think I was remotely qualified for and had people cheering me on all the way. I know, though, that it is time for new (ad)ventures and new seasons – and that scares me in all the best ways possible.

    Some people think that this choice was sudden and out of character for me, and in some ways, they’re right. This decision is out of my character as I have no other job lined up, no five-year plan to offer as they ask “What’s next?”. I shared this decision-making process with only a select few people, not because I don’t trust the people in my life, but because this decision couldn’t be made based on popular opinion.

    Initially, I spent a couple of months weighing up the good and bad, engaging in my typical pattern of imagining possible outcomes. This did me no good. I was stuck. I gave myself deadlines but could not meet them. I would run away from the prospect of making a choice, distracting myself with series binges and books and people, anything so I didn’t have to decide, only to have my over-analysis constantly playing as a loop in my subconscious. It was there all the time.

    While catching up with friends. “You can’t leave a steady income – think about the economy!”

    Out for a run. “Mmm, just imagine having the freedom to explore other passions.”

    Singing in the shower. “How will this look on your CV?”

    All. The. Time.

    Then, one day, the answer came to me, and I was filled with a deep and steady knowing. Did the answer come from nowhere? Is this a testimony that over-analysis and constantly weighing up options works? No. It is a story of reflection.

    I have learnt that reflection is different to analysis, even though for years I confused these two concepts, taking for granted that by doing the one, I was engaging in the other. Analysis is taking a choice apart bit by bit, leaving only its skeleton behind as proof of your process. It is tiring and feels like just another thing on my to-do list. My brain doesn’t know how to stop analysing once its started, trying to come to the most rational, perfect conclusion. It’s easy enough to make decisions based on analysis when it comes to choosing which car to buy or which medical aid to go for – the things that can be quantified and fit neatly in my pro and con lists. So many other choices, however, have little place for analysis, refusing to be linearly organised.

    To reflect, we need to become still. We cannot see our reflection in a mirror without stopping. A tumultuous lake shows no reflection. When that same body of water is quiet, the environment around it is a crystal-clear mirror image on its surface. Reflection is about what is, not what will be or what was. I love that a synonym for reflection, “ponder”, has the word “pond” right in there as a reminder to myself of this imagery, prompting me to physically and mentally stop. To take the time to quieten down the storms of analysis and worry around my inner landscape, and to allow those waters to become still. It is when I meditate, sit in silence, and reconnect with myself that this happens. Once I do that, I can see what is truly happening around me and inside me.

    That is how I made my decision, finally. By realising that I cannot be open to and expectant of new things if I am holding space for what was. By seeing the reflection in my mind’s eye of a season that is good, but is ending. I could try to stop it from happening, but that’s not how seasons work. When we try to manipulate Mother Nature, we get tsunamis and earthquakes and hurricanes. When we trust, we get growth and new fruits to enjoy.

    Here’s to all of us reflecting and trusting. May we grow in this together.

    Bloom

    When I turned 30 last year, a friend gave me an orchid, and I promptly started to panic. Lots of people say that they don’t have a green thumb, but I’m special. Not to alarm the plant-lovers out there, but I once managed to kill a miniature cactus (you know, the things that survive in unforgiving arid regions?), so I think it’s fair to say that I have a unique talent when it comes to helping houseplants cross over to the other side.

    Now, I have been entrusted with an orchid before. A couple of years ago, a former boyfriend sent me one as a birthday gift while he was away for work. I pampered it, I gave it Woolworths orchid food, and I checked in on it obsessively. My approach with that boyfriend was eerily similar. I worried and worked and white-knuckled my way through that relationship, following made-up care instructions and meeting imagined needs. Unsurprisingly, the orchid and the relationship both died untimely deaths, much like Kate Hudson’s love fern in How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.

    This orchid was different. Sure, I started out on a similar path, religiously giving it an exact amount of water at exactly the same time each week; but then depression crossed my path and my priorities changed. At that point, it was a battle just to keep myself hydrated and semi-healthy, so when it came to watering the orchid, my efforts were sporadic at best. My only regular weekly appointment was with my psychologist, which is also where my money was being invested, rather than in plant food (sorry, Woolies).  

    I had given up on the orchid blooming, but didn’t really have the heart or energy to get rid of it, when a friend pointed out to me that it was showing signs of blooming again this year. By then, I had started giving it (and myself) water more regularly again. I made the very un-Ansunette choice to ease up on the control, and simply gave the orchid what it seemed to need most, when it needed it: water once a week and a nice big window with soft sunlight. I don’t check in on how it seems to be doing it every day, opting instead to curiously observe what is happening with it. It sits on my dresser, and it’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning. That sight used to prompt me to check in on the plant, and try to decipher how I could move along its “progress”. Now, I simply see something beautiful that is growing at its own pace, a process that I have the privilege of witnessing.

    We so often compare our inner worlds, our relationships, and our careers to gardens. We casually drop phrases like “nurture” and “tending to” when discussing them. My poor gardening skills let me down here on all fronts. My understanding was that it was a one-sided process, while it was actually an interaction. Yes, this orchid needed me to give it water – but it also has resilience built in, a sacred natural intelligence that I have no part in. When I slip up, when I have a bad day and forget to water it, it doesn’t rebel and die. It taps into its own reserves, waiting patiently for me to return. It doesn’t expect me to only give of myself. Healthy bodies, minds, and souls are like that too, I think. If we just give ourselves space to breathe, our body tells us what is missing and what it needs. Like that first orchid, I have suffocated myself by trying to control everything. I have gripped relationships so tightly that I walked away from them with bloody, calloused hands. To nurture a relationship doesn’t mean I steer it and meet needs that aren’t even there. It means that I should enter into interactions with open hands, being willing to give, all the while knowing that growth is not my sole responsibility. It means I should be willing to let something grow in its own way, and that even if that doesn’t align with my expectations, it can still be beautiful.

    Little buds have been forming on my orchid for a while now. Sometimes, I’ve wondered when and if I’d see flowers, but I’ve decided to trust the process – for my orchid, and for my life.

    Last night, after a particularly difficult week, I saw it.

    My orchid is in bloom.

    Grief

    Some people love celebrations, and I’m one of them. I’m a birthday person, a Christmas person. I even have a reminder on my phone marking the anniversary of moving into my home. I enjoy the opportunity these events afford me to pause, reflect, and plan.

    Some anniversaries don’t need a little cross on the calendar, though. They are cemented in your memory, wedged in somewhere between your ID number and the colour of your first love’s eyes. For me, this is the date that my father left (this) earth. I approach 27 July with mixed feelings, the sum total of which I can only describe as grief.

    Grief is missing your dad, but being happy that he isn’t suffering. It’s remembering silly inside jokes, but forgetting his scent. Feeling thankful for a life that was lived fully yet imperfectly, while also experiencing anger at the thought of all the milestones he’s not here for: that’s grief. Grief gave me entry to a club I never applied to join, a club to which membership is inevitable for us all.

    I have come to know grief as a companion on this road trip called life. Most of the time it’s in the backseat, sometimes it takes the wheel. It is not a task to be completed. Instead, it is an ongoing cycle. This cycle is easy to manage most days, but still blindsides me on others.

    And, yet: grief is no longer debilitating. It is part of my makeup. It nudges me to tune into my heart and ask it how it’s doing today. It reminds me that I was loved, and that I loved in return; it urges me to continue breaking down walls so that I can love completely. That way, when I grieve again (and again, and again) in future, I can honestly say that I gave my whole heart, knowing that it would not return back in the same condition. I do not want to die with a heart in pristine condition. I want to have a heart that is well-worn by love and connection, bruised and broken open by joy and love and pain, a heart that heals time and again in order to keep expanding – and for that, the price I am willing to pay is grief.

    Goldilocks

    There’s nothing quite like a good story, is there? Whether we’re bookworms or series-junkies, theatre fanatics or movie aficionados, most of us are getting our story fix somewhere. Don’t know what to make small talk about at a party? Ask someone what series they’re bingeing at the moment and you’re probably going to find common ground somewhere. We have book clubs where strangers become friends, based on our connection over stories. People make a living telling stories, whether from behind a camera, on stage, or by pouring their thoughts out onto paper. Whether it’s fiction or not, the ingredients of a good narrative stay the same – struggle, growth, and resolution. We search for satisfying stories in our religions and political choices. Stories are, I believe, what make us more than machines.  

    I realise that I’m not making a ground-breaking statement. Most of us have heard, somewhere, about the importance of narratives in our lives. In fact, two of my favourite writers, Brenè Brown and Donald Miller, have done extensive research and work on the role the stories we tell ourselves plays in our personal and professional lives, teaching millions of people how to use narratives to improve their lives.

    I used to dress one-handed as a child because I literally could not put down the book I was enthralled with. Not surprisingly, my mother didn’t always have the easiest time getting me in the car for school on time. Even as an adult, I always have my Kindle nearby, as I’m usually in the middle of reading at least two or three different books across different genres at any given time. Lately, I’ve revisited the stories I loved as a child, curious about which ones helped shape my world views. Did the steady stream of Disney stories make me a damsel in distress? Luckily not – all my Beauty and the Beast obsession did was make me want a library in my home. In addition to Belle and her princess crew, I had Nancy Drew, Hermione Granger and Jo March teaching me not to wait around for someone to save me. The heroines of my childhood were examples of bravery, wit and honesty. They worked hard and were kind, exemplifying characteristics I still strive to embody.

    When it comes to the narrative I’ve been feeding off of, though, I’m slightly ashamed to admit that it’s most closely mirrored in Goldilocks. You know how she goes around from item to item in the bears’ home, judging everything? That’s what I’ve been doing to myself for as long as I can remember. I’ve been dissecting my appearance, my thoughts, and my emotions, trying to determine where they fall on the ridiculous scale of worthiness I had devised. I’ve been reducing my very being to fragments, totally dissociated from each other. The reason I so strongly identify with Goldilocks here is the word she uses when judging the bears’ belongings. She consistently describes their possessions by using the word “too”: too hot or too cold, too hard or too soft, until she gets to that Utopian “just right”. Now there are many people who might say that they fear not being “enough”, and I have also uttered that phrase in the past. I have to admit, though, that the story I have been telling myself, the one that reveals my deepest fear, is littered with that toxic little three-letter word.

    Too.

    “Ansunette, your emotions are too complicated. Your needs are too great. You are too intense. You are too much.”

    So, I dialled it all down a notch – trying to make myself just right. Palatable. I did everything I could to be the low-maintenance friend, the girlfriend who was never needy, the employee who would do it all without asking any questions. I could fit in anywhere and with anyone because I wasn’t too much of anything. I saw my emotions as a burden. I believed that my ability to feel intensely was a defect. I buried my essence deep down, only allowing a select few people to truly see me.

    Eventually, though, I had to re-evaluate this strategy. I thought back to what I love, what has shaped me. I have described hiking in rice paddies in SaPa as breath-taking, exhausting and enriching, not as “just right”. The greatest pain in my life, where I could feel my heart breaking in my chest, was not made of mild, middle-of-the-road stuff – but it was also my greatest lesson and the catalyst for incredible growth. I don’t love the people in my life because they are “palatable”. I love them for their quirks, for their innate human-ness. So why was I trying to reduce myself to being less than who I am? “Palatable” should be what I hope for from a dodgy garage pie, not from myself and certainly not from life. There is no shame in feeling deeply. In fact, I now see this for what it is: an incredible gift. This is what allows me to empathise with the people I come across. It is what makes me experience the beauty in music and art and words right down to my bones. It’s what drives me to follow dreams and change this world. I get to dive in, headfirst, into the human experience; and as I have become more comfortable with my own “too”-ness, I have seen that I’m not too much for the people that matter, anyway. None of us are.

    I’ve made a vow to myself, something I tell myself every morning as I brush my teeth. I tell myself: “Ansunette, you are not just right. You are more than that – thank goodness! Today, I promise to keep this heart open and feel it all, even if it’s scary, so that you can be all you were meant to.”

    Can you make that promise to yourself today, along with me? Are you willing to live a life of authenticity? It’s scary as hell, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: even a single day lived in the high definition you were made for, is immeasurably better than years of being just right.

    Nugget

    So here I am, doing this thing. Writing and letting it all out on a page. As the cursor blinks expectantly, holding space for me, there’s a part of me that wants to retreat. There’s a voice inside telling me to wait, to play it safe and keep this to myself. Telling me that I can tell people later, when everything is resolved and I’m all fixed up. This voice has already decided what will happen if I hit the “publish” button.

    I’ll lose face.

    I’ll cause eyebrows to raise.

    The carefully constructed façade I’ve been presenting will crumble away.

    I could say that these things aren’t true, but they are. The thing is, I’m starting to realise that if I lose face, if I shock people and let them catch a glimpse of who I am, the world won’t end. In fact, I need these things to happen. I need to be honest with myself, and that extends to being honest with those around me. A friend of mine has said that living your truth opens up the space for others to do the same. If my honesty causes isolation from some people, then it’s probably fair to say that there was no true intimacy before anyway. True connection can only exist in a space where someone sees you – the real you. So maybe my fake world needs to end for a new one to be created, one where I can bring a touch of the divine to the brokenness I find myself in.

    So, here I am. Doing this thing.

    My name is Ansunette. I am a daughter, friend and self-appointed “fun aunt” to a bevy of adorable toddlers. I am a runner, a reader, and a yoga fanatic. I can quote Friends at the drop of a hat, and I love participating in embarrassing dance routines at weddings. I’ll remember what you were wearing the night I met you, as well as where your family comes from, how you take your coffee, and when your birthday is. This is partly because I have a great memory (thank you, genetic lottery!), but mostly because I love to make people feel special and included. For those of you so inclined, I am an Enneagram Type 2 with a very strong 3 wing. I feel alive when exploring new places and learning new things. I’m always keen for a glass of wine and a late-night conversation, and meeting new people is one of my favourite things.

    I am also currently seeing a psychologist because I am depressed. I’ve got the ICD-10 code on the medical aid statements to prove it and everything. I have the crying-in-the-shower mornings, the can’t-get-out-of-bed days, and the lonely-in-a-crowd moments to substantiate that code. These aren’t isolated incidents. These are periods that stretch out, seemingly endlessly. All those things I said before, about who I am? The depression seems to nullify all of those puzzle pieces that make up the wonderfully vibrant picture of me. It makes me want to isolate myself. It makes me feel like I have no energy to do the things I love. It whispers to me that what I do and who I am are all just fleeting and insignificant. There are legitimately days when I believe, with every fiber of my being, that me being alive is a waste of space. On these days, I can feel the angry little red balloon of anxiety in my chest swell up, pressing against my insides, leaving me gasping for breath and survival.

    I work in allied health. I’m smart enough to know all the signs of depression, and I know all the advice that every self-help blogger and psychology textbook spouts. Get out in the sunshine. Exercise. Eat well. Sleep well. Meditate. Talk to someone. It’s simple! It’s easy! It’s clean-cut!

    Except, it’s not.

    It’s as if there was a massive landslide that has uprooted everything I’ve built, and now I’m stuck trying to make something of the mess. I know that there are tools that can help me, ways to make the process of rebuilding easier. Depression makes it feel as if the keys to that toolshed are gone. So I have to break down that door every single day to access those tools. Some days I manage to grab a bunch of them; other days, only one. Sometimes it feels like a victory to just keep breathing. 

    As I’m sifting through the debris of this landslide – the relationships and achievements I’ve defined myself with, the story I’ve told myself about who I am – I’m using these tools. They help me sort through the lies and keep what’s true. The rebuilding is slow most days, a bit faster on others. I’m naturally impatient when it comes to myself, and always have been. I want this rebuilding to happen as quickly and efficiently as possible, but I’m learning the art of patience as I sit down and do the dirty work of sifting, rebuilding, and refining. The great thing, though, is that I’m finding these little nuggets of joy, serenity, and hope in between the debris. Yesterday, I couldn’t get out of bed for most of the day. Eating a single yoghurt pot was exhausting. After telling one of my best friends this, she invited me over for tea. That was yesterday’s nugget: sitting with someone who sees and loves me, cupping warm ginger tea in my hands. Picking up her precious toddler and reading with him, seeing the world through his eyes. Feeling at home in my own body again, even if just for a few moments.

    I love that the dictionary describes a nugget as a “small, rough lump, especially of gold”. Right now, that’s what I’m clinging onto. Imperfect moments and promises that are still intrinsically valuable. A lot like life, and a lot like myself.

    So, here I am, doing this thing. I’m writing this as my love letter to my heartbreakingly beautiful, messy life. Maybe I’m shouting this out into the void and there won’t be anyone who hears or cares, and that’s okay. At least I’m shouting the truth. As I’m getting ready to hit that scary “publish” button, I remind myself that this is where I can come to share and remember those nuggets of truth and beauty, and that maybe, just maybe, someone else will see the sunlight reflecting off of one of those nuggets into their own life.

    Some days, that’s all you need.

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