AUGUST 24
An Email to my Future Self
Dear Me,
I suppose this is not so much a letter but more of an email. There is no other way to talk to myself unless I have a DeLorean, a flux capacitor, Doc Brown, and enough fuel to go Back to the Future. Yes, I’m still a movie nerd—that’s never changed. Well, future me, here goes nothing.
You are still in your little Nirimba house—the “cute one,” as your friend once called it. As you sit on the sofa and look around your lounge room, there are memories everywhere. Photos of Mum, a few of you and Mark, Dad’s seascape metal prints, and what you call “The Brisbane Collection” on the wall. They remind you of moments when the people you love were here, when life looked a little different.
Every room in this house holds a story. The hallway with the rugby shirts that Mark bought you. The media room with Dad’s photographs. Your bedroom with the limited-edition rugby prints and the canvas of the Glasshouse Mountains (one of dads of course) that still manages to make you stop and stare. It is funny how walls can become scrapbooks without us even realising it.
I hope, wherever you are when you read this, you still remember where you came from. I hope you never become so busy chasing the next thing that you forget the tiny things that shaped you. The morning coffee made by dad, the comfort of watching a movie you’ve seen a hundred times (yes I’m talking Top Gun and A Few Good Men), the sound of rain on the roof, or the peace that comes from sitting in silence. I hope you have learned to be kinder to yourself. By now you have realised that not everything has to be perfect to be worthwhile. Life has already taught you that love and loss often travel together. Mum and Dad are part of who you are, and they always will be. Mark has been gone a while now, but you have so many memories to hold on to. Never let them go. I know he told you to find love again, but you never wanted to. He was your happy ending.
So, future me, if today feels hard, keep going. If today feels wonderful, soak it in. If today feels ordinary, do not underestimate it. Ordinary days have a funny way of becoming the ones we miss the most. And if you are still quoting movies, still cheering for your rugby team, still taking photos of sunsets, and still believing that tomorrow can be better than today… then I think we have done all right.
Most of all, remember that life is for living.
Until next time,
Me
AUGUST 17
How Lucky Am I?
Do you ever stop and take stock of your life? Really think about how lucky—or unlucky—you’ve been? I do, and I consider myself one of the lucky ones.
Over the years, I have read countless stories from people who lost parents or grandparents far too young or, for one reason or another, had to distance themselves from their families. My experience has been quite different, and I never take that for granted.
My grandparents were a huge part of my life. My maternal grandparents filled my childhood with weekends, holidays, family meals, cartoons played with a cine film onto the bedroom wall, and the simplest of routines that became treasured memories. I was also fortunate to have my paternal grandparents well into adulthood. They stood beside me on my wedding day, shared meals with my husband and me, and gave me the opportunity to know them not only as grandparents but as friends.
My parents were equally important. Mum was always there when I was growing up, a stay-at-home mum, and as I got older, she and Dad became my closest friends. Even when Mum became ill and I became her carer, we were given the precious gift of time together; time to talk, laugh, watch the rugby together, and make memories that I now treasure.
My brother is someone I could never be without. Ok, I did ask for a sister but he’s pretty damn good. Memories of trips with his and my partners. Him staying at my house. Us staying at his on our UK trip. Sharing meals because we couldn’t decide on what we wanted so swapped plates ½ way through and had a bit of both. A brother that it doesn’t matter how often we speak, we just know we’re there for each other.
After Mum’s death, Dad and I found ourselves sharing a home. Seven years later, we are still making memories together through holidays, concerts, meals out, theatre trips, and the ordinary moments that often become the most meaningful. We have come to know each other not just as father and daughter, but as two adults who genuinely enjoy each other’s company.
I have experienced loss, and I know the absolute heartache that comes with saying goodbye before you’re ready. But when I take stock of my life, I don’t focus on that loss as I used to. What I do see is extraordinarily good fortune. The people I have loved have given me a lifetime of memories, laughter, and unconditional love. The ones that are still here continue to give those memories. That is what makes me one of the lucky ones.
AUGUST 10
Things Nobody Warns You About Getting Older
People tell you about wrinkles. They tell you your hair will go grey and that your knees and back will hurt from time to time. They even warn you that your favourite 80s song will one day be played on the oldies station. Newsflash—that day has arrived. But nobody tells you about the weird and wonderful bits of getting older.
Take the strange noises, for example. Standing up now requires a dramatic “Right then,” as though you are about to embark on an expedition to Everest rather than walk to the kitchen. Sitting down involves an equally theatrical “oof,” as if the very act of lowering yourself into a chair has drained every ounce of energy from your body. Once you reach a certain age, silence is no longer an option when changing positions.
And then there is the supermarket. At some point, you stop carrying baskets and graduate to a trolley, regardless of whether you need three items or thirty. The trolley isn’t just for shopping anymore; it’s a support vehicle, a mobile leaning post, and occasionally an emotional comfort blanket.
Then there’s the weather. Older people don’t just experience weather; they analyse it like seasoned meteorologists. A slight breeze can generate a forty-minute conversation, and the chances of rain are determined entirely by what your left knee is doing that day. Forget weather apps. Arthritis has been providing forecasts for generations.
And why does everyone suddenly look so young? Doctors, police officers, teachers, newsreaders—they all seem to be about twelve years old. You find yourself saying, “They’re just children!” despite knowing perfectly well that they are highly qualified adults with mortgages and children of their own. Somewhere along the way, the grown-ups became younger than you, and nobody prepared you for that shock.
The biggest surprise, though, is that inside, you still feel the same. You are simply an older version of yourself but with better stories, less patience for nonsense, and a much deeper appreciation for a comfortable chair.
AUGUST 3
The Life of a To-do list.
A to-do list begins its life with optimism. Fresh from the ‘morning’ app, it is born in a moment of clarity where everything feels achievable. It is usually written the night before. Preparation is half the battle, right? At first, it is elegant in its simplicity: “Do laundry,” “Reply to email,” “Buy milk.” It sits there quietly, trusting you, believing in your organisational intent. Then reality sets in.
The list grows quickly, as all good intentions do. “Sort cupboard under sink” appears. The list swells like it has developed ambitions and a grandeur all its own. Now it is a mildly judgemental memoir of your shortcomings.
There is a strange relationship that develops between you and your to-do list. You consult it in the morning as though it holds the blueprint for a productive life. It responds with calm authority, while you respond with selective engagement. You choose the easier tasks first, not because they are urgent, but because they are emotionally negotiable. “Reply to email” feels achievable. “Organise entire life admin system” does not.
As the day progresses, the to-do list begins to shift in tone. Now it is accusing you of things unfinished. Unchecked items stare back at you with increasing disappointment as you copy them forward for the following day. By evening, the list has usually won. A few items are ticked, often the smallest ones, while the larger ambitions roll forward into tomorrow with renewed confidence. You rewrite them again, giving them a second chance.
And yet, the to-do list survives. It resets, reappears, and continues its quiet documentation of intention versus reality. It is not really about completion. It is about possibility. A reminder that, somewhere beneath the laundry and the emails, there is a version of you who gets everything done.
JULY 27
Talking about a Christmas Baby
Being born on Christmas Day sounds magical to most people. The reactions are always the same.
“Oh, how wonderful, what a special day to have a birthday, you must have loved it as a child!” I smile politely because, like most things in life, the reality is a little more complicated. Yes, being born on Christmas Day is unique. It certainly means nobody ever forgets when my birthday is. There is no danger of friends scrambling through diaries in June trying to remember the date. Christmas cards appear, family gathers, and the world is celebrating. The world is celebrating Christmas—not my birthday.
Growing up, my parents did their absolute best to make the day special. There was always a birthday cake and an effort to separate Christmas celebrations from birthday traditions. Yet the decorations remained stubbornly festive. It is difficult to feel unique when Father Christmas is effectively stealing your thunder.
As an adult, however, my perspective has softened. There is something comforting about having a birthday when family naturally gathers. Many people spend birthdays alone or struggle to organise celebrations around busy schedules. I have never had that problem. Christmas Day brings loved ones, laughter, food, and a sense of togetherness that many birthdays cannot guarantee.
That said, I still maintain that birthday wrapping paper should not feature Santa Claus. There should be rules. There should be boundaries. Nobody wants to unwrap a birthday present accompanied by a cheerful snowman wishing them a Merry Christmas.
Having a birthday on Christmas Day is both a blessing and an irritation, a privilege, and a compromise. It is special, frustrating, memorable, and occasionally unfair. But after all these years, I would not change it. Well, perhaps I would move it to Boxing Day.
JULY 20
Things That Occurred to Me While Avoiding Housework
Housework. Does anyone enjoy it? I could name people at both ends of that scale. Some who despised it with a passion, just moving piles of “stuff” around while others had a house that you could put in the latest edition of “Town and Country” magazine.
There is a particular kind of genius that emerges only when one is actively avoiding housework. Here’s the thing. I can spend an entire morning ignoring a basket of washing while simultaneously solving problems that nobody asked me to solve. Suddenly, I am contemplating why socks vanish in the dryer, and whether my houseplants are thriving or merely surviving out of spite. The moment a vacuum cleaner appears, my brain becomes a centre for deep philosophical thought.
For example, who decided fitted sheets should exist? Was there a committee? Did someone wake up one morning and think, “People need a form of linen that folds into a shape unknown to geometry and causes low-level rage every time a bed is changed?”
Naturally, avoiding housework inspires sudden enthusiasm for other activities. Books that have sat untouched for months suddenly become irresistible. Old photographs require immediate organisation, a job I have been putting off for months.
The internet, of course, is an accomplice. One minute, I am looking up a recipe. Three hours later, the dishes remain exactly where I left them, displaying a patience and commitment that I deeply admire, while I have learnt some obscure fact from the internet and been down a rabbit hole on YouTube.
Perhaps housework serves an important purpose after all. It provides the gentle pressure required for creativity to flourish. If my home were permanently spotless, I might never have these marvellous thoughts.
Then again, if I did the cleaning first, I would probably have even more time to think about them. But let’s not do anything too radical.
JULY 13
Musings from the Middle of Nowhere
Where is nowhere? I looked it up on the map. Australia has Nowhere Track, Nowhere Creek, and Tasmania even has a place called Nowhere Else. Apparently, nowhere is a popular destination. For me, nowhere is not a place marked by coordinates or signposts. It is a state of mind. It is that moment when the world forgets to ask anything of you.
These days, nowhere feels increasingly difficult to find. The modern world insists we must always be somewhere important, doing something productive, and documenting it. Even coffee has become a performance. Heaven forbid we simply drink instant coffee in our pyjamas while staring into space. We should be sipping artisan blends in trendy cafés discussing mindfulness. The irony is that true mindfulness often happens when we are doing absolutely nothing.
My favourite version of nowhere involves a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and no plans. No appointments. No deadlines. No lists demanding attention. Just me, the birds outside, and whatever random thoughts wander through my mind.
Why do socks disappear in washing machines while Tupperware lids vanish in cupboards? Why do we buy notebooks and refuse to write in them? Why can we forget why we entered a room, yet remember an embarrassing comment from decades ago?
Children understand nowhere better than adults. Give a child permission to amuse themselves, and they will happily examine ants, build imaginary kingdoms, or find dinosaurs in clouds. Adults feel guilty after ten minutes of inactivity. We assume we should be folding washing, answering emails, or organising that drawer of mysterious cables.
Perhaps growing older should mean reclaiming our right to nowhere. Those pockets are not wasted time. They are breathing spaces between life’s chapters, allowing us to think, remember, laugh, and find answers without searching.
So if anyone asks where I have been today, I shall say: nowhere. Not lost. Not idle. Enjoying a holiday where the mind wanders freely.
