Today I found a letter I wrote to a bully when I was 16, rummaging through moving boxes for a pair of headphones lay the wrinkled envelope, old tears causing the paper to be tough and coffee coloured. An old biro engraved lined paper with a shaky hand, the licked side no longer clung to its paper partner and begged for me to open it’s painful past. Part of me wishes I didn’t get its reminder, but part of me felt like it rang the doorbell, an unexpected visitor but a welcomed guest.

Before you read below I need you to know this – I want it to stop, bullying is cruel and nasty. Read my words, remember them next time words leave your mouth, remember them constantly. You see I told people eventually, but far too late. I wish I told someone sooner. I wish I faced them, head on. I never think about them like I thought I would, back then I thought maybe the pain was too much and that it would cling to my heart like a leach forever, scarring any possible chance I had at happiness. But I was wrong, I don’t think of them, ever. If you are going through something similar, tell someone! Please oh please just tell someone. It gets better, maybe I found this letter today to help one of you by sharing it. I hope it does…

Dear Mr Bully, 

No one knows yet, I pop the notes you write in my pocket. 

I haven’t told my friends you follow me to class, that the bruises that cover my body are not from rocks out of the school garden. 

I keep my phone close to my chest and a four number password seals your nasty secrets. 

I won’t tell them, I will continue to lug this secret around like a heavy bag draped over my sad shoulders, maybe then you will stop. 

But you need to know this, in your battle to bring me down for the ego of oneself you have made my mum cry, you’ve twisted the thoughts of my father, the goodness that use to run through my veins is now black, a black sludge that rumbles in my stomach and spills its contents on the grass after dinner. 

If you ever come across this letter, if you have heard the whispers around the school ground that I took my own life in the dead of the night, you contributed to that. 

You see while you sent me nasty letters and cut my hair, I was battling something of my own. That just because you are hurting enough on the inside to take it out on me, I am doing the same, although taking it out on myself. Double the pain, double the suffering. 

So when you go home at night to your family and that guilt of the pain you bestowed to me frees your soul for the evening. It clings to my insides and drags me deeper down, till the tears stain my pillowcase and darkness lay heavy upon my tired body, leaking its essence into my being, I lay here in my room wondering if tomorrow I will wake up, wondering what your reaction would be if I don’t, but I will not give you that satisfaction. 

I wish your words hurt like a toy gun, a bang bang of scare and than nothing left. But they don’t, they hit full force. They linger in the air, they arrive in my dreams at night and they echo in my head. 

One day I will be ok, and you will be nothing but a mere memory. The scars on my skin a constant reminder of you, my shudder at peoples words another scar left behind. I hope one day the pain of you is gone and my life resembles somewhat of a metaphor for success and yours metaphor for karma. 

I do not wish to hurt you, but I hope a piece of me is carried with you everyday and you remember the girl you took from her family and friends and that the next time that wave of pain seeps into your mind and the big bad bully hisses to come out, you think of me and the bully returns to it’s unwanted place of residence, that is not made up in your heart.

Dear Mr Bully, one day it will be ok for me, but that day is not today. 

Yours captive now but not forever, 






I can’t wait to have kids, as long as I can remember all I’ve wanted was to be a wife and mum.

There’s something about the idea of giving life, about a being relying so much on your breath to continue each day.

I want a big family, were laughter lifts the roof at dinner time and the countryside doesn’t seem so big with their presence.

The late nights just me and my baby rocking back and forth on a chair, a ‘shhh’ coming from my lips and tiny hand placing itself on my cheek. The little dimpely hand that will entwine in mine, the “muuuuuuuum’ that echoes from the hallway and the little feet that clamber into our room at 2am to cuddle in beside my warm sleepy body.

I want their binding love to make a house, our home.

I’ll tell them stories and listen to theirs, imagination feeling their head with beautiful wonder.

I want them to run, barefoot around the yard, water cooling the summer sun from their skin, I want the light to radiate through their smile.

We’ll build tree houses and swings, we’ll chase chickens and hold puppies, we’ll ride horses and milk cows, we’ll be so complete.

Apples will rippen in the orchid, the smell of home cooked bread will linger with the scent of another candle in the living room, floor covered with toys.

I can’t wait for my heart to be so full, I can’t wait for one little smile to fix a bad day.

But until then, I will continue to write about the stories I will one day whisper into little ears when sleep is still so far away and the rain falls on this farmhouse roof.


Bird x


I have been doing a lot of thinking lately about my emotional sense and how I share what I feel too often, and that maybe, just perhaps if someone reads this they will understand just why I like to confess every little thing that twirls in my mind.

I remember when I was in the pit of depression, the only light I saw was from the words of my pal –  “the best is yet to come.” I remember running those words through my head as the bubble of pain arose in class or washed like a tide of heavy sheets at night. I remember his love. You see we had been best friends for as long as I could remember but when he knew of my battles this side of him opened up, a side I had never seen before. The constant pats on the back, the constant care and affection that flowed from his body whenever I was around, kept me going when things got bad. I decided to do the same, on a permanent basis, I yelled when I was mad, I cried when I was sad and I smiled when I was happy but I always told people how I felt.

People deserve love, not on a part time basis. My father has always been a giver, a sharer (a little too much at times) and I guess when I was born that part of him I inherited and I became the crave for honestly, as raw as the day day I was born and the power to give it was evident, well I made it evident.

So I told my mum I loved her more, I told my sisters their friendship sits deep within my chest and continues to make my heart beat beautiful blood through my veins, I told my friends they looked nice today, I hugged when I hadn’t seen someone in a while and I shared every little part of my emotional sense with the people around me, for they deserved to feel better than I was at the time.

You see the poisonous pain that oozed my veins seemed diluted when I could share that with someone, it seemed so physical. Getting wrapped in my fathers arms at night felt like a majestic painting of energies colliding and creating an orb of understanding.

I told my mum to tell me she loves me before she hangs up the phone, every time. I told her that my head needs to hear it so it can tell my heart to keep beating.

I told my sisters to answer the phone at all hours of the night, I told them the sound of their voice made my ears tell my feet to keep moving.

I told my dad a kiss on the head at night was vital, that it told my body I will wake in the morning.

I told my friends treat me like a ball of cotton-wool, just until I can shed the wool myself- like a Dorper heading into the summer months, wool wound around fence wire disgust lingering in lanolin.

If I left the world, I wanted people to know exactly how I felt about them. I wanted to be remembered as the one who made their presence lighter, who oozed love and bleached it on the skin of the ones I held so dear. Like the last dreg of pub squash I would suck at their pain and leave them ready for another, fresh serving.

The thing that baffles me is I was in control of that, whether I die or live. I chose to live and share that love I chose to live. As affection and feel good emotions that flowed from me every so often were from people who were willing to show it.

I don’t want to wake up one day and find a loved one gone and regret the love I didn’t give.

Yesterday on the way home from work a motorbike accident happened, as I ran towards the accident, phone in hand dialing 000, my heart ached for the ones he loved so dearly, but had no idea just how he felt or maybe he was a sharer and told them daily, maybe his phone was filled with “I love you xx”.

Fortunately everyone was okay and the fear of death stunted a reaction of emotional in his body to tell his family he loves them, it stunned my body to do the same – hence why I write this.

Don’t be that person, share love, share so much love, make love as essential as breathing. I am a living, breathing reason why it is so important to ones head. For that breath in my body is from affection and love, now my life is so full of it it makes my heart swell and cheeks flame red.

Make your feelings evident, even if they don’t want to be heard, you will regret it if you don’t.

I had a friend in school, every time she would invite me over to her home I would jump at the opportunity for I got to watch her parents hold hands, her sister stare at her with admiration and laughter lift the roof at dinner.

I will create that, I hope my children’s friends jump at the opportunity to visit our home, warmth flooded from the front door upon their feet as they turn the handle, Nick’s kiss on the top of my head after a hard day and they leave with a belly full of yummy goods and a sense of ” the best is yet to come” and they return to their homes to kiss their mother on the cheek and “how was your day?” to their father.

Poor Nick has to lie in bed at night and listen to how much I love him, dad has to listen to “I love you promise to be careful and I will promise to be good”, mum has 15 phone calls a day and my siblings have a “coffee?” message waiting whenever I can. While sometimes the love isn’t in my words or theirs, perhaps it’s in the hug, or maybe the arm around the shoulder.

In no way and I saying tell everyone the last time you had a bowl movement, I am just telling you to tell them you love them. That maybe that tiny flicker of love you feel is a sign that you should confess, you never know how badly someone needs to hear something. Your friend’s hair looks nice? Tell them. A stranger has a nice shirt? Tell them.

Tell your brother your listening to his dreams, tell your sister she is all you need, tell your mother she is the only one and your father has made you all you have become.

There is still so much love I want to give, there is still so much I am working on, in my head and in my body. But for the moment my words are all I can give, and I will continue to give them as just as much as it helps the ones I tell I love, their smile when hearing it fixes my insides.

To dear Brad – “The best is yet to come” and hangs from my neck on the days I need reminding, today it sit’s with pride as those words are the most truthful yet.

To you all – You are enough, your doing great and you have got this. nick.jpg

Love Bird x

The richest of them all

Today one of my friends from primary school got engaged, watching the happiness bubble from her being got me thinking about what it is to truely be rich in life, to feel like you have got your ‘I made it moment’.

You see before Nick, I fumbled around in search of the one thing that was missing from my heart, I didn’t know what that thing was that was, for a while I thought it was a career, at times I thought maybe it was routine. All I really knew was contentment wouldn’t settle upon my chest until I found it.

No job, no town seemed to fill that missing hole, until I met Nick. Like a knight in shining armour, walking through the door with a big smile. Every part of me rushed to fill that hole in one quick ‘arghhhh that’s what’s missing’. To tell you the truth, even on the days Nick isn’t around I can feel that whole beat with fullness, a reminder that his waiting for me, the exact same part of him beating louder and louder as the minutes tick on.

For a while there, I didn’t think that wild in my life would settle.. I thought maybe gaining love from friendships and climbing into bed alone at night was okay, I wasn’t looking for anyone.

I guess thats when it happens, not when you want but when the time is right, have faith in the way things will turn out.

So who really is the richest of them all? The man who drives home at night in his Mustang, leather seats with a cigar straining his lungs, given up the spare of his time to dedicate to making money.

Perhaps, its the man who returns from work to the home of his life, love bursting through the door as it opens, spilling its goodness upon the once bad day turned good.

For me it’s the man who returns home in a Land Cruiser to an excited Dachound and most nights a girl running from the front door to meet his open arms.

Nick Sheather you are the richest of them all, for I promise that sheepskin of a cruiser feels better than that of a leather mustang and your arms feel safer than that of money.

To my dearest friend Ashley, when we were 8, dressing in bed sheets and picking flowers from mums garden to walk down our makeshift isle, we knew it would happen one day. Today was your day, you found the missing piece and you more than anyone deserves that piece to stay. To Josh,  the richest man of them all, that love is all you need.

To love, laughter and happily ever after.