Month: September 2020

Remembering to breathe

boudicasroarLeave a comment

It’s easy to forget to breathe. Too often, we plough through, riding the worry wave. This year has brought us to the crest more than once. The UK’s Office for National Statistics says that coronavirus has impacted on our wellbeing – no real surprise there.

Isolation, relationship strife, curbed freedoms – it’s unsurprising that we’ve felt tense. For those of us at high risk, disabled or living alone, lockdown can be endless. In 2020, a rise in mental health issues has been seen globally.

These days, we have become masked, antibac crusaders, twitching at a close-to cough. It’s no wonder our heads are in a spin. Learning how to manage our stress has become a daily necessity.

It makes sense that meditation and mindfulness app usage has surged this year. I am a convert to Insight Timer but the well-being market is full of options. Ten minutes a day has helped me through dark moments. Relearning to breathe has been a revelation.

I’ve been surprised at how often I forget to truly breathe. How I move, shallow breathed through my days. If only I’d learnt the art earlier; I could have skipped some teenage angst!

Mindfulness, coupled with yoga has given me new life tools. Adriene Mishler has been my guide here. Her warm and natural style has coaxed me through flows that have set me right.

It’s ironic that, out of a shitty year I have become better at looking after myself. Oddly, I have coronavirus to thank for that. At first, self care was about survival. Now, as I look to autumn, I face uncertainty with a little less fear. If anxiety builds, I can return to the rhythm of my breath.

“Breathing in. I calm my body and mind. Breathing out. I smile. Dwelling in the present moment. The only moment.”

Thich Nhat Hanh

A legendary Brooklyn girl

boudicasroarLeave a comment

It’s February 2019 and I’m on a flight to New York. Stationary hours stretch ahead of me. I’m halfway through my snacks and a mediocre book.

Fidgety, I scroll through the onboard entertainment. To my left, a sleeping husband and son, grant me my viewing freedom.

Endless choices blow my mind. I dally between chick flick, biopic and documentary. A bespectacled woman stares out from the screen. She wears a lace collar, her hair is scraped back, her eyes sharp. This was a lady who knew her ‘power.’

As I pressed play, I had no clue about the legend I was about to meet. Ruth Bader Ginsburg (RBG), Supreme Court Justice and liberal darling, was the subject of this story.

As we flew over the Atlantic I watched her life unfold. Born in Brooklyn, to Jewish parents, she shook taboos from the start. As a student she fought chauvinism for her place at Harvard Law School. She won the first tenured, female professorship at Columbia Law. She was a formidable champion of women’s rights and gender equality. She made history in 1993, as the second only female Justice (holding this position into her 80’s).

This woman was inspiring by anyone’s standards. She’d put her time on earth to great use. Her achievements had made her an icon to upcoming generations. She was formidable, exemplary and unique. Yet on that tiny screen, she came across as modest, diminutive, shy even.

The air hostess came bearing tea. I declined, riveted to the screen. My son woke, needing the bathroom. Reluctantly, I shepherded him up and down the aisle. I raced back to RBG.

As the pilot announced our descent, the film credits rolled. Days later, I would visit Brooklyn. I would imagine a young Ruth Bader walking under the bridge, holding her parents hands.

Flash forward, 20 months and I wake to the the announcement of her death. Complications from pancreatic cancer had cut her mission short.

It is a sad day, tears shall be shed. Her leaving is all the more stark as America fights for its soul. The world is in a dark place right now. The equality she fought for is under threat.

Yet her imprint shall remain. Ruth Bader Ginsburg blazed trails right to her last breath. We must continue the good fight, in honour of her outstanding legacy.

“Fight for the things that you care about, but do it in a way that will lead others to join you.”

Ruth Bader Ginsburg (March 15, 1933 – September 18, 2020)



Poetry saved me from the dark

boudicasroarLeave a comment

It’s 2013 I’m the mother of a newborn – a longed for child. I live with my husband in a red brick house in a estuary city at the end of the line.

The baby is beautiful, a healthy little boy. We name him after our Irish roots. He arrived in a blur of pain plucked from water, by a kind midwife.

Parenthood was a mystery at first – the baby manual no damn use. A colicky, fretful boy pushed us to our limits. Irritation buzzed like a pesky bee. We wrestled for the crown of most hard done by.

A health scare, on top of scant sleep, chipped away at me. My husband was kind, yet he couldn’t stop me from falling. The wise Dr packed me off with pills and counselling.

One wakeful night, I couldn’t switch off my brain. Cross words had cut the evening short. Absently, I reached for my phone, it’s lights luring me back.

In that moment, I was drawn to the notes section. From nowhere, I started to write and write. Words flew from me – a poem of sorts. As I wrote, I started to relax – emotions emptying into night.

That was the start of my writing journey. From there on in, I typed as I went about my days. On the bus into town, in between feeds and during baby naps. It was like someone had flicked a switch in me. Some poems were angry, some sad, others funny and joyful too. It was like I’d rediscovered myself, shook a part of me free.

When we become parents, we do not realise what we trade for the privilege. The love you feel for your child is endless. Yet as parents, we must love ourselves too. I have learnt that, in order to find my balance, to be a better mum, I must make time to write. This outlet has been my saviour, pulling me back from dark places – helping me feel whole.

The yearning for home

boudicasroarLeave a comment

One of my favourite words is nostalgia. Apart from the way it rolls off the tongue, its meaning moves me. Gifted to us by the Greeks, it’s no accident that it is born from the words nostos (return home) and algos (pain).

This longing for home, for past times and loved ones, has never been stronger than this year. This strange, topsy turvy year, which has ripped the rug from under us. Who knew, when we toasted the first of January, our resolutions would unravel before the Easter Bunny came.

Suddenly, we were hemmed within four walls, if we were lucky to have a place to be. Coronavirus, that peculiar word, filled our ears and mouths. When we should’ve been planning for holidays, we were watching for symptoms.

But, harder than than the cabin fever, the home-school and zoom fatigue, was the separation. The inability to go to people and places that made you feel whole. As you pine, Boris says “stay put!”

The weeks turn into months. As you struggle with home-work-school-work de ja vu, you start to remember. You revisit the unlikeliest memories; nostalgia sweeps you up.

You are walking home from Ladysmith School, for macaroni with a crispy top. You are listening to your mother sing, her voice loops in the air. You are riding on your father’s shoulders, it is green all around. You are tracing the curves of an old violin, its head is a handsome lion. You wash potatoes in the sink with granny, she smells of soap. You dance with your sister, the fire dances too.

Memories flood you like a wave, pulling tears from inside. The emotion is bittersweet, like sherbet, sucked on a journey home. There is pain in the return, yet it reminds you who you are.

Back in the corona cabin, you hanker for a hug, from those that have known you forever. Instead, you are forced to wait, retracing the memory groove. These roots are stronger in middle age. Your 40 something heart, yearning for that Devon air, the red earth beneath your feet.

Then, a voice pulls you back, a holler from downstairs, “Mummy, I’m hungry!” You shake yourself present, return to the now, to beans on toast and cartoons, the dog snoring beside you.

Where did I go?

boudicasroarLeave a comment

I started this blog over 1000 days ago, yet I have been MIP (missing in posting).

So much has happened in the world, near and far. So many things to comment on – good and bad. How can I make up for this? How can I roll back the months, marking those moments? The world swells with beauty and pain – there’s so much to say.

The truth is, I was scared. I didn’t dare put my self out here. The cautious kid still lurking, wanting to be liked. The need to please, that yoke of insecurity that has held me back time and again.

It can be risky to tell your truth – in this age of fierce opinions, emoji judgements and cancellations. I can be thin-skinned sometimes and bruise deeper than you shall ever know.

I didn’t feel like Boudica. I felt like a mouse with a squeak in my throat. I was a younger me, standing at the waters edge, watching my friend diving down. Afraid to follow, I hung back, waist deep, until a wave toppled me. I surfaced spluttering, to find myself bathed in sun.

So, here I am, taking a step, finding my footing, raising my voice. I shall let the words fall from crossed fingers, into cyberspace. Some say, we are here once to make our mark, others believe we’ll come again. Whatever the truth, I am owning mine, from this day onwards.