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My heart beats with yours ❤️
Liz x
It’s time to come back. Return to the land of the living.
I went to Canada to forget. To escape. But the opposite happened. I found something. Something I thought was gone forever.
I was standing at the top of a ski run on the side of a mountain. Nothing but two fibreglass skis and a pair of second-hand boots between me and death. My family waited patiently at the bottom.
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. If I do it, I’ll die.
Sonny, my twenty-three year old, was waving his arms. Beckoning.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Do it. Do it now. Think of Mel Robins. 1,2,3, 4, 5 go.
I edged myself over the drop and slid to the side of the piste. Crawling. Trailing my left ski pole in the crystals of bally snow as a way of false security.
My knees were bent, my hands clammy.
I fixed my sight on the three bodies at the bottom of the hill and muttered the same sentences over and over again.
If I catch a ski, I will fall and break my neck. I will be paralysed; I will be dead. The helicopter will whirl over and take me off the mountain. I will be flown back to NZ in a body bag.
Morbid as fuck, I know, and undoubtedly the reason why I was prescribed antidepressants a month earlier.
But it’s the truth. That’s what I thought. It’s the truth. Sorry, Mel.
Only I didn’t. I didn’t die. Instead, halfway down the hill, with my eyes fixed on the carved-out slope that swept beneath ancient pine trees, something happened. Something completely unexpected happened.
I whooped. I actually whooped.
I thought only American baseball players whooped. But no. Here I was, a fifty-three-year-old woman recently orphaned and blowing her blog savings on a trip to Canada in an attempt to forget how shit life is when you have no parents, whooping.
The snow showered my ankles in glitter, and I gained confidence and speed. The wind dried my overlicked lips. My cheeks felt cold and taut, and suddenly, it dawned on me.
You are alive, Liz.
Alive.
And it felt good.
I went to Canada to forget. To escape. But the opposite happened. I found something. Something I thought was gone forever.
I found what it feels like to be alive again. To live. To be happy.
A few months after Mum passed, I was at a coffee shop with Tess. Feigning human-ness. She was holding my hand, looking at me earnestly. The way daughters look at their mothers when they’re about to say something really bad. Something that’s going to hurt.
I’m pregnant.
I’m a druggie.
I hate your podcast.
I avoided her lovely eyes. Prayed that she’d talk about something else. Anything other than the words I could see forming in her beautiful head.
Don’t ask me to smile. Or for advice. Don’t ask me to act like a grown-up. Just tell me about the TikTok ban or how much you loved Cynthia Erivo’s performance in Wicked.
She swallowed and stroked my hand.
“I feel as if it wasn’t just Marmar that died in April, Mum, it was you too. I can’t find you anymore. I feel like I’ve lost you.”
Fuck. Straight to the heart, that one. Sharp as glass.
She was right.
That’s the worst part of it. She was right.
When my mum died, I went with her. Just for some of the way. I held her hand and walked her to where she needed to go. Then I left her up in the clouds and dawdled my way home.
For months, I have lived with the fog. Engulfed in that shitty murky unseeable thick, gluey haze that suffocates those with broken hearts.
When I needed to, I could fake it away, but only for a few hours. Five at max. After that, I would sink into the familiar, clotted, sodden gloop. Float around in the most pleasurable, comfortable feeling of sadness, like a bone of ham in a cauldron of murky pea soup. Bobbing.
I felt constantly tired. Tired of the ache. The tears, Tired of feeling sad. Tired of feeling guilty. Tired of circling the calendar. Tired of wanting her back. Tired of crawling under the sink, hoping I’d locked the bathroom door.
My mum was dead, and I felt not far behind.
So I went to Canada. I paid for a family trip to Canada with the money I made from my blog, to avoid facing a foggy, fake Christmas. And while I was there, I pushed myself down a really big hill covered in snow.
And I remembered. That when you ski, you face forward.
You face forward. Forward. It’s the only way to live.
Had I come down the hill looking backwards, I would have crashed. But I didn’t. I faced forward, and with each second that passed, I was more alive. Whooping like a major league coach into the present moment.
Not everyone needs to ski. But I want you to remember this. When we are constantly pulled to the past, looking back, how can we possibly live? We can’t. It’s as simple as that. We can’t.
And I want to live. I want to move forward. I want to laugh. I want to live.
I am back from Canada. Returned not only to New Zealand but to the land of the living. I feel happy and hopeful. I hope this mindset lasts, I really do.
It will. I am determined. It has to.
This is not a “times up, ready to move on” message. This is a time is short. Live your beautiful life while you can.
It is 2025, and I am sending my heartfelt love to you.
To those who have yet to experience such loss, you have my sympathy. I wish I could wrap you in bubble wrap and pop those little inflated domes one by one so you won’t hurt so badly when your time comes.
To those who have lost a loved one, my heart is with you. I know, believe me, I fucking know what you are going through and how much it hurts.
But I also know this. There is strength in front of you. When you are ready to let it, it will pull you. It will lead you. It will guide you. You are strong. Stronger than you imagine. And you are alive.
Breathe. Soften. Repeat and face forward.
Quote that I will read every day to keep me strong:
” You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present “ – Jan Gildwell
I’m with you, many darling friend,
Yours, facing forward,
Liz x
I hear you, and I feel you. My heart is with you.
Sign up for my FREE 5-day ‘help me’ letters, where I will share the FIVE most helpful practices I put into place when I lost my Mother and Father within six months. It’s the help I needed and I’m passing it on ❤️
PS: You can read the audio version (read by me, Liz, the author) of this essay FOR FREE over on Patreon this is a message that needs to be read by all those who are hurting.
Head over to Patreon and click “Become a free member” (all you need is the email), and you will be able to listen to the audio of this essay and the reflections on why I wrote it there.
Last week I went to Four Square with Brian.
We bought milk. Full fat. It’s Christmas, after all.
Coming out of the shop, I witnessed something you rarely see in our neck of the woods.
Exuberant wealth. Loadsa lolly.
Parked at the bottom of the steps, next to the dizzy bay, was a car. Walking towards it, a couple. Tanned. Smiling. Polished. Holding hands.
The car was navy blue with a white leather interior. The man had orange skin and was dripping in gold. His silver fox hair was slicked back. With gel. Not sweat. He looked like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, only considerably richer and not so squinty and sex-starved.
The woman was tight and tall. Her waist was small. A Gucci bag dangled from her exfoliated elbow.
She flashed me a smile and then glanced pitifully at my milk.
Yuk. Everyone knows udder juice brings on phlegm. Gross…
I looked at Brian. His eyes were fixated on the woman’s mouth. Enchanted by her smile. She giggled at Rich Boy. Her tongue was pink and not at all yellow and fuzzy. She oozed moisture and gloss. Not a sign of a dehydrated prune in sight.
The couple hopped into the car and threw back their heads. The car pulled away. Slowly. Just so those watching could have one last oggle.
Off they went. The wind blowing Richards Tupee. The breeze curling Julia’s lashes.
“That’s my dream car, that is….” Brian said wistfully. He was slouched over like a salty slug. Mesmerized.
“It’s a Bently he…..What I wouldn’t give to drive one of those. I’ve wanted a Bentley my whole life”.
Pfff.
It’s true. For a moment, I had a flash of envy. A moment of ‘I-bet-if-we-owned-that-car-I’d-be-thin-and-blonde-and-only-drink-Kambucha-and-wouldn’t-keep-crying-about-my-dead-parents’.
When I returned home, I looked out of the window. They were clean. Brian’s been on them all week. Through the glass, I saw something that brought about the same envy I’d witnessed in Brian.
My daughter, sitting out in the sunshine. Writing in her journal; Beside her was a cup of tea and a lit joystick (thief). She had her head down and her elbow across the paper. She looked peaceful. Indulged. Calm.
And I was jealous.
“Now that’s the way I’d like to spend every moment of every day”, I said, turning to Brian, who was putting the milk into the fridge that was still dirty because our lazy arse daughter hasn’t cleaned it yet.
Time.
Undisturbed, peaceful, unrushed, unaccounted for, much needed, slow ticking, empty spacing, free falling, non-counted for, time.
I don’t know about you, but I’ll take two hours of that over a spin in dickies throbbing Bentley any day.
Whatever you are doing this holiday season, I wish you peace. I hope that you (and I) get to carve out some precious space in your busy life and give yourself the one thing that every billionaire craves. Time.
But if you do have the spare cash lying around for a Bentley, my address is at the bottom of this email.
Have a wonderful Christmas, glad tidings, and peace on earth.
I love you.
Yours,
Liz x
PS: Don’t forget you can now join me on Patreon. I’ll be sharing photos of Canada. Letting you see my beautiful hydrated skin. Come and say hello. I’d love you to join me. x
PPS: In case you didn’t catch it, here is our latest video podcast, “Farewell. We’re leaving New Zealand‘. In it, we talk about our decision to house-swap with a family of Canadians and everything house-swapping entails. Including getting naked with spiders and facing Christmas without your loved ones.
Thank you for being here. Merry Christmas!
Feeling is healing. I’ve read those words a lot while grieving my mum. And it’s true; to a certain extent, it’s true. But what people fail to mention is that feeling also hurts like hell. And no one likes to feel pain. Not if they can possibly avoid it.
In this week’s behind-the-scenes episode, we share a personal healing practice that Liz has undertaken to help navigate the grief around losing her mum. Writing.
Liz is writing her second book, but what started as a happy, healing book about New Zealand has morphed into something quite different.
An unexpected beast.
Something that scares Liz to write and scares Brian to stand by and witness.
Thank you for being with us and for listening. You are loved, you are needed, and our hearts always beat with yours.
Your friends,
Liz and Brian x
What’s happening? Why, when I was feeling fine, ‘doing ok,’ and ‘coping’, do I suddenly feel like I’ve been hit by a sledgehammer and fallen down a well of darkness?
It’s been almost five months since my mum passed.
This is a behind-the-scenes podcast. One of those we never expected to record. But record we did.
I’ve never had a public panic attack before. I didn’t have a clue what was happening. But I do now, and we wanted to share this podcast episode with you in the hope that it might help you in some small, comforting way.
If you are experiencing anxiety and panic attacks, please seek help. New Zealand offers a FREE anxiety helpline that you can call 24 hrs a day.
In the UK, there is a service called Shout, where you can text and chat for free about your mental health.
In the US, there is the National Mental Health Hotline. Again, it is free and confidential.
Reach out. This is not the time to be alone.
Thank you for being with us; you are loved, you are needed, and our hearts always beat with yours.
Your friends,
Liz and Brian x
It’s a lie.
The thing they say about hard times making you more resilient.
It’s not true.
We adopted our dog, Maggie, thirteen years ago.
A ten-week-old puppy with rolls of fat at the top of her legs and a thick, sturdy neck. A Mastiff cross, Labrador, with hair the colour of new copper and a mark on her tail that the kids insisted was the shape of a heart.
The minute we brought her home, I knew she was the one for us.
She was happy. Calm. Gentle. Sensible.
I saw myself in her. They say that, don’t they? That pets are like their humans. It’s true. She’d play with a ball for ten minutes and then was done. A little splurge of social interaction and then back to bed for Maggie.
I homeschooled both my kids for ten years, and we joked that Maggie was the third student. Her basket was next to the brown leather couch which faced the kitchen. She never left my side. Even when she was asleep, she slept with one eye half open. Just in case.
A month before my mum was diagnosed with cancer, Maggie showed signs of illness. She couldn’t hold her bladder. She would leave bits of her food. We took her to the vet and were told that her kidneys were failing.
“Is there anything we can do?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.
The vet made noises about tests and costs and life expectancy. Then he placed his hand over his grey-bearded chin and looked sorry.
We didn’t make a decision there and then. We’d made plans to house-sit a cat in Napier for five weeks and were leaving the next day. We paid for a bag of medication and, the following morning drove five hours across the country.
Maggie stayed at home with Sonny and a list of instructions.
Give her three tablets a day. Keep the doors open at all times. Let her sleep in your room every night (even if she trumps and snores). Give her lots of kisses. See you in 5 weeks x
Off we went to Napier. We would deal with Maggie when we returned.
A week later, I got the call about Mum. She had terminal cancer. My world began to shrink.
We cut the house sit short and went home; Maggie was waiting at the front door to greet me. She licked the inside of my clammy hand and lay beside me on the couch, resting her head on my knee. Not minding that my dripping tears soaked her nose.
Christmas came and went, and, as if by some miracle, Maggie seemed to perk up.
“I think her medication is working!” I said to Brian, grateful for a slither of positivity. “Look at her! She’s fine!”
And she was.
While it’s true that she couldn’t manage walks anymore, she was still there. Looking normal. Waiting for me when I came home from the hospital. Her silky ears perked, ready to listen. Her stocky chest, strong. Ready to take it all from me.
Hold on, Mags. Please. Hold on.
A month after my mum passed, Brian booked us a trip to Thailand. I needed dental work, and Brian needed a break.
“We’ll go to Thailand and get your crown done”, he said. “It’s not until August. By then, you’ll be ready for a change of scene. The rest will do us good.”
Neither of us mentioned Maggie’s declining health.
No. Let’s not talk about that now. If we don’t say the words, it means it doesn’t exist.
It was July. We were due to fly to Thailand in two weeks.
Our plan was set. Maggie would go into kennels. Spend a month in the country. But as the time got closer, we couldn’t ignore the worsening signs. The constant anxiety. Her unquenchable thirst.
Carpets that smelled of blood and disinfectant.
I talked to Brian.
“Let’s cancel the trip,” I said, hoping we had insurance. I didn’t want to go to Thailand. I wanted to stay at home with Maggie and my picture of Mum. I didn’t want a change of scenery. I liked this scenery. This scenery was good.
Brian was gentle but firm. We had the conversation that’d been in the air for eight months. The dreaded words.
“It’s for the best, Liz. It’s time.”
No.
I can’t.
I won’t.
She can wear a nappie. We’ll get her a ramp. Please, Brian. No.
I wasn’t there when Brian and Sonny took Maggie to the vet.
I was gone. Up and out. I spent the day in the corner of a cafe, scrolling through photos. Crying. Torturing myself.
A friend had recommended a YouTube channel. A woman who helps people through grief. A death Doula. One of her videos talked about euthanizing a pet. This is what she said:
“You won’t do what needs to be done because you can’t face the thought of being sad. If your pet is in pain and is dying and suffering, let them go. Give them that gift.”
The house was empty when I returned home.
No toothless yawn plodding to greet me. No scruffy bed. No clickety-clacky nails. No sweaty paws. No faithful, knowing eyes.
The tiles where her wicker basket had lived for thirteen years were spotlessly clean.
She’s on her way to you, Mum. Look after her for me
That night, as we stood on the deck and looked up at the brightest star, I cried. Big tears. Tears for everything. Tears for it all. Tears for the tears. Tears for her. Tears for me.
Tears. Shitty sick-to-death-of-them-tears.
We need to press the reset button, said Brian.
I feigned misunderstanding, but I knew what he meant.
Of course, I knew.
I knew, and so did Maggie.
When it’s time, it’s time.
Goodbye, sweet girl.
Thank you for being my support. My doggy. My crybaby. My silly billy. My couch companion. My puppy. My Maggie. My Mags.
Thank you for choosing me.
You are pain-free and happy now. And I am off to Thailand.
To reset.
Quote:
Until next time, my friend, when I write from Thailand.
Yours, forever true. And hopefully dry.
Liz x
I will love you forever, Mags. Forever.
I’m Liz, and this is my family.
I do Travel. I do Wine. I do being a mum to big kids. Sometimes I do all three at the same time.
I don’t do hormones. Or looking perfect for Instagram. Or dieting.
Read more about who I am and why we should be friends on our about us page.