72. Letting go..

Recently, a friend asked what I was going to write about next.  At that moment, I did not know.  And then after waking up in yet another cold sweat a few days later, I had my answer - “letting go” was going to be my next piece.

You see, for the past six months, I have been trying to work through the emotional minefield that all parents have to navigate - adjust to their child leaving home.  In less than six months, my eldest no-longer-a-child-taller-and-smarter-than-me-daughter will be heading off to spend her first university semester in Dublin.  On one hand, I am UBER excited for her.  And yet, the mama-bear in me worries about all the potential lurking dangers. Let me fill you in..

A few months ago, I hit a 'eureka' moment. “Aha!  Wouldn’t it be a great idea if Faith went traveling before she started university?  After many conversations, she decided she wanted to travel to Australia via Singapore - skiing as well as spending time with her friends and her godmother.  And then of course her favorite uncle invited her to go on a road trip complete with ‘ice driving’ in New Zealand!  On the surface, it all seemed fine.  After all, at each point, she would be staying with my best girlfriends.  But as the day got closer for me to confirm the trip, I found myself waking up in cold sweats.  “What if she hurt herself on the slopes..” “ice driving.. is that a good idea..” and “what if someone kidnaps her?”  Yup.  Crazy.  But I kept it to myself for fear of being thrown into the loony bin. Fast forward a couple of weeks later, due to a timing problem caused by the requirements of her choice of university, the trip to Oz was scrapped.  Instead, the money would be put towards a ‘travel’ fund for her to explore Europe during her four months in Dublin.  PWHEW!  That gives me a few more months to build the courage to see her off.

But then, she came home the other day and excitedly announced that Bar Taco, a local upscale fun restaurant was keen to hire her for the summer.  My first response?  Super proud she was being so motivated.  And then, I woke up in YET another cold sweat.  “She will be working somewhere where there will be inebriated customers…”, “the carpark near the restaurant is tucked around the back and not necessarily well lit… what if there was some 'crazy' lurking in the carpark?”  SIGH.  I think you are beginning to get a picture of the inner workings of my panicked mind.  Anyway, as I work hard to calm my inner crazy, I have started emotionally preparing myself for when I won’t get to see her beautiful smile every day but instead have to wait for when we can go visit her - either in Dublin or when she settles in Boston.  Luckily for me, she is super patient with me.

It is so difficult being a parent because on one hand, I am so so excited for her.  But I find myself wondering about how often we will get to talk.  Will she feel like I am suffocating her if I called or texted everyday?  Or would that just not be a good idea as it may make her feel homesick?  For the record, we currently text several times a day - normally because she is letting me know she got to school safe or was on her way home.  And then I respond with some funny emoji or graphic to make her smile.  Will that no longer be our operandi modus?  So I timidly asked her on the weekend if she would mind if I texted her when she was no longer living at home.  And then I privately wonder about all sorts of other things: for example, would she mind if I sent her surprise packages from time to time.

And so I take a deep breath.  I know I will need to take a step back.  I know I will have to draw on the collective wisdom of my friends who have older children and already passed this phase.  And I know I have to stop worrying about all the “what if’s”.  And then I remind myself.   When I left home at 17, I didn’t have half the skills Faith has.   That I will need to trust that all our talks through the years will hold her in good stead.  And that I will just have to ‘loosen the apron strings’ just a little bit more in order to let her soar.  To let go.  So I pray for strength, guidance and courage - for us all.

* end *

71: Laid bare..

Over dinner some weeks ago, a friend of mind commented “I don’t know how you do it.  How you put yourself out there and leave yourself so exposed.”  She was referring to my outpourings on “a40somethinglife”.  I heard her concern for me in her voice and I get it.  Because there have been many a time where I have felt the discomfort of friends and acquaintances who perhaps feel like they have opened a Pandora’s Box when they read my work.  In text-speak, TMI: ‘too much information’. And then uncomfortable silence follows.

And yet, when I first started writing in earnest, initially the whole idea was to let people laugh at how silly I can be; but somehow over time, my collection of writings have taken a life of its own and laid bare some of my deepest experiences.   And so, with every essay, a lot of soul searching goes on as I ask myself a myriad of questions before I finally write those two words “the end”.  Will this offend or hurt someone’s feelings - if so, have I been fair? Am I being indulgent – or is this an accurate depiction?  Is what I am saying relevant – will it resonate or be helpful?  Am I being clear – or is my poor reader in danger of dying a death of boredom from my mindless rambling?  You get the picture.

Generally, when I sit down to write, the easiest ones to write are the ones where I am poking fun at myself or my reaction to a situation.  Those are super easy to write and I can whip those out in less than a day.  But then, judging by my writings of late, comedy is not my natural suit.  Luckily for me though, Matt thinks I am somewhat funny and I confess I do go out of my way to try to get a laugh out of him.  For the most part however, I fear I do have a habit of leaving my sense of humor behind as I rush around trying to get ‘stuff’ done.  But I digress.

Getting back to my friend’s concern for me about emotionally exposing myself.  I guess by the time the words on my page have traveled via the internet to someone down the road or on the other side of the world, I would have already spent countless months (if not years) working towards healing from the painful memory or have by that time, come to terms with a status quo.  Especially when I write about my childhood.  You see, I do not look upon my childhood with regret or sadness.  I do not write about it to illicit pity or tears - I had previously spent too many occasions see-sawing between being wrathful and grief stricken over my fractured heart.  And then I recall the legions of broken childhoods that have endured far worse than mine - making my youth appear almost idyllic. As such, I refer to my childhood here and there in my musings, more as just a factual actuality of events that are part of my make-up and DNA.  Like you would when developing a story. 

Which still belies the question:  why do I write?  Why do I share?  I write because I like to write.  I share because sharing forms communities.  In a world where selfies, reality television, instant gratification and photo-shopped perfection reign supreme, I write as a way to connect.  To honor so called imperfection. To celebrate efforts, big or small, to overcome challenges and hurdles of any size and description – because everyone has a journey.  To say you are not alone.  To say nothing is impossible or unachievable.  And so I write.  Laid bare. To hopefully resonate or inspire.

- end -

70: Lunch for one..

My hands feel clammy. I feel a tightness in my chest and fight an overwhelming urge to run out the door and back to my desk where I had just been surrounded by quiet reflection. I feel several pairs of eyes on me and I try to muster a confident voice. "Table for one please" I manage to squeak out.  "Get a hold of yourself Michelle! You are a confident nearly 50-year old who has lived and dined all over the world!" I muster myself.  I know I am behaving like a total chicken but am unsure why I am feeling so reticent about having lunch on my own. After all, I have dined by myself many a time but this feels different.

I am sitting in a restaurant in Whistler at the height of the holiday season.  Holidays equal family and friends but I am on my own.  Matt and the girls are on the slopes somewhere between Blackcomb and Whistler mountains and I have had to beg off due to a rotator cuff injury that has had me in pain 24/7 for the past two months. I feel like an interloper in amongst a sea of graceful (and glamorous) mountain adventurers!  Excited conversation swirl around me in different languages - chatter about the powder and visibility.  And then I catch sight of my own reflection – flat hair, no make-up, baggy sweater and leggings.  Let’s just say the only thing stopping me from upping and escaping back to our rented two bedroom apartment is I am longing for a meal cooked by someone else and a refreshing drink (i.e. cocktail 😉)!  But I really should have thought a little about my outfit – and remembered to bring my book.

Anyway, I am told it is going to be a five minute wait. I nod in agreeance, fighting every molecule in my body that is screaming at me to turn around and just walk out. Unfortunately all that is left in my holiday pantry is a packet of some pretty disgusting looking noodles - so I stay put. Quite literally, my need for something a little more sophisticated than an unappetizing bed of carbohydrates is the only thing stopping me from running out. 10 minutes later, I am shown to a table - facing a sea of diners who are in their twos, threes and more. Yup! I am pretty much the only person in the room dining with my shadow.

I wait for my waiter, desperately scanning faces to see who will take my drink order at least (aka a double serving of Dutch courage on the rocks por favor!). No luck. I fight another overwhelming urge to just walk out and pick up a sandwich I can just take home and eat at my desk. But once again another urge stops me. The urge to have a freshly made salad and a crispy chicken burger!  Yup. I have just given the menu a once-over.  Finally! A young girl who looks like she just walked out of a magazine comes over and I gratefully order. No turning back now!

I get a message from Matt from wherever he and the girls are. They are just sitting down to lunch too. Feeling a little lonely, I share with him my wave of irrational anxiety and paranoia about being the only non-skier in the room dining with their own shadow. He laughs. In good Matt fashion he says the restaurant I am in actually secretly prefers non-skiers - I think it's because us alpine non-adventurers take up less room and do not leave a trail of wet slush in our wake. He tries to make a date to meet (aka rescue) me outside the restaurant in about an hour. Frankly, I don't think I will last that long - I am a fast eater! That and my now-arrived meal no longer looks as attractive as I always prefer eating with Matt where we get to taste each other's meals. But I forge on.

The restaurant has now started to empty out as skiers head back out to the lifts that will take them to heights where vertically-phobic people like me try to avoid as best we can. The room is quieter and I look out at the beautiful view of white pristine landscape before me and half-wish I could join them all. Lunch done and heart no longer pounding with erratic nonsense musings, I ask for my bill and head home to wait for Matt and the girls - in the quiet of our room. 

- end -

No. 69: The power of the mind..

In a previous piece I wrote “The power of fear”, I mentioned a school of thought which centered around the premise that every battle fought had to be won twice – the first time in one’s mind.  And from my own experience, I believe this to be true and central to the outcome of one’s endeavors, struggles and experiences.  Since becoming a parent, I am ever mindful that my job is to equip the girls with these ‘tools’ needed to navigate their lives. Such as learning how to pick yourself up in the face of adversity, to being resilient when things are difficult, to being reflective when things don’t make sense and importantly, developing solving skills to find a way around a problem – because there is always a solution. 

Some 10 years ago, Rhonda Byrne wrote a book called The Secret.  While I never read it, I did study many similar books when I was in my early 20s. Why then did I bring up that book?  I guess because it keeps popping up on my Facebook feed!  Anyway, from Norman Vincent Peale’s “The power of positive thinking” to Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War” and just about every book by the likes of Wayne W Dyer, Spencer Johnson, Robert Kiyosaki and more.  The message is pretty much universal.  You are in charge of your experiences and the outcome.  But only if you believe because the power of the mind colors your experience.  And yet, how to impart those lessons to three privileged teenagers who live in a generation of instant gratification?  Where social media and advertising companies creates a culture whereby everything appears perfect but is in fact manipulated; and reality is hidden behind apps that correct blemishes or simply expunge anything less than utopian? 

And so I talk to them about my childhood.  Of being tied to a bed whilst my mother took my brothers out to the movies.  Of being banished from the house with a few coins in my pocket and wandering the streets in the sweltering heat until I discovered the sanctity of libraries. Of being ashamed of the scars and scratches on my face and the looks and comments they attracted.  Of being thrown against a brick wall and punched in the stomach so the blows would not be outwardly noticeable. Of finally leaving my father’s house at 17 with nothing but a bag of clothes – and not knowing a single adult I could turn to for help.  I talk about my Cambridge-educated father who was able to project the picture-perfect impression of his blended family to the outside world where in reality my two brothers and I lived in a constant state of fear of violence – physically, emotionally and psychologically.  Why?  To teach them empathy and demonstrate that even when things are projected as picture perfect, quite often, there are struggles that are being wrestled with in the shadows.  To teach them about being grateful and that ‘perfection’ is not real.

Then I share about how through my quests to ‘find a place’ for myself I worked multiple jobs and studied at the same time.  I share the misadventures and wrong decisions that made me cry in earnest but how it also drove me - to learn from my mistakes and pick myself up. And then I talk about how even in my darkest days, I somehow always had an idea, a thought, that I was going to be okay.  Of how I began to think about and, if you like, daydream about the life I wanted, about the things I wanted to accomplish and achieve, and how I used those thoughts and dreams to drive me in my everyday actions and decisions.  In fact, even to this day, I still practice this.  Where whenever I am able find myself in a quiet moment, I reflect on what I hope for and what I want to achieve.  Is this praying?  Or meditating?  Maybe.  But I don’t know.  I have never thought to put a name to it.  But it is how I center myself especially in moments of fear.  Where I calm myself by trusting that everything will fall into place as it should.  A belief.  The power of the mind.  To pass on to my girls.

- end -

No. 68: Into the woods..

“What?!”  I heard my friend exclaim loudly when she heard I was moving to Connecticut.  “But why?” was quickly followed by “I sure hope you can play tennis -- you are going to need it to fit in!”  When I say “heard”, this conversation was actually in text form over the messaging function of Facebook.  My friend, whom I had met during a six year stint in London, had not long relocated to New Canaan was a tad worried for me.  And she was not the only one.  You see, for many, thanks to the movie “The Stepford Wives” aka the land of manicured lawns and ‘artificially engineered’ community, Connecticut equated a town where the women were immaculately glamorous and life revolved around book clubs, bridge, tennis and afternoon cocktails.  All fiction of course!  But in my friends’ mind, I had only lived in bustling cities (Sydney, Kobe, Hong Kong, London and Singapore) and they wondered how I would adjust to life in the ‘burbs.  But I was too busy dealing with everything required for a transatlantic move to dwell on whether or not / how I was going to 'fit in'.  The children were my priority.

Fast forward 18 months and people hearing my accent (apparently a cross between Australian and British) often share how they have always wanted to visit Australia and then ask different variations of “what made you choose to move here?”  If I were to look at my life through their eyes, I guess I would ask the same question.  After all, higher taxes, bigger houses that require more effort and winding roads with no street lights and potential diseases I had never heard of until we landed (ie Lyme).  Meantime, where I once would have not batted an eye if my children approached seemingly placid wildlife (deer, squirrels, chipmunks), now I am like a crazed person warning them of all the potential diseases.  And running through tall grass to watch the fireflies (yes, that was me in the first few months of moving here!), no more.  Call it the fear of Lyme. But I jest.  I am here because I love my husband, our children and our life together.  And so we move where opportunity knocks for my husband. While this is the most ‘country’ I have called home, like everywhere else, the first year is a period of adjustment where you try not to look like a deer in headlights and try to find your ‘village’.  And every year after that, like a good recipe, you tweak and adjust until you feel like you have found your feet – somewhat.

I had written the above nearly a year ago and after hitting a wall, pressed “save” and walked away.  Since then, Matt has left his job in order to start his own financial venture, I took on a role in the clothing business – only to realise it was the wrong fit (no pun intended) and subsequently and organically launched a food business.  Additionally, kismet showed me who my real friends were during these challenging times, forcing me to ‘serve divorce’ papers on those who were not as invested. Meanwhile Faith, my eldest has started driving (another whole new adventure) and is about to graduate from high school and take her first steps into adulthood where she will likely leave home to live in another state to go to university. Cue the tissues for when that happens in a few months time where I will be inconsolable! But it is all good.

Where change, be it a new environment or an adjustment in attitude, can and often is intimidating and painful, once you find your feet – and you always do, it will feel right again.  And you wonder why you were ever afraid to begin with.  Until the next time you have to step out of your comfort zone and into the woods.  By the way, I still have not joined a book club or taken up tennis, bridge or racquet ball.  I do, however, like all good Australians, enjoy a cocktail or two!  Salut!

- end -

67: Made with love..

Nearly a year ago, a gift of home made Australian pies to a friend who was a fan of these fist-size savory bites led to the surprising 'birth' of a little business. Whilst I had always loved cooking for friends we welcomed into our homes all over the world, never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to be in a position where people would pay me to do what was a norm for me!  

However, of late, when some friends have proudly introduced me to third parties as an amazing chef, I have felt the need to correct them. But it is not out of false modesty but rather from the knowledge that I am not a chef - not by the longest stretch of anyone's imagination.  After all, a chef is someone who has undergone intense formal training - be it in a commercial kitchen or a formal institution. And I have done neither.  Perhaps I am more akin to a cook? But then, are we all not cooks?  Picking up a cook book written by a professional (or by some celebrity du jour) and then diligently following the recipe in the hope of replicating the picture perfect dishes that have been professionally photographed and Photo-shopped? No pressure!  But many of my peers are fantastic cooks.  In fact, I would suspect that perhaps that is the reason why some are loathe to place an order of pies from me because they see themselves as better cooks and feel slightly aggrieved that I have made a business (however small) of something I am not a 'professional' at.  And yet, what am I classically 'trained' in?  I guess after completing a double major in Public Relations and Journalism so many years ago, my training lies in the art of writing. And while I continually hone my 'craft' in an unpaid capacity until the day an editor sees my 'worth' so to speak, because of our constant moves around the world, I have had to create work and reinvent my 'profession' around my family.  From being a teacher's assistant and an actor in pantomimes in Hong Kong, to a jewelry and home goods importer in London, to running a small writing business in Singapore, to my current incarnation as a pie maker in the US. But I digress.

Truth be told, if I had to absolutely put a moniker on what I do, I would say I am what one would call a 'feeder'. Long before my current venture of making Australian savory pies for my customers in a little pocket in Connecticut, Matt, my kindest critic, constantly teased me about how I always felt the need to feed anyone who walked through our threshold.  No matter where we are, dinner parties are never small as I always end up inviting the entire 'street' as opposed to just one or two couples. Workmen and tradesmen who come to the house are inundated with offers of whatever I may be cooking at the time and cups of coffee or juice.. pies.. cookies... You get the picture. I like to feed people. 

And so, with every single pie I make, I cook as if I have invited each and every single pie customer into my home and am making them a meal. Every recipe I come up with and tweak. Every ingredient I use.  I am constantly on high alert on how to improve.  I am an expert at NOT following a recipe diligently but am instead led by my instincts and what I see, touch and smell - oh and a compulsion to extract maximum flavor without an excessive reliance on salt, sugar, cheese and oils.  Oh, and I use just about all my senses when I cook: I can hear if the egg whites I am beating for my soufflé pies have reached a stage of readiness.  I rarely (actually never) use a timer to ascertain if my pies are ready to be taken out of the oven - I can smell the aroma of my crust reaching a certain 'crescendo' which then prompts me to peek into the oven to check if my pies have reached that certain golden hue of perfection. That is what I do.  On the Fridays that I bake. Where every pie is made with love from a hankering to fill bellies and make mouths water.

- end -

66. Finding my Ommmm...

So.. here we are.. nearly at the end of 2016 and when I look back at the amount, or rather the lack of writing I managed, it looks pretty dismal.  Why?  I guess I spent much of the year letting go of people and things that I thought were good for me but actually not.  

Let's start with people first.  You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel sick whenever you think of spending time with someone?  What about that sense you get (much alike your spidey senses) about someone when you first meet them that makes you keep a distance?  Well, I spent much of this year fighting against it, arguing that its 'all in my mind" or "I'm being too sensitive".  The best one I came up with (which also got thrown back at me at my lowest) was "maybe everything I am feeling is because I am going through menopause"!  Ha!  Sometimes, we are our most unkindest critic.  If I was a better friend to myself, I would have said just one thing: LISTEN TO YOUR INTUITION AND YOUR GUT.  

You know that someone in your life you always have to walk on eggshells around - for fear of offending him/her? Or that person who constantly makes jokes at your expense?  What about the one who is unkind under the guise of being ‘honest’? Or, wait.. I’ve got my two favorites!  Ready? That person who makes loud proclamations about being your biggest cheerleader only to constantly let you down when you need them the most AND that person who makes not so subtle jabs about everything!  Let them go!  Firstly, who has the time to walk around eggshells?  It is exhausting!  After nearly 30 years, I finally said “I AM DONE!” nearly 12 months ago.  And it has been liberating.  And those so-called friends who spent the last 10 years or so being fair-weather buddies?  I recently called time on those too.  You know why?  It gets boring when you are the better friend in the friendship and you get to the point when it gets tiring constantly second guessing your instincts.  Yup.  I am done with those ‘friendships’ and am going to start being a better friend to myself!

So the other half of my letting go.  The need to do absolutely everything for everyone.  The inability to say “no”.  At one point, I thought the magic 'bullet' to my troubles was to get not one but two jobs.  I was tired all the time.  And snappy.  And stressed.  And frustrated when I felt others were not putting in the same 'saintly' but ridiculous hours.  Oh, and I didn’t stand up for myself when people thought it was okay to use verbiage and tone on me that was demeaning.  I think I thought someone else who saw what was happening would stand up for me.  But no.  And so, I realized I was that someone who had to do it.  So I decided to do something about the impasse.  I started by clearing my diary and getting rid of commitments that I had said “yes” to only because I didn’t know how to say “no”.  I quit one of my jobs and tailored the other more to what would allow me to still be creative.  I wrote a strong email stating that I would no longer be ‘receptive’ to disparaging conversations.  And I have started distancing myself from acrimonious company.   And I am forcing myself to be honest with myself and those around me by saying “no” instead of bowing to peer pressure.  And so continues the journey to find my Ommmmmmmm….

- end -

65. Not taking it personally

A long time ago, Matt said to me I needed to learn to not take things personally.  He said if I expected people to treat me the same way I treated them, I was only setting myself up for disappointment. Seeing this as a life lesson and wanting to learn to be emotionally smarter, over the years, I have somewhat tempered my expectations of others and tried not to take things personally.  And most of the time, it has been manageable.  With strangers and acquaintances, the advice makes sense and is easy enough to follow because there are no emotional ties.

But what about when it involves people who you have opened your heart to and seen you at your weakest?  Especially in circumstances when you are already ‘down on the ground’.  It is very hard not to take it personally when it feels so personal.  The thing is, it always seems to come from people who are competitive.  The ones who like to tell you about how much they earn, or how much they just spent on a shopping spree, or the latest and newest toy they just bought.  Interestingly, they also seem to be the ones making the loudest public proclamations of how they are your biggest supporters but never follow through.  It feels as if they take solace in watching you struggle.  And instead of being respectful, they are offended when you don’t want to talk about what you are going through.  You know what?  I am not much of a talker.  I tend to hide away in order to figure things out.

The adage “actions speak loud than words” is one by which I live by.  An ‘under promiser’ I would much rather ‘over deliver’ than indulge in grandiloquence.  Of course, it could just be a case of my misunderstanding of verbiage.  But then, in my heart, I know I am only making excuses.  And one gets to the point where one (oh, that would be me!) becomes weary of making excuses and pretending not to see when that ‘friend’ is being competitive – even when there is no competition in session.  When times are ‘good’, it is easier to overlook.  But when times are difficult, it is exhausting and disappointing.

Maybe I need to work harder at not taking things personally but it is difficult when the actions of others, hiding under the guise of friendship, feels spiteful and unkind.  As I write this, I reflect back and suddenly realize the similarities with the personality types I am referring to.  I should have realized this lesson sooner.  As I keep saying to my girls.  Everyone has the capacity to be nice and not so nice.  The best way to see through someone’s true nature is to observe how they treat ‘other’ people.  The ones who belittle other people and talk down to servers.  The ones who make fun of or criticize other people’s dress sense or parenting styles.  And the one who makes you feel as if there is some unspoken competition you never signed up to but are inexplicably constantly drawn into.

But no more.  Please do not belittle me under the guise of a joke.  Jokes at other people's expense are not funny - no matter the number of times you tell it. Please let’s not be competitive about our children or make comments that the degree my child is showing an interest in is a rubbish degree and worth nothing.  Please do not make rude comments about other people in front of me because it makes me feel very uncomfortable and wonder what you say about me behind my back.  Please do not talk about how you are going to ‘support’ me but instead keep stringing me along with BS excuses or use it as an opportunity to show me how much better/luckier you are compared to me.  I am not interested.

I am not perfect.  I do not pretend to be anyone but me.  I am not interested in competing with you in any shape or form.  I am trying to live the best life I can and trying to be the most authentic person I know how.  And if you want to show kindness and true friendship, I will welcome it.  But don’t try to tear me down under the guise of friendship to make yourself feel better about whatever it is you are going through – we are ALL going through stuff.  I will take it personally - and stay away from you.

*** end ***

64. The Power of Fear

A positively glass-half-full kind of girl who has mostly grabbed life by both horns, as I inch ever so closer to the big 5-0 (WAIT!  Can I still call myself a “girl”?!?), I am mindful I must have been exhausting to those around me in my younger years. But I make no excuses because I am what I am and there has always been so much to accomplish. And yet, I am far from fearless.  For while this organised chaos is a deliberate choice I made for myself many years ago, whenever I press the pause button from the whirlwind of life, I find myself slipping into the dreaded overthinking gear – the one that sends me into a cyclonic tailspin of irrational fears. And then, the horrible inner chatter begins – the kind that turns me from a ball of energy into a quiet mouse as I withdraw and hide within the walls where my mocking self-doubt bounce about and echo.  Next, the physical manifests: a knot takes up permanent residence in my stomach, sleepless nights, a loss of appetite and a need to go ‘underground’.  And that is where the fun begins.  You see, whilst helpful to have a football field full of people who believe in you, I have learnt that at the end of the day, you have to be your own strongest advocate.   It all begins with self.

Many a book has been written of how the sum of all battles is two-fold and has to be won twice – the first time, in your head.  They say in order to succeed in any endeavor, the first step is seeing it in one’s own mind, walking through the steps necessary for success and then believing – all before even taking that first physical action.  That AND the acknowledgement that any failure encountered along the way is part of the learning process and integral to the whole journey.  While it all makes sense, it does not necessarily spur me into action either.  After all why would anyone want to sign up for anything knowing that both “fear” and “failure” were lying in wait?  Is not the status quo better?  Everyone will have their own answer but for me, because of the alternative, the answer was and always will be “no”.  As such, I have had to learn to make the power of fear work positively for me.

Growing up, I was often told of how I could NOT.  NOT smart enough.  NOT pretty enough.  NOT capable enough.  And certainly NOT worthy enough to have any sort of voice or opinion – not one that would be listened to, less respected.  They told me that if I dared to even step outside of the confines of that existence, I would fail not just miserably but spectacularly.  And you know what?  I believed those messages and adopted that narrative as my own.  Thankfully, I guess at some point in my late teens, I must have unconsciously thought: “hmmmm.. what if I at least tried?”  And so I did, taking small steps to find my voice, however small.  And as time went by, I realized I had nothing to lose by taking that proverbial leap -- whatever the “leap” was at the time.  And there have been many.  Some bigger than others.  Leaving home with nothing but a swollen lip and a bag of clothes at 17.  Applying for the multiple jobs I had zero experience for (but drive aplenty!).    Walking away from situations/people that were not right for me. Taking control of problems created by other people – regardless of my lack of expertise.  And just saying “yes” even when I felt intimidated by the unfamiliar.

Each and every time, fear has been my companion.  The fear of being stagnant.  The fear of being taken advantage of.  The fear of not being authentic.  And the biggest fear of them all?  The fear of being too much of a chicken-shit to at least try.  After all, the faint-hearted do not command respect nor inspire.  Which leads me to my now.  Whilst I had unknowingly harnessed the power of fear in my younger years to achieve and ‘conquer’ new adventures and worlds for myself, it was not until I became a mother (thanks girls!) when I started to conscientiously harness my fear (whatever it happened to be at any point of time) to believe in myself, trust in my own abilities and unlock all sorts of opportunities and possibilities.  My girls make me want to be my best possible self -- if only to lead by example.

With over sixteen years now under my belt of embracing the positive power of fear, as I step into 2016, I aim to continue to step outside of my comfort zone to deal with the new challenges and opportunities that await.  Getting back to glass half full, in the book The Upside of Stress, Kelly McGonigal writes: “stress happens when something you care about is at stake.  It’s not a sign to run away – it’s a sign to step forward”.  So I take a deep breath, give myself a pep talk, and take a gigantic step forward. 

**** end ****

63: EVERYONE has stuff..

It has been a while since my last offering, where I have had a moment to sit down and be in a clear enough ‘space’.  Of late, life has been filled with far too many matters that needed urgent and focused attention – dramas of all sorts – leading to a struggle to find any semblance of the balance I preach to my three girls.   Have I finally leapt over the mythical hump and am now in a calmer space?  Actually no.  The only reason why I am even sitting down with a remotely untaxed mind is because I am waiting for some work on the car to be done and I am in the middle of no man’s land – ergo a perfect time to pull out my laptop – although after so many nights up worrying about things I know I have absolutely no control over, a pillow to rest my weary head would have been better!  But then, it has been an eternity since I last used my laptop and I feel a need to reacquaint myself.

It has now been just over a year since we arrived and it feels as if no time has passed.  For a few of my friends though, time has been painfully slow as they struggle with different challenges and wonder if the fog of grief from their individual losses will ever lift.  An acquaintance recently took out her grief on me as she raged about how life was so unfair with her new ‘situation’.  I tried to share about the countless friends who had gone through her current situation but were now, in hindsight, in a much better place.  I did stop short of the age-old “time heals everything” refrain as I had recently read somewhere that time did not ‘heal’ per se but rather “accommodates” the pain, loss and change that an event can bring.

And so I tried different approaches, from being a sympathetic ear to cheerleader, to pragmatic advisor.  I soon got tired of the tsunami-sized animosity that kept coming at me though.  She attacked my seemingly good health.  I responded I was dealing with issues she was not aware of.  She challenged my claim and I shared things even my husband and GP are unaware of.  She scoffed, finding injustice at my seemingly charmed life.  I told her she did not know my story and that everyone had stuff they were trying to deal with and get through, myself included, that what you saw was often not the whole ‘story’.  And then she attacked my mothering skills. That hurt.  She had found her mark.  I bit back any retort and chose not to go into any sort of verbal combat, pushing down my anger at what I perceived as her lack of grace, realising she was lashing out through her pain.  She followed me around the house throwing more barbs.  I retreated more and more into myself and slowly but surely pulled away; but at the same time feeling like a failure for not being able to help her.  Her parting shot was that she had come to me with her heart in pieces, with the inference I had failed her by not helping put her together again.  But I guess, in hindsight, I was the wrong person to help.             

In the days and weeks following, as my mind replayed the encounter like a bad playlist on repeat, I had many conversations with my girls about life, challenges and the challenge of climbing out of the emotional pit when you have had one of those days/weeks/months.  We talked about empathy and of how every single person is going through ‘stuff’ -- be it personal or through association.  We talked about how the content of certain days can feel like the worst day ever but how to symbolically, psychologically and emotionally recover -- and come out stronger on the 'other' side by feeding the soul.  My timing was ‘lucky’ because not long after that topic du semaine, Faith came home absolutely devastated about the day she had had, where everything felt like an uphill battle every which corner she turned. 

After her tears dried, we spoke about how what she was going through is real life and as such, there are always going to be good days and bad.  I explained that every single day cannot be perfect as that is just the way life is but that how one reacted to and tackled any sort of challenge often shaped the severity of that ‘blow’ and what kind of ‘state’ you ended up in after that ‘bout’ in the proverbial boxing ring.  That earned me a beautiful smile.  Although I was not able to be helpful to my acquaintance, I was grateful I could be somewhat ‘useful’ to my child.

Shortly before I sat down to write this, I came across the following piece: “Happiness is not the absence of problems but the ability to deal with them.”  We ALL have stuff.  We ALL have good and not so good days – regardless of how well we might be able to mask it to the rest of the world.  BUT, what we need to get through another tough day is already inside each and every one of us – we just need to take a moment to reach for that courage and take that leap of faith that WE are ENOUGH.

****** end *****

62. Self-worth. Self-love

Self-worth.  Self-love.  Interchangeable in the plethora of self-help books on bookshelves and ‘self-improvement’ airwaves everywhere you look.  Some people, for example Matt and my best friend Miriam,  have it in bucket loads – one of the many reasons I tell them that when I ‘grow up’, I want to be just like them.  And then they remind me that I am the older one!  

I don’t normally give too much thought about how my self-love barometer is doing.  But maybe I should.  As a mother to three daughters, should I not be mindful of leading by example?  But how authentic can I be as I am painfully aware that my ‘reflection’ varies from day-to-day and more often than not, infected from my warped childhood.  And yet, from the confessions I hear around me, perhaps it is human nature to be better at giving up wonderfully sage advice on self-love than it is to practice for ourselves.

Enough about me.  I feel the need to talk about the next generation.  Right now, I have one navigating the challenges of being the only new girl in a small close-knit community on the playground, another in the throes of negotiating the hallways of middle school (complete with the tightrope dance of invisible lines and boundaries!) and the last who is on the brink of womanhood and all that entails for the heart.  Throw into the mix: having to find their ‘place’ in yet another new country AND the rollercoaster ride of PUBERTY with all its accompanying bells and whistles!  Fun.

But how do I shine a reflection on these three most precious beings?  Of how amazing their father and I think they are?  That their kindness, compassion and ability to make anyone feel welcome makes us so proud.  Of how our chest swell when we witness their collective positive attitude when faced with so many new environments and the requisite accompanying challenges – all part and parcel that comes from the privilege of being owners of well-travelled passports. 

To one child, how to impart that if someone “doesn’t want to be friends”, it is not a reflection on them -- nor does it mean they are any less amazing; but rather because it is impossible to be friends with every single person you meet.  But that it also does not mean they should withdraw into a shell to protect themselves from being hurt -- after all, life is about taking chances.  And then how to guide them so they make smart choices and stay away from the toxicity and drama that seem to follow teenage girls?  I sometimes lie awake wondering how to teach them to navigate the terrain when someone is friendly one minute but frosty the next – and whether to confess that it happens in adulthood too!  To share that I have learned that sometimes the animosity you face is not really about you but instead stems from something else going on somewhere else -- that people will act out and that it is TOTALLY okay to walk away from things/people/situations that make you sick to the stomach from anxiety.  And then finally, the importance of being true to themselves and valuing their own worth instead of yearning after someone who is too wrapped-up in themselves to appreciate and cherish them. After all, if  a certain ‘Mr Darcy’ needs to be enlightened on how amazing they are, then surely the 'un-suitor' is not worthy of someone as funny, smart, kind and beautiful as they are! 

And then I realise this is all just part and parcel of ‘growing up’.  For them and for me.  I have to trust in the process.  To remember that if they have even half the self-possession that their father has, it will already be more than what most people can dream of – and luckily for them, that it is already in their DNA.  Add to the fact that their childhood has been filled with so many wonderful memories and love from us, as well as from our friends who form another layer of family, should fill them with the confidence and self-love they will need as they go off on their own adventures in this journey called “life”.  And should all else fails, I hope an imprint of all our conversations will cling to their memories and then magically reappear should ever they forget how wonderful they are.  

*** end ***

61. Learning new skills

I was wide awake with the fairies early this morning.  For some insane reason, at the vampire-worthy time of 1am, I started trying to recall how many times I had moved houses and countries.  For the sake of not driving you (or myself!) mad, my tally will commence from when Matt and I started dating: four times in Australia, five in Hong Kong, twice in London and twice in Singapore. That’s 13 to add to the home we have now settled in the US – bringing the total to a mind boggling 14 houses we have called home since we met in 1996. 14 times in 19 years!  Holy Toledo!  Which brings me to my subject du jour: moving so much can be character defining, forcing you to either swim or sink – gracefully or not, is another matter!

More a glam-per than a camper, though I keep a tidy-ish house, a domestic goddess I am not -- not even by the furthest stretch of anyone’s imagination!  While I do find myself constantly shutting doors left open about the house and picking up socks and other paraphernalia strewn around (laying-in-wait for me to trip over!), cooking is my only ‘domestic’ skill - something I picked up in earnest after the girls were born.  No Nigella nor Delia, my hands are often covered in some sort of burn or cut.  Oh well, there goes my career as a professional hand model but at least there is always something yummy on the stove.  Which brings me to ANOTHER activity which ensured my non-existent hand model career never took off: IRONING!!

Full disclosure: I am quite possibly the worst ironer in the world.  In fact, if there were an Olympic Games for NOT being an accomplished ironer, I could very well take the gold!  So, somehow, right up until recently, I managed to dodge the whole ironing ‘thing’! When I was younger, everything was either sent to the washers or the dry cleaners. Then, once the girls came along, I lived in a la-la-cloud whereby the countries we lived in offered very affordable housekeeping – COMPLETE with fabulous ironing.  So, in the summer of 2014, shortly after landing on the fabulous shores of Connecticut, I found myself sobbing over the cold hard reality of an ironing board one Saturday night

That night, panicked by my meltdown, Matt began madly researching cleaning companies on the Internet.  “You don’t understand!”  I gulped between tears, “nobody irons here! They only clean!” What Matt did not realise was that was the same week I had learnt that a. nobody ironed,  b. if they had an ironing lady, they weren’t sharing, c. the local dry cleaners charged in excess of $30 to do sheets - PER piece!  And my list of discoveries went on! More than once, I found myself being assigned the role of ‘chump’ when I confessed my conundrum.  I was even led on a merry chase in search for some mysterious laundry spray which ‘relaxed’ clothes enough to make them look ironed -I think someone was having a laugh at my expense (aka “taking the mickey”).

Anyway, getting back to Matt. Ever so practical, my husband was irritated that I wanted to solve this by myself.  “I don’t understand it!  At 40-something, you want to start ironing?  Why would anyone want to start doing this at your age?  Besides, you are REALLY bad at it!”  I didn’t have a comeback line because he was right.  I was really bad.  But that was probably my a-ha moment when I became determined to get at least a little good at this whole laundry thing – I hate being “really bad” at anything.

Fast forward 6 months and I have found my rhythm and thankfully no longer burst into tears at the mountain of ironing beckoning my not-so-bad expertise.  I find myself earnestly wondering what mysterious portal that second sock could possibly have disappeared to, how one child could possibly manage FOUR changes of pyjamas in one day, and other (as one friend put it) first world country ‘problems’.  And yet, I am thankful.  For a new skill aka making me more independent – to add to my other newly learnt skills since moving here:          1. driving on the other side of the road

                                                                                2. lighting a fire

                                                                                3. shovelling snow

                                                                               4. thinking in imperial vs metric                                                                                                               

And so the learning continues.

*** end ***

60. Walking away

Many years ago, I was brought up by an angry man.  Easy to offend, I still recall the ringing in my ears and the sting from getting a backhand that sent me clear across the room for ‘insulting’ him. How?  I had made a Father’s Day card and drew a series which started with a baby and ended with old man.  The caption: “Through the years, I will always love you.  Happy Father’s Day!”  The reason for the violence?  I had insulted him with the “old” bit.  Sigh.   A memory that is as unbelievable as it is unforgettable. Luckily for me, many years later, I met and married an incredibly good man who taught me what real love looked and felt like – and that I deserved it. 

Which brings me to another angry man in my life.  Because of our shared history, I often made excuses every time his angry rants arrived in my inbox or showed up on my mobile.  His heavy workload.  His difficult upbringing.  The chip on his shoulder that he had no control over.  Under that guise, I allowed him to treat me unkindly for many years.  Accepting all the blames he piled on me – regardless of how petty or crazy the charges.  It was always my ‘transgressions’ that caused him to get so angry with me.  My fault. Except the load recently became too heavy.  Tired of the mood swings -- vacillating from being incredibly charming and funny one minute to becoming mightily insulted and a raging mass of ill humor the next, I finally said I was “done”.  A slammed door was predictably followed by childish emails and messages.  And yet, if I was to be honest, my initial reaction was relief from the realization that I don’t have to do this silly ‘dance’ anymore.

As I often do when unsure how to proceed, I walked away after writing the above paragraphs.  And I slept on it.  I dreamt vividly.  In my dream, my mother was there.  And I was angry with her.  I woke with a start and a question.  Maybe, without realizing, I too am an angry (wo-) man.  Psychoanalyzing my dream, I obviously still have residual feelings of disappointment from our mother abandoning us and leaving us with the angry man who was our father.

Can it be that I too am like the angry man I grew up with?  Do I also have rage just simmering under the surface, ready to explode at the first sign of a perceived slight but not realize it?  I had previously read somewhere that quite often, you are drawn to or repelled by someone because they possess traits that you also possess.  Am I being a hypocrite? 

And so I have been mulling over this these last few days.  Wanting to be fair.  Yearning to be honest with myself.  Trying to be a good role model for my children.  And this is the conclusion I have reached:  I am a flawed human being who like so many others have had to deal with a childhood filled with less than stellar memories.   I use those memories to drive me to be a better kinder person every day – to make a difference whenever I can. To learn, correct and improve as I go along.  I also realize that having tried for the best part of these last 20 or so years to help this angry man without getting swallowed whole by the toxicity of it all, I have reached the point where I no longer want to be anybody’s punching bag, no matter the shared history or blood connections.  After all, what good is “blood” if it makes you sick to the stomach with anxiety?  As such, with an affirmation to surround myself with kindness, I draw a line in the sand to acknowledge my limits and to move on without prejudice or hate.  One cannot be drawn into a storm if one chooses not to participate and instead just walk away.

*** end ***

59. It's all in the name, or is it? - another life lesson

Nearly 46 years ago, my parents went into a government office and registered the name they were giving me.  That name stayed with me until I got married some 17 years ago and added a hypen to include Matt’s family name to my own.  But then last year on a hot and sticky day, as I sat in the office of a career beauracrat in Singapore, I was advised the government there only recognized my maiden name as I had not changed my name by deed poll.  Still I managed to convince him to include my married name on my passport - if only in brackets.  Thinking I was done with all this naming nonsense, I was in for a rude shock when I applied for my US visa —  they only accepted my maiden name and saw my married name as an ‘alias’.  

Wait!  What?  An ‘alias’?  All of a sudden, I found myself suffering a severe case of schizophrenia, swinging from being outraged to feeling like a fraud.  The past 17 years were very much tied to my married persona — my married name was everywhere from my children’s birth certificates, all my legal papers to my university degree and professional papers? Did that mean I had unknowingly committed identify fraud and would therefore be thrown behind bars?  Theatrics aside, with everything else going on with the move, I didn’t have time to deal with it and thought, “How bad can it be?”  Ha!  Famous last words!

When I landed in the US and set about getting my papers together, the enormity of the problem hit me like a brick.  At the Social Security office, although my married name was recorded, it appeared that the nameless person who processed my US visa back in Singapore had swapped my first name (Michelle) and my chinese name (Mei Sar)!  As such, that was the way my name now appeared on my Social Security card.  Ever the optimist (or perhaps from sheer laziness), I thought to myself: “Well, at least the spelling is correct!  How bad can it be?”  Ha again!

A few weeks later, I turned up at the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) to run through the whole gamut of applying for my driver’s license here.  Whilst sitting with the masses and waiting for my card to be issued, I heard a lady call out: “Lee Mei.  Lee Mei.”  I didn’t see anyone get up.  And then: “Mei Lee, is there a Mei Lee here?”  I remember thinking to myself, “Come on Lee Mei or Mei Lee!  Surely you can hear your name..”  And then, it dawned upon me: hang on, I think they may have butchered my name even more!  Low and behold, I scurried to the window.  Unfortunately, I was right.  So, while I started out as “Michelle Lee-Farlow Mei Sar” 17 years ago, thanks to the bungling of several government offices, I was now “Mei Sar Lee-Farlow Michelle”.  Excellent.  This was now serious.  To cut an already long story short, I reached out to the US embassy in Singapore and after numerous emails back and forth that dragged out over several weeks, it became very clear they were never going to admit they made a mistake.  They did offer me a solution though:  I could change my name through the courts.

My email response to their suggestion was as follows: 

Hang on.  What?  You want me to change my name FROM the name you butchered TO my actual name?  There MUST be something lost in translation here.  Please can I have your supervisor’s contact so I can speak with someone to help me sort this out.

That was about three weeks ago.  No.  I still have not received a response.  Meanwhile, I lost sleep over it as I raged at the stupidity and demented idea of having to change my name to my name.  Surely someone was playing a prank on me but I was just not getting the joke.  Endless 2am wakings followed with me lying in bed fuming at the idiocy of the whole situation until one morning, after hearing me rant about people butchering my name, Matt said to me as he gave me a big hug; “Oh honey, it doesn’t matter what everyone calls you.. You will always be sexy bum to me!” (note: no laughing allowed but yes, that is one of his terms of endearment for me.  Go figure.)  In that moment, I realized there was no use in fighting this.  There was simply no way around it.  I just had to get with the program and do as the powers-that-be instructed - no matter how bonkers the idea appeared to me.   

And so, it is another lesson learned.  Sometimes, things just are.  And you just need to take a big breath and go with it.  At least I am sleeping much better now.

*** end ***