Category Archives: Real life musings

The Question Behind the Book

I recently picked up a copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck* by Mark Manson at the airport while travelling to Franschhoek with guests. I started reading it on the plane and was hooked from page one.

After sharing a few giggles about the book with a friend whom I respect deeply, he asked me a simple question.

“But on a serious note, I’m curious. Why are you interested in this book, or books like this?”

My knee-jerk reaction was to give him ten vaguely acceptable answers. The kind we all keep in our back pockets for moments like these. Instead, I decided to think about it properly and give him an honest answer. Three days later, I still don’t have one. So, as I do whenever my thoughts and emotions become a tangled mess, I started writing.

Let’s start with why I noticed the book in the first place. The bright orange cover amongst a sea of muted tones caught my eye, followed by the title. It is the kind that either shocks you or makes you laugh out loud. I fall into the latter category.  However, the question was why I was interested in reading it.

One possible answer is that I’m going through perimenopause and simply don’t give as much of a f*ck as I used to. Let’s blame that one on dwindling oestrogen levels.

Another possibility is that I’ve spent most of my life giving far too many f*cks about what other people needed, wanted, or expected from me.

A third possibility is that I’m turning fifty next year and, if I’m completely honest, I still don’t quite know how I fit into this world.

Then again, maybe the past decade has simply been hard.

Raising children. (I see all the parents out there nodding and sighing)

Being a stepmom. (I get to have all the responsibility, without the recognition)

Navigating family politics. (Part and partial of being a stepmom)

Building our safari business.  (This one falls into the positive category)

Losing myself somewhere in the middle of all of it. (The issue at hand)

On the bright side, we moved to a farm—a direct result of the Covid pandemic—and that probably saved my sanity, even though building new businesses from scratch has been a killer financially.

If I explore further back to childhood, I will say that I’ve always had an unusual ability to learn and excel at almost anything I put my mind to. I say that without arrogance. Grasping a new concept or mastering a skill has simply always come naturally to me. I see the exact same trait in my son. The challenge with this ability is that other people notice it too.

Partners notice it.

Bosses notice it.

Friends notice it.

Before long, you become the person everyone turns to when something needs to get done. Most often, it isn’t even something you particularly want to do. Over the years I’ve helped many people build their dreams while mine quietly disappeared into the background. At this point, I’m not entirely sure what my dreams even were. I do remember wanting to be a marine biologist growing up. My father’s reaction to this was “we don’t live near the ocean”. Mom was a homemaker, therefore opted for no comment.

I’m not blaming anyone for my lack of direction. It’s merely an observation.

I just can’t seem to pinpoint that one thing Mark highlights very early on in his book. What am I willing to suffer for.  This is because life keeps pulling me in different directions.

I’ve worked in environments where I hated every minute of being there, yet somehow managed to outperform most of the people around me. Heck, I once landed a four-week temp job as an XML coder, whilst living in the UK during my early twenties. This despite having absolutely no coding experience. It was a misunderstanding by the placement agency. I was a nervous wreck. I had no idea what I was doing. I repeatedly asked them to send a replacement. Yet somehow, I figured it out, and the supervisor kept telling me I was doing a great job. I got paid a whopping £12.50 per hour!

What I do know is this:

I don’t belong in the corporate world.

The hierarchy. The politics. The endless red tape. I break out in hives just thinking about it.

I don’t do well when I’m put in a box with no room to move.

The other dilemma is that I seem to sit somewhere in the middle of the creative, practical, and analytical spectrums. Throw in an appetite for adventure and you’ve got yourself a rather confused human being.

The only places I’ve ever truly felt at home are all out in nature.

Cities make me miserable. Shopping malls are my personal version of torture.

I love going for long runs on my own, travelling to remote places, experiencing different cultures, tasting unfamiliar food, and learning the history of places. I love meeting travellers with kindred spirits – the free spirits of the world. The people who share stories around campfires and mountain paths. The people who choose to not be confined by the trends and expectations of society. The souls who impart wisdom one moment and make you laugh until you cry the next. The only problem is that collecting these encounters requires a certain amount of travel, and travel requires money. Sadly, no long-lost millionaire uncle has seen fit to leave me an inheritance.  

On the upside, we do run a safari business, which allows me to spend time in nature and experience our magnificent Africa through the eyes of our guests.

My other great loves are music, reading and writing. I’ve been an obsessive reader since about the age of five. In recent years I’ve had less time to read with work, home, and children’s schedules in the mix. Yet strangely, I’ve written more than ever before.

But I digress.

The question remains.

Why am I interested in books like this?

Perhaps because I’m finally ready to look myself in the eye and be honest about who I am.

No bullshit.

No pipe dreams.

No ifs, ands, or buts.

I’ve made some major pivots in my life—in relationships, careers, and places I’ve chosen to call home.

Looking back, I question many of those decisions.

Not because they were wrong, but because I don’t think they were made from a place of deep self-knowledge.

Many were reactions to circumstances.

Reactions to jobs.

Reactions to relationships.

Reactions to not truly knowing myself.

And quite frankly, I’m exhausted from living like that.

Maybe that’s why this book and others like it, found its way into my hands.

You get honest.

And perhaps, if you’re lucky, you find your way home.

“When you finally get tired enough of your own bullshit, you find the courage to stop running.”

Grace in the Blended Spaces

Being a stepmom is probably one of the hardest things I have ever done. People look at us as a family and often say we make it look so easy. Those who don’t know us well usually assume that all three children are mine — and are surprised to learn that two out of the three are my stepchildren.

My biggest fear is that women contemplating divorce might look at me and think that starting over isn’t so hard. But it is. Very hard.

Ask any parent — raising children is no easy task. Raising children who aren’t biologically yours brings unique challenges, filled with complexities that require patience, prayer, and perseverance.

The DNA Divide

When my biological child acts out in a certain way, I can almost always recognize myself or his father in his behaviour. That makes it easier to respond with understanding. With a stepchild, however, you only know one half of their DNA intimately. The other half is a mystery. A person known from afar and through comments and conversations with the children.

And that mystery extends beyond genetics — it shapes the way they see the world, how they process emotions, and what triggers them. Learning to love and parent into that unknown space takes humility and grace that only God can supply.

The Parenting Puzzle

Different parenting styles are another ongoing challenge. Establishing rules and consistency at home becomes complicated when the other household operates differently. Sometimes it’s even the small things — what foods are sent along, or what products are introduced — that create disruption. Especially during the younger years, when parents control to a larger extent what children are exposed to. It takes years to discern which battles are worth fighting and which are best surrendered to peace.

In our case, all the children live with us permanently. This means that by default, I am the parent who enforces structure, discipline, and boundaries. Their biological mother, who only sees them during short school holidays, naturally becomes the “fun mom.” When the children are with her, it’s a holiday. When they return, it’s back to real life — homework, chores, rules.

It used to frustrate me deeply. I tried to involve her more with the harder side of parenting, especially as my stepdaughter entered her teenage years. But I quickly learned that words and promises made over a phone call often don’t hold up in reality.

A Promise Before God

Eight years later, I have been raising my stepchildren for three years longer than they lived with their biological mother. Yet she remains their mom — and always will. There were moments when I was ready to give up, but I made a promise to my husband before God — a covenant — that I am determined not to break.

We live in a time when marriage is often treated as a contract rather than a covenant. The sacredness of marriage as designed by God has faded into the background. The world tells women to “choose happiness,” to leave if things get hard. “The children will be fine,” they say.

But those words are far from the truth. When you live in a blended family, you see clearly just how deeply the fracture of divorce runs — and how far it takes us from God’s original design.

A Call to Restore

I’m not saying that it’s impossible to find joy in a second chance. I love my husband. We do life together as a team. But hear me clearly — if there is a way to restore your marriage, fight for it. Seek God first. Pray without ceasing. Do not give up simply because it’s hard.

Unless your life or your children’s lives are in danger, do everything in your power to bring your marriage back under God’s covering. Many marriages fall apart not because of tragedy, but because couples have drifted away from the Word — from God’s plan for unity, love, and stewardship of family. Instead they shifted their focus to the world’s view on marriages. Easy to step into and easy to jump out.

“But at the beginning of creation God ‘made them male and female.’
For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife,
and the two will become one flesh.
So they are no longer two, but one flesh.
Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”
— Mark 10:6–9

Marriage is hard work. It refines you. It teaches humility, forgiveness, and compromise. But when you put God at the centre — truly at the centre — it becomes a space of grace rather than struggle.

When you put an ex-spouse at the centre, chaos reigns.
Choose wisely.

When a Cold Disrupts the Flow

“Sometimes we need to slow down, not because we are weak, but because that’s where the strength of wisdom begins.”
— Unknown

Rebuilding Strength and Rhythm

I’ve really been getting into training at the gym again. For the past four weeks, I’ve been lifting heavy, eating better — especially more protein — and finding my groove. It’s amazing how quickly your body responds. I must say, I’m loving the feeling of getting stronger, of adding a little more weight each week.

My son tells me it’s muscle memory that’s making it easier to find my rhythm again. And maybe he’s right. I’ve been training on and off my entire adult life. I’m not chasing a beach body — I’m building strength for the long haul. For the version of me who still wants to hike, run, travel, and do what I love at 60 and beyond. Flexibility, strength, vitality — that’s the goal.

The Unexpected Pause

This week was supposed to be a big one. We’re heading out on a hunting safari this weekend with clients, so I planned to train hard before we go. It’s not that we aren’t active while hunting — we are — but it’s a different kind of movement.

Monday started strong with a killer glute and hamstring workout, followed by a 5km walk with my husband in the afternoon. I felt unstoppable. Then Tuesday arrived with a dry, scratchy throat. I brushed it off and still hit a chest and triceps session that afternoon. But by Tuesday night, sleep was elusive. A full-blown head cold had settled in.

Mind Over Body?

No aches or fever, just congestion and irritation. Still, it meant no training on Wednesday. Now it’s Thursday, and physically I feel better — but mentally, I’m unhinged. I want to train. I want to stay on track. I haven’t had a cold or flu in six or seven years — why now, just as I’m starting to see progress?

I find myself wondering whether I could sneak in a short dumbbell workout at home. Nothing too strenuous. I vaguely remember that exercise boosts the immune system — and if there’s no fever, it’s fine to train, right? But then again, I haven’t been eating properly the last couple of days. I’m not fueling my body like I should.

Letting the Lesson Land

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? We struggle to go with the flow when the flow dares to interrupt our plans.

Instead of surrendering to rest, I’m mentally negotiating how to push forward. Outside, it’s grey, cold and wet — a perfect match for the fog in my head. And yet, somewhere in the stillness, a deeper truth arises.

I get to do this. I get to move. To train. To be strong. So many others would give anything to do what I’m able to do. For them, physical limitation is their “normal.”

I’m not naturally a morning person — but maybe I should be. Maybe I should wake each day with gratitude simply for being able to rise, move, and live without constraint.

The Gift in the Pause

Every day offers a new lesson — even when the teacher shows up as a humble head cold. So take the pause. Let your body speak. And when the moment’s right, return to the rhythm. Stronger. Wiser. More grateful.

Go on — seize each day. Make your life extraordinary.

Unfiltered: Smoke Signals

Sharing personal stories with the hope of helping someone else is essentially the purpose of this blog. As well as figuring out this thing called life for myself.

I’ve been going through a rough patch the last few days. It felt like too many personal and work issues collided all at once — pressing on every nerve and fraying every edge.

Physically, I was wiped out by an exceptionally heavy period. The kind that leaves you drained and disoriented. I couldn’t train for the better part of three days. And after almost four weeks of focused, intentional weight training, that felt like failure. Not even a long walk. The movement my body had come to rely on was suddenly unavailable, and it hit me harder than I expected. Blue days followed.

Missing Out

There was a fundraiser at my daughter’s school — a Warrior Race kind of day. Normally I would’ve jumped at the chance to join a team and run, climb, laugh. But not this time. Not with the fatigue and discomfort. We went, stayed for a couple of hours, and left before the fun really began. Another notch up on my scale of frustration.

Back at work, small fires caused by other people’s slackness meant I had to step in and sort things out. Again. The irritation crept in like smoke under a door. I felt used. Taken for granted.

Then Came the Cigarette

But the thing that finally pushed me over the edge was a small, almost cinematic moment. My husband’s new habit of smoking a cigarette before bed.

It started a couple of weeks ago when he casually announced he was going outside for a smoke. I was surprised — this from a man who didn’t even smoke in his twenties. At first, I brushed it off. But now it’s become a thing. He goes out when I’m in the bath, then comes back in, cold and smelling like smoke, being all warm and enamoured with me.

I didn’t want to be harsh or dismissive, but kissing my man after a cigarette just didn’t sit well with me. And worse — it felt like while I was focused on getting strong and healthy, he was sliding in the opposite direction. We were out of sync. I lost it. I asked him what on earth he was thinking starting this now, at his age. His answer was soft: it helps him relax and unwind under the stars.

We talked it through. We resolved it, mostly. But it stirred something deep in me.

“When you share a life with someone, their choices aren’t just theirs anymore.”

When It’s Your Person

If this were a friend, I’d be curious. Maybe concerned. But I wouldn’t be shaken. But this — this is the man I’ve chosen to walk through life with. So no, I can’t just let it go. It’s not about judging. It’s about sharing a life. Sharing teenagers who are watching. A business that depends on both of us being healthy and strong. A future we’ve built brick by brick.

So many questions:
What example are we setting?
Why now?
What is he carrying that I don’t see?

Living with Love and Limits

Today I’m calmer. And I’m sitting with the question: Why did this shake me so deeply?

Maybe it’s the unspoken agreement in marriage — that we will do our best, for the sake of each other and the shared life we’re building. When one of us breaks that rhythm, even in a small way, it feels like a breach. Like something sacred was missed or misunderstood.

Loving someone means wanting the best for them, not just for their sake, but for yours too. Because we’re in it together.

And maybe the deeper question is this:
How do we love fully and unconditionally, while still drawing boundaries that protect us both?

It’s made me think of the families dealing with deeper struggles — addiction, depression, disconnection. This wasn’t that. But the feeling, I imagine, carries a similar weight.

How do we stay soft in the face of disappointment?
How do we hold space without losing ourselves?
How do we speak the truth, without shattering the love?

I don’t have the answers.
But I’m asking the questions.

And for now, that feels like a good place to begin.