4. Hello and Belated Happy 2025. A letter.

My Beach

Can I still wish you Happy New Year 😊 The saved name on this blog is Saturday 4^th January 2025. Already well into May – crazy. Hope this finds you and yours well and enjoying your days.

I am very grateful for your subscription to my emails. I told you I wasn’t going to bombard you; and have been true to my word. I haven’t sent one! Hopefully that’s about to change. My newsletter is me building an Authors Page. When my memoir is ready to publish, I aim to have built a following of people who are interested and excited about its birth.

Writing a regular blog motivates productivity for me, which in turn provides material to write about. The commitment to it helps me get shit done. That was the case when building my Mud House and the blog I wrote.

My sister Shayne, who did not read that Forever House blog (which is FINE), suffers through my stories about Art, Art cards, memoir; my mud house and the share it stands on; its inevitable sale and its upkeep until that day. How two properties are a lot and my storage shed is full of belongings that need to, literally, be shed. And most recently, my Hartley 16’ Trailer-Sailer Elizabeth, which was gifted to me, has replaced the stories about a liveaboard yacht which I’d been dreaming of.

“I love that story,” she says before I get too far into one that she may have already heard. Sometimes laughing, but sometimes genuinely looking after her own wellbeing. She is technically deaf, wears an aid and has a cochlear implant, which reduces her capacity to listen to all the words. Extraneous ones frustrate her.

“Edit yourself as you talk,” she tells me.

Shayne says I need writing friends. Which I do. I have some online communities which I love but I would like to sit around a table. I have the means of creating one. This would kill a few birds. Like minded people, regular writing time, a chance to put some of my skills into action. A side hustle of a sort. I struggle with imposter syndrome a bit. Not good at self-promotion. 

Being creative is one thing; putting myself out there is another. My Dad, even though a gregarious and successful businessman, was shy about his art and writing too. I’m keen to overcome that so my creativity finds an audience. Writing and making art are ways of communication for me.  And at the same time communicating myself back to myself. When I write I can take time, think about what I am trying to say in a way that others might relate to. Get my thoughts in order and choose my words.

I’m in a self-reflective mood these past couple of years – there was a turning point in my life that saw me leave a road trip I was on, in a ute towing a caravan around Australia, with my then partner. I wrote a blog during that trip but didn’t sign off with my departure from it – just never wrote another post - more out of respect for him as some of his friends and family were following us. He read each post before I posted it to be sure he was comfortable with my stories. So, as is often the case with social media engagement, all the difficult times were left out. Fair enough. I went home from the Otways to the Northern Rivers.

At the same time, I was reconnecting with my adult children in Melbourne after some years of estrangement. My priorities were screaming at me to step back into my own life. It was impossible to keep my own life going alongside that trip. I am so glad I did the sections I did – all the way down the coast from Evans Head to Tasmania, Bruny Island, finally, which was a highlight, and back to the Otways on the Great Ocean Road. I still have the Grampians on my bucket list. Twice part-way around Australia and I’ve not been there yet. 

The Grampians could wait. I had important stuff to do. I drove myself with all my chattels home, via Melbourne to let my kids know what I was doing. My son suggested I spend more quality time in Melbourne rather than blowing in and out for a night and a pub meal together as I often had over the years. That was a generous and comforting invitation, and I have been down twice for a few weeks.

Once back on the Far North Coast, if home wasn’t fluid enough traveling in the van; the fluidity continued between my mud house, and friends and family’s generosity. I couldn’t go home to Patchs Beach because it was rented. I had left work to travel and relied on the rental income. I had tenants for four years. A long time to have checked out of my own life and responsibilities.

I am settled in my seaside nest after those four years being a gypsy. I cannot tell you how amazing it is to have a home and be at home in it. The house, and surrounds, and hopefully, at home in my own skin. Choosing to be alone for a while to re-establish myself in my own life. It’s a balm, a safe place, a blessing. I talk to the house as I leave and return – telling it how much I love it and am grateful. Hello House. Bye House. I am writing from here now; ocean, cicadas and birds the soundtrack and the sea breeze passing through on a beautiful blue skied day. Backed up by the propelling timber fan on the high ceiling. The sheer curtains billow softly. 

I managed to score myself a three day a week accounts job at my cousin’s Bangalow Law firm just as the tenant gave notice in September October. That job would pay for me to go home. The universe sprinkled fairy dust. My job adds structure to my life and stretches my brain. I like numbers. And Art. The school counsellor said there were few jobs that I was perfect for except a trapeze artist or an acrobat. And I know for a fact I could never have done either of those. Good lord, that is for small people. I’d have been dropped in the first instance. Maybe this informs the jack of all trades master of none I am. I’m okay with the variety. Apparently, it's a pattern.

The need to rebuild a community is also part of my work around relationships. Being back in my hood permanently. Going to Yin on Tuesday nights. A must do. Nurturing friendships with old faves and hopefully making some new. Walking the beach each morning and swimming at the end. I have made some lovely connections with humans and doggies. I will get my own dog when I finish up work in a couple of years. New just in…I got me a puppy early. The time just came. I could feel myself flailing around with my eye out for a man. A dog is a much better option. I do not want to flail. And this little addition to my life, Gypsy, is an absolute blessing. I love her. 

I ran into a favourite friend of mine for many of the years I have lived on the Far North Coast. Patches Beach is her beach – she is in Marom Creek. She was there with her current doggies – always looking after other people’s dogs, she’s a Latin dancing darling. There was her son’s dog and her daughter’s dog. My friend and I were talking incessantly. We worked out it was more than 3 years since we last met. To be rectified.

Although, she could be hard to pin down. She has a boyfriend and is moving in with him to a house they bought. Excitement. “I am obsessed!” she said several times as she showed me photos, once she’d put her specs on. “He’s a rogue,” she grinned while finding the pic she wanted of him coming out of the surf at sunrise on New Years Day. So cute. I love love.

I am enjoying better contact with my kids which is another huge blessing and will never again be taken for granted. These two relationships are what set me to self-reflection in a big way; and writing my memoir. I want to know “how did I become a mother that my children would estrange”. That is the question I hope to answer-ish in the book.

I didn’t tell people at first because it felt like such shame. Who the hell am I? That was my burning question. I say ‘was’, because I am not so hard on myself in the present.

I know my path is not a lone one. When I have shared that my kids are estranged – so many people have estrangement stories. Siblings, parents and kids. After a while I decided to be honest when people asked after my kids. I can’t really hold that stuff in anyway. But the shame was real. I knew when I received a text during a Sunday Art Class from my adult child, needing a break from me; she wouldn’t have done it unless she needed to. I didn’t know what it was exactly until it happened. Estrangement. I am learning slowly the reasons for it and better managing my responses that might have historically defaulted to defence. Or extreme emotion. I am trying to hear what they are telling me and acknowledge they have hurts.

I aim to be as respectful to my children’s privacy as I can; details of them will be minimal. Writing memoir is always tricky around the other people in your story. My memoir is my experience, the processing, and hopefully coming out the other side of the Initial pain and confusion when I was beating up on myself, trying to work out “What did I do?” I feel there is a learning I can share that may help others. I have certainly benefited from the knowledge and lived-experience of others.

It becomes apparent that one of my children, and I'll assume the other, had tried to tell me things for a long time and I was not listening. Too busy keeping all the balls in the air after a marriage break up and through single motherhood; then remaining in a pattern I did not see was hurting my kids. Like, maybe, trying to fix things when they would just want to tell me their story and me listen and be curious. Not offer suggestions and solutions. Not put myself in charge. Make it about me. I dropped the ball of hearing and acknowledging their feelings. I think that’s part of it. I was busy, my younger child thought, and they felt I was unable to deal with more. They intentionally flew under the radar.

Of course, it would be great to wiggle my nose and pop back and do it all again with what I know now. I acknowledge, without making excuses, that I knew what I knew and did the best I could. That doesn’t mean though that I can’t be accountable for whatever I didn’t get right. My mothering could have been a whole lot better I now see.

In scouring my life story to find moments that speak to the mother I became, I have looked specifically for what traumas I may unwittingly carry. What might my triggers be related to. In hindsight, I believe the relationship I was in when I had my kids was the most traumatic of my life. Not aiming to blame there. Just what I know now. And I’m sure those years after the breakup were even harder for the kids than the years when we were all together. Although they were hard too. I was a functioning mess and they were probably parenting me as much as I was parenting them. Probably more my way in the holding of emotion and pain. Lucky I could turn a dollar and cook and stuff like that. I was drinking all the way through the seventeen years and beyond in that relationship too. Another thing I look back on and am glad I have given up.

They can seem a bit intangible at first, the reasons for estrangement. I am very literal and often dig for details. But in this case, I know my kids love me and that they know how much I love them. I don’t think love is what it is about. I get the overall effect is, my mothering did not meet their needs. Accepting that knowledge and trying to respond differently going forward takes a while to get right. It’s a bit eggshelly. At first, I hoped our communication would get ever stronger – but it is with tiny steps and much patience that this process is happening. And I am okay with that. As long as it is becoming gentler incrementally over time. My kids are adults now. The estrangement has left a hole in what I guess I assumed would continue to be a shared experience. They have their own lives and are riding the same roller coaster that we all do. They are both amazing humans and I am proud of how they walk in the world. I am happy for them that they can do self well. And I am sorry for the hurt they have around me.

Self-care is important at this point; to be gentle with myself and do things that fill me up daily. Be comforted by knowing everything is not about me. Learn to be more curious not just about them but about myself, my behaviour, feelings, beliefs. I am not all bad. Each person has their perception through the lens of their experience. Their hurts and feelings need to be heard and acknowledged. That is what I have learned. That to hear someone is sometimes what they need; to release pain from their body. I have to be aware of my own triggers and my reactions to them. Not defending myself. Not making it about me at all. A weight has lifted in knowing that.

I found the perfect podcast soon after getting back from Victoria. I searched ‘estrangement’ and got "The Estranged Heart." Highly recommended for any estranged Mum; and estranged adult children.

I also need to work on my own voice so that I too might be heard. In person, I think I do alright in calm and friendly conversation, but when trying to speak my words in difficult conversations, I get emotional and don’t always say what I want or mean. Or, what I say can be taken in a way I did not intend. Things can get off track. And then I retreat and don’t deal with the situation to closure, repair. Sometimes the feelings get stuck for so long it is too long. I am a work in progress.

Some say they are exhausted just hearing about my life. They can’t imagine the pace and busyness.  As I write my memoir I get it. As well as forty homes in sixty-five years there are, most importantly, so many relationships. I am grateful to have many wonderful people still around me, after losing many along the way; while also being aware some of my primary relationships need care. On that basis I am being more conscious about how and with whom I spend my energy, thoughts and time.

What I want to achieve in relationships – is the ability to repair after conflict or hurt has been felt; in a timely manner. This probably works best when both people are willing. One person can’t carry another’s trauma as well as their own. Hurt people hurt people. We all have to take accountability for our own impact on the world and not make it about others.

The bottom line for me is that relationships are never all about one person. It is my job to work out what I bring. I’ve worked out a few things. I’m not good at boundaries. Knowing where I start and finish. And I’ll take flight rather than fight, every time. Communication is necessary to repair. Otherwise, it just becomes unfinished business in your body. Sigh… why is it all so complicated.

Being authentic is when you are the best version of yourself. Holding back from repairing ruptures has not been my friend. Writing is my preferred way to get my thoughts together. It has been a friend, my impulse to write everything down. In some ways me being estranged was a wake up. An opportunity. That seems to be the result for many people in this place. It is a slow process, reconciliation. But so much better than estrangement. There is hope and growth and always love I feel. Having no expectations. With or without my children in my realm, I still have a life to live and to live as well as I can. That is my purpose. Generic I know but I haven't been able to come up with anything that described my purpose more specifically. My purpose is to become the best version of myself and enjoy every day. Doesn't have to be earth shattering. Maybe my memoir will help someone.

Thanks for reading. If you know anyone estranged who might be interested in my blog then please pass on a link. I'd appreciate that. And of course, take a browse through the cards while you are here :)

Love D xxx