An ode to Jess.

And the beautiful selfishness of sparkling water.

Dear Ones,

I was in the kitchen cleaning up this evening and I started thinking about how I would like someone to write about me. You see, I was checking how much sparkling water we had and I thought how brutally selfish I am with sparkling water. I don’t share.

I was thinking about what else they’d say. Some good stuff. Some not so good. All truthful.

And then I had an epiphany as I was putting a plate in the dishwasher.

I don’t have to wait for people to write about me.

I get to write about myself.

I need it this year.

So this newsletter is basically an ode to Jess.

I am one of the most generous people you will ever meet. To a fault. Except when it comes to sparkling water. When it comes to sparkling water. You are on your own. And I will not share mine with you. I just won’t. It either speaks to my love of sparkling water or the one way in my life I’ve learnt to be selfish. Either way; if we are on an island and there is only sparkling water; you are in trouble.

I’ve had a hard year. My writing has made that clearly obvious. But I’ve handled that year as beautifully and as authentically as I possibly could have. I have stepped into a strength and a stillness I never knew existed within me. And I’ve also learnt that my bar for fragility and vulnerability are far too high. I push myself into resilience beyond where most people do. When I should bow out and say; “Help. I need nurture. I need care. Meet me here.” And I’m slowly learning how to tap into that fragility, without shame, and give her what she so deeply craves.

I have no idea who I am since I became a mother. My wife asked me recently how I wanted to spend my 40th birthday. I said that I have no fucking idea; because I have no idea who I am or what I even like anymore. It’s hard to feel that lost in your identity. Yet so deeply in love with the one who resulted in you taking on a new one that doesn’t quite feel like it fits yet.

Despite that; we’ve been eating dinner on the beach as we move into Summer, and I come home after swimming, my hair all salty and my skin warm from the sun, and I have a small part of; “There she is”. How that turns into a 40th birthday on the middle of Winter; I have no fucking idea yet.

I have continued my streak of having less fucks to give and have strongly stepped away from niceties. If you are an asshole neighbour, I will knock on your door and respectfully tell you how you are being an asshole. If you are saying something patriarchal in line with my mothering or my child; I will call you out on it. My priorities have shifted. And being “nice” and “palatable” are no longer on the menu.

This year, I have tried to let bad words, ill perceptions and misguided understanding, go, just go, and found a deep rooted centre in myself that is able to remind me who I am, despite the noise. I have become, an oak tree. And that oak tree solidifies me through all seasons.

I have, uncomfortably, learnt to sit in uncertainty. I hate uncertainty. I fucking hate it. I love a blueprint. Give me a blueprint. Let me follow the blueprint. Let me know the outcome. Can anyone give me a blueprint?? I have no blueprint for the year I have. I only have surrender. And so, here I sit, typing this newsletter, doing what I’ve had to learn to do for most of the year. I’m breathing. In and out. In and out. No end point. No blueprint. Just presence.

I, Jess, I have to say my name in this one, I am a good mother. I am not a perfect mother. I’m learning to let go of decisions that are in any way based in perfection. But I am a good mother. I tell my daughter daily how loved she is, just as she is. I tell her that I can withstand any emotion she throws at me. I buy, and read her, books about anxious jellies, hearts living in bottles where they don’t belong and worries that get easier when you talk about them. I delight in her. I don’t always get it right. She now knows she doesn’t always have to get it right too. But she can still be loved. And she can still be deeply accepted. As can I. As can I.

The biggest gift I give to those around me? The ability to listen. To my patients and to have their stories accepted and reflected back to them. To the people in my life, and to have them felt heard, seen and held, but also, that their constructive criticism lands and I do what I need to in order to make our relationships better.

The last couple are just minor strokes.

I am hilariously funny.

I’m really smart. If you give me a 78 piece braai to put together, I will figure it out with ease.

I care. I really do. I really do.

I hate onions.

I dress really well. (Though my daughter has a lot of thoughts about clothing rectory and comments on all my outfits; “Mama, I like it”, “Mamma, I don’t like.”) I’m trying to remain Jess within it.

I swear in traffic. I swear a lot really. And I like it. I really do. It makes me feel like me. Fuuuuuuuck. See? Better already.

I read books faster than most people listen to podcasts.

I love sleep, and, my god, I miss it so much since my sleep-defying daughter entered the world.

I’m not perfect.

I don’t have all the answers.

But trust me, I’m always ready to grow.

I wrote something at the of 2022 that said it was the second hardest year of my life. Second only to the year I came out.

2023 decided to come through with force and took them all out.

It’s been the hardest year of my life.

Yet here I am.

Writing an ode to Jess.

Because I really do love her.

I hope you write an ode to yourself too.

Don’t wait on another.

Don’t wait on another year.

Do it now.

All my love, (but no sparkling water)

Jess