Life, love, laughter and a few things better left unsaid.

Chapter One — I Bend, I Don’t Break. Yeah, Right!

So apparently, I’m starting a blog.

At my age. With my schedule. And a brain that already has approximately 47 tabs open, most of which refuse to shut down.

Fantastic. Just what I needed. Another bloody project!

Blame Lekha.

My best friend has been nagging me for ages to write. Apparently, because I love words, have a ridiculous number of stories and occasionally come out with things that make people choke on their drinks, I should start a blog.

I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

But then again, that’s never stopped me before.

So here we are.

I’m Jo.

Small woman. Big personality. Fiercely independent. Stubborn as hell. A little complicated, occasionally impossible, and blessed with a mouth that sometimes operates several seconds ahead of my brain.

My mother will happily confirm this.

At eight years old, I was already taking on ten-year-old boys in the school toilets. Half their size, twice their attitude, and apparently completely unaware that punching boys wasn’t an approved extracurricular activity.

My poor mama.

She tried to tame me.

Failed lamentably.

And she’s still talking about it decades later!

But there was another little girl, too.

One with bright eyes, a beautiful smile, and a world she believed was safe.

Until it wasn’t.

People she trusted hurt her in ways no child should ever experience. And somewhere along the way, something inside her went quiet.

For more than forty years, parts of her story remained locked away. A little box buried so deeply that even I couldn’t reach it.

Then one day, bits and pieces began finding their way back.

Not neatly. Not conveniently. And certainly not with an instruction manual.

Some doors are painful to open. And some days, I’d rather leave the bloody things locked.

I’m still learning how to live with that.

But here’s what I do know.

That little girl didn’t disappear. She grew up. And she became one hell of a fighter.

For years, my favourite saying was, “I bend, I don’t break.”

I said it with absolute conviction.

Life, unfortunately, has a wicked sense of humour.

It looked at me and said, “Oh really? Let’s test that, shall we?”

And test it did.

When my father died in 2003, something inside me broke in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

Grief is a strange creature. It doesn’t knock politely, doesn’t make appointments, and certainly doesn’t care whether you’ve got a business to run, a family to look after, or a million other things on your plate.

It simply arrives.

And suddenly, the woman who thought she could handle anything discovers she can’t fix everything.

Not with determination. Not with money. Not even with sheer bloody stubbornness.

Some losses just have to be carried.

And I’ve carried mine.

But somewhere along my journey, when I was lost in ways I couldn’t even explain, a man called Mirko came into my life.

He said two words.

“Trust me.”

Now, let me explain something.

Trust has never been something I hand out like chocolates at Christmas.

Me? Trust someone completely? Let my guard down? Allow another human being to see the parts of me I spent years hiding?

HAHAHAHA!

Good luck with that, darling.

But something about him made me take that chance.

And I did.

More than 27 years later, I still do.

Every. Single. Day.

Mirko didn’t just become my husband.

He opened doors to a world I never imagined I’d experience. Took me places I’d never dreamed of seeing. Gave me opportunities, adventures, security, and a kind of love I hadn’t known was possible.

He saw the woman everyone else saw — loud, stubborn, fiercely independent, and perfectly capable of starting an argument with a brick wall.

But he also came to understand the woman behind all that noise.

The one who sometimes goes quiet.

The one who carries things she doesn’t talk about.

The one who can hold the entire world together and then fall apart when nobody’s looking.

He knows my story.

Not just the pretty chapters.

And through the years, through all the madness, he’s continued to show up.

Not with grand speeches or dramatic declarations.

Sometimes with flowers he’s picked from our garden.

And then there are my Friday bouquets.

Oh, my Friday bouquets!

Beautiful flowers, occasionally with the bright SALE sticker still attached.

HAHAHAHA!

Nothing says romance quite like a husband proudly presenting discounted flowers!

And I absolutely adore them.

Because it’s never been about the price tag.

It’s about a man who thinks of me. Who still wants to bring a smile to my face. Who has spent more than 27 years showing me that those two little words weren’t just something he said.

“Trust me” became something he lived.

And through everything, he has always put me and our daughter, Thais, first.

Always.

Now, Thais.

My beautiful girl.

My heart walking around outside my body, occasionally giving me grey hairs and reminding me that motherhood is basically a lifelong contract with absolutely no resignation clause.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Being her mother has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.

Watching her grow, sharing adventures, laughing together, making memories. Those are the things I treasure.

Because somewhere between motherhood, marriage, building a business, and trying to keep everyone else’s universe from collapsing, I became very good at being strong.

The problem with being strong?

People start believing you’re indestructible.

Including you.

And then my body decided to stage its own little rebellion.

Fourteen surgeries.

Hospitals. Specialists. Scans. Treatments. More treatments.

Honestly, if there were frequent-flyer points for hospital visits, I’d have earned a first-class trip around the bloody world by now.

There were days I didn’t recognise the woman in the mirror.

My body changed. My strength disappeared. Things that had once been effortless became exhausting.

And for someone who has spent a lifetime being fiercely independent, having to slow down was possibly the rudest thing life could have asked of me.

Excuse me?

Me? Slow down?

Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?

Apparently, my body didn’t care.

And so began another lesson I hadn’t signed up for.

Learning that being strong doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine.

Learning that sometimes you need help.

And learning that the world will, in fact, continue spinning even if you don’t personally supervise every bloody revolution.

Still working on that last one.

But somewhere in all of this, I made a decision.

I didn’t want to spend whatever time life gives me simply surviving.

I wanted to LIVE.

I wanted to put on a beautiful dress, even if I didn’t feel particularly beautiful.

I wanted to laugh until my stomach hurt.

I wanted to travel, explore, eat wonderful food, sit quietly with a cup of tea, and spend time with people who make my soul feel lighter.

And on days when my face looked like I’d been dragged backwards through a hedge?

Oversized sunglasses.

Darling, never underestimate the power of good sunglasses.

No makeup? Sunglasses.

Tired eyes? Sunglasses.

Don’t feel like dealing with humanity?

Even bigger sunglasses.

Problem solved!

And then there was Japan.

Oh, Japan!

A place where I could breathe, slow down, and occasionally get spectacularly lost.

My daughter and I made beautiful memories in Bangkok. Lekha and I wandered through Japan, laughed ourselves silly, took wrong trains, got confused by stations, and generally behaved like two women who should never be left unsupervised in a foreign country.

At one point, finding the correct exit from a train station felt like a full-time occupation.

Seriously, Japan. How many bloody exits does one station need?

But those moments?

Priceless.

Not the expensive hotels or fancy things.

The laughter. The ridiculous mistakes. The quiet mornings. The conversations. The feeling of being alive.

Because I’ve learned something.

You can always work towards making more money. But no amount of money can buy back a single yesterday.

And suddenly, all those things I used to think were urgent don’t seem quite so important.

The emails can wait.

The telephone can ring.

The world can survive without me for an afternoon.

Shocking, I know.

I still work. I still worry. I still get stressed. And occasionally I still want to grab someone by the shoulders and ask whether their brain has gone on annual leave.

Some habits die hard.

But I’m trying to live a little differently.

To choose moments over obligations when I can.

To laugh more.

To stop apologising for wanting things.

And to remember that life is happening now, not after the next project, the next deadline, or the next medical appointment.

Am I always good at it?

Absolutely bloody not.

I’m still that woman who loves fiercely, protects the people she cares about, and can shut down emotionally with terrifying efficiency when someone hurts her badly enough.

No dramatic confrontation.

No grand goodbye.

Just click.

Door closed.

Good luck finding the key.

Not necessarily my finest quality, but there you go. I never promised to be perfect.

I’m also still learning that the woman who appears to have everything under control is allowed to have days when she doesn’t.

Sometimes I bend.

Sometimes I break.

Sometimes I sit quietly and wonder how on earth I’ve managed to get through everything life has thrown at me.

And sometimes I look around and realise how much beauty there still is.

My husband bringing me flowers.

My daughter laughing.

My mother still telling stories about the little terror I was at eight.

My friends who love me despite knowing exactly how ridiculous I can be.

And Lekha, who apparently has decided that my next adventure should involve publicly exposing the contents of my overactive brain.

Thanks, darling.

Really appreciate it.

So why am I writing?

I don’t have a grand answer.

Maybe because words have always come naturally to me.

Maybe because I’ve spent so many years carrying stories that some of them deserve a little fresh air.

Maybe because there’s a part of me that wants to understand the woman I’ve become.

Or maybe I simply have too much to say and not enough people willing to listen.

HAHAHAHA!

Whatever the reason, this little corner will be mine.

Some days I’ll write about love.

Other days about friendship, motherhood, travel, grief, or the ridiculous things that happen when you refuse to behave like a sensible adult.

Some days I’ll be thoughtful.

Some days I’ll be completely inappropriate.

And some days I might surprise myself.

But there will also be things I don’t write about.

Because not every wound needs an audience, and not every story needs to be told to be real.

I am not just the things that happened to me.

I’m the little girl who fought boys twice her size.

The woman who learned to trust again.

The mother who loves her daughter beyond words.

The wife who still melts over discounted Friday flowers.

The businesswoman who refuses to give up.

The traveller who gets lost and calls it an adventure.

And the woman behind the sunglasses, still discovering who she is.

A little battered? Absolutely.

Perfect? Good grief, no.

Finished?

Not even bloody close.

So welcome to my world.

Pull up a chair. Pour yourself something nice.

I can’t promise wisdom, but I can almost certainly promise a few laughs, some questionable decisions, and the occasional swear word.

After all, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to make sense of life.

Might as well have some fun telling the story.

Love, Jo ❤️

P.S. Lekha, you’ve finally got your bloody blog. Now don’t start telling me I should write a book!