writing

Who am I and where/who is my tribe?

/ Maria Thomas / Leave a comment

Written 10.9.2017 published 14.12.2025

Once a year I hope to read a good book, interesting maybe, a page turner if possible but when I read one that profoundly moves me then that’s when I get really excited and perplexed all at the same time. I recently read ‘Tribe’ by Sebastian Junger but prior to this I had listened to a number of podcasts by Daniel Strauss, Raspberry Ape Episode 27 that had talked about ‘Tribe”. I find myself listening to more podcasts this year mainly hosted by men and conversations on BJJ, MMA, the mindset of celebrities, scientific research on reishi, lion’s mane, gut ad more; I was intrigued to hear continual conversations about where we belong. I guess you take it for granted you know where you’re from, familial life, heritage, ethinicity. I read a quote today that said “Every next level of your life will demand a different you”, now that is true. I am not the same person I was 3 years ago, even 10 years ago but is that because my “tribe” changes and therefore I change? Or is it because I change depending on who I’m with, partner, circumstances, various friends, family, work?

I looked up the word “Tribe” just to truly understand in my mind what this word actually means. Independently, I would say it was a “label” that defines a group of people who travel, live, grow up together, share experiences and are nomads. There is something historical about the word as if it should be extinct and we refer to it in the history books.  But I know how modern society loves to label so the label has stuck to differentiate us rather than positively define us.

The general meaning I found online from a few dictionaries was “a social division in a traditional society consisting of families or communities…” Wikipedia described a tribe as “dependent on their land for their livelihood, who are largely self-sufficient, and not integrated into the national society”. (Funny, I thought a tribe would be it’s own society?).

Does the word tribe make us ask the existential question, “who am I if I don’t have a tribe and where do I fit in if at all?” The book certainly did for me, Sebastian discusses being among soldiers of war and that feeling of safety, everyone rallying around you, this stranger will die for me and will die to protect me. The only time I sense this is with “family”. I have always believed this is how family feel about one another, but being an adult I’m not so sure if this is true? The microcosm is never a reflection of the macrocosm and that’s when the struggle begins.

So, thinking back on a group that is self-suffient, dependent on the land and living by your values within a group that has chosen it and decided to live their life by it sounds great, right? Then why can’t we be happy without the excesses in our lives, without the luxuries, without the choices. We have accepted capitalism and consumerism to become a way of life, a way of defining ourselves over others, a way of measuring our successes and failures. Who says it’s a failure to oppose that lifestyle and choose a different lifestyle. We analyse celebrity exposure as a way of seeing vast amounts of wealth that cannot equate to personal happiness or satisfaction. And I asked myself to answer some of these questions, I need to ask in all of this who is my tribe? Because the question came from a podcast discussing BJJ and the bond you build on the mats, I looked ay my gym buddy tribes. I have a boxing tribe, a Ladies that Lift tribe, friends, family all that I would call tribes. The problem is I felt confused, l really couldn’t tell you where I am from, a part of my ancestral tribe it unknown to me. I know I have Egyptian and Mauritian blood in me, but could I tell you about my grandparents or there parents, no.

My tribe are what close family I have left and that consists of seven people, how do I define myself in the world with such a small number? do I need to? I do define myself by my work, my friends, the people I socialise with, my partner because they have contributed to who I am. And who I am is no longer definable by heritage, generations of the past, environmental, sociological or anthropological past but who I am in the here and now. But my DNA can tell me who I was related to, my gene cells will define my predictive behaviour based on past generations, my medical history can be deduced from my ancestors but in the 21st Century I do not think of who I am defined by history but by my tribe and my tribe changes with time.

Today I ask again who am I and who, where are my tribe? My Dad shell shocked me last year with telling me he was married and still is and that I have a half brother. Today I met my brother and questioned my existence as to who am I? My identity, my name, being female, my role in the family, was I grateful I got to spend more years with my strict, religious, over protective father or now knowing his fear of being an illegal immigrant for so long explains why he was such a controlling man. I never knew he was a muslim and I never knew he was married. In fact, there’s a lot I don’t know about him but maybe that is “generational thing”. So many secrets, so many lies, one wishes to forget so you do now have to confirm or affirm which is which especially if you do not remember.

What moved me the most in ‘Tribe’ was the loss soldiers felt when returning to society. How do we as a Society comprehend what those who train in the skills required to save lives and develop whatever it takes physically, mentally, visually and psychologically to deal with trauma; I cannot fathom it. I cannot imagine it, I am in awe of it. I find writing incredibly cathartic and everyone has a story to tell. I am sure my history would be a 12 boxset season on Netflix. What also moved me, was the question “what am I doing to make a difference in the world?”. Am I procrastinating and over thinking, should I be podcasting, questioning, discussing global issues and how we could change them. Who am I that someone will listen, do I know enough, will I sound stupid? But that’s insecurity talking and that is social conditioning from fear. If we could identify everything single habit, conditioning, constructs, victorian attitudes, values and listen to an honesty from within, this world would be such a different place.

Post Grief

/ Maria Thomas / Leave a comment
Maria - daughter, brown woman with blonde highlights in hair leaning her head on dad's right shoulder. Dad is a brown man in his 80s with a cream shirt on with brown collars.

Autumn has truly arrived with nature transitioning from light to dark, the warm breath of the breeze on our skins, the beautiful red and yellow leaves strewn on the pavements reminding me of the cycle of decay and death. I am reminded of this time last year and not knowing how long I would have with dad. I remember bringing a red leaf and giving it to him, an internal sign, a moment of how I would not see him through another winter.
This pre-winter grief has lasted for years in different stages, and over seasons and cycles. My heart is heavy with loss and I know I am not the only person who is grieving and has lost this year. So many friends have lost a loved one, so many have reached out to empathise, to remember and for those who are going through it anew. I am lost for words. They are recycled and I wish I could offer new ones.
I am still going through the following and I know its because, I could not process these at the time.

Guilt

No one tells you that once all the services that were in place for your dad stops, there is no service that continues for you bar one, therapy which I pay for. Whom do you turn to when society and its structures are set up for you to deal with grief in two weeks when I have been dealing with it for eight years.
I rang Admiral Nurses after dad died to say thank you, and had a lovely conversation on the phone to a nurse but I felt guilty that I was taking up someone else’s space.
Guilt never ends, it seeps through at different moments as the memories come and go over time. All the arguments I ever had, pre and post knowing the diagnosis of dementia. All the times I never stayed with dad, as I worked long hours, or made up for working late due to being in hospital, the guilt of not working enough, of not being there for others, of not being there for myself or my husband. Guilt of what I should have done, or should have said in defence, of not being strong enough or standing up for myself enough.
Guilt is an ugly voice, it’s the internal voice of shame, it’s sharp edges prods and pokes you into self-loathing and insecurity. Guilt stops you from sleeping at night, it is a constant replay over moments, and scenarios, and ‘what ifs’. Where do I feel it, in my stomach, chocking my throat, destabilising my senses and critically analysing my words. I am shockingly drained and tired from the constant voices of guilt holding my ever faithful friend – Shame.

Shame

The voice of others or myself – although this is unique to everyone, I am sure. Shame talks to you about duty, dutiful daughter, you are the carer, what you should do because you are his and now it’s your time to give back. Shame comes from the conversations, both from people who know you and who don’t know you, from family, friends and from services. No one really believes they are shaming you because shame shows up as advice, as words of consolation and experience. I put shame in a box, i compartmentalised it until I was ready to face it, and yes that small ‘i’ is because i feel small.
Where do I feel shame in my body? In my shoulders, neck, lower back. It’s the weight I carry, not only of myself but of others and their expectations of me, of what is expected as a daughter as a carer. I never really understood what care meant in relation to gender and I now look back and realise how society’s expectations on me drained me of me.
Shame made me angry, it fires up the rage in me, it made me tough and resilient, distant, cold, numb when I shouldn’t, couldn’t, want to be those parts of me that rob me of my humanity, my joy. It wasn’t until a ‘dementia navigator’ asked me how I was and vulnerability showed itself. I cried, no I sobbed. No one had asked me how i was doing. I hadn’t asked me how i was doing in a long time, because gradually there was no i. Shame and guilt make you feel selfish for even thinking about you. It uncovers vulnerability.
My body has never been the same these last eight years, it’s older, slower, bigger, bulgier and I look different. My body, my face has reflected the tiredness, the weight, the heaviness of shame. Shame has shaped, manipulated, whispered dark thoughts in my soul, which has echoed through my body. If I could give my therapist an award, I would. The space for my shame to sit in, is there, contemplative and contained.

Vulnerability

Vulnerability has shaken my core but I had to control being vulnerable outside, to the world of healthcare professionals, whilst internally or at home I was and still am a vulnerable mess. I had wrapped vulnerability in cast iron, seriousness, arming myself with knowledge and questions, and protecting my dad with a fierceness that I hadn’t with my mum. How could I be vulnerable in any situation with social services, GPs, oncologists, hospitals, NHS services – all of the appointments and conversations were about knowing about dad’s health. I had to be strong, be in control, look the part of the dutiful daughter, not the angry, brown woman raging inside at losing my dad. Having to deal with all of the changes, the subtle ones and the slap you in the face obvious ones. I had to stay calm and bite my tongue at every turn when I was faced with ego, condescending tones, when services were not given freely to me, when I was made to ask and ask again. When I had to tell a number of different doctors, nurses what the situation was over and over, pleading for care to be in place, a service to be given. Vulnerability has made me sensitive. Sensitive to energy around me, peoples energy/vibe. Where do I feel it in my body, in my gut. Vulnerability has stoked the fire in me, anger and rage.

Rage and pain

This last year I have raged inside, my patience is a thin veil of ‘fuck off and leave me alone’ – alone is how I feel. Is it a feeling? Yes, but its more than that, it’s physical. It’s – I want to punch and kick a bag until I drop, it’s rain on my face along with my tears, it’s being on the bus and passing the care home with tears streaming down my face. It’s sitting alone in my living room and looking at the images of my dad and mum and knowing I can no longer call them or see them or go round to theirs for dinner. Rage is hot, cold, light, dark, being alone or surrounded by people. It is everything all at once. It is the eight months of trying to get home care from social services, it’s the carers who didn’t think outside the box, it’s the doctors who made the decision to prescribe an anti-psychotic instead of calling me to be with dad, it’s the matron who won’t listen, who dismisses and you are silenced and waves you away. It’s the doctors who won’t take your side when they see injustice and let you stand alone, it’s the doctor who tells you there’s nothing more they can do and leaves you with no hope. It’s the doctor who has made up their mind about what treatment will start without consultation and questions your research. It’s the services that ask why can’t you bring your dad to this activity when they already know you work full-time and offer no other solutions. It’s the people around who bring sweet food knowing his mood will be accelerated but they don’t have to deal with the aftermath of shouting, throwing food around and horrible words. It’s the punchbag you have had to be and accept because in not doing so may have been detrimental to dad. It is the smile on my face, the words when I write, the vows he didn’t hear, the wedding he didn’t see. I feel rage and hurt all at once and sits in the centre of my chest, heavy and raw every day.
It is the vitriol I feel toward me and it’s hard to talk about it, it’s hard to define it sometimes, it’s hard not to quietly walk away from everything and everyone. Even the closest do not understand because trauma is happening everywhere, to close to home, how much capacity do we have for ourselves and each other? Very little, if any at all… and on some days when it’s really quiet, I can hear it and I sit with it, hope.

Hope


Hope offers me a new life, a new vision, a different energy. It offers me a gratitude for a new life and choices that are mine to make me happy. Hope for the kindness to myself. Can I see the kindness of hope, the small steps that allow me to lift myself out of grief? Can the emptiness be filled? How can I ever be happy knowing that my parents are no longer there to see and share in my joy, in my journey of life. Was I that naive to think that they would live forever? No, but I hoped they would live to see more. I miss holding my dad’s hand and it is so raw to think today will be one year since we said goodbye. Hope is my siblings, my niece and the next generation. Is hope love? In many ways, yes and in some ways no. I hope that I will love me full and unconditionally and that might heal the memories of the past. Hope is my guide today and always.

Tides of time – heal me

Seek not my body in the past moments of joy and celebrations
Seek my soul’s divine path of forgiveness and knowing
Knowledge has held my hand and humanity has been key to its centre
Feel the words of ownership whip itself on my skin, sowing the seeds
of trauma

Patient centred care – what does that mean? Listening, giving space
To a voice otherwise marginalised, labelled, troublemaker, difficult
Advocacy for men, but what about support for women?
Regimented rules dictate a system so old, so cold sometimes, so distant
Distrusting state and healthcare that cares not for some and only others

Others that are not ‘othered’ but those elite, wealthier clients,
Friends, close knit communities, side stepping those who need care,
depend on care, medicine, welfare of those systems apparently,
in place to care, to share, to save lives and make people better.

In sickness and health do state do us part.

In Search of Myself

/ Maria Thomas / Leave a comment

For a long time I’ve been trying to figure out how to stay in touch with my intuition and guidance system. I feel blessed to meet people who want to talk about their own spirituality and will share what gifts they hold. Sometimes, I feel so vulnerable and such an open book even if I don’t share much. I can feel that I am being read, or at least I feel like I am. Notice the difference between the feeling of being “read” and the feeling of being “judged”. I used to feel judged but that was/is my own trigger that has been brought to the forefront of my own fears.

I am also aware there are times when I feel in sync with the universe and other times I allow myself to be consumed by the noise and be distracted by things that should not be within my framework of goals. And what exactly is my framework of goals? I still don’t know. I asked myself the other day “when did I last feel alive and one with the universe?”. It was a looooonnng time ago. There are always moments that I feel in sync but now they feel like moments of continual momentum. Not in the motion/active way but a spiritual inertia.

I am finding comfort in being able to speak about my spiritual, intuitive side as more people are discussing their own. I am always in awe of the gifts that people have to hear, feel and see clearly spirit or happenings. And living in a physical world does carry baggage of that limited, trapped mindset and how everything needs to be scientifically proved or have validity in some way. Not everything has to be scientifically proved, does it? There are many that believe in a god, can we prove this existence scientifically or is this faith of something more?

I am a curious being and like to question everything within reason, not necessarily for explanations but for perspectives. My mum delved into the world of faith-healing, fortune-telling, she read cards, palms and it fascinated me but also scared me.

At present I seeking more of an understanding of how I work, my own blocks; and to allow life to unfold by deeply trusting myself and my guidance system. “Guidance system” – what does this mean? An inner voice, a sense of timing, energy and space. Also, trusting the universe has my back. Does this sound all woo woo, maybe it is but what if it isn’t. Why do people say things like “It felt like someone walked over my grave?” or “I feel like I’m having de ja vu”.
I am so grateful for many things and at this particular crunch point it is helping me with utter grief that I feel daily.

.

My dad has lived with dementia and prostate cancer for the last 7-8 years and it has been the most difficult, traumatic time of my life. I can’t imagine what he is going through, how the neural pathways are disconnecting his memories, and closing off parts of who he was as a fully cognitive man. Am I denying death or am I seeking answers that will make it more acceptable?

I am conflicted, I am overwhelmed, I am cherishing all the moments I speak with him, hold his hand, hug him, see him smile because there are too many times the anger settles in. I feel he is in pain, physically, he is also probably angry to be losing his identity, basic functions of the things he used to know and do so well, so independently. He is losing himself in the physical world. How and why does this happen?

One of the things I recently learned about me, was that I was playing the victim, well at least saying something in a way to evoke sympathy and to make myself feel better, to support the fact that “I’m doing a good job as a dutiful daughter” by caring for him. I know that I have lived with a lot of guilt, shame, even hatred toward myself for not being a better daughter or a better person, for arguing with him before and after all of his diagnoses, for feeling angry for many unanswered questions, that his past was hidden from me, for not being able to say what I wanted to say or ask.

Along this journey for the last 8 years, I have learned to love myself more, take credit for fighting for dad and making sure he has a good quality of life, to uphold his dignity when needed and know that I made a choice to be there. No sad stories anymore but acknowledge the trying times, the hard times and no capacity times.

I hold myself through this time. I love myself along this path. I shine through even though another piece of me is dying, his memories are my memories. His loss is my loss. This last part of the journey has no words to describe. I’m still here. I’m making the best of the life I have.

I wrote the above during the week of 21st October 2024, I am now at 15 December 2024.

In the middle of all of this I joined an online event called ‘Alive’ by my friend Lois Tucker. She has since run a course called ‘Clarity’ which I knew I had to join as I was in the middle of grief.

My dad passed away on 26 November 2024, my sister and I were with him to see him leave peacefully. I was glad to be present and say goodbye in-person but it hurts and is one of the most difficult experiences to go through. I am now parentless, an “orphan” as a few described. Dad was buried on 28 November in accordance with his Muslim faith.

How am I? I’m not sure? I feel in limbo, I feel like I’ve grieved a lot already and I feel that I haven’t. I feel alright, I feel at peace knowing dad is at peace. I feel irritated, angry on occasions. I’m exhausted. I’ve gone back to work and welcome the distraction but could do with time off. I wish you could take paid leave for a month or so like maternity leave. My body has begun to untie itself and I can feel the aches and pains, I hadn’t before. I feel a slow decompression.

Everything has felt so surreal, in some ways I want to close my eyes and awake seeing my parents; having the chance to hug them again and tell them I love them. The transition from physical world to spiritual world is tough. I wanna hold my dad’s hand and tell him I love him and give him a cuddle. I want to feel the cool skin of my mum’s arm and tell her I love her and hold her close.

Some of my memories torture me like a time I came straight from work to the care home to see my dad before he had got into bed. I arrive just before 6pm and he called my name, Mya. Mya has always been mum and dad’s nickname for me, dad had the biggest smile on his face, I’d open the curtains and he was so happy to see me. We were talking away for the hour I was there and normally I take a photo of dad and me when I can, when he allows, allowed me to. I keep telling myself I should have captured that moment.
When I told my partner this recently, he said “if I had then I wouldn’t have been present to enjoy the moment in the way that I did”. He’s right. I had many moments with dad and feel so blessed I was able to.

X-Cues

/ Maria Thomas / Leave a comment

Fire up and fuel my anger with words

unashamed, actions of no thoughts

excuses unabashedly a slap of audacity

Water not the words of devaluation

with tired words of so called evaluation

isolate me with time not mine to be had

scar the memory of will so unwilled

lash each syllable at my heart so full of honest love

innocent love truthful love. Use, useful or just used.

you ponder not the pain you cause

the hurt you inflict, inconsiderate selfish…

give back the time that should be mine

to grow, to fill with happy times, memories of new

You anger me to sleeplessness

incite physical oppression to aggression

turn infliction to contradiction confusion all consuming

words and actions generate usefulness

when needed.

Go forth, go to, just go!

Return when time has healed itself

return when care has entered your single-minded thoughts

return when mental astuteness aligns

itself with a higher self and not a

tired unrepenting excused ego self – unknowing yet knowing

contradiction lies deep within so-called wisdom.

A poem from 2016 I never published.

A Writer’s lover…

/ Maria Thomas / Leave a comment

Listening to Neil Gaiman on Tim Ferriss’s podcast “The Interview I’ve waited for…” was quite a joy. My favourite over used adjective word came to mind, it was “inspiring” but no that was not the word to use here. There was a sanguinity to his tone of voice, something decadent about the way he spoke, his reverence for notebooks and fountain pens; and esteemed love and sadness for his friend, the late Sir Terry Pratchett.

To be honest I didn’t know what to expect from this interview and for the first fifteen minutes I was thinking, really…we’re going to listen to Neil Gaiman talk about the materials he writes on and pens he writes with (long). But as the adoration of using these tools to craft one’s art went on I realised that I share the same love for notebooks and passion for writing. I do enjoy typing but there’s nothing like a pen in your hand and writing on paper, gliding the words on the page, the continuity of thoughts.
I worried that my love of stationary was a fetish and I had an unhealthy obsession with pens but what I have discovered is that they are my lovers, and I am just a lover who requires the tools to play with. I know what you’re thinking but I am talking about the  form and process of writing.
Journalling, story-telling, screenplays, poetry – I love words. My vocabulary may not be the landscape of the seven wonders of the world or overwhelm you with colours and shades of the Sistine chapel but I’m sure there is a place for me as there is for you. I guess I feel “normal” and less “abnormal” to be a lover of writing, is it a form that is dying out?

When my partner gave me ‘Neverwhere’ for my birthday, I remember reading a few pages, found myself bored and put it down. It didn’t interest me. I came back to it a year later and couldn’t stop reading, what had changed in a year? I’m not sure, sometimes I’m not ready to read certain books which is why I buy them and shelve them for years. I might read them one day, my aim is to read the ones that I have on the shelf and in storage (gulp).

I love London and reading a book that weaves inside and outside of London streets that I know captured me, I could relate. Whilst working for an old Livery Hall that dates back to the 15th Century, even more stories were animated in my head.
(SPOILER ALERT) I remember leaving the bus just as I finished ‘Neverwhere’ and looked up. I was astonished as there in front of me, I caught a glimpse of ‘The Marquis de Carabas’. I was grappling for my mobile phone lost in my bag as the bus stopped at St Pauls to take a photo, and I thought there it is, London Below has come up to visit London Above. I was so excited I tweeted @Neilhimself

 

I became even more of a believer in fantasy, wonder and possibility. I thought of my “inner child”  not the psychologically damaged one but the “innocence of youth”. It had taken me back to Edgar Allen Poe, Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm. Dark stories that I read in my childhood, stories of truth with characters not so beautiful and perfect but those that questioned thyself and others. I grew up with horror and  thriller influences (poor me). I look forward to ‘Good Omens’.

I loved Neil Gaiman’s honesty in what friendship was for him and the loss of a loved one. The beautiful memories of past conversations, accents, admiration, devotion, hearty laughter and an emptiness of being when they are gone. Death reminds us of moments we’d almost forgotten, a period when we experienced happier times. A soulmate of another kind.

Have a listen.

What is my “legacy”?

/ Maria Thomas / Leave a comment

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I used to believe that legacies were about children and inheritance of heirlooms and antique furniture. I used to believe legacies were for the rich and famous like Richard Branson or Mark Zuckerberg. I used to believe a lot of things that I don’t anymore, am I jaded, more experienced, older, maturer? I scoff whilst writing this in a cynical inwardly way. Like only I understand the joke, only my inner voice understands what that means; or inner child, as the psychologists or mindfulness community might say.

I travelled abroad recently and had this notion to bring my books, my journals and downloaded a few podcasts to really keep my mind active and engaged intellectually. (I scoff again) Did I read any of them, no. I stayed present to the moment, had pockets of beautiful conversations with some inspiring individuals and exercised hard, well hard for me. Whilst away I believed I would be discovering all these different paths of who I was (existential questioning we all do), what was I to learn on this solo travel. So much of what I learned was seeping its way through upon my return home and not abroad at all. I realised many things about myself, I don’t like the cold, I acclimatise really quickly to the exotic weather (yes, I have many continents in my blood line), I love travelling and it was freeing to do it alone. #yesmyboyfriendapproved and #noididntneedhisapproval
What I realised is that I had taken on the weight and woes of my family and I was discovering who I was in the process. A journey that will never end until my last breath.

So, back to legacies, I started working with the Ben Kinsella Trust and Head Held High just before Christmas on a programme called ‘The Best You’.
Sometimes, I believe, in life we have these serendipitous moments which we either listen to or ignore; what I call the ‘universal alignments’. I’ve been turning the volume low for the last few years without trusting the universe to let things happen. (Now, I know that might sound a bit whacko but most people who know me, knows that I am spiritual). When others come first before your needs, it takes a life changing experience to allow you the time to re-assess your needs are a priority and that is not selfish!

So, ‘The Best You’ programme is motivational for teenagers to get them thinking about their futures, how they can make different choices to protect themselves and to discuss the prevalent rise of knife crime. I worked with an amazing woman, Tash, who has been doing this work for six years and it really shows. There are so many moments in my life where I feel so damn lucky to meet people who not only inspire me right to my core but also I feel so privilege to see how committed, passionate and caring they are in their work, and Tash is one of them.
There’s no time for ego, this isn’t about us, this is about them! I have cried more over this programme and felt so deeply from my soul, than I ever have in crying out of sadness or anger.

The programme started in January, all the teenagers in the group knew people who had  been affected by knife crime or they themselves had been affected by knife crime. The programme had seven teenagers take part, lasted for six weeks, took place in their school with a visit to the Ben Kinsella exhibition.

Was I affected? Yes, every week I went into the classroom, and then onto my full-time job. On my second week, I sent a text to Tash to say how much respect and admiration I had for her knowing how long she had done this work for. I then asked my work colleague if I could have a hug. I cried on my colleague’s shoulder and felt two things “hope” and “progress”. I could see the cogs starting to turn, the pennies dropping, the trickle of change, you could feel the shift in the room when someone had been honest and vulnerable. Every week everyone came, they didn’t have to participate, they didn’t have to attend, the class wasn’t compulsory but every week we saw the same faces and kept reminding them of the reasons we were there. We were there for them, to open their eyes to who they could be, accepting responsibility for their choices, having the opportunities to change their responses to situations.
I felt very much this was a learning experience for me too, what was I doing to be the best person in my life, for my partner, for my family and friends; applying those things that I was saying was tough. I learned things from my friends which questioned who I was in the friendship and staying open and receptive is one of the hardest parts of being human; to not judge and to not be offended.

Today, in our last session together, I was sad that I was not going to be there next week. One of the lads said “why was the programme not going on for longer?” and I felt Tash and I had done our job in that they could see the benefit of this type of work. I felt like all those podcasts I had listened to where they ask the interviewee “what advice would you give your younger self”, I felt like this was my opportunity, I had had six weeks to impart my wisdom, life experience and emotional maturity but I couldn’t find the words and I’m more “story-teller” than “short and concise” type of person. How can you know what to say that relates to the work you are doing, how can you say all the things you wish you could say without the abbreviations and use all the expletives the schools deny you of. How can we make a change in the short one and half hour class that we get?

When you work with someone who gives you the space to lead part of the session and lets you run with a personal experience, all I can say is today was a heart opener. I shared something that even some of my close friends don’t even know about but laying one’s heart out there is not weak, it’s strength in being able to be vulnerable and open. Brene Brown’s Ted Talk covers this on ‘The Power of Vulnerability’. I left the space like I always have with two words in my mind and heart, ‘Hope’ and ‘Progress’.

There’s no selfies or “let’s keep in touch” but there were “thank yous” and a hug. Priceless! I’d been thinking all week what my parting words would be and this was them “I want to meet you in the street in 4-5 years time, shake your hand and hear you tell me what you have been doing. I don’t want to see you on the newspaper because you’ve become a victim”.  I am sad not to be going in next week and shaking each one of their hands and saying hello. I am sad that six weeks doesn’t feel like enough time but I feel lucky to have had the opportunity to work with them, to be inspired by them and to set goals for myself because of them.

So, I come back to legacies, is this my legacy or theirs? I think it’s our legacies that we create and hope we pass on. I have hope in the future of the next generation.

Thank you Ben Kinsella Trust, thank you to Head Held High and to Patrice.

 

‘The Good Enough Mother’

/ Maria Thomas / Leave a comment

With a background in acting everything I write has music to it, or rather in my head as I write. Cancion De La Noche

I love reading and I don’t ever read enough but there always comes a time when perusing a book from someone you know can make reading that bit more special.  ‘The Good Enough Mother’  was certainly a piece I was looking forward to reading as I hadn’t spoken to the writer, Anoushka Beazley for some years; and was just genuinely excited to see someone who I had crossed paths with doing extremely well!  I think sometimes, the worry is that someone will read/see your creative output and dislike it. But we put ourselves out there, sometimes with our hearts on our sleeves and not only take risks but hope to connect with the reader in some aspect.

The story opens with Drea who becomes a single, non biological parent to Ava over night due to her Teacher boyfriend who runs off with his Research Assistant to live in France. Drea’s character is funny, dark, sarcastic and shows the sad complexities of humanity that reside in all of us. Why did I love this novel, well firstly I could hear Anoushka’s voice, and even though I hadn’t seen or spoken to Anoushka, it was great to hear her voice in Drea. Secondly, the story of Drea has so much heart and made me seriously think of ‘Motherhood’.

I lost my Mum several years ago and it’s still difficult to know she is not here anymore, that I can’t take her shopping, meet up in a coffee shop, have family get togethers, or simply share my life with her. I contemplate whether I will be a ‘Mum’, ‘Mummy’ or ‘Mother one day, to my kids or someone else’s. Do I want to be a Mum? I ask myself “why this has not physicalised?” I blame the notion of not meeting the man who has wanted to have this “lifestyle” with me, but is this fair?  Did I meet him but not clarify my needs? I always said “never say never to kids” when someone asked me, but then some how the cycle of men in my life that I attracted were the guys who could never commit, disliked children maybe because they hadn’t grown up themselves or possess the required emotional maturity,  or had kids already and didn’t want anymore.

As with Drea’s story I could associate with other issues that perhaps prevent us as in ‘I’ from making those clear decisions. Maybe it was never high up on my priority list, maybe I thought it would happen naturally, maybe I didn’t think I would be a good Mum  or be any good at being tied down and didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of my parents. So, “fear” prevented me? Maybe because my parents were so adamant on me having a career and in doing so gravitated towards people who wanted to take rather than share. Maybe my needs became second to their needs?

With main characters in novels, conversations happen in their head which only the audience can hear and identify with. When I started this post I was debating on whether to call it “Conversations in my Head” partly because we all have them and I do try to stem the demonic ones; but this is about how “The Good Enough Mother” stirred emotions and thoughts I have had all of my life. Maybe because my biological clock is ticking, maybe it has ticked? Oh look, there’s one more thing I cannot add to the bucket list but if I could, would I? Probably yes, most definitely yes if there was someone who wanted this with me. But unwittingly I chose and choose the men who do not and that is one of the most painful decisions I live with daily.

Drea’s internal dialogue is utterly insightful, I guess this is why I connect with her. There are reflective moments that made me feel completely broken, the way we compartmentalise so much until we are forced to confront our issues. The mirrored moment is never necessarily with a person or situation but pages in a book, a scene in a film, even down to the most boring of chores can have you crying because something you read in a novel made you think. Denying how we truly feel about our circumstances and who we are, and whom with we can be ourselves. Sometimes, being alone is preferable than being around people who constantly judge you, analyse you or your situation, who offer advice when it’s not needed or asked for – “The fixers”.

Drea deals with her problems internally, and I wonder if this is a symptom of modern life. We feel guilty for sharing our problems, we consider it “dumping”.  We feel a failure if a relationship has broken down, there’s always blame. We feel shame for not being what Society says we should be, in a relationship that leads to marriage, children, financial and domestic security. There’s nothing wrong with wanting them but there’s equally nothing wrong without having them.

The fear is not loneliness or am I settling for second best or wondering if I had made different choices would I be somewhere else? The thoughts are what if there is someone out there who wants to live the life I want to live, should I keep searching? Maybe I do want to be a Mum? Maybe I just want security because I never had it as a child or growing up? Maybe being a Mum will fill the loss of not having one? Maybe I still don’t know and it’s okay to not know especially if you’ve been through the “I thought I’d met the one” phase and they turn out not to be.

Drea wants to be provide for Ava and though there are lots of ways she doesn’t see, in so many ways she does. She’s responsible, she cares, she admits to not being the ‘typical’ parent that gets stuck in with PTA or makes friends with other mothers for the sake of school. But there is something in Ava’s need to belong and be part of something that also resonates with me. Maybe it’s being a Mother, maybe it’s to say I did well, maybe because there is nothing left of me after I have gone and maybe that’s they way it is and should be. Why does their need to be a legacy of Maria Thomas? There doesn’t.

‘The Good Enough Mother’ is definitely about the human condition and the complexities of how our minds work. The trauma of childhood, the confusion within ourselves by not really knowing sometimes who we really are and we come from, our parents/families influence on our lives or non-existent parents/families in our lives. It all seems to boil down to who am I? Who I am can be anything I want it to be, how I live and whom I live it with is my choice as long as I am happy why should it matter? Who put the time clock in my body and do I have to listen to them? Listening to the conversations in my head can be harmful or amazing, and everyday I have to consciously choose to listen to the voice that keeps me going.

Thank you Anoushka, if ever I do become a Mum, I hope I remember like Drea, it’s okay  to fall as long as I remember to pick myself up and carry on.

Stream of consciousness 

/ Maria Thomas / 1 Comment

Esteemed soul, divine purpose
drive to my minds eye of truth
take back the streams of consciousness
that drives me to mad endeavours
of momentary suicide
to die or not to die but to discuss
the righteousness of others that befell
Me
inherited wickedness of deceit
but who is the deceiver, them or me
lie me gently in the arms of
forgetfulness of resentment of
the quietness that is beauteous
the silence of numbness
that guilt free, pain free death
of selective amnesia
coat me with your paint, armour
me with destruction
self pity, self hate bears heavy burdens
on my mind, draining my emotions of
comfort. The comfort of hate.
leave my body innocuous cuts that fill
with swollen words of lies. The language
of desert storms blistering my spirited
youth into undefinable eras of old age.
search for me when time remembers
that I did once exist.