Right from a very young age we’re asked ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ I can’t speak for anyone else, but at 40 years old, I still don’t know the answer to this question. 

If I’d have followed my 8 year old self and her dreams, I’d be sitting in a kiosk at a National Park somewhere along the British coastline taking money off people wanting to park their cars so that they could spend the day at the beach, either that or I’d be swinging through the air on a trapeze. Maybe the latter isn’t too far from reality, but at no point did I say ‘mummy, I want to work on improving risk management in British Government’.

I actually had no idea what I wanted to do for a job all through school. I considered being a teacher, but a four year old, well versed in an array of profanities, put that idea firmly to bed. I also thought about working in a health resort/gym but after realising that folding starched towels has a similar effect on me as nails down a blackboard, I was back to square one. 

I finished school and went to university choosing a degree based on my love of numbers, logical reasoning and quadratic equations. It could have been suggested that my A level results reflected that a love of something doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re any good at it, but I was a girl on a mission. I opted for a course a little less challenging than straight maths (which my brain might have exploded doing) and chose something that would help me to potentially get a foot in the door of a number of professions. I believe that these choices, albeit stumbled upon, helped set me up for a wonderful and varied career. 

Not so long ago, I asked my son the very same question that was asked of me at a young age and his response was delightful. 

‘I want to be a vet…and a builder and a policeman and a gymnastics worker and a camel rider‘. 

I must admit that the camel rider took me a little by surprise but his tone told me that right in that moment he could genuinely see himself doing any or all of those jobs.  He didn’t go away and think about it, or ask himself ‘what job will pay me lots of money?’ or ‘I wonder if they do salary sacrificing?’ He answered, purely and simply, from the heart and chose jobs that he thought would give him joy or which he could relate to because of his own childhood experiences. Little does he know but his five year old brain was pretty smart to not limit his options to only one possible vocation. I have no doubt he will have a fulfilled career, whatever he chooses. 
The conversation with my son, combined with a young and impressionable team member seeking guidance in the direction her life ‘should’ take, got me thinking. Why, as (young) adults do we often feel the need to have all of the answers, all of the time?

Surely the best thing we can do is reflect on what we have learnt along the way and try very hard to not make the same mistake twice; knowing that we still will at least once or twice. We can use the experiences we have had to help us make better informed decisions for our future; helping us to eliminate the non-starters and the ‘really bad choices’ from our list of possibilities. 

The other advantage that we have over the five year olds is that we have an awareness of the ‘now’.  The now, actually maybe all we have and that’s why it is important to enjoy every moment, find the good in things, let go of the anger and smile; always smile. While we may have hopes and dreams for what tomorrow may bring, right now is what’s really important. 
So late on a Sunday night last week I tried to offer the best unqualified advice I could to an 18 year old who felt a little lost. 

• It’s ok to not have all of the answers. You’re 18, live in the moment and have lots of fun finding some.
• Don’t try to grow up too quickly. The house, the car, the wedding, the husband and the babies will happen in time and I can guarantee they will be nothing like you imagine. 
• If it doesn’t make you happy, let it go; but don’t walk away from something just because you’re bored or it’s inconvenient right at this moment or because it’s hard work; let it go because it’s not right or it’s not what you truly want.  
• Regrets will only hold you back. Make a decision and run with it. 
• Find something you’re passionate about and find a way to make money doing it for a living. 
• Have a back up plan (but not for your love life – that has to be all in)
• Time by yourself is a good thing. Never feel that your worth is dependent on another human. 
• If someone can make you cry or hurts you with their words or actions towards you, they do not deserve you. Simply walk away. 
• Be yourself. Trying to be anyone else is completely exhausting. 
• Don’t buy into the drama. Be dramatic, be passionate but don’t be the drama. 
• Dream. Dream big and then go after them.

Maybe we all have something to learn from the little people. They know how to dream without the what ifs, without barriers and without fear. My little person has taught me more about life in 6 years than any university degree ever did or could (but I’m still thankful that I went and that I have the piece of paper that showed I worked my butt off for something I wanted) 

One of my Mother’s Day gifts was a mug with the words ‘she believed she could so she did’. I think he hit the nail on the head with that one. I plan on doing so much more yet, just don’t ask me what, I’m still working on that bit. 😉

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I love this photo of my sister. She sent it to me a short while before I came back home for Christmas, just in case I didn’t recognise her (as if?!). She reminds me of a young Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and the image isn’t dissimilar to one from the film that I have on my bedroom wall. 

You see, I think my sister is beautiful, I always have. In my eyes she possesses the kind of beauty that never fades or dulls over time; a true classic, regardless of age. Her skin is flawless, her eyes bright and her features strong. She rarely wears make up and can throw an outfit together in a heartbeat and will look like she has spent hours in front of the mirror. To top it off, she is kind and loving, patient and ever so tidy, and is always the first to offer help to a friend. Me, on the other hand, won’t even put the bins out without first applying at least two coats of mascara and making sure my tracksuit bottoms are ‘street worthy’. It’s not uncommon for my entire wardrobe to be strewn across the bedroom floor as I try and find ‘something’ to wear and even then I’ll change my entire outfit at least three times in any one day. I have a cleaner, the patience of a Jack Russell puppy and a fuse so short that and electric toothbrush could trip it; and as much as I don’t like to admit it, I can be quite selfish on occasion.  

There were many times growing up where I cursed my red hair, freckles and skin that burnt at the mere mention of sunlight, and wished that I had got more of my Dads Maltese genes, and ultimately was a little more like my sister. Our hair colour and bone structure aren’t the only differences between my sister and I. In fact, I can’t think of much we do have in common. Our love of Indian food is about as similar as we get. I’m competitive, she’s not; I love the spotlight, she’d rather hide in the wings; I exercise for fun, she certainly doesn’t; even the hand we write with is different. Mum has often said how she doesn’t quite understand how she could have two daughters so very polar opposite to one another. We take chalk and cheese to a whole new level. 

But as we sat on her sofa tonight, giggling so hard that we both had tears streaming down our faces, after having spent a wonderful day together with our children, our differences melted away like frost on a spring morning. I realised then, that while we may not talk as often as we’d like; our busy lives and an 11 hour time difference making a five minute chat seem almost impossible at times; and while we may have missed more of each others birthday celebrations than either of us care to be reminded of over the years (turning 40 certainly wasn’t the same without you), we are still the best of friends. For all of our differences, we will always be sisters. And while some siblings grow apart as they grow older, I want you to know that I cherish our friendship and hope that it always stays as strong as it is today. I love you Skatie Lou. 

G xx

 

I’ve just spent four wonderful days down in the southern part of the UK bringing in the New Year and catching up with old friends. As I was sat in the car on the six hour journey home, scouring the radio channels for something to keep me entertained (and awake, after a couple of later nights than my 40 year old self is used to), I stumbled on Heart Fm’s top 100 feel good songs of the last decade. On a slight tangent, it should really have been named the top 100 feel good songs of the last two years but I did only listen to the top 11 so I’ll reserve judgement. The hour that followed, as the top ten was revealed, inlvolved the stereo being cracked right up, bets being taken between a 6 year old and his mum as to whether Pharell Williams with ‘Happy’ or ‘Uptown Funk’ by Bruno Mars was going to take out the top spot, only to both be proved wrong, and both of us singing at the top of our lungs to every song that was played. 
As I sat there watching the sheer delight on Patrick’s face as he sang along with me (I do have to add that I was a little disturbed by the fact that he knew all of the words to Little Mix’s ‘shout out to my ex’ and think that maybe I need to mix up my playlist a little more frequently) and noticing that I too was smiling from ear to ear and singing a little louder than anyone should probably ever be subjected to, that we were having a truly wonderful time. 

On what can only be described as an otherwise very boring and tedious journey, I was reminded, very fantastically and quite simply so, that it’s the little things, moments in time such as the one we were sharing, that are truly special and which will long exist in both our minds as happy memories. 

I know I get caught up in the big stuff, as I’m sure many others do, probably all too often. I have been told on many occasion to ‘go with the flow’ a little more or ‘enjoy the journey’ as the destination is just where you end up, but I do find it hard sometimes to enjoy the ‘grey matter’, the bits that are not so stand out in the stage show of life, or which don’t appear to have an end point or higher purpose attached. As those who know me would likely expect, I had already written my goals for 2017 before 2016 had drawn to a close, and as usual, I haven’t gone for the easy to reach, have some fun along the way kind of targets, I have once again set the bar so very high, even by my standards. I have no doubt that I will achieve most, if not all, but after today’s car journey, I’m going to add in a few smaller ones, where I actually take some time to enjoy the little things; the special moments that often get lost in the big picture stuff or get overlooked for the more spectacular moments maybe; and in those moments, I hope I remember to be thankful for the opportunity of those times and for all I have. Moments like dancing to Mr Brightside at 2am with friends that I haven’t seen for over 12 months but where it feels like I’ve never been gone; moments like sitting with your best friend having a deep and meaningful conversation in a train station drinking tea after riding carousels and playing ‘hook a duck’ with your kiddies; moments like doing your sisters make up at 10pm, only for her to take it back off half an hour later and both of us secretly hoping she doesn’t end up looking like a cross between Dame Edna and Alice Cooper; quite simply, the moments that make the big stuff worthwhile and the hard stuff just a little more palatable. 

So thank you Heart Fm for the ‘feel good tunes’ and reminding us that there is always a time to sing, dance and smile; and although number 1 was a slight let down to both Patrick and I, we certainly enjoyed the journey getting there. 

This is my eighteenth trip back to the UK since I moved out to Australia in 2001. The first 18 months were a struggle I have to admit. You may think that moving to a country where they speak the same language and drive on the same side of the road would be easy, but those early days were tough. 

I was 25 years old when I packed up my flat in Aldershot, left an amazing job and jumped on a big jet plane to ‘the land of plenty’. On the 6th November 2001, I landed in Sydney airport with no more than a 20kg bag of belongings to remind me of home. 
I remember sitting on the side of the road in a car that I had been fortunate enough to borrow, three weeks in to my life in oz, crying at the wheel because I was lost. Now me being lost (or crying for that matter) isn’t uncommon, and I can lose my way on a straight road, but on this particular occasion, my frustrations lay in all of the streets being in blocks.  After 20 or so minutes of seeing the same street corner over and over, having driven around literally in squares, I felt very alone and immensly homesick. Everything seemed so foreign to me suddenly, and in those next few months I found myself getting highly agitated at the smallest ‘Australianisms’. 

To me, these nuances where constant reminders that I was about as far away from ‘home’ as a girl could get. For example; the lack of stairs; being asked ‘how ya goin?’ upon entering a shop ( I clearly wasn’t going anywhere as I’d just walked in); maroon being pronounced marone (oh yes it’s true); duvets being referred to as ‘a doona’ or ‘manchester’ and conversations being started with ‘ah look!’. 
As the years have gone by,  I have got over my irrational agitations and have succumb to ‘the Aussie way’. I truly love my life is Oz and all that it offers and I have even joined the locals in referring to crisps as ‘chips’, sweets as ‘lollies’, flip flops as ‘thongs’ and as much as it pains me to admit, I have caught myself saying ‘doona’ on more than one occasion. And while Australia really is a very easy country to live in, there are still stark contrasts with home. 

Probably the two big stand outs for me, are driving and supermarkets. I know many will think that I would pick the weather, and yes it is very different, but not in the same way as the other two. The sheer volume of traffic on the roads in the UK can only be fully comprehended by being sat in one the many ‘car parks’, more commonly known as major roads; also in needing to have the required skills to get your car down the smallest of streets whilst passing a lorry going in the other direction, and with copious amounts of cars parked up and down the street with no regard to the direction of traffic. Needless to say I love driving in the UK, it’s fun and challenging and frustrating all at the same time. As far as supermarkets go, I have been known to peruse the aisles of Asda, Tesco’s and Sainsbury’s for many an hour, taking in the sheer volume of choice. Australia is slowly catching on with their supermarkets but they’re still a long way off from being able to buy an Indian take away from the same shop as you can buy your underwear, TV and pet insurance.  

I’m not saying that either country is better, both are just very different; and maybe only someone who has had the chance to spend significant time in both will truly understand what I mean. I dress differently when I come home, I wear my hair differently, I eat differently and even my sleeping patterns completely change. Apparently I don’t exercise in this country, or even have the inclination to do so, whereas back home, I’ll happily run 100km in a month. I listen to the radio here, with Patrick watching me, fascinated as I am engrossed and often laughing uncontrollably at the DJs waffle. I drink tea by the bucketload and I make it in a pot, not in a cup with a tea bag. I stop drinking coffee because I have been spoilt by some of the finest baristas back in Oz, and I’ve found nothing that even begins to compare over here. Even things that you think would be equivalent aren’t, for example the taste of chocolate, the flavour of crisps and the taste of butter to name a few. 

My life in Australia has provided me with opportunities that the UK probably never could have, and I have my own little Aussie in Patrick.  I have come to the conclusion over the years that I love being in both hemispheres equally, and I thoroughly enjoy the time I get to spend in both. But what I have realised more recently, is that where I have often thought that one is very like the other, actually Australia and the UK really are worlds apart, in more than just distance and flying time. 

  
I love Christmas. I always have. I know not everyone does and I’m also aware that for a lot of people Christmas is a tough time of year, but for me the magic of Christmas has never waned. 

Memories of Christmas in the Mitchell househould fill my heart with many wonderful emotions and I can’t help but smile when I think of Mum sat next to the tree handing out our gifts, reading each tag with as much enthusiasm as the last. I remember the many hours that followed as we took turns to open them one by one, looking on in delight to see what we each had received, all the while eagerly impatient for our own turn to open. 

My thoughts are also filled with fairy lights and jigsaw puzzles (a staple festive gift which Dad and I would relish in, but which my sister I’m sure would still cringe about to this day, remembering how she would put together the edges and then more often than not, break them back up again and return them to the box where they would then remain, unmade, as I had kindly offered to ‘help’ her complete the rest – not an uncommon theme throughout our childhood now I come to think of it). I think too of new pyjamas, traditional turkey roast dinner and three kinds of stuffing; of an open fire, the Queens speech, Annie (one of my favourite films which I’m sure stems from finding comfort in the trials and tribulations of a fellow red head, albeit an orphan one); sherry pop and falling asleep on the lounge room floor. There are too many magical memories to note them all but needless to say, for me, Christmas has always been a wonderful time of the year. 

Living the Aussie life for the last 15 years has meant that my take on Christmas has somewhat changed. I can honestly say that Christmas spent in a bikini, eating prawns cooked on the BBQ (‘barbie’ if you really want to get in the spirit of the Aussie twang) and where evening activities include dodging and swatting Mosquitos and swimming in the backyard pool, will never quite compare to the cold, dark British Christmas. Having a six year old, however, whose eyes light up at the mere mention of Santa and where the ever increasing excitement of the countdown to the ‘big day’ is almost too much to bear, serves as a beautiful and constant reminder of the romance of Christmas, and once again I fall in love with this time of year. 

Embedded in all of my memories, both childhood and more recently, is chocolate. The variety, copious, and the quantity seemingly bottomless: Terry’s chocolate orange, a guaranteed gift from Nanny Mitchell; home-made chocolate coated marzipan (I’m salivating as I write), tree decorations galore and chocolate coins, my favouite chocolatey treat. I am, or rather was, a self confessed chocoholic and no-one who really knows me would dispute that fact. I have been known to have chocolate for breakfast, lunch, dinner and every snack in between. I do not discriminate between varieties, although I’m not a fan of dark chocolate and I do love the expensive stuff (story of my life). In more recent years, I have been known to bundle a sound asleep Patrick into the  back of the car on a mission to purchase the brown, melt in your mouth stuff, when the desire/need/want was too strong to fight at 10pm.  Even I think that is a little crazy in hindsight! But this year, due to recent discoveries, there will be no chocolate at Christmas, or ever again for that matter it seems. 

Six years ago, in conjunction with the arrival of Patrick, I developed arm numbness. This wasn’t just a ‘slept on your arm the wrong way’ kind of thing; we are talking both arms, shoulders to fingers, zero feeling! That was at it’s worse, but even at best I could wake up not knowing where one of my arms was, fearing that if I rolled over, I may break something. It was unpleasant and disconcerting, and while the feeling always returned upon awakening, some mornings it was quite a challenge to turn the alarm clock off (don’t laugh) and the sensation of the feeling returning was uncomfortable to say the least. To cut a long story short, but not without mentioning the time and money spent trying to get to the bottom of my newly developed condition, and with many a Doctor citing that ‘I was just sleeping funny’; in November this year I discovered the underlying reason for my numb arms at night – chocolate! While no doubt some of you reading this may scoff in dispute, I have tested my theory in a variety of ways and the fact remains, I am allergic to my most favourite edible thing.

It appears to be the cocoa; and while I have no idea why it only happens while I sleep, if even the tiniest bit passes my lips, I will wake up with no feeling in at least one arm. I haven’t formally been allergy tested (and I’m not convinced it would show up anyway) and I haven’t concluded if the severity of the numbness directly relates to the quantity eaten, but during one episode, my legs were starting to go numb also, so it’s not a theory I’m willing to test. 

My finding is bittersweet however, as I now face a life without chocolate and more pertinantly so, my first Christmas without chocolate.  I realise that there are many worse things that could happen, and going without chocolate for evermore is not really that dramatic, nor is it ‘end of the word, cry yourself to sleep’ stuff, but for me it’s going to take some adjustment.  So this year instead of devouring all of the yummy treats that I can lay my eyes on, I will avert my gaze from the marzipan and seek out the nicest fudge I can find and instead of finding solace in the sweet brown stuff I can eat, I will remind myself of the magic of Christmas past and of all of the wonderful things that spending time with family can bring, and maybe I’ll get out a jigsaw instead of reaching for another chocolate coin. 

Merry Christmas. 

 

I’ve often wondered why my mum didn’t just conserve her energy, turn a blind eye and close the door to my ever messy bedroom when I was growing up, instead of fighting her ever losing battle with me to keep it clean and tidy. My sister didn’t help matters either, she was the complete opposite to me (as is true in all aspects of our polar lives), neat to perfection and everything in its place. 
I wasn’t born with the tidy gene, pure and simple; I do sincerely and honesty believe that it’s something that you either have or you don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I do a great job at pretending to be neat and tidy, with everything in its place and going for the minimalist approach for a distinct reason.  This pretence is made a little easier by having a little cottage for a house (where it could quite easily feature on Australia’s worst hoarders if I didn’t put things away on a regular basis), a wonderful cleaner who comes fortnightly which forces me to do the mad morning rush around to at least maintain the illusion of a tidy house, and provide surfaces she can get to; but it certainly does not come naturally. Mum did her best to nurture it into me and I am grateful for her patience and insight, but unfortunately I think she was attempting the impossible. 

I know some people find the art of cleaning and tidying therapeutic and I think it’s great for everyone to have something that they can refer to, to escape the mental rush hour of the brain; but give me a treadmill, reformer or some other tortuous exercise machine and I have all the therapy I need. 

I have had to adapt to enduring the domesticated life in the last three years however. Prior to that I was quite spoilt by a husband who took the household chores and ran with them. My meals were cooked (some true culinary delights I have to add), the house regularly vacuumed, dishes washed, bins put out the night before pick up (instead of the ninja pyjama run of a Friday morning that now happens every week as the rumble of the garbage truck down the street serves as a harsh reminder that once again I have not done it the night before), the washing put on the line and taken back off and the fish tank regularly cleaned, to name but a few. 

In more recent times, I have tried to take a stand against domestic duties; refusing to do the dishes, leaving the fish tank until the guilt goes away because I can’t actually see the fish anymore, buying extra underwear or school uniform in an attempt to avoid the ever growing pile of washing, all in the hope that these chores might miraculously get done by themselves. But then the harsh reality hits that it’ll all still be waiting for me when I decide to put my toys down and start acting once again like the nearly forty year old that I am, instead of the petulant child that I have momentarily (three days at best) become. 

I put my domestic predicament partly down to my genetic make up but also to the fact (maybe more appropriately, excuse) that I am always rushing out the door or running late for something, and that I actually have very little time to get it all done. I quite often use the ‘single mother, business owner, all too busy’ excuse, mostly to myself, as to why the dishes are still sitting in the drainer some three days later, but the problem I have is that any time I do have spare I would much prefer to be spending with my son or writing my book or coming up with my next world domination business venture. 

So I will continue to ‘fake it ’til I make it’ and do what I need to, to maintain the beautiful illusion of the house proud, domestic goddess that I really am not. Just don’t open the wardrobe! 

  
I struggle with Winter. For those who know me, I appreciate that this is not a revelation. My ex-husband used to say that I was solar powered (among other things); of cheerful disposition when the weather is warm and the sun is shining and quite the contrast when the cooler, wetter, darker months come around. I have learnt in more recent years, that I am by no means alone with my ‘Winter Blues’ and that these traits are commonly recognised as a mood disorder with a seasonal pattern: Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). 

This Winter is no different to the last 15 in Australia and the many year-long British Winters before that. I find myself in a bit of a hole. It doesn’t help that my place of work is 5 degrees colder inside the building than outside and that I live in a 1950’s Australian weatherboard miners cottage with only a gas heater for warmth. I have learnt however to combat the cold a little at least, by wearing many, many layers and jumping straight in the shower before I do anything else after I get home from work to help thaw out. I have also learnt that physical activity is absolutely the best thing to help lift my mood at any time. 

I think that those close to me give me a bit of a wide berth at this time of year, fearful to further ruffle the feathers or attract a snappy response from an otherwise reasonable request or conversation topic. Having recognised the early onset on the symptoms this year, and following a short period of self awareness around my wallowing in the SAD’s, I concluded last night that I need a focus; something to channel my thoughts, time and energy into over the next 3-4 months to help me get through my Winter Blues. 

So last night, over home made broccoli and pine nut fettuccine and a game of Dancing Eggs (where apparently the Flemish for cock-a-doodle doo is ‘googlie-goo’ – best not to ask!) Goele and I brainstormed business/project ideas to keep my crazy brain busy and not bogged down in grey skies and drizzle. The creative juices were flowing; various website options were discussed, as too were retail projects and fitness endeavours. Non of which truly resonated with me. It was actually Goele’s suggestion that I try my hand at writing a book, given my more recently found love for writing stuff. I did admit that I had started writing a book about 10 years ago but didn’t get much further then a title and the first couple of pages, and the topic was questionable. 

So here I find myself; I have a title, a purpose, a passion for the content and a SMART goal to complete my very first book (I do have the title for a second too, should I enjoy the process). Whether or not my book gets published is a bridge to cross at a later date (maybe next Winter) but for now, I’m excited. So much so that I have already planned the chapters, the introduction and documented my key messages. 

I don’t doubt that there will be the odd wet weather affected day between now and Spring but I feel content knowing that on any one of those days I can choose to snuggle down on my sofa with a warm blanket and my little gas fire going and with pen (or IPad) in hand, I can distract myself from the grey skies and write the next chapter. 

I like challenges. I need challenges! 

Challenges make me feel alive, they give me purpose, they serve as a distraction from the monotony that everyday life can sometimes bring; and I love the sense of satisfaction and achievement that completing a challenge can so often give. 

But sometimes challenges are scary, overwhelming even; and the mere thought of attempting what lies head is almost too much to think about, let alone try. 

I am often reminded of my own personality traits as I watch my little boy growing up. He is sensitive, competitive, observant, emotionally intelligent (even at 5). He is good with numbers and is full of energy. These are all things that I have found to be useful in my 39 years and which, for the most part, I am proud of. But this week, I have had to challenge my own thinking to help him deal with something that he was finding hard. A fear of failure. 

This is not a trait I am particularly proud of or like to admit, generally. It was hard to see him so wound up at the mere thought of attempting what he thought he might fail at. I know these feelings all too well unfortunately. The overwhelming fear of under performing, not being good enough, appearing weak, useless even; and making every effort to avoid or get out of whatever it is that might result in failure, because at the time these are much better options than actually attempting what lies ahead.

It was in my efforts to console him and help him to feel confident enough to ‘just try’, ‘have a go’, ‘you’ll be fine’ and in trying to convey to him that that ‘you can only do your best’ that I learned a very valuable lesson. 

All any of us can do is our best; try our hardest with the knowledge and the skills and the experience that we have at any particularly moment in time. And while our efforts may result in a lesser outcome than we had maybe hoped for, or we fall short on what we had set our sights on achieving in some way, we should still feel proud of what we have done, and we should stand strong in the knowledge that no one has the right to berate us for our efforts, most of all, not ourselves. We can however, reflect on our actions and efforts and learn from every experience we encounter. 

What I took away from this experience was that: No one can ever fully understand anyone else’s motivations, challenges, goals, achievements, debilitations, lessons or limitations. So as long as we go out and give it our all and try our best, then that is all anyone can ever ask of us; and therefore other people’s judgements and opinions are just that, nothing more. 

                    
I was introduced to the concept of Emotional Intelligence (EI) about 10 years ago and, as someone who has been known to burst into tears without warning (and often) over the years, I very quickly fell in love with the notion that being in touch with my emotions may actually be a good thing. 

On one end of the scale I can be excitable and passionate, over ambitious and driven to distraction and on the opposing end; melodramatic, frequenting the depths of despair, and possibly more often than I’d like to admit, still prone to tearful outbursts. But these emotions have, and continue to, do more good than harm in my world. 
As a leader, my excitement often encourages others to jump on board where maybe their doubts and reservations may otherwise hold them back; my tenacity, drive and ambition show those around me that actually you can achieve almost anything you put your mind to; and the smiles and tears of joy in a wonderful moment can be all too infectious. The despair, compassion and tears on the other hand, show in the rawest form, that I too am human and that I do make mistakes, and that sometimes life is super tough even for those who appear most resilient. 
But what has to be the most humbling and rewarding part of being in tune with my emotions, is being able to better understand the emotions of those around me and then carefully choose an appropriate response. Whether it is being able to spot when someone is doing it tough, and then knowing whether to lend an ear or leave them alone; offering reassurance in a time of apparent doubt; taking the time to learn a little more about someone; offer advice to someone less knowledgable or experienced, or in the kindest possible way, minding my own business. I have found over time that there is power and beauty much bigger than we often realise in our chosen emotional response to those around us. 
Being emotional may mean that life has a few more ups and downs than maybe I’d like at times, but I wouldn’t change my emotional roller coaster for a single moment of blissful unawareness.
 

As I looked at a photo that a friend recently posted after completing her first marathon, her face beaming with pride, medal in hand and her family by her side, I was momentarily overcome with emotion. I sat for a while thinking about how hard she has trained and all that she has achieved, and how pleased I am for her, and it was then that I remembered a run that we did together about 2 years ago.

We had gone out for a short run, only about 7 kms and it certainly wasn’t fast. I remember it because it was one of the very first distance runs she had done.  We talked to pass the time and I offered intermittent words of encouragement as I often do when I’m running with someone. That run was just the beginning of my friends running journey.  Back then I encouraged and supported her, and helped her believe that she could do it even when her brain was screaming ‘no you can’t!’.  I remember on more than one occasion, her referring to me as her ‘inspiration’; but as I looked again at her photo, I realised that she is now mine.

I had forgotten just how much I actually enjoy running until I was forced to again start pounding the pavement in preparation for a half marathon that I was bought entry to as a birthday gift recently.  I have always found running therapeutic; it helps me to escape from the hustle and bustle of the otherwise seemingly constant rush hour in my mind. While running is not renowned for its muscle strengthening qualities, my mind seems to be at its most resilient when I run on a regular basis. However, my efforts over the last few weeks have been just that, an effort. Seeing my friends achievement at the weekend has given me the inspiration I needed to go out and chase after my running goals, with newly found vigour and passion.

Inspiration seems to have many different guises;  and what inspires one person may actually revolt another.  If I am ‘looking’ for inspiration, it will usually be in the form of quotes or contained in the lyrics of songs. But it’s the moments in life that truly take your breath away or reduce you to tears without warning, that give us the real, heartfelt inspiration that can generate the wherewithal within each of us to move mountains, should we so desire.  So the next time my legs hurt and my brain is yelling at me to stop running, I am going to remember how I felt when I looked at my friends photo and I am going to very politely tell my brain to ‘shut up’ as I run just a little faster.