The last swallow. The end of summer

A bird dive bombed our barn window yesterday as I stood doing the ironing. It’s a common occurrence up here on the hill; birds disorientated by the trickery of light from changing skies, that or being chased by Bobby, our ten month kitten as he hones his hunting skills.

I dashed out to see whether (as is often the case) the bird was simply stunned. A swallow with a slightly dull metallic blue jacket and tail streamers lay twitching on the decking. The absence of the usual russet colouring told me it was a juvenile, probably from next doors field shelter which is onto the third clutch. It would never have made it in time to migrate with the others anyway.

Most of the swallows departed a couple of weeks ago, two weeks earlier than last year. As they prepared for their journey to warmer climes, I knew there would be no Indian summer. The air thronged with their song; a rambling warble of trills and twitters, reminiscent of radio interference. Large flocks perched on wires and practised their aerial acrobatics, circling gracefully overhead and swooping low over the garden and fields in front, entertaining us one last time.

Meanwhile, the only flutter from the swallow in my hand was from the breeze which fanned its feathers. His head hung downwards. I waited a couple of minutes but nothing. Even Bobby, who had been smarming expectantly against my legs rolled his eyes, flicked his tail in disgust and stropped away in the direction of the blue tits chirruping over the buddleia, eager for more action.

The swallow had died and with it, in the blink of an eye, the last of summer disappeared. What a summer it has been...

It’s a blog all of it’s own, and a very long story but this summer I found two sisters whom I have never met. Until a few years ago, they didn't even know I existed. They say truth is stranger than fiction. You couldn’t write my life story. No-one would believe it.

I’ll always remember it as the summer that Idle Jack became a man. We found out at the end of last term that he had been skipping lessons. He even missed an exam.

His year at college was supposed to be re-taking the GCSE’s he'd failed at school.Instead, he spent a year doing nothing, or nothing to do with enhancing his education. We’d had enough. Having tried everything; positive parenting, grounding him, withdrawing privileges, it was time for tough love. And it was tough.

We told him we wouldn’t support him to go back to college - it was time to get in the real world; get a job. We suggested an apprenticeship; Trainee chef. He would always find work as a chef; he could go on a cruise ship once he qualified, maybe travel the world. The girls all love a chef.

He resisted, of course. He came back from his first apprenticeship interview regaling us with how it had gone, how the head chef had praised him, the questions he’d been asked and how grateful he was that I’d helped him with his interview technique. The following day while he was out, I had a phone call. It was the manager of the restaurant, ringing to re-arrange the appointment my son had cancelled due to a family crisis.

Oh, there was a family crisis that night, I can tell you. My son, Idle Jack - now Walter Mitty.

I drove him to his next interview and sat outside, waiting for him.

“They said I did really well,” he gushed, as he came out after only ten minutes. “And they want to offer me the job. I have to ring them tomorrow to let them know whether I’d like it or not.”

I ask you. In today’s economic climate. I still don’t understand what he was thinking.

Needless to say, he didn’t have time to take his shirt and tie off when he got home before I made him ring them back to graciously accept their kind offer.

It was the right decision. A couple of weeks after starting the apprenticeship it was GCSE results day. This was one occasion when I would have been happy to be proved wrong. But I wasn’t. Eldest son failed all his re-takes. It had indeed been a wasted year.

Academia isn’t for everyone, I told him, putting on my best positive voice. This summer he’d turned it around; he’d got himself on an apprenticeship - a worthwhile career plan - in a couple of year’s time when all his friends are leaving college and Uni looking for a job, he’ll have the advantage.

Six weeks into the job, I’m beginning to think I might have to change his nickname. I can’t exactly keep calling him Idle Jack when he works in a kitchen from 10am until 10pm, on split shifts.

But in true Jane Austen (and Helen Fielding) style it is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces. As hubby and Son No 1 ride off into the sunset in gainful employment my next set of life challenges spring up as sure as night turns to day.

With major surgery knocking at my door, my youngest son has to see a Rheumatoid Paediatrician tomorrow. He keeps getting deep necrotic ulcers in his mouth and after several appointments with Paediatricians and numerous blood tests the worry is, he may be showing signs of developing my Behcets disease – certainly, his immune system seems to have been compromised.

It’s another worry, to add to the many. But then that is life, full of ups and downs. Seasons change. Some are harder than others.

For our house, the summer has gone, along with the swallows, winging their way for winter in South Africa.

We’re off too – not emigrating, but we’re going to the Caribbean on Tuesday for some sun, fun and relaxation.

After the summer we've had, we need it.

So until another day

xx

There's no such word as Can't

What’s your mantra?

There’s no such word as can’t

This is mine because I believe that when you really, really want something you must never say the ‘C’ word. You can do anything if you set your mind to it.

My Nan drummed it into me at an early age. Whether it was schoolwork or music, dance or athletics, whenever I said ‘I Can’t,’ Nan would look me straight in the face, her expression serious and retort with gusto, ‘Of course you can. There’s no such word as can’t. Keep trying.’

Sometimes, I puzzled and fretted over her words. There were lots of things I couldn’t do. I couldn’t get A+ in Maths, however hard I tried. I couldn’t get my soufflés to rise like Margaret Owen in Domestic Science classes. I couldn’t run the 100 metre hurdles in under fourteen seconds.

Years, and countless times later of Nan batting those words at me, I found I’d developed huge resilience, a staying power, a dogged determination that nearly matched her strong will. My never say never attitude served me well in my career, personal life, health – especially those times when ill-health threatened to ruin everything. And with the successes came confidence, and a belief that if I tried my very best and kept going, then maybe I could. Nan was right. There really was no such word as Can't.

Now on the second anniversary of her death, whilst I recognise it’s a mantra I’ve maintained most of my life, I have to confess; over the last year or so there have been times when I’ve been lost as I floated in limbo, endlessly waiting for the surgery that’s going to miraculously improve my physical and mental well-being.

Last week, I had to give myself a swift talking to. I’d done so well over recent weeks and had come out from under the duvet where I’d been hiding.I’d stopped swimming because it hurt my jaws to push my chin forward. Or that was my excuse. I couldn’t be bothered. I preferred to sit home and wallow in pain and gloom at my predicament. But a few weeks ago I realised I missed it. Swimming helps the rest of my bones not seize up. It stops me feeling like a lump of lard. And whether it hurts or not, swimming isn’t going to make my jaw problems any worse.

I’m now back swimming four or five times a week. Already, my body tone has improved which makes me feel better about myself and I know I’m preparing myself, physically and mentally, for what’s to come. Exercise has helped the endorphin levels - perhaps it’s psychosomatic, but I feel as if I’m coping with the pain better - I’ve certainly stopped going to bed in the afternoons to shut down from it.

But swimming alone isn't going to help me. I need something to stop me going backwards, sliding towards the open jaws of the black dog of depression.

Come on, Deb. There’s no such word as Can’t. I have to fight back.

It’s easy to say. But the most difficult thing with my periods of ill-health (and other adversities,) is finding the strength to believe in myself again.

As I sat there, feeling sorry for myself, frustrated at the lack of control, I summoned all the positive thinking and strength I could muster for the a final assault. Knowing myself as well as I do, I need a plan or plans. I need goals; something to work to, something to look forward to, something to help distract me and not dwell. Most of all, I need to believe.

Fed up of waiting, we booked a holiday for the 15th September. I may as well be in pain in Antigua as sitting home, looking at the four walls and waiting. We all need the holiday and it will be good for the boys for us to have some proper time together, and if we don’t get away now, it might be months. We’ve had to cancel two holidays because of my health this year.

Next, I chased the hospital and the manufacturers of my replacement joints in the USA tmjconcepts - I sent a nice, but strongly worded e-mail. I can't go on like this. I need an idea of when the surgery is. I have to make certain domestic arrangements. With a husband who works in London most of the week and two boys to organise, it’s not unreasonable to at least have an idea of when the surgery might be, is it - especially if, as I’m told, I might be out of action for several weeks.

On the writing front I would like to announce that I am OFFICIALLY a writer, not because I’ve been accepted for publication, but because I’ve had my first rejection for Living in the Past from a publisher. Well, that makes me a proper writer, doesn’t it? So I've also made a few writing goals which I need these to keep focussed because there were times this year when I gave up - it didn't last, of course - after a few days, I felt anxious, restless and unfulfilled. Writing is the milk in my tea; the fondant on my cup cake, the ice- cream on my jelly.

I intend to finish Country Strife, my second novel and get it on the RNA New Writer’s Scheme for 2011. I’m going to finish the two stories I have in mind for women’s magazines (and submit them.) Finally, I’m going to push on with my idea for non-fiction book about living with pain/long term illness – nothing gloomy or self indulgent - something light with some positive messages. I think it might also be cathartic.

There we are. I have a plan. I feel strong. I have my mojo back. It's just as well.

Last night I had an e-mail from my Consultant.
"How does the 13th October sound for your surgery date?"

Nothing comes to he who waits.

“You can do it. Believe. There’s no such word as Can’t.”

I miss you Nan. But you’d be proud of me.


Until another day
xx

'Living in the Past' is history

Well, I’m back from the Mother-in-law’s-caravan; a whole week of self imposed writer’s retreat because I didn’t feel quite up to going on any writing courses or holidays this year while I’m waiting for my surgery.

And it’s been a productive week. I return with several thousand words added onto two of my novels, proposals for two non-fiction books, a couple of articles, one short story, and multiple lists of action points and ideas. Not bad. And the beauty of being away from home, the family and housework, is I didn’t feel guilty about writing once.

But it wasn’t always easy, maintaining the self-discipline and it took me a couple of days to get into the swing of things. In fact I have a confession to make. I wasted the whole of the first day dabbling with a possible re-write of Living in the Past.

Stop! I hear you shout. Surely ‘Living in the Past,’ (previously known as Tango Man,) is now complete? Yes, you’re right. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve tinkered with it, and I’m not talking just a little tweaking but three complete re-writes and numerous cutting and editing besides. I think this is the third year I’ve spent on it. And it’s not as if I ever thought it was the novel that would get me the Booker prize (indeed whether it will even ever attain publication remains to be seen.) I accept this because I recognise the novel served me well in terms of learning the craft of writing – serving my writing apprenticeship – and it was a story I was compelled to write. It’s been critiqued by the professionals, it’s had some positive feedback so I’m as happy as I’m going to be with it. And after all the hard work, I’m going to start sending it out to agents.

I don’t think it’s the elements of the story that keep drawing me back to tinker – the Nan, the husband, the betrayals, demons – they are all in the PAST and I worked through much of it years ago. So why the meddling? Why do I keep going back to it?

Is this normal behaviour for writers - this obsession, the pursuit of perfection? Do you have a piece of work or novel; something that you can’t stop going back to, something you can’t let go of in writing terms? Or tell me is my OCD towards my first novel simply habit or comfort, or maybe even lack of confidence towards moving on.

Anyway, it’s time to move on. I see that. Besides everything else, I’m fed up of looking at it. To mark the occasion (in addition to the blog,) I’ve penned a magazine article and a rough outline of a non-fiction proposal, all about living in the past and how to move on.

This blog is my promise to myself to let it go. It seems somehow symbolic.

So until another day

Bye for now
xx

Writers=Sales People

In today’s ultra competitive writer’s market, selling yourself is an important factor, like it or not. And I don’t.

Since Tango Man (now re-named Living in the Past) returned from critiquing under the New Writers Scheme,I’ve done the tweaks suggested, re-written the synopsis and have my query letter prepared, ready with a list of agents to approach. Unfortunately, my pen lost momentum when it came to the Biography. After the initial panic, I sat down and deliberated...and cogitated. For hours.

It’s easy enough to scribble a couple of lines that describe who you are but when it comes to showing why you’re someone to read, it’s a different matter altogether. And the trouble is, when it comes to self promotion, I’ve never been very good at that type of thing. Yes, I know, I can hear you all saying this is the girl who was in sales and sales training for most of her working life, and it’s true; I used to be able to sell the proverbial sand to Arabs but when I retired from my job in the Bank, it knocked the stuffing out of me. And with my ever decreasing confidence over the last year as my health problems consume me, (there’s nothing like being unable to do something due to ill-health for making one feel incompetent) it leaves me feeling that there’s not much to sing about in terms of successes .

Am I being hard on myself again or is it simply part of being British? I can’t help thinking that many of us feel uncomfortable with this ‘sell yourself’ aspect of being a writer. My Nan used to say, “No-one likes a big head.” She taught me humility, how to hide my light well and truly under a bushel. However, the trouble is, if I want to progress my writing I’m going to have to sell myself to an agent and publishers, to bookshops and to my readers and having reached this rather crucial stage along my path to publication, I need to do something about it. I need to overcome the biography barrier.

For the last week or so I’ve been searching for inspiration. I read a lot (like most writers) and I thought a good place to start would be the books on my bookshelves. Having analysed the inside covers to crib off the experts, there seems to be a pattern. Here’s what I found: -

Good news – Biographies are only about three lines long, four at most.

Line one tends to be qualifications, highlighting any degrees and certifications the author has. Here’s where a degree in English or Creative Writing comes in handy because I doubt my ‘O’ Level English will have the same clout. Of course, not every author has an ‘Ology.’ Many fiction writers seemed to have been English teachers in a former life, or had careers in journalism. This biography business is about selling yourself; shouting to the world that you are qualified in some way to write what you write. I had to retire from my job as a Bank Manager aged thirty two. No matter how much I fanny about with that snippet, I can’t make it sound exciting. Hmm, I don’t suppose being editor for my local Parish News counts as journalism?

The second line seems to tell why the author is writing the novel/articles/non-fiction book or what prompted them to start writing in the first place. It let’s people know why their work is worthy of attention or if they have an area of expertise.

Okay, so this is where I start to see I might just have a unique selling point - we all have them; we just have to look deep within ourselves. Because if this is where the author makes themselves look attractive to publishers and the market (and even forms the basis for their overall marketing,) at least I can see I have an angle for that non-fiction book about living with Chronic Illness and Pain, or the novel I’ve outlined titled, ‘Smile through the Pain.’

Can you imagine the line, “Debbie is inspired to write for other women, to share her experiences and offer insight...?”

I digress.

This part of the biography is also where the writer tends to note any awards or competitions they’ve won.

Right, I’m back to being negative because I haven’t won any competitions, although last month ‘Baby Blue’ was short-listed and highly commended by Sue Moorcroft for Writers Forum Magazine. Some writers might also include here any publishing successes, however small. Hmm, do you think anyone will be interested in the poetry competition that I won for the Yorkshire Evening Post thirty years ago?

The last sentence of the bio tends to be more personal. For many authors this is where they share with the reader the number of children, pets, and anything else that might be of interest, like where they live. Easy peasy. I can do this one - ‘I currently live in rural South Shropshire with my husband and two sons.’

The final point I will make about the biographies I looked at is that few of them are ordinary. There are some amusing and original biographies around - like best selling Romantic Novelist, Katie Fforde, who on the inside cover of Highland Fling reads:
‘Katie Fford lives in Gloucestershire with her husband and some of her three children. Her hobbies are ironing and housework but unfortunately, she has almost no time for them as she feels it is her duty to keep a close eye on the afternoon chat shows...’

Of course the fact that Katie has more than fifteen best sellers means that few readers give a jot about her writing history. Her success proves her pedigree.

With my limited background, I might learn a lot from Katie’s quirky format. And on that note, rather than writing about my biography, I’d better get on with actually writing my biography. Perhaps, with the help of friends and family I’ll be able to make the most of myself, my abilities and my interests. With any luck, by the time I’ve worked down the list of agents, I might have won something or made inroads into the women’s magazine market and had something published.

What is it they say - ‘success breeds confidence?’


Until another day

xx

I'm still here. Kind of.

I am in limbo. I’ve been like it for months; floundering, poised up on the top of the hill in my barn, I sit at the island and look out in a state of suspended animation. I am still waiting for the bilateral TMJ replacement surgery. Sorry, I’m conditioned to the medical terminology after a year of injections, investigations and unsuccessful surgery. What I mean is both jaws are to be completely replaced.

“Too much talking,” my husband jests. Not any more. My precious talking. Lordy, how I miss it. And eating, sleeping and yawning. I hardly go out. I’ve tried, but I only suffer afterwards, and I’m not the best company at the moment. I hate to moan but I do anyway. It’s so unlike me. Twenty-three years with Behcets disease, and I’ve never given in before. Having chronic pain can be wearing at the best of times but being in constant pain in my head, jaws and ears is all-consuming. Imagine the worst toothache, earache, abscess, neuralgia pain you have ever had. That’s what it’s like day in, day out. So I hermit; I sit, and wait for the replacements to be custom made. Imagine, in a few months time, I will be walking around with jaws that were made in the U.S.A.

A few of you have missed me and for that I am grateful. I miss me. Some days a catch a glimpse of my old self – she comes out and gives me a swift kick up the derriere and tells me, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” “Don’t let the ‘black dog’ get you,” “Think of all the people worse off than you.” I tell you who I do miss – Woozle. She would tell me what to do.

Since I finished the (third) re-write of Tango Man I have crashed creatively. The second novel has stalled. I have a trio of novels in my head which, if I gave them half a chance, could become a Saga trilogy but I don’t have it in me to get them down on paper. I have a couple of unfinished short stories that I intended for the women’s magazine market. Oh yes, and I keep thinking about writing a non-fiction book about 'Coping with Chronic Illness and Pain.' However, all I do is think about it, then I change my mind because I don’t think I’d set a very good example for someone who fights long term illness and pain and copes when I don’t some days.

For those who are interested, 'Tango Man' is now being critiqued under the Romantic Novelists Association New Writers Scheme. And hey, I’ve written a blog. Think of all the positives. It’s only taken me five months. Surely, I won’t have long to wait for some news from my Consultant. We’re hoping August for the surgery. It doesn’t seem that far away now. Maybe this is the beginning of the great fight back. I’m known for them, but then again...

Until another day

Bye for now
x

Ho Ho Ho

This morning at the Post Office, a lady was chuntering about the cold weather. It’s funny how we British are never happy. Yes, the arrival of the cold weather will play havoc with my bones, but for me there’s nothing nicer than a bright crisp day, lighting the log burner and donning my winceyette PJ’s and bed socks by 7pm.


It’s that most wonderful time of the year and I LOVE IT! Granted, my husband could do with a visit from the three ghosts. However, when he arrives home on Christmas Eve to the aroma of mulled wine and freshly baked sausage rolls I know the festive spirit will rub off. He’ll be able to switch off from worries of his company being taken over and imminent redundancies for a few days. And he won’t complain about how much I’ve spent on Christmas. Well, at least not until the 4th January.

I’ve always been Christmas’s number one fan right back from my earliest memories of pilfering satsuma’s out of the fruit bowl and eating fried leftover Christmas Pudding on Boxing day. Christmas Day was always a rather forlorn affair in our house. Like Tiny Tim, there was no succulent turkey. For Nan and I, a scrawny cockerel from the Co-op was our usual feast, along with sprouts that Nan put on to boil a week beforehand. But the table always looked magical when laid with the best dinner service, I was allowed a Babycham and Nan and I would pull each other’s crackers (although I always had to read her jokes because she couldn’t read the small writing.)

The year I first found out the truth about Santa was devastating. But I can’t blame Susan Abey for ruining it when she told me that it was really my Nan. It was my own fault. You see, as soon as I discovered the truth, I went hunting for all the presents hidden around the house. Consequently, on Christmas day, there were no surprises and I had to feign delight and even worse, lie to my Nan as I opened them. These days I much prefer surprises and ever since, I don't feel a present or shake it to try to guess what’s inside.

Since I met my hubby over twenty-one years ago, I have created my own traditions. Like listening to carols from Kings College while I make the mince pies on Christmas Eve. Another has evolved since an Italian friend brought us a Pannetone round one year and we kept it until Christmas Day. It was so delicious and light to eat on Christmas morning before the big dinner that we’ve bought one every year since. Oh yes, and there’s my greasy, well- thumbed copy of Delia Smith’s Christmas that hubby bought for our first Christmas. It still comes out every October; my bible to keep me on track with the food preparations.


If you’re anything like me at the moment, your life will currently be lists and more lists but over the years, I’ve given up the need for perfection. More often than not, I buy my Christmas pudding these days. The children always make the centrepiece and a good friend, Snailbeach Shepherdess usually makes me a delicious Christmas cake. Christmas is a precious time for us as a family, just the four of us and the dog, of course (although hopefully he won't eat the turkey carcass off the side this year so we'll be able to have cold turkey sandwiches.) We stay at home all Christmas, and the children get to play with their new toys. If they’re happy, we’re happy.

I’m well on with the nesting – another tradition in our house. Although goodness knows why I feel the need to wash the inside windows, paintwork and clean the fridge. Perhaps it’s so that when I’m lying and snoozing after dinner I won’t feel guilty ... I can simply relax and enjoy the festivities after all the build up.


May I wish you all a very special time with the love of family, the happiness of friends and the joy of Christmas.


God Bless us everyone

Until the New Year

xx

We all have our cross to bear

Five years ago, my husband, my soul mate, the love of my life had an affair. Despite a year apart, we are still together.

It never leaves me – what he did and what we went through consequently. Every day some little reminder prods and pokes at the old scab to see whether it has healed. There were times during my troubles that I was overwhelmed by anger – not at him, but an incredulity that I’d had more than my fair share of grief and hard times over the years. ‘Him up there’ has thrown most things at me at some stage or another; being abandoned by my mother and father as a small child; numerous miscarriages; being diagnosed with Behcets disease in my twenties and losing my job as a result; my eldest child being very, very sick. I won’t go on. There is a lot more.

I used to wonder how it was that some people seem to have all that life can throw at them and some remain untouched, leading seemingly blessed lives. Over the years, I realise that is not the case. Everyone has his or her cross to bear. Adversity can strike with or without notice. It can hit a relationship, a loved one, your business, your health or your financial status. No matter where or when it hits it will leave the same emotions and feelings in its wake; anxiety, stress, frustration, disappointment, fear, sadness and almost always, a sense of hopelessness and/or despair. How cruel life can be. But we all know that life’s not fair and what is it they say – what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?

Adversity has an incredible power over our emotions, feelings and responses. Yet it always amazes me how strong the human spirit can be to endure such pain and hard times and still battle and come through the other end. From what I’ve gleaned so far, it is how we deal with adversity that separates those who come out at the other end better and wiser from those who are broken by the experience or end up bitter and ruined. Indeed, how we see life determines our interpretation of whether it is an adversity or not. When adversity rocks a comfortable secure life, fear takes over. We all wonder, ‘how will I survive alone?’ ‘Can I ever get over this?’ ‘Will I ever get a new job or career?’ However, if ten people faced the same adverse event, I guarantee that some will see it as negative, some positive and some devastated by it.
We have a choice as to which way we see it. One of the best illustrations I can give is for you to think about Neville and Doreen, the parents of Steven Lawrence or, Sarah Payne, mother of little Sarah who was abducted and murdered by a paedophile. There can be no event more terrible to endure than the death of a child. For some people, a tragedy gives their life purpose.

I should be a resilience coach. Over the years, I’ve perfected it to a fine art. Every knock back is a learning experience. How many times have I told myself that, ‘It must have happened for a reason’ or ‘some good has to come from it.’ Perhaps I’m kidding myself and wrapping it up to make it easier to accept. But hey, if that’s my coping mechanism at least I can say that the challenges in life have made me better, not bitter. It depends how strong your survival instinct is. For me it has always been the need to keep going and never give in. If we’re trying to climb a mountain, it isn’t the mountain that we conquer, it is ourselves. Edmund Hillary said that after he climbed Mount Everest.

I’m not for one moment suggesting that I’m always strong and positive, focussed and proactive in the face of disorder. I can fall apart like the next person and how we cope at the time of the event is a completely different matter and a separate blog. I am talking about resilience, because after I’ve wallowed and hit the bottom, something kicks in and I always, ALWAYS manage to bounce back up and fight. Here’s what I’ve learnt from adversity:-
1 To fight not flight – It’s far better to face the reality of the situation rather than run or shirk it.
2 Accept support from family and friends - The saying, ‘A problem shared is a problem halved’ is so true. It’s also true that the tough times are when you find who your friends are. People who care deeply for you will be there when adversity strikes. When my world crashed around my ears five years ago, my friends carried me through. But even total strangers reached out to me to give their support and encouraged me to keep trying hard to get my life back. Women in particular - ‘sisters’ - there is nothing like the support of another woman. Men rarely have the same support network.
3 Focus on what you have, and what you can do – This doesn’t mean money and material things. People, especially you, are far more important to treasure than possessions.
4 Learn from it and re-build – Adversity can be a tool, just like any other emotional tool for positive change. You have to be self aware to see the opportunity. You have to be patient with yourself – not beat yourself up thinking things like, “I’m such an idiot.” Adversity often brings with it knocks to confidence, loss of security, crippling lack of self-esteem. If you can dig deep into your resolves and strive to where or who we want to be rather than who we are or who we used to be, you will have to have learned to love yourself enough.

Learning to love yourself is the most crucial key to coming through adversity and being stronger and better as a result.

Walt Disney once said:- “You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.” A resilient person is able to withstand life’s battles, survive them, and come out triumphant. If you are currently smack in the middle of a rotten situation, take a step back and think of another occasion when you (or someone you know) went through a trauma, tragedy or horrible experience. You see, you survived (or they) survived. We are here to tell the tale. Surviving such experiences should give us confidence and belief in our ability to get on with it when the unthinkable happens. Life isn’t fair and you may be battled scarred and weary but at least you will be able to look at the scars and know the hurt is over and the wound is closed because you have that gift of an amazing and indomitable human spirit.


Until another day

Bye for now