Blogs

Start by Listening, Not Defending

You wanna know what real growth looks like? It’s not meditating in the Himalayas or reading five parenting books in a week. It’s looking your child dead in the eye while they say, “Mum, you’re being a B_ _ _ _ H,” and not replying with “When I was your age, I’d have got a slipper for even thinking that!”

Nope. It’s standing there, menopausal, emotional, probably sweating like you’ve just done a HIIT workout by accident and saying, “Okay. Tell me more.”

It sounds easy. It’s not.

Read more: Breaking Generational Curses Isn’t Glamorous, It’s Bloody Hard Work

I never write anything political. I don’t. I’d much rather chat about henna, healing, gratitude, and happiness. Throw in some metaphors about life being like overcooked dal, mushy, but salvageable with the right spices. But today? Today I’m FUMING!.

Head-throbbing, eye-twitching, muttering-swear-words-under-my-breath kind of fuming.

And here’s the thing: I’m not just angry, I’m HELPLESSLY ANGRY. And that, is the worst kind. Because anger you can direct. Helplessness? That sits in your gut and rots like bad bacteria.

Let me explain.

Read more: British by Right, Blocked by Bureaucracy: The Absurdity of Coming Home

No one speaks about the resentment you have towards yourself after you didn’t listen to your gut. So, let me break the silence.

Your gut isn’t just there to process chickpea curry and make awkward noises in yoga class. It’s the universe’s dodgy little messenger stuffed in your abdomen, whispering, “Oi, this isn’t it.” But do we listen? Of course not. We let logic, fear, comfort, and that seductive little gremlin called Avoidance take the wheel while our gut just sits there, arms crossed like a disappointed aunty who told you not to date that guy with the man bun and emotional unavailability.

Let’s rewind.

Read more: That Time I Told My Gut to Shut Up (And Deeply Regretted It)

Right, let me be completely honest with you.

I’ve made this mistake more times than I care to admit. And by “more times,” I mean it’s practically become a Thursday tradition. You’d think I’d have learnt by now, but nope—apparently, I have a PhD in self-sabotage.

Last night was a classic.

Read more: The Self-Sabotage Shuffle: Why “Just One More Thing” is Ruining Your Life (And Your Morning)