What Comes Next? Part One

As I draw near to the end of my degree, I can see the doorway in the distance.

For so many years, my life has revolved around study. Now, standing this close to the finish line, I find myself asking a question I hadn't really anticipated.

What comes next?

The obvious answer is practice. After all, that has been the goal all along. To finally step into the work I've been studying towards and begin helping people in a way that feels deeply aligned with who I am.

Though perhaps "all along" isn't entirely accurate.

The road here hasn't been straight.

I first enrolled in Naturopathy back in 2016.

At the time, the thought of travelling to campus and spending so much time away from my family felt overwhelming, so I made the difficult decision to step away from that path and instead completed a Bachelor of Complementary Medicine online, graduating in 2019.

Then came another beginning.

In 2020, during a global pandemic and what would become one of the most significant health journeys of my life, I returned to study Naturopathy part-time.

What followed were years of balancing family, life, health, and study.

Years of slowly, steadily moving towards a dream.

Looking back now, I can see that what felt like a change in direction was never really a departure from the path at all.

When I stepped away from Naturopathy and chose to complete my Bachelor of Complementary Medicine online, I thought I was choosing a different route.

What I couldn't have known then, was what that change in direction would give me.

The friendships.

The experiences.

My Yaya sisters.

Women who became part of my story in ways I never could have anticipated, forming connections that not even illness, distance, or time could erase.

And had I completed my clinic hours in a different season, I wouldn't have crossed paths with the people who have become such an important part of this chapter, forming friendships that arrived unexpectedly and somehow feel as though they were always meant to be there.

It's funny how life works like that.

We spend so much time worrying about whether we're on the right path, only to realise years later that the twists and turns were part of the path all along.

And apparently, I have more to say...

So, Part II it is.

No steak knives included, sorry.

Although, perhaps there are.

You'll have to read the next part to find out.

LLP, Tash xo

Read more "What Comes Next? Part One"

When the Dust Settles

I've started writing this blog more than once.

The first version was about integrity.

It sounded lovely.

It was also, if I'm completely honest, written by a protective Mumma who wanted her beautifully constructed words to land exactly where they hurt.

So I didn't publish it.

A few weeks have passed.

I don't believe I'm still angry. But I am still disappointed, and I think a part of me always will be. There are some actions I simply can't justify.

But the dust has settled enough for me to see things I couldn't while standing in the middle of it.

When Someone Leaves a Family

A relationship ended.

Not mine.

One of my children's.

But after three years of someone being woven into the everyday fabric of our home, it wasn't only those two people who felt it.

It rippled outwards.

The whole family felt it.

And just like my son feels deeply, so too does his Mumma.

I don't think that part caught me off guard.

Perhaps what did was just how complicated that grief could be despite having reservations.

There were things that hadn't sat comfortably with me for some time, and part of me had wondered whether these two people were ultimately heading in different directions.

But knowing something might not be right doesn't mean you don't grieve when it ends.

I was furious about the way it happened.

A younger version of me probably would have sent the message and said the words I desperately wanted to say.

I could be incredibly sharp-tongued when I was hurt.

The problem was, I always felt horrible afterwards.

Not necessarily because my anger wasn't justified, but because deliberately hurting someone went against something fundamental in me.

Apparently maturity doesn't mean you stop thinking the terrible things.

It just means you become slightly better at not pressing send.

Who knew?

So I kept returning to one question:

Who do I want to be when this is over?

Sometimes integrity isn't particularly graceful.

Sometimes it's being absolutely furious and still choosing not to be cruel.

That isn't weakness.

It took me a long time to learn that.

And Then There Was My Boy

This was the part that frightened me most.

Watching your child experience heartbreak is bloody awful.

You can't fix it.

You can't reason it away.

You can't convince someone who feels rejected that another person's choice isn't evidence that they weren't enough.

And when their hurt turns to anger, it's difficult to tell them their anger isn't helping when, truth be told, you're angry too.

So you stay.

And apparently, if you're our family, everybody stays.

On one of those first nights, all of our kids made sure they were home.

There was homemade pizza and a movie.

Nobody asked them to come. They just knew one of theirs was hurting.

Mark and I quietly cleaned the kitchen afterwards instead of delegating the usual jobs.

We didn't need to discuss why.

The kids had already done the important work that night.

They'd shown their brother:

You've got us. We've got you.

And slowly, I started noticing something.

My boy was coming back.

Not because somebody rescued him, and not because heartbreak magically became a good thing.

He simply started re-engaging with his life.

He became more present at home.

He reconnected with old friends.

There were random road trips.

He substantially reduced something he'd been relying on far too heavily to switch off from life, eventually having days without it altogether.

He started looking for work.

Then he got a job.

And he loved it.

We have a saying in our family:

"It's all fun and games until ..."

And because apparently the universe enjoys proving us right, not long after starting the job we found ourselves in the emergency department after a workplace injury resulted in five stitches to his thumb.

Of course we did.

Somewhere amongst all this, he also cut off his long brunette curls.

But the biggest change wasn't the hair.

It was his light.

The sweet, funny, social young man whose light had become harder to see was finding his way home to himself.

The Things We Miss

Something else took me longer to admit.

I miss things too.

For a while I struggled with admitting that because I don't want that chapter reopened.

Then I realised:

I can miss something without wanting it back.

I can cherish those moments for what they were, in that particular season.

There were beautiful parts.

There were painful ones.

Both are true.

I don't need bitterness to rewrite the beautiful memories, or nostalgia to rewrite the painful ones.

What Remained

Perhaps that's what I've learned most.

When something ends, we're often so focused on what has gone that we don't immediately notice what remains.

What remained here was family.

A loud, opinionated, occasionally overwhelming family that has absolutely no idea how to do anything quietly.

We interfere.

We annoy each other.

We have expectations.

We congregate in kitchens.

We show up in ridiculous numbers.

And I've spent more time than I'd like to admit wondering whether the way I love my family is simply too much.

Maybe sometimes it is.

But when one of ours fell, nobody had to be asked to catch him.

They just did.

And I think that's what home is supposed to be.

Not somewhere that prevents you from ever being hurt.

Somewhere safe to hurt.

I'm still learning.

Personal growth, I've discovered, is incredibly inconvenient when you have a really good comeback.

But I'm learning that peace doesn't require me to pretend something didn't hurt.

Some seasons are simply meant to end.

We can appreciate what was beautiful, learn from what wasn't, and let them remain finished.

And sometimes, when the noise finally settles, we look across the room and notice something we were terrified we'd lost.

A familiar light.

Still there.

Maybe a little bruised.

Maybe a little wiser.

And in our case, with considerably less hair.

But there.

Welcome home, my sweet boy.

Read more "When the Dust Settles"

Just Me...

As I was looking back through old photos, piecing together a collage for my son's upcoming 21st birthday, I stumbled across something I had forgotten was there.

Or perhaps more accurately, something that wasn't.

Me.

There was a period of time where I was almost entirely absent from our family photos. It wasn't a new discovery, not really. Just one I had pushed to the back of the memory bank.

Back then, my relationship with my body was complicated. A photograph could send me spiralling into relentless self-criticism. I'd zoom in on every perceived flaw, scrutinise every angle, and convince myself I needed fixing. What followed was often self-deprivation and punishment disguised as self-improvement.

I was so uncomfortable with how I looked that I insisted on approving photos before anyone was allowed to share them. A single image could ruin my mood for days. I wasn't seeing memories being captured; I was seeing flaws being documented.

Looking back now, I realise how much energy I spent analysing photographs instead of simply enjoying the moments they represented.

This wasn't the first time I'd noticed the gap.

Years ago, I had the same realisation and made myself a promise: I would be in the pictures, not just the person taking them.

Since then, I've become much better at stepping into the frame. Not because I suddenly loved every photo of myself, but because I finally understood that being present in the memory mattered more than being happy with every angle.

Over time, and especially after my health journey, something shifted. I stopped searching for perfection. I stopped worrying so much about angles, lighting, or whether I looked my best. Instead, I reached a place where I became content with whatever I looked like in each season. The focus slowly shifted from how I appeared in the photo to simply being in it.

The change wasn't limited to family photos either.

When I look back at older videos of myself singing, I can see how much effort went into making sure I was "presentable" to the world. The camera had to be positioned just right. The angle had to be flattering.

It wasn't just how I looked, either. Sometimes I would record a song five, ten, or however many times it took before I felt it was good enough to share. I chased perfect notes, perfect timing, and flawless performances.

But over the past handful of songs, something has changed.

The camera angles haven't always been flattering. The performances haven't been perfect. There have been missed notes, imperfect takes, and moments I once would have re-recorded.

And yet, I've shared them anyway.

My Dad passed away when I was sixteen. We have only a handful of videos of him singing. Technology like we know it today simply didn't exist then, and I often wish it had.

Not once have I watched those recordings and analysed how he looked.

I don't notice whether the angle was flattering.

I don't care if every note was perfect.

What I see is my Dad.

The handsome, talented man who helped make me.

A man sharing his gift with the world through song.

And every one of those recordings is priceless.

Perhaps that's why my approach to sharing my own music has changed.

The purpose is no longer to present a polished version of myself.

It's about preserving the music.

The lyrics.

The stories behind them.

It's about capturing a moment of creativity exactly as it existed in that season of life.

One day, those songs will become memories too.

A way for my boys to hear my voice.

To see me as I was in that season.

To know what mattered to me, what moved me, what I created.

A way for a small piece of me to remain.

Perhaps that's why seeing that missing chapter in the photo albums again affected me so deeply.

It reminded me of the memories that can never be recreated.

The birthdays, celebrations, ordinary days and milestones where I was there, but left no visual evidence behind.

And then something unexpected happened.

The photos I once would have criticised were now the ones I found myself looking at wistfully.

Not because they were perfect, but because I wished I still looked like that.

Funny, isn't it?

The woman in those photos spent so much time wishing she looked different. Yet the woman looking at them now wishes she still had the body she was so determined to change.

It's a strange paradox.

Because today, I have made peace with so much of my body. This body has carried me through motherhood, surgeries, scars, healing, grief, study, growth, and every season in between.

These days, I mostly just want to be captured.

To exist in the memory.

To leave evidence that I was there.

And yet, if I'm being completely honest, there are still moments when I look back at those photos and wish I had known then what I know now.

Not because I would have changed my body.

But because I would have appreciated it.

I would have stepped into the frame more often.

I would have smiled without hesitation.

I would have stopped waiting for a future version of myself to become worthy of being remembered.

Because the truth is, every version of us spends far too much time believing she isn't enough.

We spend our lives waiting to lose the weight, clear the skin, tone the arms, grow the hair, smooth the wrinkles, or somehow become the version of ourselves we think deserves to be seen.

And all the while, life is happening.

Photos are being taken.

Memories are being made.

Songs are being sung.

Moments are passing.

Then one day, we look back and realise the person we spent so much time criticising was never the problem.

She was simply living a life she hadn't yet learned to appreciate.

When I watch those old videos of Dad singing, I don't see imperfections.

I don't see flaws.

I don't see someone who should have waited until he looked better, sounded better, or got it just right.

I see my Dad.

The man whose voice I would give almost anything to hear again.

Perhaps that's the lesson in all of this.

The people who love us don't see us the way we see ourselves.

One day, my boys will look back at the photos and videos I've left behind.

I hope they won't see the things I spent years worrying about.

I hope they won't notice the extra weight, the wrinkles, the bad camera angles, the missed notes, or the imperfect performances.

I hope they'll simply see their mum, see me.

And maybe that's been enough all along.

Read more "Just Me..."

The Season of Beginnings

In fifteen weeks, I will finish my degree.

Some days that feels exciting.

Other days it feels terrifying.

For years the finish line seemed so far away that I rarely stopped to think about what might come after it.

Now suddenly, I can see it.

And beyond it?

A question mark.

Not an empty question mark, but one filled with possibility, uncertainty, excitement, hope, and just a little fear.

Although "a little fear" may be the understatement of the year.

Truth be told, I alternate between feeling incredibly excited and wondering what on earth I'm going to do when I am let loose in the real world.

The truth is, I have become quite comfortable being a student.

I know what is expected of me here.

I know the rhythm.

I know the next step.

What comes after that is far less certain.

Perhaps what makes this transition feel so significant is that studying has been part of my life for so long.

My life has been measured in semesters, assessments, exams, clinic hours, deadlines, and more late nights than I care to remember, squeezing study into the spaces between work, family life, and everything else that needed me.

I realised recently that I have been studying for more than half of my sons' lives.

My kids, have really only ever known me as someone who is studying, learning, growing, and working towards the next goal.

Even my husband has only ever known a version of me that was working towards something. 

When I think about it, that feels extraordinary.

For so long, being a student has not just been something I do. It has been part of who I am.

Being a student has become one of the constants of our family life.

For so long, the question has been, "What's due next?"

Soon, the question will become, "What comes next?"

And while that feels exciting, it also feels strangely unfamiliar.

Not because I am leaving something behind.

But because I am stepping into something I have worked towards for a very long time.

As I look around, I realise I am not the only one standing in the space between what was and what will be.

My son is standing in his own question mark.

Having recently completed his apprenticeship, he now finds himself in that strange season of waiting that sometimes follows a significant achievement. One chapter has ended, but the next has not quite begun.

It is an uncomfortable place to be, that space between what was and what will be.

I find myself wanting to reassure him that the waiting will not last forever. That another opportunity will come. That one day this season will make sense.

Then I realise I am trying to tell myself the very same thing.

A dear friend of mine is also standing at the edge of a new season.

Next week she will graduate, marking the completion of years of dedication, sacrifice, and perseverance. Yet alongside that achievement, she finds herself navigating significant changes and learning how to imagine a future that looks different from the one she once expected.

It strikes me that life often works this way.

Just as we find our footing in one chapter, another begins to unfold.

And then there is my baby boy.

Next week he turns twenty-one.

Twenty-one.

I am not entirely sure how that happened.

One moment I was reading bedtime stories, packing lunchboxes, helping with homework, and cheering from the sidelines of childhood.

The next, I am looking at a grown man.

A young man standing at the beginning of his own life.

How can someone be both your baby and an adult at the same time?

And yet somehow they are.

Perhaps every parent understands this strange contradiction.

We spend years teaching our children to grow, and then find ourselves wondering where the years went.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that beginnings are not reserved for the young.

We often imagine that life's biggest beginnings happen in our twenties.

Leaving school.

Starting careers.

Falling in love.

Building families.

But life keeps asking us to begin again.

At twenty-one.

At thirty-three.

At fifty-one.

At sixty.

At eighty.

Again and again.

A new career.

A new season.

A new relationship.

A new identity.

A new understanding of ourselves.

Sometimes we choose these beginnings.

Sometimes they arrive uninvited.

Most often, they arrive carrying equal measures of hope and uncertainty.

Because every beginning asks us to leave something behind.

A familiar routine.

A comfortable identity.

A chapter that has shaped us.

Perhaps that is why beginnings can feel so complicated.

They ask us to celebrate what is ahead while quietly grieving what is ending.

They ask us to trust a path we cannot yet see.

As I stand here, fifteen weeks away from completing my degree, I cannot tell you exactly what comes next.

My son cannot yet see where his next opportunity will come from.

My friend is still discovering who she will be in this next chapter of her life.

My youngest son is stepping fully into adulthood.

And I am preparing to step into a role that I have worked towards for years, but have not yet fully inhabited.

Different stories.

Different journeys.

Different beginnings.

Yet all of us are standing before the same invitation.

To trust that an ending is not the end.

To believe that uncertainty is not the enemy.

To have faith that something new is quietly taking shape, even when we cannot yet see it.

Perhaps that is what a beginning really is.

Not a destination.

Not a plan.

Not even a certainty.

Perhaps it is simply the courage to take the next step before the whole path is visible.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.

Read more "The Season of Beginnings"