On Tuesday I had lunch at Two Birds Eatery in Hamilton East. There’s nothing remarkable about that, it’s something that I used to do all the time. Except this was a lunch where someone gave me two hours of expert advice and encouragement – absolutely free.
I had lunch with an incredible woman, Shelly Davies, who I was connected to by another incredible woman, Sacha Kahaki, who I spent some time with last week, after a quick visit with another incredible woman, Bobbie Knight. Are you sensing a theme here? Incredible women.
The other morning, Shelley sent me a link to this message. She watched it and she thought of me – I told you she was incredible.
I am not “a blogger”. I am so many things, but if you asked me to list what I am, “a blogger” would not appear with a bullet beside it. I write stuff, all sorts of stuff, it just so happens that some of the stuff I write, ends up here, on the internet.
This year I’ve made a promise to be more #authentic. Just the thought of putting yourself out there is terrifying. Terrifying. Putting my uneven eyebrows and pigmentation and awfully nasal voice on social media is the scariest thing I’ve ever done.
I was genuinely surprised though, when people starting engaging with me. People started replying to my Insta stories and chatting with me on Snapchat, I just started talking one day, and people started talking back.
Until now, the feedback has been that I’m antagonistic, argumentative, offensive and opinionated. Because I use a different name, people have said I’m embarrassed or ashamed to associate myself with the thoughts I post on this blog.
I don’t post my full name, date of birth and postal address on here because I have reeeeeally nice parents. My parents are hard working, honest, supportive and private people. I don’t want their colleagues and friends to know their daughter drops eff bombs on the internet – I’ve already brought enough shame on the family by being an unwed mother to a badly behaved silver tabby.
I would love to say that I couldn’t gives less trucks about the comments people make, or about going to a party and being ignored and ostracised by other women. It would be great to not feel affronted when (gleefully asked), did you get much hate mail about the latest blog?
I’m not the person who doesn’t care what other people think, I’m the person who cuddles her foster kittens so close she ends up with a fungal infection on her face.
This blog has helped me make genuine connections with inspiring women, and it helped me finally meet the prince I mused about a year ago. He came with five white horses, and a bloody slick looking Suzuki Escudo and parents who roll their eyes when I offer cranial massages to calves.
I write for the people who send me messages about depression and how they have been affected by suicide. I write for the people who tell me about the baby they lost, or the boss that bullied them, or the douche bag they wasted too many years with.
I write for the incredible women that I am lucky enough to know, and to help them (genuinely) celebrate their success.
And for everyone else, in the words of Brene Brown, “if you’re not in the arena also getting your ass kicked, I’m not interested in your feedback”.