And they all lived uncertainly ever after

And they lived happily ever after.

These are the magical words that neatly wrap up a story. As a child, I would hear this sentence at the end of my bedtime story and know immediately that everything would be wonderful. No more disasters. No more deaths. No more ill-fitting shoes or evil stepmothers.

This set me up very poorly for dating in adulthood, I have to say.

If I know a movie has a disappointing ending, I don’t bother watching it. If I suspect the characters in a book are heading for a grim fate, I either skip to the end or just abandon the story completely. Essentially, I don’t want to invest time or energy into something if I don’t know how it will end. 

You can see how this is problematic when it comes to dating, that complicated dance in which the only certainty is uncertainty.

I’ve started seeing someone after many years flying solo. This was not planned. I did not decide that there was something missing in my life (there isn’t). I did not feel there I was failing at life because I was single (I wasn’t). I met someone and felt an instant attraction to him and, yes, it’s fun and exciting... but it’s also forcing me to confront a whole lot of old crap that's been lurking in my subconscious. My fear of rejection. My fear of becoming dependent on someone, at the cost of my independence. My fear that I’m not worthy of love.

None of this ever happened in the fairytales.

The fact that being with someone is triggering so many of my deepest fears is a good thing – it’s giving me the opportunity to clear them so I can move into a space of greater confidence and self-acceptance. As I’ve noted on this blog many times, when it comes to dealing with fear, the only way out is through. Hello, trust issues. Hello, fragility. Hello, guarded heart.

The challenge for me is to see all of these deeply imbedded fears, and to keep showing up and opening up anyway. To take the risk despite there being no guarantee of a good outcome with this guy, or any other guy, for that matter. To do this is to be vulnerable. To do this is to connect with another on a whole new level. To do this is to be the truest me I have ever been.

I’ve asked the angels to tell me whether this is a relationship worth delving into all these dark emotions for, and they won’t tell me. They aren’t saying it will end well, or badly, they will only tell me to keep going. That this is for my greatest good, and I don’t need to know what will happen. (I beg to differ, but experience has shown me that I am no expert in determining what is for my best interests.) I’m really not on board with this whole ‘let’s just see what happens’ sitch. I feel like if I knew how this will play out, I could make some smart life choices here – and, ideally, avoid emotional devastation. But despite having some ability to see the future, I’m not being shown the final page on this one. I can’t learn the lessons I need to learn without experiencing the middle chapters.

It would appear, in conclusion, that the Rolling Stones were right all along – you can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need. Which is pretty far from a fairytale, but it’s the best I’m going to get.

Maybe that’s the point – less focus on the happy ending, more on the new beginning.

And they all lived uncertainly ever after.

The people you carry with you (and those you wish you could drop)

“Once in a while I return to the fold of people I call my own.”

If ever you should find yourself adrift in a moment you can’t put words to, I guarantee there is a Finn lyric that will do the job.

The beautifully simple piece of lyrical mastery above, which has always stayed with me (as good songwriting should), is from a 2006 Finn Brothers song called Won’t Give In. To me, this is about the way our most treasured humans anchor us in time and space, shaping our sense of identity and shoring up our sense of purpose. Last week I returned to my homeland and spent a delicious week with family and friends, and I observed, not for the first time, the effect that being in their presence had on the rhythm of my heart. I felt lighter, I felt held. I remembered how much the humans around me make me want to be a better human.

And then I remembered that some of the people who make me a better human are not among my inner sanctum. Actually, some of the people who’ve taught me the most are people I wish I’d never met.

Instagram, that dubious temple of modern spirituality, is rife with quotes about the importance of spending time with the ‘right’ people. Your vibe attracts your tribe! Surround yourself with people who lift you up! Unfollow people in real life! These snappy catchphrases are all helpful... but also unhelpful, I think, because they implore you to judge people’s inherent worth (which rather undermines that whole spirituality ethos, no?) What’s more, they don’t account for the fact that it’s not always possible to ditch the people who don’t behave in ways you want or expect (particularly if you live with said people), and that many of those folks have probably been brought into your life for a reason. 

Look, people are dicks sometimes. And that’s not a bad thing. Because dickery (prob not a real word, but let’s go with it) can teach us plenty. The bloke who pulled out from a side street in front of you teaches you why being considerate on the roads is important, and why you need to pay more attention while driving. The workmate who took credit for your efforts teaches you why it’s important to acknowledge people’s achievements, and that you need to make your boss more aware of your contribution. The date who never called you back teaches you why it’s important to treat people fairly, and what you’re *not* looking for in a partner. Yes, it would be ideal if these people weren’t in your orbit – but that’s not how the Universe works. Mostly it gives you the people you need, not the people you want (although, I am sure, you have plenty of those in your life too). 

Law of attraction pioneer Louise Hay believes that the reason certain people annoy us is because they remind us of aspects of ourselves we find uncomfortable. I have found this to be true in many cases. About five years ago while reading You Can Heal Your Life, I had a friend who constantly interrupted people, made bitchy comments behind people’s backs and engaged in one-upmanship. You may wonder why I was friends with this person. (I wonder that too, actually.) She was part of a group of girls I’d been close with since university days and I felt a sense of loyalty to her. Even so, I often found her behaviour infuriating, until (after reading Louise’s insight) I realised how many times I did the same shitty things. Ouch. I, too, interrupted others. I definitely gossiped about my friends. And a tendency towards competitiveness, driven by a fear of lack, is one of my least attractive qualities.  Even though this girl is no longer my friend, I consider her one of my teachers because she spotlighted areas I needed to address in order to become a better person – and ultimately showed me how I didn’t want to live. I’m not saying I don’t occasionally do these things still, but I’m getting pretty good at calling myself out when I do.

Think about the person who is really grinding your gears at the moment, and ask yourself honestly whether you are replicating their behaviour or attitude in some way, even at a low level. This won’t always prove to be the case – and it certainly doesn’t excuse their bad behaviour – but if you realise that they are mirroring you in some way, that may help diffuse your anger slightly and help you look at the situation (and yourself) differently.

You don’t have to put up with irritating, inconsiderate or just plain rude behaviour but if it’s not possible for you to cut someone out of your life, reflecting on what you can learn from the situation might make it more tolerable.

Above all else, what can be most helpful is remembering that we are all dicks sometimes. I know I am. Happily, when human contact becomes too exhausting, you can always return to the fold of people you call your own. And you should, as often as you can.

What are you waiting for? The ugly truth about why women won't propose to their boyfriends

Brace yourselves – an onslaught of cringey ‘I proposed to my boyfriend’ media stories is imminent.

Yep, it’s a Leap Year. And February 29th, as everyone knows, is the only time women are allowed to play a powerful role in determining the future of their relationships. *eyeroll*

Well, I think it’s about time this ridiculously outdated custom went the way of fax machines and scrunchies (i.e. filed under ‘embarrassing’ in the history books).

Look, I know not everyone is a fan of marriage. Personally, I have no strong feelings either way. If ritual and a legally binding contract are important to you, that’s terrific. If you don’t feel a wedding is integral to the integrity and longevity of your relationship, that’s great too. What I do have strong feelings about, however, is the way that a marriage certificate is held up as a badge of honour and a measure of success for women. And that’s what’s really going on underneath this whole ‘waiting to be proposed to’ caper, I suspect.

When a woman gets engaged, we rush in with comments like: ‘finally!’, ‘took him long enough!’ and ‘he put a ring on it!’ We never ask the woman whether it was her idea, or why she felt it was time to tie the knot (because she jumped at the chance to get married, obviously… that’s what every girl dreams of, right?!). Equally, we never congratulate a man for his ‘patience’ or applaud him for ‘wearing his partner down’.

And for those women who do take the opportunity to propose, on February 29 or any other day, it’s treated as an oddity – something that warrants a newspaper or magazine story in which the woman justifies her (somewhat pushy) behaviour, and the man is gently asked how he felt about it (because, you know, emasculation).

Oh, I know what you’re thinking – it’s TRADITION for the man to do the proposing. But if a tradition harks back to a time when women had no power to determine their own futures, and when their security (financial, social and physical) was dependent on being awarded a wedding ring, is it really worth striving to uphold?

As recently as 2012, an (admittedly limited) study from the University of California Santa Cruz of 277 men and women found that 0 per cent of respondents wanted the woman in their relationship to do the proposing. Let me repeat that for emphasis… ZERO per cent! Yikes.

A while back a wise friend of mine made the clever observation that the most likely reason many women are eager to have their man get down on bended knee is because we want to be CHOSEN. We want to be able to declare that we’ve been selected by someone and deemed worthy of shared cohabitation forevermore. In short, in the year 2016 many of us still feel we need a glittery ring to affirm our value. This really bothers me.

It bothers me in the first instance because the notion that it’s a man’s job to propose is sexist, and that’s a gender inequality being perpetuated by both men AND women. Furthermore, as someone committed to helping people discover and develop their self-worth, I feel uncomfortable about this because it implies that there are a lot of women who still believe their value in this world is determined by their ability to attract and maintain a long-term relationship. On top of that, it bothers me because it would suggest many women believe gaining someone else’s approval is the only legitimate way for them to feel like they matter – which is waaaaay too much pressure to put on your partner, BTW. Let me make this very clear: if you treat someone as your anchor, they will drown.

And, finally, it also bothers me because it means many women see themselves as lacking power when it comes to the future of their primary relationships. ICYMI: you are the only one in charge of your future. If you can’t ask the person nearest and dearest to you for what you want, how can you expect to create a life you can be proud of? There will always be times in a partnership when one person’s needs will come before the other’s, but that will fluctuate. A healthy relationship is a mutual distribution of power. If you don’t feel like you have a say in the very big question of if and when you will become Mr and Mrs, perhaps you need to ask yourself some other big questions about your relationship’s future. 

I used to hate birthdays. Now everything is different

I celebrated my birthday this week. I mean that literally – I really celebrated it. This is significant for me because in past years I’ve greeted my birthday like a smelly, irritating relative that comes to stay every year, whose presence I endure with practised stoicism. The only celebration would happen the day after, when I’d wake up awash with relief that it was all over for another year.

My reasons for resenting my birthday were partly due to the fact that it drew attention to me – and as an introvert, this is excruciating. Seriously, I will vote for the next politician who promises to ban the singing of Happy Birthday in workplaces. *shudder*

But at the heart of my day-of-birth anxiety was the fact that they were a reminder that another year had passed and I was not living the life I wanted to live. 

There was a sense that I was running out of time to be happy, or to achieve a life that looked anywhere near as glossy as those of my peers. Every year my misery increased exponentially as I was faced with the realisation that my life had not changed significantly from how it looked at the last birthday.

This year, however, felt different.

I’ve made some major internal changes during the year that have affected the way I see myself and my future. I have a clearer sense of my life purpose and, most significantly, the value that I hold. I can look back on my regrets without feeling burdened by them. Right now I’m in the process of changing careers, so I don’t feel stuck or inadequate professionally any more. I no longer fret about being single, nor interpret this as evidence that I am flawed. It feels like I have enough time, and enough support from the Universe, to grow to a point that I can emotionally handle, and flourish in, a relationship.

I have wonderful friendships in which I have a sense of belonging and feel valued. Actually, this is probably the most significant change of all when it comes to birthdays. I can still remember the despair and humiliation of my 32nd birthday when only two people showed up for drinks. As I write this post, I’m preparing to meet 18 friends for my birthday celebrations. This blows my mind – 18 people like me enough to come and celebrate with me!

What all this amounts to is me having dropped my ideas of how my life should look – which is what was causing my birthday angst in the past. Instead I’ve arrived at something very close to acceptance of what is. I can recognise and celebrate the many blessings in my life and I don’t feel myself disappearing into the blistering chasm between the hand I imagined I would play, and the hand I’ve been dealt. In addition, I know how much power I have to bring about change, so I’ve dropped my self-pity I used to hold. 

Most crucially, I’ve stopped comparing myself to other people on the regular. On this point my resolve gets tested often (particularly on social media) but I’m better able to detach from comparisons, and jealousy. This is not easy when you’ve grown up in New Zealand, a country where your relationship status is prized above any personal attributes or achievements. But it’s in my choices, not my circumstances, that I measure my worth now.

This is the first year that I truly understand exactly how much I have to celebrate, and I have good reason to believe that will expand and deepen as I age. In a culture obsessed with time and deadlines, my anchoring principles are these: I am exactly where I am supposed to be, and the best is yet to come. 

I still hate that fucking office birthday singalong though.

Just listen. It's all anyone needs you to do

Technology might make it easier for us to forge new connections as well as maintain relationships with those who are far away, but it’s also eroding relationships with those who are close to us. In his book Focus, leading US psychologist Daniel Goleman (whose work is fascinating, BTW) has written about how technology is killing our attention spans. We are so used to the barrage of information presented to us that we lose interest when forced to focus on just one thing, or one person. What that means for relationships is this: “Being able to focus on the other person rather than the text you just received has become the new fundamental requirement for having a relationship with that person,” Daniel says.

The reason I bring this up is not to lament our increasingly scattered and superficial social interactions – although that is concerning – but to reflect on a really important facet of relationships that I feel I am in danger of forgetting how to do: listening.


It does feel, at least to me, that it’s harder than ever to be fully engaged in a conversation with someone else, and the influence of so much competing stimuli is surely part of the problem. (Although to be fair, I’ve always had a short attention span.) To be fully engaged in a conversation means listening – really listening – to the other person, which is as important in our interactions people we know as it is with those we don’t.

A few weeks ago I was on a bus trip home, writing in my notebook, when an old man sitting next to me suddenly asked me what I was focusing on so intently. This started a conversation that lasted the entire journey home and covered: handwriting styles, the best and worst places in the world we’d each visited and the history of the suburbs we were travelling through. I realised how bewildering it must be to someone of his generation to see everyone staring at their phones or listening to music – anything but engaging with the people and places around them. Everyone is trying to be somewhere other than where they are. As I got off the bus he thanked me for listening and said how much he’d enjoyed our chat (I had too).

This was an important reminder that giving someone our complete attention, and really taking in what they’re saying, is such a beautiful and underrated thing to do. Dave Isay, winner of the 2015 TED Prize, describes listening as an act of generosity and love. StoryCorps is a project Dave founded where two people who know each other sit in a mobile recording booth with a facilitator for 40 minutes of conversation. Essentially, they interview each other – many treating this as a ‘what I would say if this was our last conversation together’ scenario – and what comes out of that is a new understanding about the other person and a deeper connection to them. A recording of their conversation is available for a fee to cover costs. Dave is now developing an app to allow people to have these meaningful conversations at home.

“So much of how we communicate is fleeting and inconsequential,” says Dave in his TED talk. “I’ve learned about the poetry and wisdom and grace that can be found in the words of people all around us when we simply take the time to listen.”

What I’ve been reminded of lately how powerful the simple act of listening is. All anyone wants is to be heard. To be understood, yes, but most importantly to be heard. Our ears are as important in meaningful interactions as our hearts are. By listening to someone – whether it’s a random man on the bus or your significant other – you are bringing integrity to that exchange, affirming that that person matters and validating their human experience. That is the best gift you could give anyone. I hope, that in an age with so much competing for our attention, I never forget how to do that.