by Liz Deacle | Personal, Podcasts, Travel
This week, husband and wife, Brian and Liz, share their recent married life podcast shenanigans. Recently returned from their two-month summer in Greece, they have been in their beloved birthplace, Blighty, for 48 hours and have somehow managed to get ripped off. Twice.
Not that Liz is bitter. No. As she reminds Brian many times, marriage isn’t just about love and laughter and making podcasts about pigeons. It’s about carrying the weight together.
Honest…
Thank you, as always, for being here with us. You are what makes this podcast so special.
Yours, ripped off but still together and laughing,
Liz and Brian. Husband and wife. x
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by Liz Deacle | Personal, Podcasts
We thought this week’s “outside the comfort zone” podcast episode would be about memory and how you perceive yourself, but it turned out to be so much more than that.
In this week’s podcast by the sea, you can expect to hear how Liz struggles with her son confessing to wanting to be a millionaire, how the couple are navigating life as they spend 24 hours a day together with a family of four in an apartment in Greece, and why we struggle to see ourselves as others do.
Enjoy, our lovely friends.
Thank you for subscribing and taking the time to leave us a review. Your support means the world to us and is what keeps us going.
Kia kaha,
Liz and Brian x
PS: If you haven’t yet joined my inner circle of friends, my life-letter readers, please do. You will be the first person I share everything with. I’d love to have you. Go here to join us.
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by Liz Deacle | Grief, Personal, Podcasts, Travel
“It’s been a year, get on with it”.
If you are struggling with any kind of loss and want to feel supported and loved, this conversation is for you.
Not only will it help you, but you will see that you are normal, and, most importantly, not alone.
*This episode is part of our husband-and-wife healing conversations series. These podcast episodes are recorded outside. We are husband and wife, Liz and Brian, and we are currently staying on the Greek island of Paros with our two young adult kids as part of our year-long trip away from New Zealand.
The episode starts with us walking to a busy cafe. We invite you to come along with us and have a coffee and a chat. I think you need to hear this.
Kia kaha (stay strong), my brave friend. Liz and Brian x
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by Liz Deacle | Personal
Seven years ago, I took a trip around the world with my family.
When I came home, I wrote a book about it.
Five years ago, I created a business that would pay our mortgage from wherever we were in the world.
A year ago, my mum died of cancer.
Twenty-four Sundays later, my dad joined her.
Last month, my family and I rented our house and headed off overseas for another year-long trip away.
Only this time, we are not skipping towards Disneyland.
We are not sleeping on people’s couches and booking trains in India.
We are planless.
The only itinerary we have is to be together.
To reconnect.
To hold each other tight.
The trouble with losing a parent is that you think the only person suffering is you.
Me, me, me.
But that’s not true.
The Son-in-law grieves the loss of his ally, who will never again walk through his door with a bottle of his favourite Jack Daniels and a knowing wink.
The children grieve the grandmother. The Marmar, who was there for them every minute of their growing life.
The husband, the wife.
The neighbours, the friend.
I have tried to get better. I really have.
To move on. See the light. Live for now.
The quicker the better, in my eyes.
I will do anything. Whatever it takes.
Just. Stop. Fucking. Crying.
So I planned this trip.
“We’ll call it an adventure,” I said. “A reconnecting trip.”
But as I sit here, in Paris, writing to you, I realise this is no such thing.
This is not a jolly frolic.
This is not a “let’s have one last blast as a family before you both get married and leave us.”
This is a healing journey. An exploration. This is a time to stop. Rest. Go inside. Face up to who I am now and decide how I’m going to live the next half of my life.
This email was never intended to be like this.
I thought it would be fun.
I thought I would return to my travel-blogger days and send you cheerful emails from whichever country I was in.
“Hellllooo from Greece, my lovelies!! Look how happy and perfectly fixed I am now!!”
But that’s bullshit.
And I won’t pretend. Not to you.
I have lost a part of myself.
Lost the woman I once called me.
I have lost her so deeply that I can’t speak freely in a group anymore without feeling the drench and stench of nervous sweat. Without willing my top lip to stop dancing and twitching.
I have lost a part of myself.
A part I don’t think I’ll ever find again.
And worse than that—I don’t think I want to.
A layer has been shed.
And a new skin is waiting to be worn.
I’m just not sure what that skin looks like or how it is to be worn.
What you’re about to read over the coming weeks/months/a year is an exploration.
A mission.
A quest to find out how this self-sabotaging, people-pleasing, filled with love, sometimes massively confident, mostly hugely insecure, people-loving, embarrassingly truthful woman
takes the next step in life.
Without the person, she built it all around.
Please don’t expect anything mind-blowing.
I am writing all of this from a place of learning rather than knowing.
I know nothing.
But I promise you this: whatever I discover, I will share.
Because if my instinct is right, you too need to hear these words. If not now, then in the future.
In your own time of need.
So here’s the first letter…
Paris. 7 am. Writing my email to you.
I am aware that you may have no idea where I am or what I’m doing.
Those of you who listened to the podcast will already know.
Those who didn’t: we’ve rented our house, left New Zealand, and made ourselves homeless for a year.
We are together, the four of us. Me and Brian. With my son, who is 23. And my daughter, who is 20.
This was originally intended to be a connection trip.
A way to hold and tighten what we have as a family. But I already know this will be far more than that.
As I write this, I’m in Paris for a month with my daughter, Tess.
Brian has just completed a three-week round trip around Norway with his brother and our son, Sonny.
He is now in Cornwall visiting his family.
The four of us will reconvene in Athens, where we’ll stay in Greece for a month.
The rest is to be decided.
Will this trip heal me from the hurt of both my parents’ deaths—and my own loss of identity?
I don’t know.
All In know is I need to write. Need to release.
I’m scared to send this.
I know you are. But it is necessary.
Be the help you needed, Liz.
As always, I listen to my heart when it speaks.
And today, it tells me to share these words with you.
I know I’m a bit all over the place. I am aware that this might be confusing to you.
But so is life.
And that’s how we live it.
How can it be?
I am here, in the city of love, surrounded by millions of people
And still.
Still. I feel so desperately alone.
Me and my beautiful girl
The thing with grief is—it doesn’t warn you.
One minute you’re fine. Paddling around in the clear, shallow waters, wearing your water wings just in case, and then—
Whoosh.
A fuck-off wave that could flatten a city.
The dream
She came to me in my dream last night, telling me she couldn’t remember where she’d put her phone.
She was wearing her denim drainpipe jeans, and her hair was auburn.
Not dyed. Auburn.
She said she hated my sister.
I said, Don’t say that, Mum.
And she said, It’s true, Lizzie. She’s a selfish cow.
And that’s when I knew it was her.
The true her.
Not the her I fabricate in my mind.
Not the her I remember through rose-tinted glasses.
Not the her I imagine was so very, truly perfect.
She didn’t mince her words, my mum. She was unpredictable and fiery.
Embarrassingly, as she got older, her outspoken I-couldn’t-give-a-flying-fuck-what-people-think attitude got worse.
I can’t tell you how many times we’ve sat in a café together, my toes aching with cramp from repetitive scrunching.
Last night was no different.
She came with her feathers ruffled. Pissed off. Spitting frustrations about her youngest daughter.
And that’s when I knew it was her.
When I woke, I put my head into the pillows and sobbed like a child.
Freely.
Because there was no Brian beside me to worry.
I miss you. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. Please come back. Please come back. Please come back and bring the old me with you.
I tried to return to the dream. To see her again.
But she was gone.
Strolling down the street clutching her fags and her phone.
Her legs looking fabulous in those tight cosmic jeans.
Last night I argued with Tessa
A piece of three-day-old onion skin lay on the kitchen floor of our rented apartment. She asked why it was still there. She said that I was supposed to hoover it up.
I said No, you’re the one who should clean the floor. You’re the child—you should be looking after me.
And she said, No, you should clean the onion skin up. You’re the adult—you should be looking after me.
The pink, papery skin stayed put.
Enjoying the attention.
Relishing the fuss.
It rolled gently along the skirting board, danced across the dirty tiles towards the adjacent bathroom door, collecting dust and hair along the way.
Tumbling effortlessly in air that was heated.
Don’t bring me into it, I’m confused enough as it is. Am I even a vegetable or a fruit??
Afterwards
After dinner, we were fine.
We watched season two of The Crown on her laptop. She put her head on my lap and I stroked and smoothed her hair that’d been pulled back in a bun all day—her beautiful attempt to look chic in Paris.
The smell on my hands was divine.
They should make a perfume called Your Own Child’s Head.
It would sell out in minutes.
When we kissed goodnight, I looked into her young, twenty-something eyes—eyes the colour of mine.
And I saw how I feel.
Fragile.
I want to be told what to do.
I want to be told where to go.
I want to be told what to eat.
I want someone else to pick up the onion skin.
And so does she.
I miss Brian.
Brian is in Cornwall.
Surrounded by family.
And I am in Paris.
Surrounded by strangers.
With a daughter who is wobbly and who needs a strong, normal mother.
A stoic mother.
A mother I can’t seem to find.
A mother who exists only in my dreams.
Wearing denim drainpipe jeans and a frown.
Thank you for listening.
Always authentically yours
Liz x
Quote that both inspires and confuses me:
“I’m not who I was, and I’m not yet who I will be.” – Zadie Smith
You have just read:
You have just read an essay that I first shared with my Front Row readers. If you would like to join me and thousands of other wonderful souls whom I call my close friends, it would be an honour to have you.
Please sign up below. I look forward to getting to know you.
My book: The Travel Bog Diaries is here.
The latest podcasts episode: Brian went to Norway. Here’s what happened.
x
by Liz Deacle | Personal
You’d think I would have learned by now. I’ve been doing this long enough.
A few weeks ago, I shared an email about something that happened online – a video that Brian and I created on YouTube that went viral, a video that raised a few angry keyboard warriors from the inside of their woodworm cellars.
I write these diary-style emails to you as a way of sharing what real life looks like.
I write these emails to you because—selfishly—your reading them lightens my load. When you reply, it feels like I have a friend. A friend I’ve never met. A friend who finds solace in my words. Connects with me.
But after I sent that last email… guilt hit me like a truck.
Was I burdening you with too much?
I swallowed back the ever-present fear and pressed send.
As usual, a mass of people unsubscribed.
Fuck. That stung. It always does.
But then, the responses started to come in.
Messages saying, “Me too”, “Thanks for making me feel normal”, “You’ve got this, Liz”. Those blow me away every time.
Amongst the positive titles in my inbox, however, there was one e-mail that blinked at me.
The title said, “Can I offer you some advice?”
Oh God.
I opened the e-mail.
It was from a man in California, a businessman who confidently told me that he had many successful businesses. He was really successful.
“I signed up to hear about New Zealand things.
To receive a random email where you share your struggles with YouTube trolls feels unprofessional.
Please don’t take this the wrong way, I just want you to know that many people who signed up for this e-mail do not want to hear about your personal life.”
What the?
Thud. Slam. One humungous kick to my already-churning-stomach courtesy of David Beckham’s left foot.
Every impostor ladened gremlin that lives in my head, walked out into the arena of my mind, shouting. Celebrating. Each carrying a bottle opf scotch under one are and a converter heater switched to full under the other.
And my God, did they make the most of that space.
“When will you learn, Liz?” They sneered. “What were you thinking, Liz?
“People want New Zealand content. REAL content you moron. What an amateur and a little tiny insignificant toss-pot you are.”
Me. When I meet people who think I’m normal but can’t see inside my brain
I can tell when something affects me badly because I don’t share it with Brian.
When it’s a 50/50 deal and I’m hurt but still have the strength to laugh, I share it with Brian.
This e-mail was different.
The feeling I felt was complete and utter shame.
Here we are building this business, creating content about New Zealand, making podcasts about New Zealand, asking people to sign up to our newsletter about New Zealand, and here I was sending heart-opening, tear-jerking, personal emails about my feelings. My failings. My bits.
Everything I had ever previously written flooded my mind.
My mum dying.
My dog dying.
My dad dying.
Me dying when I had to give a speech at my sister’s wedding when all I wanted to do was crawl under a sink and hide.
Fuck.
Instead of sitting down with a wad of paper and writing my thoughts down for 45 minutes, or doing a meditation for 45 minutes, or going for a walk and talking to myself… instead of doing all those things, which I know work, I did what the gremlins wanted.
I let them win.
I closed my computer and told myself I would rethink this whole e-mail sequence.
I would write posts about how to drive in New Zealand.
What to eat in New Zealand.
I would create a whole new sequence with affiliate links and products, and I would keep it uniformed and straight. Proper, and professional.
No more raw, teary, heart-wrenching, begging-for-attention emails from me.
No.
The man was right.
Hurray!!
Only he wasn’t.
He very much wasn’t.
How do I know this? Because of the way I felt every time I went to write one of those informative New Zealand could-be-written-by-Chatgpt emails.
It felt wrong. Grubby. Cheap.
Dishonourable to my authentic self.
The man was wrong.
It’s taken me three weeks to come to this conclusion. To share these words:
I will continue to write to you.
I will continue to share my heart.
I will continue to keep it real.
Because here’s the truth:
There are people out there who only resonate with you.
There are people out there who will never agree no matter how hard you try to convince them.
There are people out there who need to be somewhere else with someone else, listening to someone else, following someone else’s work. Being somewhere else.
There are people out there who are simply not for you.
And that is ok.
If every Milk Tray box contained only crunchy, paralinely chocolate, it wouldn’t be Milk Tray—it’d be Ferrero Rocher.
It’s fun being like everyone else isn’t it??
My 20-year-old daughter, Tess, recently signed up for a fitness programme run by two women.
She paid $200 for a year subscription, which offers daily workouts, inspirational tips, quotes, menus and a bunch of other stuff to feel and look gorgeous, inspired and strong.
Guess what she did after purchasing her membership?
She dove deeper and found a podcast that these two women also produce.
Then she dove deeper still and found an episode where one of the women talks about losing her mother to cancer.
She listened to the episode and came to me afterwards to talk about it. Told me how her hero was feeling about losing someone she loved dearly to cancer.
“It was just like me when I lost Marmar”.
My point is that when you invest in someone, when you resonate with someone, when you are drawn to someone, you want everything of that someone.
All of it.
All. Of. It.
Not just the coffee creams.
Quote that we both need to remember:
There comes a time when you have to stop crossing oceans for people who wouldn’t jump puddles for you.
Stop trying to please everyone.
Stop doubting that your feelings, your thoughts, your dreams, that hug, that longing, that brightness inside you—isn’t needed.
It is. Deeply. Urgently.
It is needed by the right person.
Remember. Your shimmering parts will feel the most vulnerable.
You won’t be receiving emails from me about how to fill in a New Zealand tax form.
You will, however, be looking into the heart of someone who feels safe to be vulnerable when she writes to you.
Find your person.
Find your people.
Find yourself.
And never let that self go.
Yours wishing-david-hadn’t-married-victoria-and-was-in-love-with-me-instead
Your friend,
Liz x
You have just read:
You have just read an essay that I first shared with my Front Row readers. If you would like to join me and thousands of other wonderful souls whom I call my close friends, it would be an honour to have you.
Please sign up below. I look forward to getting to know you.
PS: Here is our latest podcast where Brian and I share some very exciting (and a bit scary) news. I’ll be telling you all about my reasoning behind this huge adventurous move in the next email. Warning. It will contain feelings. Our BIG news.
My bestselling book is available in all formats, including the very magnificent and highly-produced-by-Brian audiobook read by yours truly. You can get the book here.
PPS: You’re unique and you’re different, and I love you x
by Liz Deacle | Personal
Yesterday, we released a video on YouTube, and my safe little corner of the internet turned into a savage, enraged, inhospitable, hideous lion’s den.
People with a love for capital letters and exclamation marks found me, attacked me and told me how shit and crap they thought I was.
“Who the hell IS this woman? She is SO ANNOYING”
“STOP BEING SO DRAMATIC AND KEEP YOUR HANDS BY YOUR SIDE!!!!!!”
“Why don’t you shut up and let your husband talk?”
“So WOKE”
“This channel is HORRIBLE”
and so it went on.
Three days after releasing the video, there are one thousand comments blinking at me. Baiting. Waiting for a reply.
As I write this to you, typing and licking my torso with my tongue, I wonder how others do it.
I have an urge to reach out to all solo content creators – the ones with no Brian by their side, a Brian who ignores all comments because he says they are written by a bunch of tossers with no life.
How do they do it? How do they act as their own gatekeeper? Stand waist-deep awash with strangers’ opinions and decide which ones pass through. How hard that must be.
I left our regular evening hot tub meeting early tonight. Brian and Tessa were discussing AI, and it was distracting me from my self-pity. Annoying me.
I climbed out of the steamy water sulkily and squelched to the driveway wearing nothing but my frayed, baggy swimsuit and that disgusting towelling dress that makes young surfer girls look gorgeous, but makes me look like a bloated old lesbian nun.
The night was beautiful. Cold, crisp and clear. I sat at the end of the driveway with my knees pulled under my chin, hoping that a car would stop and attend to my needs.
Brum brum. Screech of brakes.
“Jesus Christ, are you okay, love? Do you need a lift back to your convent or something?”
There were no cars. Only stars for company.
It was then I had a thought.
I’m unsure if it was my thought or my mum talking to me from the grave. I don’t know. I still can’t work out if I am gifted and can communicate with the dead or if I am a paranoid schizophrenic who is fucking mental and needs hospitalization.
The voice said:
What if you switched this from yourself and made it about them? Turned it into a positive? What if you’ve provided a place for these people, a space where they could all meet and didn’t feel alone? What then?
I could picture it.
Those angry people. All living in empty, grey, high-rise buildings with no outside space. No grass, no people, no trees, no soil.
Opening their front door one bright Thursday morning to pick up their single bottle of milk that had been pecked by a bird with bird flu; looking upon yonder and seeing me. Standing innocently in my garden. A big garden with acres of land.
And in the corner of that land is a space. A safe space where people, strangers, are gathering and shaking their fists. Standing shoulder to shoulder, All chummy. Voicing their annoyance and anger.
So the person (who doesn’t have bird flu because they didn’t drink the milk) walks over and joins them.
They leave the empty flat behind and stands on the grass (my grass, actually), wiggles their toes in the soil. Begins to discuss how crap my video was.
And for one small minute, that person no longer feels alone.
This is the thought that gets me through. Pushes me forward. Pulls me from my soily hole of self pity.
Quote:
Don’t Take Anything Personally. Nothing others do is because of you – Don Miguel Ruiz
I am proud of myself for being able to offer a piece of my land. A place on the internet where people can unite and get angry. Albeit about me.
No matter. At least they are together. For one small moment, they will have felt companionship, oneness and unity.
They had company.
And for that, I am happy.
Come to mama pleb
Until next time,
Yours, wishing-they-would-invent-towelling-knickers-then-realising-they-do-and-they’re-called-nappies
Liz x
You have just read:
You have just read an essay that I first shared with my Front Row readers. If you would like to join me and thousands of other wonderful souls whom I call my close friends, it would be an honour to have you.
Please sign up below. I look forward to getting to know you.
PS: I’m chucking that hideous towelling robe in the bin. Whenever I wear it, I cry. That tells you something.
PS: It can’t be my mum; she wasn’t so compassionate. If she’d got a sniff of anyone saying anything bad to her girl, she’d have gone on YouTube and ripped them all to shreds.
So that confirms it, then. I’m a nutter.
