When You Come To Understand Your Worth

When you come to understand your worth:

You’ll stop caring he chose her and know if he couldn’t see your worth back then, he still won’t see it now.

You’ll stop thinking about all the ways you weren’t enough for him and know he never would have been enough for you.

You’ll stop replaying all the things you could have and should have done better and know you never have to be more than you already are for someone to love you perfectly, now.

You’ll stop believing you need to strive for the perfect body just to earn his attention and approval and instead fall in love with the girl in the mirror, flaws and all.

You’ll stop wondering why he couldn’t see you and instead wonder what you ever saw in him.

You’ll know you are so much more now than you’d have ever been with him, anyway.

You’ll know you are everything worth loving, exactly as you are.

You’ll know you didn’t lose; he did.

Defeat Never Did Look Good On Me Anyway

This week is smashing me.

Illness, insomnia, chronic pain flare-up, emotional challenges. Dealing with lack of energy, motivation and focus, and finding myself struggling to achieve the things I need to this week.

It’s so easy to want to spiral into a negative mindset; to dwell in frustration and resentment over things I can’t control.

Instead, I’m choosing to still show up and kick arse. To push through, knowing I have the strength and resilience to overcome hard stuff. To keep going, knowing my survival rate is one hundred percent.

To not give up, knowing I’m so much more than what my bad days would have me believe.

Defeat never did look good on me anyway.

Mothers Day: We Never Really Fail, Even When We Think We Do

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I never planned to become a mother; at least, not in a tangible way. It was always likely to happen. At some point. In the future. Way down the track. But wasn’t even a blip on the radar when my husband and I took our first proper holiday, three years after we were married. We’d both been working two jobs with barely a day off between us; to say we needed the time away was a hilarious understatement.

We spent a week in the mountains. At least, I think there were mountains. There was alcohol – I know this because every day we drank our body weight in red wine; and then some. It didn’t occur to me until two weeks after we returned home that my period, which was due while away, hadn’t shown.

A week later when it still hadn’t arrived, I stared at two blue lines on a stick; horrified. “But how much did we drink while we were away?” I sobbed, convinced the baby I’d never anticipated to be in my womb at that time would be born with fetal alcohol syndrome.* I hadn’t even become a mother, and already I had failed.

 *said baby is a straight-A student, Grade 8 pianist and 3 times recipient of the Dux award – he turned out okay.

Three babies arrived into the world in the following six years; no more anticipated or planned than the first (we eventually worked out sex was the problem and promptly stopped having it) (kidding) (sort of). This is where I’d love to be able to say I transitioned into motherhood with grace and ease; instead, my rate of failure only increased with each child.

Like the time my second child climbed over the gate at the top of the stairs and landed wrongly as I was in the throes of both post-natal depression and making lunch and just. couldn’t. deal that day. I played down his tears with hollow reassurance: you’re okay, you’ll be fine, just eat some lunch and you’ll feel better. My husband arrived home later that afternoon and noted his lopsided angle. Maybe we should get him checked out. He had broken his collarbone.

Or the time I had to grab a few things at Camping World and left the store, busy and distracted, thinking I had four kids in tow, only to realise at some point the third one was missing. Where’s Aliandra? Confusion. Panic. Retrace steps. Stay calm. More panic. We found her back at Camping World – she had strayed too far behind as we’d walked out; the automatic doors had closed on her and, too short to activate the door sensors, she’d ended up trapped inside.

And then there was my fourth child who could barely walk yet managed to climb onto the table, momentarily, before landing headfirst onto the wooden floor below; her initial scream lasting less than a second before she blacked out and went limp in my arms and I was left with only the screaming in my own head: oh my god, she’s dead, she’s dead. The ten seconds it took for her to regain consciousness have never felt more like a lifetime. Ten years later, I’m still reeling.

My biggest failure, however, was believing these failures (and the million unmentioned others) defined me as a mother. That I wasn’t a just a mother who failed at times, like every mother, but that I was a failure. Enough so, that I could no longer fight against the inadequacy which overcame me.

Defeated, I walked away.

Everything in me at that time believed my family would be better off without me; that my husband was a far better father than I could ever be a mother. That I wasn’t competent enough or equipped enough or able enough. That I’d not been raised with the kind of mother who’d modelled how to parent well, so I could never be the kind of mother my children needed me to be.

I didn’t have a tribe or a village or a support network or anyone to tell me, this is normal. That failing as a mother is as much part of being a mother as anything else. That motherhood is a fucking hard gig and no matter how it may seem, all women feel like they are failing at times.

I needed someone to tell me this; to tell me how I would struggle with the isolation of being home all day with my kids; that no matter how desperate I was  to leave the house and actually see other real-life people, there would always be one sick or one sleeping or one who needed to be fed or one who would have a meltdown because they didn’t want to put their goddamn shoes on.

I needed someone to tell me how alone I would feel when I swapped an adult-filled world for Play School and the Alphabet Song and never-ending rounds of Go Fish; how small my world would become. How small I would become.

How I would lose all sense of identity and self-worth to days I couldn’t even find the energy to shower and dress; how when I eventually did manage to shower I would be too overwhelmed to do anything more than stand there and cry.

I needed to know there would be days where the loneliness would become too much. Days I would be too tired to pick up the dirty socks strewn around the house; too exhausted to put away one more toy or wash one more dish. Days I would be irritable and short-tempered with my kids and react too quickly and speak too harshly.

Days I would feel desperate to be left alone; to not be touched by another or have to speak to another or listen to another. Days I would barely hold my marriage together because of this. Days I would barely hold myself together because of this.

I needed to know there would be days I would fail.

But more so, that it was okay to fail. That failure didn’t define me; not as a mother and not as a woman. That every mother out there was failing and feeling inadequate and falling apart on the bathroom floor on the days it all seemed too much. I needed to know this is what being a mother is like; that for every good day there are even more bad days. That some days are little more than survival. But even then, we’re still enough.

Being a mother isn’t measured in success or failure, but in our ability to meet our children with unconditional love; regardless. It’s in the way we offer them acceptance, understanding, compassion, grace, forgiveness, support, guidance, comfort. The way we nurture them in the truth of who they are and cultivate in them the confidence to become all they’ve ever wanted to be. It’s in the way we show up, even when we don’t know how.

It’s in the way everything they become is because of everything we are.

Even on the days we fail.

Tonight, my children sit around the dinner table; there is talk about their day, the usual ribbing of one another, much laughter. These days, being a mother is less struggle and more heart-in-throat as they begin navigate the world themselves. Days that never seemed to end become years which go by too fast; I am all too aware of how numbered my days are with four of them under my roof. Greedily, I soak in this moment, willing it to stay.

I needed someone to tell me we never really fail, even when we think we do.

Article originally published at whimn.com.au

I Don’t Stand on Stage Because I Know How to be Brave, But Because I Got Tired of Being Afraid

There are these moments on stage where I have to close my eyes for a second and summon the courage to keep going.

Being vulnerable isn’t something that comes easily to me; sharing so much of myself with a room full of people I have just met.

Offering the things I am sometimes still scared of: my brokenness, my failures, my ugliness, my fragility, the messiest versions of who I have been and often still am.

It can be daunting, and terrifying, and sometimes more than I feel able to do.

I don’t stand on stage to perform; but to tell stories.

To share of blood shed on the battlefields of my healing and knees still scraped from the crawl and how I am made of wounds but still standing and how every scar etched on my skin reminds me what a goddamn warrior I am to have made it this far.

I don’t stand on stage to be set apart by a mic, but to be drawn together because of it.

To practice courage, knowing when I do, it offers that same courage to others. It gives permission. It creates space. It allows authenticity. It brings belonging and intimacy to a world overfed on information yet starved of connection.

I don’t stand on stage because I know how to be brave, but because I got tired of being afraid.

Our stories are our history. Our legacy. Our humanity. Our connection.

They matter.

Sharing them requires the courage to be vulnerable.

But what makes us most vulnerable is where we become most beautiful.

“The speaking will get easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realised you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers and realise you don’t miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And at last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.” – Audre Lorde

Photo credit: Brendan Bonsack

Easter Thoughts

Whatever you believe, the Easter message is one of resurrection; new life, being made new, believing we are not nailed to the crosses of our past. It is courage to overcome and strength to persevere; hope for tomorrow amidst an insurmountable today. It is the assurance that every breath is a new beginning; the outcome of our story not predetermined. We rise and walk in the light and truth of all we are knowing mercy triumphs, grace abounds and love wins.

Happy Easter x

The Art of Taking Up Space

This week has been less work and more yoga; a gentle coming back to myself. Connecting breath to body, body to mind. Being still, and present. Remembering my worth beyond productivity and performance. Working through blockages. Making changes where I can. Finding acceptance and peace where I cannot.

The thing that continued to come up this week was our worth: how we either play small, or strive and compete to be seen. How both of these things are disempowering, and exhausting.

In a world where we are conditioned to remain small, yoga reminds us to take up space. We weren’t created to contain ourselves inside the expectations of others, or inside the walls of our own fears and inadequacies. We do not need to shrink ourselves to be accepted; to remain compliant and submissive to keep those around us comfortable and unthreatened.

However, we also do not need to force our worth upon others; to push and shove and elbow our way through the crowd to be seen. We do not need to yell the loudest to be heard. We do not need to compete with others, to strive to be better than those around us so our worth is seen and acknowledged.

I have always been more inclined to shrink; to believe I am not enough. The last while, I have felt small. So incredibly small. Through yoga, I am reminded to create space — to stretch beyond the limits of what I believe I am capable of.

As I inhale space and exhale surrender, I am reminded this is how we learn to take up more space in the world: every day we breathe a little deeper and stretch a little longer and push a little further against the constraints of our society, of expectations, of ourselves.

We already stand inside the space we have been given. One we do not have to shrink to fit inside. But also one we do not need to be afraid to fill. We learn to take up more space as we learn to stretch into the bold and sure truth of our existence.

Happy weekend x

(Also, someone come clean my windows, thx)

Day Twenty-Two #PoemADayFeb – Sun


And when we couldn’t turn the page
we burned the book;
yet isn’t this the truth of love:
that we would rather
fill our houses with ashes
than promises;
that we would rather
curse the sun for drought
than believe for the coming rains.

©️ Kathy Parker 2019

Day Twenty-Two #PoemADayFeb – Sun

Gently, Gently Changing With the Seasons

I’ve been pretty quiet here lately.

I feel like the universe is asking me to do many hard things, challenging me to move away from everything in my life that has kept me from my true self; to cut ties, break cycles, let go of things I once thought I never could.

I feel pulled from the comfortable dwelling places I’ve frequented and propelled into something that feels hard to explain, something I don’t really understand myself. I just know I can no longer stay in these places once so familiar to me.

It’s exhausting work; this metamorphosis, this deep work of the soul. It’s why I haven’t been here much lately; I feel swaddled in the darkness of my cocoon with no idea of the outcome of this transformation but having an inherent understanding that I need to step back from the world at this time and trust this process, honour this process, and give myself the space needed to heal and change and grow without explanation or justification.

So while the rest of the world emerges into the new year with goals and plans and guns blazing, I am choosing to stay true to my own journey; to know I am not dictated by calendars, by clocks, or by society’s definition of timelines and success.

Instead I am allowing myself the permission and grace to surrender to this process; like nature: gently, gently changing with the seasons.

How We Break Free From Negative Cycles

Too often we find ourselves caught in negative cycles, either our own self-defeating patterns or in our relationships with others. Sometimes it can be a blind spot we don’t see, other times something we see but feel powerless to change or break. Either way, being trapped in these negative cycles shackles us to people who hold us back, to our past defeats, to history that repeats itself, to the versions of ourselves we desire to be free from. Staying in these cycles leaves us disempowered and feeling we have no control over our lives but are held at the mercy of other people or circumstances; forever pulled into a place not of our own choosing.

It takes strength, courage, determination and persistence to break these cycles, but we can never find the freedom to move forward until we consciously make the decision to do so. It isn’t something we can achieve through happy vibes and positive thinking, it takes more than that. It takes awareness and acknowledgement. It takes a decision to say, no more. It must be purposeful and mindful; a conscious decision we choose every day to move away from the negative cycles – from all that has held us back and held us down – and move toward the life we envision for ourselves.

Now is the perfect time to reflect on all that has held us back in the past year and make the decision to let go of that which no longer serves us well. To say, no more. No more will I be pulled back into those negative cycles. No more will I allow another to disempower or control me. No more will I believe I’m not deserving of freedom. No more will I believe I’m not worthy of the life I deserve.

K x

And This is How We Must Learn to Love

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And this is how we must learn to love; without expectation or attachment.

To understand we cannot force people to come into our lives, or stay in our lives, simply because we want them there. There is nothing forceful about love; we cannot demand it, manipulate it, control it, coerce it into being.

We cannot bind another person to us but must understand those who want to be in our lives, will be. Indecision is still a decision; if we must convince someone to see our worth then they do not belong in our lives. There is no place for those who are not ready or able to love us now, as we are, and to set them free is to create space in our heart for those who will see us, and love us, as we deserve; it is to set ourselves free also.

To love without expectation does not mean we should ever be okay with a love that offers us no loyalty, respect, understanding, or hurts us in any way. But that we learn to love without an expectation of outcome; that we cannot place those we love inside our predetermined ideas of relationship but must allow love to manifest of its own accord, all the while finding the grace to accept we may not always get the outcome we hope for.

It is allowing those we love to put their own needs first, even if those needs do not include us; to become whole enough within ourselves that we do not need another to complete us. To love ourselves enough that we do not need another to prove we are worthy of love. To learn to love in a way which honours both them and ourselves.

It is accepting that there are days love will hurt; days our wounds of rejection and abandonment will be reopened when someone we have loved is no longer there; it is learning to sit with our pain in those times, to lean into it and know this too shall pass; tomorrow it will hurt less to breathe, tomorrow we will lift our heads a little higher toward the sky.

To love without expectation or attachment means to be open to allowing love to enter, but also to be willing to set another free. Knowing when we let go of someone we love it will make us bleed, yet so will the blisters on our hands from holding so tight as we force them to stay. Allow them to go; allow their freedom to become your closure. Their journey is not yours, and that is okay. Take what you have learnt, and use it to become stronger, and wiser, as you continue down your own path; eyes and heart open to new horizons ahead.

– © Kathy Parker 2018 –