The crescendo of pain and joy

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On a sunny Sunday morning, thousands of people crowded the space underneath the Sydney harbour bridge—the starting point of the Sydney marathon. Last time I had run this event I was right at the back of the pack, hoping to finish the race in under five hours. This time I was a bit more daring and started moving through the crowd, chin up, looking for the pacesetter with the 4:15m flag. I didn’t think I had trained as much as did for my first marathon three years ago but considering that I had finished that event in 4:04, my goal seemed realistic.

I found a spot near the pacemaker and started to remove the layers of warm clothing to throw away—I was wearing an old thermal shirt and a worn out jumper over my running shirt. The forecast was for a warm day but at 5AM when I left home it was only eight degrees. But in the crowd, body heat emissions kept me warm. In my position facing the start line, I took a deep breath to focus on the 42.2Km road ahead in the company of energised strangers and yet, solitude. It was going to be just me, my GPS tracker and my thoughts. There was nothing else. No Facebook, emails or SMSs from friends and family. I enjoy the silence, that’s why I don’t listen to music when I run, it’s a break from the chaos of modern life. It makes me feel much more in tune with my body. I pay attention to the sound of my feet hitting the pavement, my breathing, my surroundings.

The countdown began and my heart started to beat faster, I thought of my training and how I should have trained more and harder. I feared I wasn’t carrying enough food, maybe I had not drunk enough water, maybe my insomnia would make me hit the wall. Then I heard the gun and snapped back into reality. Enough, I was ready enough.

So, the race began, it’s always an amazing feeling, the realisation that you signed up to endure hours of discomfort, that months of preparation have come down to this moment. The vibe is energising, people of all walks of life, shapes and sizes trying to do their best. I passed interesting individuals dressed in superhero costumes, business suits, rhinoceros – I don’t know how they can endure 42km of running covered in so many layers, it’s amazing what one does for a cause.

The first two hours were easy, the third not too bad. At the next water station, I stopped to eat a banana and I saw when the 3:45 pacesetter passed me by. I could not believe I had been ahead of him—the GPS watch is never that reliable on race day—but would I be able to catch up? I kept going, my legs were starting to hurt, thankfully, lining the sidewalks, strangers were screaming, cheering the runners on. There was also live music at some points and people holding encouraging signs. I recall one that read, “If Trump can run, so can you.” All that was somehow re-energising.

At the 38Km mark my legs were burning, every step now was an escalating crescendo of pain. I had just finished the Barangaroo section and was running towards Circular Quay. The view of the harbour was a welcome distraction. I could now see the Opera House, there was hope, I was going to make it, I sped up a bit, my mind was telling me to do it. My body didn’t want to obey but somehow, it kept going. Almost there, I could see the finishing line, tears streamed down my face, I made it, I made it, in 3:48:49s.

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Painting the full picture

I was lying across the couch with a book trying to decide whether to read or take a nap, when mum appeared from the kitchen with a Tupperware container full of colour pencils.

“That time of the day.” She announced smiling at me.

It was 3:30 pm and it was hot and I thought it was the perfect time for a nap, so I put the book on the floor and made myself more comfortable on the couch. But mum wasn’t talking about nap time. She walked over and sat at the dinning table and placed the container alongside two stacks of books laying in front of her. Her skinny, pale hand scattered the books on the table – books with black outlines of animals, flowers, patterns and cupcakes. She picked the title Floral Designs. She loves flowers and talk about flowers but there was no talking that afternoon. She was ready to fill the blank spaces with colours.

Mum flicked through the pages then put the book aside and started inspecting the tips of her colourful tools. She pulled a pencil sharpener from the Tupperware container and shaved away the worn surface of three pencils: “red, green and yellow” she said out loud. Looked like she was now ready to start her project, to get lost in the world of colouring in.

I’m all for meditation but have no patience to sit still to colour in mindfulness colouring books, or any books for that matter. I think I may waste precious time unable to relax, trying to figure out which colours to use and how to combine them. But mum has been colouring in these books for months. Her collection just keeps growing. She says it’s calming and that she likes watching the colour slowly spread across the page and the surprise element of creating something unexpected and pretty.

I realised I wasn’t going to fall sleep anymore so I sat down and moved to the corner of the couch to observe mum more closely. I saw that she selected the green pencil and, in slow, repetitive movements started to fill the stencilled page. She was focused and the room was quiet. All I could hear was the hypnotic scratching sound of pencil lead on paper. She paused from time to time swap pencils or turn the pages.

Mum smiles at everyone she meets and I saw her smiling at what was appearing underneath the colours. So I got up and sat beside her to take a peep at her creations.

She was creating beautiful patterns and I congratulated her on her creativity but what really caught my attention was that most of the patterns were unfinished. She was moving on to the next object without finishing the previous one. I flicked through the pages in the other books and most of them had not been completed. It didn’t make sense to me to leave the images partially done.

“Mum, why don’t you finish a pattern before you move to the next one?”

“That’s funny,” she frowned, “my friend asked me the same question.”

“Your pages will be even more beautiful if you complete them.”

“I don’t know,” she continued without looking at me, “I don’t feel like I need to finish them.” She turned the page.

Oh no. I could immediately feel drops of sweat running down my back. At the moment I came to the conclusion that mum, who is 74 and had recently been diagnosed with dementia, was losing the ability to see the full picture. She was going downhill much faster than I expected. I knew I was catastrophising. I wasn’t sure if the page hoping really indicated a progression of the disease but my Hypochondriac brain tends to resort to the worst case scenario when it comes to health issues. I grabbed a pencil and the book closest to me and started colouring in to calm down. I needed to find my focus again.

I just sat there in silence with mum, following the lines with my left hand no end in sight, no destination and I didn’t know if it was the repetitive strokes but I could sense I was starting to relax. When I completed a couple of patterns I looked at mum, content in her world of patterns and colours. Her back was straight and her neck leaning slightly forward. She was losing her hearing and her memory, but she looked content and poised. Just then I realised that it didn’t matter if she can see the full picture or not. What she sees makes her happy and that’s enough. I felt like I was learning to get the full picture. These books can be useful after all.

R U OK?

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Today is R U OK Day – sharing my story


I’m ok now, thanks for asking, but eight years ago I wasn’t. That was when I heard of my father’s passing on the other side of the planet and realised that the world wasn’t like I understood it. What someone believes makes up who they are as a person—I felt disoriented. Only when I was able to look at the content of my beliefs and accept the new reality, I started to find my north.

I’ve been meaning to write about my experience with anxiety but it takes a lot of mental energy to visit the past. While I gather energy and time to write, I’ll share here a story I wrote for the WellBeing magazine. Hope it will help someone feel ok.

Story: Calm beyond the storm

Not sure how to ask someone if they are ok? See the R U OK? website for guidance.

Action and reaction [short story]

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My feet got tangled and I went tumbling down.


I had just parked the car and was walking to my favourite coffee shop this morning when something got hold of my foot. I turned my head down but before I could see what was restricting my movements I realised I was tumbling down. I probably fell over in two seconds but it felt like I was falling in slow motion and I could foresee the damage of the impeding impact. Images of my upcoming half-marathon flashed before my eyes. No training today that’s for sure. I went down on my left knee first,—no, not my knee—then the right, then my wrists swung forward to protect my face and finally the rest of my body hit the unprepared surface. I wanted to get up but the forces of gravity and pain were keeping my body stuck to the pavement.

“Are you all right?” I heard worried voices hovering above me. The good samaritans that came to my rescue grabbed my arms and helped me get up. “Are you okay?” someone asked again. I was a bit disoriented and dizzy from the sudden jerk of my head, all I could muster was “I hope so”. They held my arm and walked me inside the nearby hairdresser.

“Please have a seat while I get some water” said a concerned hairdresser. I took a seat next to the window and a deep breath, “what a way the start the day” I joked, finally starting to come to my senses. “If you can laugh about it you might still have a good day ahead” the hairdresser said passing me a glass of water.

“Ouch” I felt a sting when the broken skin touched the water droplets outside the cold glass. I turned my palms up and saw blood and grit from the floor. I looked at my legs to assess the damage and noticed wet spots halfway down the black running pants I was wearing. I tried to roll them up but they were too tight, I had to wait the check my knees when I got home. I sipped the water slowly trying to digest how this happened to me today.

“There was something stuck to my feet,” I said putting the empty glass on the coffee table.

“You don’t know what it was?” asked the hairdresser.

“No, but I’ll find out now,” I said trying to rise up from my seat but my knees ached and trembled and my bottom landed back on the chair. I tried again, this time I placed both hands at the edge of the chair,  pushed down through my arms and began straightening my legs. A sharp pain traveled from my head to toes. That’s the moment I realised I might not be able to run the race. I didn’t just fall, I had a fall. When you fall you get up again and move on with your business but a fall is a beast of another kind, it is an unprovoked attack, a serendipitous act of violence that finds you unprepared and inflicts grievous bodily harm. And it knocked me down really bad.

The hairdresser followed me to the crime scene for our forensic investigation. We found narrow straps of white plastic scattered around the parking. These are the straps used to bundle magazines and stack them in piles. Someone, maybe a delivery person, must have slided the magazines out and mindlessly tossed the used straps. “There are garbage bins everywhere, why couldn’t he or she have walked ten metres to dispose the plastic straps properly?” I squeezed my eyebrows together.

“People can be so thoughtless” the hairdresser sighed.

“If I were an elderly person I’d be in hospital with broken bones” I continued.

“I know,” she said with a tone of concern, “I’ll throw the straps in the bin so no one else gets hurt.” She said walking to the trashcan.

“Thanks heaps for rescuing me today.” I waved to the hairdresser and started limping to the car. I opened the door, squeezed through the opening with half-bent knees and started the engine. My legs felt heavy, it was tricky to operate the pedals and with every new movement I discovered a new pain. Eventually I got home and rushed to the freezer to get the ice packs. I put them in my sore knees, ah, finally a bit of relief.

Every action has a reaction—the pressure of the cold bags of ice in my skin made me think of Newton’s 3rd law of physics. Newton wasn’t referring to human behaviour but I kept thinking of how the actions of the delivery person resulted in pain and suffering to another human being. I’m sure he or she didn’t intend to harm anyone but being unaware of your behaviour is just as bad. I wriggled in the couch trying to find a conformable spot. One of the greatest crimes of our civilisation is the offence of mindlessness, that’s why there is so much pain and suffering in the world. If we were conscious of the consequences of our actions, we would be better equipped to change our behaviour. But we are too busy or preoccupied with our everyday lives and keep on going on auto-pilot, we don’t pause to ponder.

I noticed that with every new trip to the kitchen to replace the ice packs the pain worsened so I decided it was time to inspect my knees and apply some antiseptic cream on the wounds. But there was an obstacle on my way, the stairs. I had to go upstairs to get the first aid kit and a new pair of pants. I grabbed the rails on both sides and swung my legs forward, one at a time and with every step images of people whose physical abilities do not correspond with the demands of their environment flashed in my mind. I felt privileged I was only carrying a temporarily broken body.

By school pick up time my legs were as stiff and heavy as iron bars and I started to move like a robot to keep my legs as straight as I could. The drive to school is literally painfully slow but luckily most of the route is within school zones so the other cars are going slow too. When I get there I have to explain my robot moves to the parents at the gate and one of the mothers asked: “are you going to sue the council?” Hum, I hadn’t thought of that.

“No,” I replied with a pause, “I don’t even know who the tosser was.”

“They might have caught the fall on CC TV” she insisted.

“Good point,” I reply, “but I don’t want to put my energy on a litigation.” The glares of disappointment from the parents made me feel like justifying my position so I said “I might send a letter to the council though, to alert them to be more vigilant.”

“But they’re more likely to do something about it they feel the pain with their pockets.” stressed another mother.

“That may be true,” I said slowly trying to calculate the impact of my words, I don’t like the blame and sue culture that has developed in our society but I didn’t want to offend anyone so I carefully added as limped over eggs shells on the way to the car park: “but I don’t think every accident should be a case for litigation.” They didn’t say anything back and continued to walk at normal pace so I was left behind wondering if because they found me too slow or too righteous.

On my way home I was in so much pain I was thinking of driving to a medical centre but I pulled over at the chemist instead and asked the pharmacist for her opinion. I rolled up my pants and she frowned. “Looks quite nasty.” Drops of sweat run down my shoulders, maybe I broke something. “But I don’t think you broke anything,” she said as if reading my mind, “I don’t think you would have been able to drive here otherwise.” Phew. She recommended an anti-inflammatory tablet and a visit to the doctor next morning “if you don’t wake up feeling better.”

As the day progressed the pain got stronger and my knees stiffer and I started to get cranky at the possibility of breaking my tradition of joining the Sydney running festival. I’ve been doing the half-marathon for five years straight, now thanks to that mindless delivery guy I might have to give it a miss.

I was picturing the fall over and over in my head and what I could have done differently. I was cursing whoever tossed the rubbish in the parking. I wanted to stomp to my room and start the day over but instead I had to gently swing my hips from side to side to move my legs, sit in the edge of my bed and carefully lay down and place ice packs in both knees.

But staring alone at the ceiling I started to think about how I was reacting to the situation. I was joining the mindless mob. It’s not the end of the world if I missed the race and being angry at the world was not going to make me recover faster. I was not able to run but I was capable of taking a step back and turn off the auto-pilot. Instead of continuing ruminating my story, I put my headphones on and played some soft music. It did not take away the pain but by the time I got up to change the ice packs I was counting my blessings, the accident could have been much worse.

My Vintage Coat: Stories Behind our Clothes

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Dad used to say that if the fashion industry depended on him “they would be out of business.”. He couldn’t understand why anyone would buy a new piece of garment when his/her closet was full of clothes in wearable condition. Dad lived by the ideals of the slow fashion movement, although the term had yet to be coined. His clothes had a story to tell and he proudly shared with us the history behind his archeological items. I fondly remember a beige cardigan that he wore in airplane trips “this one I bought when I married your mother 22 years ago” and a warn out and stained polo shirt “from 1979 when the twins were born.”.

I used to look at dad upholding his principle of quality and utility versus style and consumerism and think how unfashionable he was, wearing white business shirts and dark pants day in, day out. For a bit of variety, sometimes the white shirts displayed faint stripes and occasionally he wore a tie. But other than that it was the same look everyday. It took me years to see that his old-fashioned grace expressed in his warn out attire and I’m noticing that the older I get the more similar to dad I become—I’m growing attached to my old rags.

My wardrobe isn’t large enough to accommodate clothing for all seasons so every end of summer and winter I have to rotate my clothes. I have to go through every item and inevitably end up with heavy bags of unwanted pieces for the Salvos. But the last two rotations I hardly had to recycle anything because 1. I’m buying much less clothes and 2. I’ve developed an emotional connection with my clothes.

I’ve got a vintage, blue checked coat that I bought with one of my first paycheques and now when winter comes to an end I look at my coat hanging in the wardrobe and ponder if it’s time for it to go. I probably only wear it a couple of times a year now. But I can still vividly remember the smile on my face when I brought this coat home. Back then I was into fashion and I was brave. I used to wear this coat as a dress and it only covered a quarter of my legs; this coat-dress marked a time of exploration and finding my identity and after so many years it still looks timeless, it keeps passing the test of time.

This vintage coat went with me to a holiday in New York. I remember walking down Times Square wearing my blue ‘dress’, thick blue stockings and a pair of boots that made me look 15cm taller. I remember the necks turning (don’t know if because I looked too hot or too weird!). The coat also followed me to Australia and is now part of winter wardrobe.

When I bought this coat I brought home a fashion label but now the tag has long faded and this piece of garment has become part of my story. I can’t help but look at it with the same fondness and connection I have with a good old book. And it has an added benefit; I can always turn the page and start a new chapter, I just need to wear it again. If this coat lasts until I’m old and frail I’ll pass it on and let it start a new story—this is if I find anyone.

Too many clothes today have an unfortunate story to tell. We rarely buy a timeless item, it’s all about cheap fashion, in today and out tomorrow. In the rare occasions when I go out to shop for clothes, I notice how fast the fashion industry has become. Fashion racks distract us with clothes that haven’t been worn yet but carry a story of exploitation, poverty wages and sweatshops. Drawers, wardrobes and closets all around the world are overflowing with dirty cheap clothes and many still have the store label attached. These items have a dark past and a bleak future—they will pile up landfills, biodegrading for decades.

My siblings donated dad’s clothes to charity but looking back now I wish I had inherited his beige cardigan. Sure it was worn out and wouldn’t fit me but I could use it for those moments when it’s too cold, too fast and too lonely and I just want to wrap myself with his memories. This is the closest I can get to him now.

My first poem: Life contracted

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My children and I are home sick today and I’m feeling yucky but grateful that I’m entitled to sick leave. There are so many casual workers out there in precarious jobs with no access to the entitlements that the rest of us have. I felt like having a go at writing a poem about my reflections on this. I started these verses last year but there is nothing like a day in bed to make me grab a pen… Here it goes:

Life contracted

On the margins of the labour market I sit
and contemplate my life many shifts
I bear all the risks and I weep

As the clock strikes at zero hour
I wake to a journey of uncertainty
Evenings and weekends isolate me from myself

The Guardian of the hours profits from my weakness
Unprotected I soldier on but labour in vain
I don’t have a future, I’m worn with His gain

What’s the value of my honest toil
if I traded my soul for a life of turmoil?
The fruits of my labour in sterile soil

To the Master of the liberal market:
Your servant was once commercially viable
but his portioned task is now unreliable

So in a turbulent market I drown in despair
My life is contracted it needs repair
The source of my joy has been outsourced

Burst of casual work are deflating my soul
and dignity escaping me with every new blow
How I long for the soothing labouring hours

Rosana Wayand 2016 Copyright

2 adults, 2 kids, loads of rubbish

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How much rubbish does your family produce in a week?


As soon as the garbage man drives away with our detritus most of us think it’s no longer our problem. Out of sight out of mind. But all that garbage, along with the waste created to produce it, is simply put in a big hole in the ground, or it’s first burned in an incinerator and then dumped in a landfill. Both ways produce a lot of pollution—the materials and food scraps that fill these landfills breakdown and eventually release methane and other toxic substances that pollute, kill animals or destroy their habitat and damage the environment in many other ways.

And man, we produce a lot of garbage! I wanted to measure how much waste my family produced in a week but within four days the 55 litre container was overflowing. Mind you, this container doesn’t include our food waste and I’ve been reciting the Reduce-Reuse-Recycle mantra for a while, I’m quite conscious of what goes in my shopping trolley. So, even with sustainability in mind, I’m still creating a lot of pollution.

I guess for me the issue is that I’ve focused on recycling more than everything else. Recycling is the easiest part as it requires minimal change in routines and habits. It does have its benefits, recycling reduces the amount garbage on the planet—and  consequently the pollution it generates—but for various reasons, recycling alone isn’t enough to make a considerable impact on the environment . Firstly, for you to produce one bin of household garbage, the extraction-production-distribution process has already filled up 70 garbage bins—so your bin sitting in the kerb is just the tip of the iceberg. To compound the problem, each year we are increasing our consuming and offsetting even more the benefits of recycling. Another issue is that some products simply cannot be recycled—think items like rubber tires, Styrofoam, plastic, fiberglass and metals.

Treating and re-processing our waste can only make a difference to a point. What we really need to do is to reduce the amount of waste we produce. This means we have to avoid over-consumption, something very hard to achieve because in the developed world where we have a lifestyle that supports consuming more than what we need (if everyone adopted my lifestyle for example it would require 3.5 planet Earths to provide the resources—according to WWF, take the quiz—I’m horrified with my results!).

Changing a lifestyle is hard, we are creatures of routine. We are not used to using products (clothes, shoes, gadgets, toys, decoration items, cars, etc, etc) until they completely wear out instead of buying newer, more fashionable items. We buy more food than we need to eat (think obesity crisis), we buy by impulse without really considering if we need it (think mindless retail therapy). To change our consumption habits we need to develop awareness that there is a problem and the motivation to want to make a difference.

In the last two years I’ve grown interested in learning more about the harmful effects of human activity on the environment. But I’ve been on this planet for four decades, why have I taken so long? After all, scientists and activists have been talking about it for ages. I guess like most of us, I was just too focused on my routines and didn’t really stop to consider the impact of my actions on the planet. I believe everyone has their lightbulb moment when they realise there is a real issue and that they can part of the solution. Thankfully it’s not too late to start taking action yet.

If you care and want to make a difference to the environment by reducing your consumption, here are a few ideas for beginners like me:

  • Start by measuring your impact. In this way you will learn how to make the most effective changes to your lifestyle. See calculator.
  • Think before you buy. Are you making an emotional purchase or do you really need the item?
  • Buy products (including food items) with the least amount of packaging.
  • Fix things whenever possible. For instance, my son just cut a hole in this school pants. Ordinarily I would turn this item into a wipe cloth and buy a new one ($30 won’t break the bank). But with my new mindset I will get it repaired for $15.
  • Use your consumer power. Reject food and goods produced in an unsustainable manner. Your habits can propel  companies to listen and change their practices.
  • Raise awareness. The lifestyle changes we make as individuals are critical, but we need mainstream participation. Use social media to share the word, add your voice to online campaigns and support high-level policy change.

I hope that one day it will take much longer for my family to fill up a 55 litre bin with garbage.

My kids are giving back

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Yesterday my children did their first volunteering job. We went to Monika’s Doggie Rescues and took Pickles for a walk. Like the other 150 dogs in the centre, Pickles has a story of abuse, neglect or violence. As we strolled the rural streets of Ingleside, Pickles barked and lunged at every other dog that crossed our way. The volunteer at the shelter said that Pickles probably had never seen another dog until he was rescued—he forgot how to be a dog. Apart from not being comfortable with others of his kind, he was a happy dog and Lucas and Thomas loved playing with him.

I must say, our volunteering work yesterday was not a huge effort for my kids—they are natural animal lovers—but it was a fun way to show them the importance of giving back to the community. Our visit to the dog shelter exposed them to a few realities they aren’t used to:

  • Suffering is part of life – they are safely bubble wrapped by caring parents.
  • Making do with very limited resources – mum’s bank never seems to run out of funds.
  • Only selflessness can make the world a better place – no kids, Pokemon is not saving the planet.

I don’t think my kids are the only ones out of touch with the realities of life—most children today are too sheltered and have too much—they don’t understand that the privileges they have are not equally available to others just a few postcodes away. And it’s not their fault. Most of us parents spend a good deal of time ensuring our children have great educational experiences, wonderful holidays, eat organic food, are creatively stimulated. Unfortunately, we don’t put as much energy in making sure they understand that not everyone is as fortunate as them and that those with privileges have a duty of care.

That’s probably because we aren’t as socially engaged as we should. It’s easier to get busy worrying about achieving the best possible outcomes for ourselves and our children than getting involved with the problems of our society. But there is need all around us and we are all part of the solution. It’s never too early or too late to start.

I did volunteering work as a teenager when I was a girls guide. Since then, there has been university, career, kids. But I guess the seed was planted and I feel it’s time to roll up my sleeves again. I’m making giving back part of my parenting agenda. We are definitely going to visit Pickles and his friends again.

Chaotic day, got better, then… you tell me.

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I know you’ve had days like this too. Days sent to try you. In such days you just want to go back to bed and start over. These days for me tend to begin like a nightmare, tormenting me in the middle of the night, like when insomnia comes for a visit. But this time it was my youngster whispering in my ear “bad dream, bad dream”. It was cold  and I had no energy to take him back to where he came from so I made a slight sideway move and he hopped on between my husband and I and snuggles under my wings. Luckily I managed to get back to sleep. But not for long.

“My throat hurts, I can’t sleep.” I get up and go on a blind expedition to the bathroom to get the medicine box. Before I reach the power switch, ouch! When a 60Kg person steps on a mega strength Lego piece it hurt but 1am it hurts even more. When the evil ridges dig into the ball of my foot I scream so loud the dog wakes up— my husband surprisingly manages to sleep through it all. “Here darling, have a lozenge.” I walk my eldest to his bedroom and wait for him to fall asleep. Back in my room, the youngest took possession of every inch of my side of the bed so I retire to his. I bring my phone with me, I still hope I will wake up at 5:30am to go for a run. But child with sore throat still woke me up another two times before the alarm takes me from my slumber. Just 10 more minutes, I beg the universe.

When I finally woke up there was no time for exercise and it felt like I had already ran a marathon. I quickly got dressed and I rushed out of the house to catch the train before the rest of the tribe got up demanding my attention. My husband was in charge today but if the kids see me around they find a way to occupy me. I was excited that besides all the chaos of the night I was still catching an early train and thus would get a seat. But as soon as I reached the station and got my Opal card from my wallet I spotted the crispy bank notes I should have left in the kitchen bench for the cleaner.

I literally ran home and back to the station again, limping because of the Lego nugget I crushed. Magically I got a seat on the train. Ok, time for some meditation and gather energy for the the day ahead. I try to pull my headphones from my handbag but they are stuck. I pull harder and harder and two kiwi fruit fly out of the bag and go rolling down the carriage. I man next to me starts laughing, I look at him and smile —one’s got to laugh of his tragedies… I see passengers lifting their feet and looking down. To avoid further embarrassment I let go of the fruit.

Eventually I arrived at the office and put my porridge in the microwave while I recounted the morning to a workmate. The porridge overflows. “Not your luckiest day” my friend says. I wondered what more could go wrong today. Thankfully not much. The rest of the day ran smoothly, well, depending in your point of view. When I got home at night I learnt that the Liberals had officially won the federal election. I’ll let you be the judge.

In bed with the enemy –

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Tick, tock, I open my eyes and see dark—the enemy has come to his night visit again. I turn to my phone to check the time, anxiety settling in, crossing my fingers in hope it’s close to sunrise, which means I won’t be tossing and turning in bed for too long. Disappointed, I take a few deep breaths in and out trying to convince one hundred billion brain cells that 1AM is no time for a party. I continue with the pranayama breathing, I don’t know for how long, but my neurones are fired up.

I try all my repertoire of techniques for insomnia and wait for sleep to take me but nothing happens. I open my eyes again, the dark seems darker. I don’t feel tired but have no strength to get up and do something else—I cling to the hope that sleep will descend. Sometimes it does. Other times I fall into that state between sleep and wakefulness. That’s when I dream that I’m dozing off but my mind breaks the stillness of the moment and I’m again starring at the ceiling

This time I don’t dare to check the time or I’ll start to panic—how am I going to cope with the day ahead when my brain only had three hours of rest?! Paranoia starts to creep in, anticipating the non-alcoholic hangover. But after 18 months of suffering on and off from insomnia I’ve learnt the drill, I know that heroically I’ll survive the next day with the help of one or two doses of coffee. So, I surrender. I accept defeat and let go of the struggle with my mind. I just lie in bed with my eyes shut, doing a few rounds of meditation to keep the anxiety of the moment at bay.

When the dark is no longer as dark, I get up. Tonight I’ll sleep better, I tell myself. I change into my workout clothes and promise to run an extra kilometre hoping this might add a few hours to my sleep—although I know this equation doesn’t work. I open the door and see the sun rising in the horizon and I start running from the troubles of my life. The pounding on the pavement seems to finally calm my brain cells.