Category Archives: Uncategorized

Letter to my mother

I recently wrote this piece on Vocal, a platform for writers from all over the world. I decided to publish it here on my blog because it has a place here, it is part of my story.

To the mother I don’t remember.

Hi mum.

Well, here we are. If ever there was going to be an opportunity to write you a letter, this is it.

I saw this challenge on a writing platform I recently discovered called Vocal. Nothing like that would have existed when you were alive. Back then landline phones were the main form of communication or telegrams for urgent contact with loved ones abroad.

Today, we can communicate with anyone anywhere in the world in a matter of seconds. You would have loved this. You would have used social media or What’s APP and Messenger to connect with your parents and siblings while you traveled around the world with my dad. I know you sent them telegrams though. Your mum -grandma Audrey- showed me some when I was growing up.

She also showed me the one she received while she was in Malaysia with granddad Paul. The one that told her you had taken your life. She had a breakdown straight after.

I know you wrote her letters. She showed me those too. You wrote long, detailed explanations of all that you were seeing, experiencing in different countries in the world. Being the wife of a sea faring captain was fun and you enjoyed sea -salt seasoned adventures. You met some amazing people, rescued parrots, mynah birds and monkeys from markets in Beirut and Morocco. But you couldn’t rescue me.

It feels fitting to write you a letter. You wrote many and they were beautiful. Little did you know that your daughter would be so like you. A writer, an animal lover, a rescuer, a wandering soul.

When I saw this challenge to write about a woman who inspires me, many women came to mind. Women who have been mother figures when you were not there throughout my life. Even the woman who grabbed me and placed me in her husband’s arms when I walked round to her house and said I couldn’t wake up mummy. She was a rock to our family. And she still cries for you even in her very old age. But I didn’t pick her.

I thought of aunt Zoe, your best friend. She was a mother figure for me while I lived on the farm those first years. She would take me to her home to play with her girls and wash me in the bath. Patiently and often with tears streaming down her face, she would scrub the filth from my body. Caked on dirt from the farm. Dirt my grandparents couldn’t see or wash from my body, they could barely take care of themselves.

Aunt Zoe would use rose scented soap, warm water, and soft towels to dry me. She told me that when you were alive, I smelled of flowers. No one knew what you used on me but anywhere I went, I smelled clean and beautiful. She always made a point of drying between my toes so that I couldn’t get a fungal infection. I used to think it was weird. Now I know she was desperate to protect me in the only way she knew, by keeping me clean.

She still grieves for you. And now she grieves the loss of her own daughter too. Too soon, too young, your age when you left. Who would have thought? But I didn’t pick her.

I thought of Elli, the woman who fostered me when you died. At just 5 years old, she added me into her home with her daughters and made me feel like part of her family. I had my comfortable bed, my own set of drawers with neatly folded clean clothes. She cared about me and loved me like a mother, but she wasn’t my mother. She couldn’t connect the bond that was severed when you left me. Nothing could do that. No one could. But she did her very best, for two whole years she tried but in the end all I wanted was to be close to you by living on the farm with my grandparents, the last people who ever saw you alive, the ones who kept your handbag and nightdress in the wardrobe. Living on the farm meant I could hide in the wardrobe and hug your handbag tightly, smelling your scent, feeling you close. So, I didn’t pick Elli.

There have been other women who have inspired me over the years. Women I called when I gave birth so that I could announce the happy news to someone who resembled a mother figure in my life. There have been women who have loved, supported me, cheered me on but I didn’t pick them.

There are friends who are women of valor, an example of what is it to overcome trauma, adversity and live victoriously. I thought of them. Surviving domestic violence, sexual abuse, loss and severe trauma, being an example to their children, setting up charities, making a difference in the hurting world.

But I didn’t pick them.

Why did I pick you? I don’t even remember you, well, the two memories I have of you are not the stuff of inspirational stories. Your detention in the mental hospital and your death. that’s it.

At five years old when you left, I should have more memories, but they were cleaned out with the same brutality strangers cleaned out our home when you died.

I picked you because you inspire me to be the woman I aspire to being. I picked you because you weren’t perfect and you did life raw, hard but real. I picked you because you loved me in the deepest and most profound way there could ever be. I know this because even though I have no good memories of you when I think of you, I sense the bond, severed but still there like two ends of one umbilical cord cut in half the two bodies floating away from each other and yet, somehow, supernaturally connected through a stronger invisible cord.

I don’t remember you, yet people say I am so like you. I write like you, we even have the same handwriting, how can that be? I love animals, nature, people. I laugh with my head thrown back, loud and full heartedly, just like you did apparently. I see the funny side of everything just like you did. Apparently.

According to all those who knew you as a daughter, sister and friend, you were sensitive, compassionate, loved deep and hard, stood up to fight for those with no voice. My arrival was your happiest moment and as I have been told so many times, I was always carried by you lest I fell, lest I scraped a knee, lest I felt sad.

I remember your mum, grandma Audrey telling me that when you all lived in Malaysia or some other exotic part of the world, while she dined and danced and played tennis with diplomats, you were tending to the lepers that no one wanted to touch. You had access to wealth and luxury, but you preferred the poor and destitute.

Your beauty won you many competitions and many rich and famous men asked for your hand in marriage. But you picked my dad. A Greek man from a poor family who sailed the seas to get away from his own pain and then found you, his kindred spirit, his soul mate. You were happiest feeding sheep on his parents’ farm, helping on the ship, bringing joy and rescuing people and animals wherever you travelled.

You loved fully, unconditionally; you were real. And your pain bore deep. My father’s death was the final straw for you. You couldn’t bear it any longer and so two failed attempts later, your struck ‘lucky’ the third time and left me forever wondering why. Why you left. Why I wasn’t worth living for.

I have been so utterly heartbroken that no one could help me. My body has taken all the pain of my soul and doctors could not help me as I screamed in physical and mental anguish. The trauma of your loss was too much, at times I have been tempted to end it all, to follow you but then there has always been a force within me pushing me on, lifting me up. Is it you?

I went through years of anger towards you. If you had stayed alive, I would have been safe, protected from the molesters, the neglect, the further loss when my grandparents died. I would have had someone to rejoice in my pregnancies, someone to call for that family recipe, someone to hold the baby while I took a nap. You would have been my light in the darkness. But maybe you have been all along.

But its all the stuff of dreams because we truly do not know what the future brings. I was angry for what I thought I was missing and yet so many mothers are alive but may as well be dead for the pain and sorrow they cause their children.

There came a time, I saw what I was doing and how you became a scapegoat. If you were still alive, I would be … If you had not died, I would not have endured …

But its all just thoughts, no proof. It is all futile.

They say time is a healer. I am not healed. I have learned to live with your absence. I have forgiven you for leaving me and I have wished you alive more times than it is possible to count. But you are not, at least not in this same life I am living now.

And yet I am inspired by you. I am inspired to live my life fully even if I don’t know what may come. I am inspired to love like you did even though you knew it hurt. I am inspired to care for others selflessly even if they never acknowledge my kindness. I am inspired to do what thrills my heart even if it doesn’t meet with the expectations or approval of others. As a mother, I am inspired to hold on to my children longer, carry them lest they fall, hold them high above the danger, be real and raw and funny and sad and authentic lest they have some false aspirations of a perfect mother that does not exist.

Most of all mum, I am inspired by you to let go of all that I think I should be, to not conform to the standards of the world and instead be unashamedly and unapologetically myself. Because that is the example by which I want to inspire my own children to live. Holding nothing back, fitting in no one’s box but living fully themselves, making mistakes without shame, discovering without judgement, living according to their benchmark and embracing all there is with no regrets.

And for that I am truly grateful and inspired.

I love you

Until we meet again

Your daughter

Can any good come out of the Covid 19 pandemic?

Photo by cottonbro

By nature, I am a positive and very optimistic person. The glass half – full type. But I can’t lie to you. The Covid 19 pandemic has raised my hackles and I have reigned myself in on multiple occasions to prevent a panic attack triggered by the latest apocalypse style news. I live in the UK and have watched as the world, piece by piece is shutting down, entire countries going into lock-down with a police or military presence preventing unnecessary movement. Here, although in lock down we are told to practice social distancing keeping 2 metres apart from others when out on our assigned daily exercise and avoid unnecessary movement. Schools have closed and parents are trying to figure out how to home educate while surviving the health risks, while isolating, while trying to change their businesses into online ones, while dealing with the uncertainty and financial implications. Panic shopping has seen empty shelves worthy of war like scenarios and fights breaking out over toilet paper. Who would have thought?

It’s easy to look at all this and go into shut down mode. I worry most about people with learning difficulties that can’t understand, people with mental illness already battling to manage, at-risk children and spouses in domestic violence or abusive situations being forced to stay in with their perpetrators. Alzheimer’s patients, children and adults with conditions that make them vulnerable, the elderly (have they not been through enough?), those with underlying health conditions and hence more vulnerable. I have friends undergoing chemotherapy, one who just had open heart surgery. Our family lives in Cyprus, currently in lock down. My mother in law was discharged from hospital after a serious illness only days before Covid 19 hit. We can only hope that all will be well and soon we’ll be tasting grandmas’ delicious dolmades and playing with cousins on the beach.

In the meantime, we have to ride it out. As another friend recently reflected, her parents were teenagers during World War 2 and they spent the best parts of their youth working in ammunition factories and farms, surviving but never really living. Their answer to how they coped “We just got on with it.”

That is certainly one way to look at it, but I believe there is another. We may feel like helpless pawns in some big game orchestrated by nature or bio hacking or the 5G invasion messing with our bodies’ natural electrical current. Whatever it is, we can look at it a different way.

Photo by Korhan Erdol

We can use this crisis as a personal opportunity to reflect on how we once lived, naïve, dependant on the state or on world systems to look after us, trusting and faithfully working as cogs in someone else’s wheel. We trust a medical system that in time of crisis can’t cope, can’t help, and due to a lack of resources has to decide who it will allow to live and who must die for the benefit of the younger fitter cogs.

We trust an education system that raises cogs only to find that its perfectly designed formula is putting children at risk of infection and has washed its hands off. It has sent children back home to be cared for, protected and educated by their parents, the people it has convinced us for so long were unable to educate their children. We have been led to believe that only conventional schools, institutionalisation could achieve what no parent could. And yet, it is parents who are now expected to pick up the reigns and ride on regardless even with impossible odds and frustrating limitations.

We trust supermarkets to always provide, that they have systems in place to handle any crisis especially since warnings in the form of previous outbreaks have been around for years. We trust that we will always be fed and watered and sustained, only to find chaos, lack of management, hoarding, fighting and empty shelves.

Reflecting brings awareness, lessons learned and new realisations. Aha moments that lead to new perception, different ways of thinking and creativity unleashed. Usually it begins with looking at ourselves, how we rely on outside sources to feel safe, content, happy. When all is taken away, can we still feel safe, content, happy?

Perhaps we will start to grow our own food in pots or gardens. I saw a video the other day of a woman growing food on a tiled floor and in the crevices of the garden walls. Food scarcity may motivate us to try new recipes using leftovers or less ingredients. A friend sent me a recipe for flat bread with just 4 ingredients. Water, flour, salt and oil. We may become less wasteful, more mindful when eating. The realisation that when all is said and done, the best weapon against illness is our own body, will lead us to take better care of it. Feed it nutritiously, build its immunity, love on it more, hate on it and judge it less.

The coronavirus crisis has forced us to physically socialise less, spend more time at home, more time with our families if we live with others, more creative socialisation online or by phone.

In times past, for many communities, life was isolating with homes miles apart and no phone or internet communication. Visitors from neighbouring villages provided a rare exciting break to the day to day life of those communities. Back then, men worked out in the fields, farms, workshops, mines, sea fishing, or running small shops while women mostly stayed at home working hard to wash by hand, clean with natural cleaners like vinegar. They may have walked miles to fetch clean water (as still happens in communities around the world), feed the animals kept for milk, eggs or food, sew clothes for the family, repair old ones, grind flour, prepare food from scratch since no convenience foods were available. They may have earned extra money sewing for others, making crafts to sell, weaving baskets, making jewellery or make- up from natural resources. They may have foraged for food or natural materials to create items for the home. There wasn’t much time to ‘socialise’.

Children would have possibly and rarely attended some sort of school or outdoor class with one teacher, or even learned at home as their ancestors would have done for hundreds of years before. They would have participated in all chores and jobs helping both parents. And then, there would have been some break, a little time to play and ‘socialise’. This may have been a kick about with a ball with a few local friends, the women would make tea or coffee and have a quick gossip between chores if they happened to live near each other. Men would converse while working or at a gathering in the village. Most socialising over the course of history was a natural part of living, while shopping, doing chores, among family and rarely with lots of people.

Today we think socialising is something that has to be forced, manipulated, facilitated. We bring about hundreds of children together in institutions and time them against the clock to play according to our rules while micromanaged by adults.

Now, we are going back to how it was. Back to using time creatively, productively in our homes, reconnecting with family members, working as a team, taking responsibilities, laughing and playing together and enjoying some safe contact with others. What we may find through this is that our conversations are longer, deeper, more meaningful. That we call people we haven’t seen for years and have those conversations we shelved due to lack of time. That we learn to enjoy our own company, and be comfortable in our own skin.

As home educators, socialisation has been a natural part of life. Of course, we haven’t been shut at home all the time, but we haven’t been mixing with lots of people in a manufactured attempt to socialise either. We have simply been doing life and learning to be content with time alone, or in small intimate gatherings.

Conversely, another benefit from this social distancing or lock-down will be the quietness. Our world had become outrageously noisy. Noise pollution is real. As someone who has battled PTSD for most of my life, noise is painful, confusing, overwhelming. There are many people with sensory issues, autism, Asperger’s, PTSD and other reasons to struggle with noise. Crowded shops and cafes, crowded playgrounds, crowded streets. I’ve given up on so many dates with my husband because I simply could not hear him over the noise of music layered on top of noise from diners. Screaming children make playcentres impossible even for my children who can’t understand why other kids need to scream to have fun. Interesting. Even drying our hands in public toilets is an assault on our hearing with incredibly loud high-pressured air forced through machines. There is scientific proof that the noise level exceeds the legal limit and is harmful to children especially those lower down and thus nearer the output of the hand dryer. Noise noise everywhere. But not anymore, at least not for a time. The world is getting quieter. And we need it. We all need it.

Gratitude and appreciation. We have taken so many luxuries for granted for far too long. History books tell us that nothing is forever, nothing is guaranteed, or secure. We have seen devastating wars, unjustified, making no sense whatsoever, turn stunning tourist hot spots into rubble and millions of people fleeing to safety only to find they are not wanted anywhere. Those that once graced their beaches, enjoyed luxury spas in their hotels, shopped from their markets and enthused in the beauty of their country, now turn their backs on the very people who once served them and made their holiday unforgettable. Now, with their status changed to refugees, they are stranded, unwanted, uncared for with nothing to help them survive harsh winters, dangerous human predators, disease, starvation. Are you safe in your home right now? Be grateful.

Photo by Kelly Lacy from Pexels

We know that in our lifetimes, in this day and age, fires can wipe out entire countries, famine and disease can wipe out entire generations. Floods, tsunamis, viruses, cancer, malnutrition, earthquakes, hurricanes, volcano eruptions. They are all real and dangerous and possible yet if we haven’t been touched by it, we don’t care. Each to their own. But now, when we are all affected, we suddenly have woken up to something that is reality for people in third world countries all the time. Lack of clean water, food, sanitation, toilet paper, medicine. Yet they get on with it. They find ways, solutions.

We see now. We truly see and as such we may no longer take for granted our freedom of movement, social gatherings, material possessions, abundance of food in our shops, concerts, cinemas, theatres, shopping malls, central heating, air conditioning, safe homes, cars, fuel, technology, free healthcare (in the UK).

We may now be more conscious of our temporary state of existing, our mortality, our fragility and how we are all in this together not apart. Distance is no longer relevant. We haven’t avoided this crisis, it has come to find us in every country, every community no matter how much we tried to get on with our lives. We are all part of the bigger picture, each of us relevant and connected. We are suddenly seeing this connection and cultivating empathy, compassion.

The uncertainty is also turning our attention to the higher power, our spirit nature, the rest of the story when this chapter is over. Whatever it is, the universe, God, our inner being, we know there is more, this can’t be it. We are too amazing, intricate, extraordinary for this life to be it. No, there’s so much more. This experience has purpose and we are now considering it, ruminating on it, gleaning wisdom from it, faith growing stronger.

We are finding meaning. What once seemed important, critical, worrying, challenging may have paled into insignificance as bigger and more worrying things have taken their place. Just weeks ago we stressed over meeting deadlines, that promotion, paying for the holiday, what to do with the kids during Spring break, why little Jimmy didn’t get invited to the class birthday party, why little Annie didn’t get picked for the team again. Now, we watch as the world is getting infected with an unknown virus and we are herded and prodded and investigated, quarantined and scared for our lives and those of our loved ones, not least because the healthcare system can’t cope. A scenario worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster, in fact it won’t be long before one is out.

Photo by Anna Shvets

What once felt like a breaking point, showed us that we are stronger and more resilient when bigger threats are on the horizon.  In ‘Man’s search for meaning’ Viktor Frankl documents his experience as a psychiatrist sent to Auschwitz concentration camp. He describes the challenges and how differently prisoners tried to survive. The conspiracies, betrayals for a piece of bread, the fights but also the hope, the faith, the instinct to survive, the compassion, camaraderie and sacrifice. In a place where they had no freedom, no food, no warm clothing, no medicine and were beaten, tortured and degraded constantly, those who focused on positive thinking, on loved ones, on dreams, on their faith, on the future, on those they cared about in that place, had the best chance of survival.

At one point in the book Viktor describes how he felt the presence of his wife. He had no idea if she had died or was still alive (she was in fact dead), but he felt her presence powerfully and would speak with her all the time while labouring away on the railway tracks in the snow. At night he would dream, and his dreams provided an escape from the reality of daytime suffering. In fact, he looked forward to sleep so that he could escape through his dreams. Humour existed even in those dire circumstances. No one could take those things from him. No one can take that from us now.

Recently in the documentary ‘The story of us’ with Morgan Freeman, I watched Albert Woodfox who was convicted to solitary confinement, describe the moment he decided he was free. He spent 23 hours of each day in a 6×9 cell alone for 43 years. He watched men he had become close friends with, go insane in their cells. And yet for him it all changed when he simply made a decision that no one could take away the freedom of his mind. His body may have been imprisoned but his mind and spirit were free. With that knowledge, he passed the hours and years until his release. The remainder of his life is being invested in teaching others, inspiring younger generations to be a force for good. Would he have dedicated these years to such an important purpose had it not been for his experience? I doubt it. Something took place in the confinement, a transformation.

How will you use your time in self-isolation or social distancing or quarantine?

“I realized that, even in prison, my schedule and time were in my control. Unlike my fellow inmates who spent their time playing cards, watching TV and “shucking and jiving” all day, I focused on training my mind. In those two years: I read 197 books. I wrote two books. I learned a new language (Korean). I taught my fellow inmates all about business and start-ups. I studied physics and history. I wrote every single day for two years straight. I incessantly trained and disciplined my mind. My routine became the saving grace that allowed me to relentlessly train my mind.” Andrew Medal (www.entrepreneur.com)

So, in summary these are the key take – away’s for this season we are in. My own reflections, conclusions, tools. Add your own. Edit mine. Go deep. Don’t be afraid.

  • Keep positive and focus on your mindset. Catch negative thoughts before they take root and replace them with positive ones.
  • Reflect and learn the lessons. What do you need to change going forward?
  • Use the opportunity. What new ideas can you develop? What old ones can you pick back up? What new skills can you learn?
  • Slow down. Take longer over tasks you used to rush through and become present, living in the moment, connecting deeper.
  • Practice gratitude and forgiveness. This is the perfect time to develop a gratitude habit. Journal it, write things you are grateful each day and place them in a jar. Consider people in your life that you need to forgive and cleanse your soul. This will benefit your health and boost your immunity too.
  • Dream, visualise, plan for the future. Make a vision board, write it on a piece of paper, visualise it daily in your mind and walk through it as if you were doing it. Amazingly, your brain can’t tell the difference, it believes you are actually doing it and will set in motion the means by which to make it reality.
  • Find meaning even in the smallest things. I once read a book called ‘one thousand gifts’. A journey of gratitude. The author even listed being grateful for the soap suds on her hands as she washed dishes and the rainbow colours reflected in it from the sunlight through the window. The soap suds represented all that she had in her life, children to wash dishes for, food to cook and plates to clean, their farm. The simplest things can speak volumes to our hearts. Don’t miss them.

Its OK to worry and be afraid but don’t stay there. I go through those moments too. We are human. Right now, many hospitals are filled with Covid 19 patients fighting for their lives. I am not being naive or trying to be insensitive. But if anything, the traumatic experiences of my past have taught me to always look for the bigger picture, to look for the good in every situation, to do what is within my ability, to trust for what I cannot understand and to believe that there is more to this life, more to this situation and that I don’t have to have every detail resolved. To see each day for the gift it is and to focus on the now while trusting for the tomorrow.

Seize the day

A couple of weeks ago I finally started my coaching business.

It’s not the easiest profession to describe, but for me, a coach comes alongside someone who is stuck; someone who is struggling in their life, career or business and needs a helping hand to lift them out of the hole they find themselves in. It’s a way of supporting someone so that they might continue onward to their desired destination through a trusted relationship (not friendship).

The ability to coach is both an honour and a blessing. It’s a vocation rather than a job and it makes me feel one hundred percent alive. Yet it took me some time to get here.

I started training in 2016, but didn’t take it further because I felt I needed more training. I wasn’t ready. I was too busy shifting my own junk to pretend to be someone who had it all figured out. I was in no position to coach others.

I hope this irony isn’t lost on you.

Then, last year, I signed up for a three-year course in counselling and psychotherapy. So far, it has been incredibly revealing and, as many of you know, a few months ago I began my own journey of healing from complex trauma, which is primarily what this blog is about. But, I also came to realise a few fundamental truths.

I initially delayed my coaching business because I thought I had to be a perfect coach, that I needed to have it all figured out and be completely healed of my own issues; to be a ‘success story’, if you will. What I didn’t realise was that healing is quite often a long process. For many of us, it’s a life-long one. Yet this doesn’t mean we stop living until we have it all sussed out. In fact, I already possess the skills needed to be a good coach because I have a lifetime of experience behind me.

Every challenge and achievement taught me strength, resilience, adaptability, congruence, empathy, curiosity, positivity, optimism, vision and determination. And while I still have issues to work through, I am perfectly capable of coming alongside others to help them on their own journeys.  I learned this in my counselling course by observing the group I was in.

Many of my fellow students are teachers, mentors and therapists using various methodologies. They help people every day while still working through their own issues. Understanding this convinced me to take my own first step. I needed to overcome my fear of getting it wrong and actually do it. I needed to stop procrastinating.

Procrastination, in my experience, is caused by two main factors: a fear of failure, so we stay in our safe place, dreaming, hoping, wondering, but never quite moving; and the pursuit of perfection, believing we can’t do x, y or z because we need to get it absolutely right, cover every eventuality and ensure there is no room for error.

Perfection is, of course, a pretty high standard to set and even if we get close, fear usually jumps in to shame us. What if we get it wrong? We’ll be exposed as a fraud. What will friends/ family / social network / clients think of us? We’ll make fools of ourselves. This kind of inner dialogue can shut even the best of us down. So, we head back to our safe space, the comfort zone where we remain dreaming and wondering with the curse of ‘what if’ bringing its own frustrations.

But unsurprisingly, there is more to procrastination than is immediately apparent.

I have spent a lifetime starting and stopping thanks to a lack of self-belief. I would tell myself I wasn’t good enough, that I would never be good enough to achieve what I wanted to achieve, that I was somehow different – if not inferior – to the over-achievers I knew or read about who had attained success, fame and fortune.  

This belief that you’re not good enough can be paralysing. Not only has it led me to start and give up on many projects, but it has also affected other areas of my life leading me to distrust myself, my intuition, my inner voice. I tried to do what other people suggested or recommended. If other people were not involved, my own logic ran roughshod over my heart and dictated my steps. But what is logical is not always correct.

Over the years, I have bounced from one profession to another, from veterinary assistant to dog groomer. I started driving instructor training and attempted to write a cookery book, which I ultimately gave up on because I couldn’t get it perfect. I tried and followed many paths, but I never finished the journey because the fear would paralyse me before the end was in sight.

Fast forward to today and something has shifted. In reality, the shift started many years ago as a drip that got stronger with every small failure or success, that drew power from disappointment and growth from the lessons learned. Then, when I started the counselling course a few months ago, this shift became tangible. I gave my heart permission to lead and my brain to take a back seat. I started to face up to, and acknowledge, the truth of who I am, of what drives me and what fulfills me. I started to see my path more clearly.

At the same time, I began to afford myself more care, love and honour. I finally recognised how badly I treated myself; dishonouring and neglecting my body, soul and spirit. And, as I have begun to take more notice – getting to know myself and to take value in myself as a human being – lots of other things have fallen into place. One of those things is the coaching.

Coaching is not a job that my fellow Cypriot country folk admire, understand or approve of as it doesn’t come with multiple letters after your name, degrees and a graduation certificate that shouts “I made it, I am ticking the boxes of acceptance, admiration and becoming someone.” But as I let go of the need for acceptance and admiration, it allows me to step into the shoes of the woman I really am, and boldly walk the path ahead of me.

When I coach people, I come into my own. I am alive, I am on fire. Joy fills my heart and love pours out to my fellow human beings as I try to help them navigate their difficulties, free themselves from their own stuck places and harness their potential. When I coach people, I feel wonderful because I am serving in the way that feels natural. When I coach people, I have a sense of purpose. Seeing faces light up when an ‘aha’ moment arrives is priceless, witnessing their breakthroughs exciting, and watching them walk into their dreams and destinies is gold.

Little by little, the old skin is shedding. The skin of people-pleasing, distrusting myself, not knowing who I am, this need for approval, this need for admiration, and doing what is expected of me.

I am growing into my new skin and it fits better. It’s shiny, strong and protective. Fear of failure is no longer paralysing; it drives me forward because I now embrace it instead of avoiding it. I know that in every ‘failure’ there is much to learn, lots of wisdom to glean and shame has no place in this journey of self-discovery and self-actualisation. Comparing myself to others has no place in my life anymore as I get to know and value myself. I am learning to be comfortable in my skin and pay the price of this new awakening.

The price may be losing friends who ‘loved’ me as long as I fitted into their paradigm or lived my life in a way they approved of. Certainly, my friends list has shrunk dramatically in recent times. But when we change, our world changes too. We notice things differently, we see that what we once held on to as precious, no longer matters. Labels, opinions, other people’s ideals.

I am seeing a shift in my confidence, self-esteem, my view of life, spirituality, parenting and marriage. There are times of great challenge in this shift, conflict even, but that’s the reality of breaking out. It’s painful. Raw. But watch a reptile shed its skin or break out of its shell and you see the pain is similar. It can be excruciating, but soon their colour becomes brighter, they look fresh, new, bigger, stronger, and ready for the next phase of their lives.

When a caterpillar is encased in its chrysalis, does it know it will emerge again? Does it think the chrysalis is its place of death? Has it come to the end of its life? Certainly, if we didn’t know what would happen, we might think that too. Watching a butterfly struggle to emerge can also be frustrating. Some have tried to help the butterfly by breaking the chrysalis for it, but this largely results in the butterfly’s death. The butterfly must not be helped physically to break out; it must go through the struggle, the pain and the possibility of failure. Then, when it emerges, it is stronger because of that struggle and ready to fly. The fat, unremarkable caterpillar that was shrouded within the chrysalis emerges beautiful, remarkable even, and able to fly.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

These are new times for me, new steps I am taking, new paths I am following. I am filled with excitement, joy and anticipation at what I will discover. But I believe my caterpillar years are over and I am now in my own chrysalis; learning, growing and preparing to emerge.

New year, new path?

Image by Brayden Law from Pexels

Writing a blog hasn’t come easy to me. Despite the ads on social media telling you it’s the perfect business to get into from the comfort of your own home – it isn’t.

In reality, it has been something of a journey and I’m not even four months in.

Despite my best hopes and my most positive thoughts, I have left a catalogue of attempted and aborted posts in my wake, my train of thought is constantly challenged by new ideas and WordPress seems intent on deleting my posts for reasons I have not yet fathomed. However, all of this pales into insignificance compared to the hammer blow I took to my confidence recently when a Facebook notification informed me that someone had reviewed my blog as ‘not recommended’.

Deflated, I resolved to end it all; blogging was clearly not for me and it was time to press the delete button and get a ‘real job’.

I immediately unpublished the blog that had caused such offence in case this was just one of many criticisms to come. My blogging efforts might have been meager, but they had come from a genuine place and I was hurt by this reaction to them. But then I recalled Brenee Brown’s recent documentary on Netflix (yes, I know, Netflix again, but it’s all I watch on TV, what can I say?) In the documentary, Brenee described the onslaught of spiteful comments and hate mail she had received after her Ted x talk went viral some years ago. Interestingly, the talk was on shame and vulnerability. Comments included vulgar expletives about her weight, face and dress sense. Some even went so far as to suggest she kill herself.

Truly, what kind of world are we living in? What did Brenee do that was so wrong? Nothing. And so she had a good cry and got on with being the brilliant researcher, advocate, writer and speaker she is, inspiring us all along the way. All power to her.

Then I remembered a book I had recently read, ‘Born Under a Million Shadows’ by Andrea Busfield, a respected journalist and author. She wrote this novel after living in Afghanistan for three years. It was a brilliant book that reflected not only the atrocities she witnessed, but also the deep and beautiful friendships she formed with Afghans, something we rarely get to glimpse as we soldier on through novel after novel with much the same start, middle and end. Yawn.

Because I like to encourage others, when I have something good to say I usually post a review. I did that for this author only to become distracted by another review that was not only negative and critical, but rude! Donning my battle armour, I went to war and told this reviewer in as nice a way as I could, how wrong she was. I am sure she is grateful for my response and will thank me for correcting her faulty perspective, not. I don’t know any book that has given me such a respect and love for a country that has been so trashed by the world’s media and scaremongering politicians, and yet Andrea weaved in culture, tradition, beauty, heartache and conflict in a way that resonated with me having been born and raised in a country torn apart by war.

And that’s when it hit me.

My “not recommended” review was merely an irritation compared to these other reviews, and as harmless as an annoying house fly when looked at next to Brenee’s mauling. And yet it unsettled me enough to take me back to that dark place where I constantly question myself, raising the doubts, insecurities and fears that have always plagued me.

After a strong cup of PG tips, accompanied by something super sugary from the fridge and followed by a large glass of Malbec, I took time to pause and reflect. My ego and I had a heart to heart. Well, more of a fist fight really. Being Greek, a heart to heart is a bit of a non-entity in my culture, but having learned to practice stillness I was better at it than before, although I’d argue that the Malbec helped considerably.

There was no great epiphany, but I did realise one thing; I am still, at times, functioning out of a place of hurt, shame, FEAR, insecurity or frustration and definitely from a place of trauma survival. I struggle with criticism because I learned to be a people pleaser and unlearning that is tough. I don’t trust my own judgement or intuition and so I look to others for approval about what I’m doing. This in itself has led me into many problematic situations in the past.

When I initially started writing this blog, I wanted to fit in with other bloggers – to write short posts on popular subjects such as travel. I also hoped it might become something I could monetise in the future. So yes, popular topics, a softly-softly approach, regular posts about nothing of substance just likable, shallow.

Photo by Anny Patterson from Pexels

Because I was serious, I had researched the art of blogging and even did a course, but when it came to delivery, it didn’t work. So, I reflected on that and I thought again about that first act of WordPress ‘sabotage’. Perhaps losing one of my posts was actually a way to cause me to stumble; to stem the flow of wrong creativity and make me look at everything afresh, frustrated but afresh.

Then, when the second post was deleted and WordPress insisted that they could not find any proof of its existence (even though it had been published, emailed and people had read it), I became stuck. But stuck is not always bad; stuck makes you think after you’ve thrown your dummy out. It makes you consider, reflect, evaluate and then decide a way forward. Do I sulk and delete the lot, as I have done so many times before, or do I persevere? And if I persevere, how do I move forward? What is the lesson I need to learn from this experience? What is it telling me? And then voila! Bingo! Bull’s eye! Hole in one! (OK, I’ll stop.)

I hadn’t been myself. I hadn’t been genuine, congruent. I had been trying to write like other bloggers who make lots of money from their blogs. My motive was all wrong. My compass was out of place. I was trying to be someone I am not. And even though my posts were written with genuine care, I picked topics that were easy, not triggering, not stressful and not too revealing so they wouldn’t leave me vulnerable.

That’s when I wrote about my writing journey and the teacher that inspired me. After that, I wrote about my mother. Both were deep, genuine, authentic ‘me’ pieces. And yet, that’s what had attracted the negative review that left me cowering. When I was fake no one batted an eyelid, but when I became me, it caused a wave, a tremor of a backlash. Why? Did I trigger something in others that they had long buried away? Was I too deep, dull, boring or wordy?

Whatever it is, I know I have to be myself. I can’t pretend to be anyone else.

After years of being who and what others needed me to be, I am daring to be bold and courageous, to put myself out there and overcome the fear of vulnerability, shame and exposure.

I realise that I am not ready to monetise or make a business out of blogging. The purpose of the blog is to help me process, gain clarity, sharpen my perspective and discover who I am and where I am going. It might be a lonely journey or one with few companions, but I know those that do choose to hold my hand, encourage or support me, are genuine individuals who have walked their own stony paths and identify someway with mine.

At 45 years of age, I am learning about and healing from complex trauma. I also have dreams, visions, goals, ambitions. I want to make a difference, leave a legacy. I want to parent consciously, live purposefully. There are new horizons for me out there, but walking comes before running.

Photo by Adrien Olichon from Pexels

“Courage is a heart word. The root of the word courage is cor—the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage meant ‘To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.’ Over time, this definition has changed, and today, we typically associate courage with heroic and brave deeds. But in my opinion, this definition fails to recognize the inner strength and level of commitment required for us to actually speak honestly and openly about who we are and about our experiences—good and bad. Speaking from our hearts is what I think of as ‘ordinary courage.’” Brenee Brown.

Photo by Lukas Hartmann from Pexels

The Kindness Diaries – Inspiring kindness, giving hope, sharing love, oceans apart.

Courtesy of http://www.leonlogothetis.com

” The world is filled with travelers. Some travel by force, some by choice. But for some of us, it is a calling. At the heart of this brotherhood is the desire to connect, find community and a place to belong. And every single connection made, makes the world a little better because as Mark Twain put it “travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindness. Charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in on a little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime” “

Leon Logothetis – the Kindness Diaries
https://leonlogothetis.com/

Television is really not my thing. Give me books, books, books and yes please, even more books! Every now and then however, when I need to take a break from reading, writing or studying, I flick through channels and Netflix categories looking for something worthy of my time.

I don’t mean this in a proud, derogatory way, please do not misunderstand. What I am trying to say is that I channel my focus and time into whatever feels productive, not wanting to miss a moment, not wanting to waste an opportunity. So if I am going to watch something, it needs to be good, impactful, powerful. It needs to leave me with something to ponder, reflect on and from which I can grow.

https://leonlogothetis.com/

The Kindness Diaries is such a program. I watched series 1 a few months ago. I was so impressed by it that I set everything aside to watch almost the entire series back to back. As Leon set off on his trusted canary yellow motorbike (with side car) from Hollywood, L.A, I journeyed with him. Together, we crossed through the United States of America, Europe, India, Cambodia, Vietnam, Canada and back to Hollywood.

https://leonlogothetis.com/

Relying entirely on the kindness of strangers to feed him, put petrol in Kindness One, and give him a bed or sofa for the night, Leon was gifted an inside view to the lives of the strangers who offered kindness. Each one with their story to tell. Their own journey of hope and reason for offering kindness to a stranger. I laughed. I cried. I paused episodes and contemplated in silence. Each episode – each story left a mark on my heart and filled it with fresh motivation, inspiration and hope.

But there is something more. Leon does not only receive kindness. He also gives it. Every now and then, when he meets someone who has profoundly touched his heart, who has given out of their lack, Leon gives them a gift. It may be a home to get them off the streets, funding a charity, a dream holiday, and much more.

https://leonlogothetis.com/

In series 2, Leon embarks on another journey, this time with a canary yellow VW beetle with no modifications, heating or power steering. Kindness 2 takes him through Canada, Alaska, America, Mexico, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Peru, eventually ending in Argentina.

https://leonlogothetis.com/

Listening to their stories, Leon connects. Sometimes, like in the case of Rena who rescues stray dogs in Colombia, the story is a bit too close to home. Moved to tears, Leon shares with Rena that his own dog Winston was the one who taught him about love. Winnie loved him unconditionally and marked Leon’s life profoundly.

Winnie with Leon. https://leonlogothetis.com/

Rena shares the story of her and her siblings’ abandonment by their mother and how they were treated like dogs by their father. It caused her to commit her life to rescuing and re homing stray dogs. Rena and Leon shared a common thread, a deep connection, visible in their interaction, Rena, an elderly lady who hugs him like a wise, loving grandmother and prays a blessing in his life. Leon in turn, shares with her the real reason for his travels. To find kind, selfless strangers who are in need of his help. And help he does, by funding the rescue and rehabilitation of 100 stray dogs for Rena. Her joy is magnetic.

Rena who rescues the stray dogs of her region in Colombia. https://leonlogothetis.com/

“We are all travelers in one sense or another but what matters between life and death is our journey. But while we are here, there is an opportunity for us to connect in ways great and small, to experience the richness of cultures not our own, and thereby, enriching our own journeys as we travel this road on this ultimate adventure we call life”

Leon Logothetis.
https://leonlogothetis.com/

Each episode in series 2 is connected to a particular theme, each is a gift. We see the gift of faith, community, purpose, home, food, shelter, hope, Winnie love, connection, knowledge, travel, friendship and of course kindness.

” As humans we don’t control the circumstances of our birth, but our lives can be changed by the decisions we make. Some people spend their lives taking while others spend their lives giving. And while each can leave their mark on history, ask yourself for your own life and for the legacy you will leave behind what story are you trying to tell?”

Leon Logothetis

We also learn of atrocities and meet people who are battling insane red tape regulations to reunite with families across oceans. This series is not a travel documentary. It is so much more.

When Leon asks two paramedics why they are travelling around the world, their reply is simple yet heartrending. “So that we don’t have any regrets’. They explain that because of their job they experienced conversations with the dying. On many occasions they were told their regret was not seeing more of the world and not having a family.

https://leonlogothetis.com/

A deported Mexican father, is staying on the border in a shack, planning his third swimming attempt to cross to the USA and be reunited with his wife and child. Each time, he is caught by the coast guard and sent back. Many drown, he has survived twice and is not stopping until he arrives or dies. Sobering.

When Leon travels through postcard perfect images, breathtaking views and surreal adventures, we are faced with stark reminders of the darkness within us when kindness or love is absent. He visits a plantation outside Lima, a stunning property fit for a holiday brochure. Yet underneath, in the basement, its dark narrow terrifying maze of catacombs tells of a slave trade 400 years ago and the shocking truth of how they lived here. Above ground, beauty, joy, fresh air. Below, desperation, stench, death.

But then he enters Urumbamba and surprises an old friend named Duska. Duska, a missionary who has devoted her life to caring for the orphans of her community, met Leon when he volunteered at the orphanage in his late teens. Duska was one of the first people in Leon’s life who showed him what kindness is. Before leaving, he pays for the orphanage and school to be extended.

” The construction of a person is similar to the construction of a building. Each begins with a clean slate on a foundation built by others and sometimes the external facade can hide an ugly truth or fail to show true worth. Eventually, people and buildings are left on their own to brace the elements of the world, but how well each holds up to those forces is always determined by the care taken when the foundation was laid. “

Leon Logothetis

In Costa Rica he meets Father Sergio who runs Espirito de Santo, a mission to feed his community’s poor and destitute of all ages. Leon gives him a gift to help feed even more children before he remarks. “My gift made one day easier for the children in need, but I guess every day we are given is a gift and a chance for rebirth, redemption or reinvention”.

https://leonlogothetis.com/

There is much more to this series than I can do it justice in this blog. I would recommend you watch it for yourself, with your friends, with your children. Inspire the younger generation to look for opportunities to make a difference. If they dream of travelling, they can travel in a way that is not only kind to our planet, but kind to its inhabitants too. They can live out their adventures by making a difference to the world around them, by giving their own gift of hope.

” So, as my story comes to an end, another story, your story may be just beginning. And on this journey, I’ve been inspired by other people’s kindness, day in, day out. It’s changed me. Because truly the greatest gift that we have to give another human being, is ourselves. You are the final gift. Because how you show up in the world, it matters. It matters profoundly. We all have the power to change the world. Because to change the world, all you need to do, is change one life. And the most beautiful, the most profound way to change one life simply, is to be kind. So my challenge is simple. the final gift of the kindness diaries is for you to go out into the world and give of yourself, be kind, share love and have as much fun along the way as you can”

Leon Logothetis

Planting hope

Me at Yeri primary school maybe around 1983-84

I haven’t always celebrated my birthday. While there have been occasional candlelit meals with my husband or outings with my children, many birthdays have come and gone with only a passing acknowledgment thanks to matters more pressing to deal with – such as loss, pain, debt, survival.

Today is an exception.

As I begin the 45th year of my life, I feel ready to celebrate. It’s a special date after all – 19.9.19. So, this year marks a new chapter for me. This is the year I step into my writing career, which I hope will be the catalyst for so much more.

Already I am working on a children’s book and a memoir, but it seems fitting to celebrate all that is to come with the ‘formal’ launch of my blog.

When I began the blog, not so long ago, I thought it would be a travel blog, detailing all the places I love in Cyprus and Wales – the countries of my birth and my second home. But as the weeks passed and the words flowed from my keyboard, I noticed a trend in my writing. I wasn’t writing about my travels, but rather my journey. I was travelling through my life stories, remembering the places that had left their mark, breathing new life into past moments that had inspired, motivated and left me with a desire to make a difference.

Having decided to embrace this new path, I am now finding ‘my voice’ as a writer. This remains a work in progress involving a daily battle with the shouts of doubt and disbelief. But at least I am on my way. I celebrate that. This the end of contemplating, desiring, wishing, dreaming and 35 years of procrastination.

For many years I have written, on and off, caught in a cycle of starting and giving up, daring to submit a piece and dealing with rejection, but this year I shall not be deterred because this journey is not only about the writing, but about me and my calling.

The destination of this blog is self-discovery through stories that capture my attention and captivate my heart. Through this journey, I am fulfilling a calling to write stories that make a difference, bring transformation, awareness and change. I am walking towards a bigger vision.

Many years ago, when I was 10 or 11 years old, I was lucky enough to come across someone who planted hope in my heart – the hope that I could be more than the village gossip allowed me to be, that I had a gift, an ability and that I could dare to dream. Over the years, that hope has nourished me through many periods of doubt, rejection, criticism and ridicule. And the person who gifted me that hope was Mrs Nitsa.

Mrs Nitsa was my primary school language teacher when I lived in the village of Yeri, on the outskirts of Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus.

Mrs Nitsa ( Nitsa Anastasiou) with our class at Yeri Primary School, Cyprus.

At the time, Nicosia was still finding its way following the disastrous Greek coup that triggered the Turkish invasion of the north of the island leaving the capital divided. In 1984, half of the city was wrecked, naked and groaning from the pain of death while the other half was fast developing into a modern, cosmopolitan city. Half an hour away, my village had expanded overnight with the influx of refugees from the north and our little primary school perched on a hill was subsequently a mish mash of kids trying to understand the world, claiming our bits of territory and establishing hierarchies like every other school in the world, but with the added aftermath of war bringing a deeper layer of confusion to events.

Mrs Nitsa came from the city. Slim, tall, eloquent, even in 30C+ her make up remained intact and her blonde hair backcombed into a perfect bouffant style that was fashionable in the 80s. With a long thin stick, she would tap words written on the blackboard for us to repeat and I would marvel at her ability to walk on such high heels. I can remember the scent of her skin moisturiser when she walked by, blended with foundation and perfume. It took me to memories I could not see, but recognised. It was the scent of my mother. By then six years had passed since her death and I grasped every opportunity to feel her presence.

Back in that school in 1984, I didn’t know then that I was dyslexic or that I had AD or PTSD or hypervigilance or any of those labels we like to attach in order to understand. I knew I could read and that I loved stories, but everything else was a blur and day in, day out I would gaze absentmindedly out of the window oblivious to the lessons. Except for language class.

Mrs Nitsa knew. She saw what others missed – a child hurting from the loss of her parents, lost in a world of structure, judgement, conformity, ridicule, religious rituals and gossip. A child whose coping mechanism was to write stories. So, write I did. Mrs Nitsa would give me a word or a subject and leave me to it, letting me lose myself in my imagination and the pages I created. Today, I am still writing like that, but I’m learning to edit, to cut and crop instead of letting the rant flow because I want to share this journey.

When the final term came and it was time for us students to move on to high school, Mrs Nitsa knelt in front of me, coming to my level, casting off the towering presence that had so intimidated much of the class. She took hold of my hands and looked me in the eyes. Hers – sparkly blue, fierce and soft at the same time – were that day wet and red. She trembled as she spoke.

“Michelle, I have no idea where you will go. You have been through much, God only knows. I don’t know if I will see you again, but I want to tell you something and ask you a favour. I want you to know that you have a gift for writing. I want you to write, keep journals and no matter what is happening through your life, write it all. Then one day you will write your memoir, your story and I want to read it. OK?”

I nodded, not understanding, embarrassed by the attention, yet not wanting to let go of her hands and watching heartbroken as she walked back to her desk.

And that was it.

The years passed with all their seasons, and I didn’t keep my promise to write a journal, not until seven or eight years ago. Each time I visited Cyprus, I asked about Mrs Nitsa. I heard she had lost her husband and was living in Nicosia. Then three years ago, I met her again. I found her number and when I called she recognised my voice. I could see her tears in the quickness of her breath over the telephone line. “Are you writing?” were the first words she said to me.

After the call, we met for a coffee, she gave me copies of her own published books and she made me renew my promise to write. She also asked to be the one to edit the Greek language version of my memoir.

Mrs Nitsa and I at our meeting in 2016

So, here I am; another three years have passed and I am working on that memoir, hoping one day to hand over the gift I promised 35 years ago.

And that’s why today, as I ‘officially’ launch my blog, I celebrate this woman who planted hope in my heart and soul, who saw a way to connect with me, who recognised something good in me when no one else did and who spoke words of life into the broken 10-year-old child that stood before her.

Perhaps I can use this blog to plant hope in the hearts of my own readers one day and, in turn, maybe those readers will go on to plant hope in the hearts of others. Every life needs a purpose and what greater purpose can we live for than to walk with the hurt, inspire the desolate, believe in the forgotten, bring joy to the sad and plant hope in the hopeless.

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels

Not just any lighthouse. Faros. Pervolia, Larnaca.

Faros lighthouse, near Pervolia, Larnaca.

1998 or thereabouts. I’m sitting on the bench in front of the lighthouse, my legs dangling just above the cliff. My trusted German shepherd dog Leo is sitting by my side. Gazing at the vast ocean in front of me, I wonder at many things. The silent tears betray my broken heart, my searching gaze echoes the questions on my mind, the comfort I feel in this place mirrors the state of my soul.

The view of the ocean from the wooden bench, in front of Faros lighthouse

This time, I am here following a row with my boyfriend. It is one that will lead us to question if it is all over, as he puts it “if the glass is cracked beyond repair”. I ask myself this as I gaze.

I come here every time my heart breaks. It is the place I escape to where I know I can be alone, my solitude allowing for reflection, focus, thoughts to process, emotions to flow through tears.

2019…still gazing…

My relationship with the ocean is one of love, hate, fear and reverence. I fear it because of its might, the power within it, the vastness of undiscovered wonders beneath the untamed fierceness. I hate it because it claimed the life of my father all those years ago when I was just 4. Because of it, I lost my mother as well and then my life took such a sudden turn towards years of inexpressible pain, torment, emptiness, aloneness. Before that, the three of us sojourned the seas in search of adventure.

And yet, I can’t live far from it. Whenever I am hurting I run to it. I crave after Its salty smell and the sting of its wind on my face, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, seagulls cawing, children laughing as they play.

I don’t know it now, here in my sorrow and confusion, in my bitterness and anger but one day, years from now, I will be back here. 21 years later, I will be back, the boyfriend has become my husband and our three children are the ones playing and laughing on this beach. My trusted dog has long gone and instead, a small rescue poodle – cross, (ironically rescued from a Greek beach some years back), waits for us patiently in England.

Me with my husband and our two younger children while our oldest takes the photo.

And in between? Sigh. I smile. In between…

While this once derelict secluded spot has been undergoing major development, stunning villas with swimming pools being built where I once walked through the wild daisies, a hip cafe perched on the corner waiting for thirsty customers, the land of Pervolia behind me growing into a holiday village complete with a beautiful hotel, I have been undergoing my own development and growing my own little tribe. In between, there has been the aching of land being dug up and formed into holiday lets, while I ached through my own challenges, and rejoiced at my incredible moments.

Fully accessible walkway along the top of Faros beach
villas lining the walkway at the top of Faros beach

Each time I am in Cyprus, I visit Faros, the lighthouse. We age side by side, together. In silence, we gaze at the expanding azure watching as it blends fluid with the lighter blue sky and marvel in awe at the magnificence of it all.

The famous Faros (Lighthouse) Beach of the Larnaka village of Pervolia is a 500-metre strip of fine sands of varying shades of beige, calm, shallow seawaters and ample trees and greenery. It is located just south of Pervolia at Cape Kiti. Facilities on the beach include toilets, showers, changing rooms, sun beds, umbrellas, dustbins, recycling bins and a children’s playground. Lifeguards with lifesaving equipment and first aid services are stationed at the beach from June 15 – September 30, 10:00-18:00. The beach offers disabled access. Various forms of marine life are visible in the deeper waters, including sea bass, sea bream, parrotfish, grey mullet, crabs and octopus. The beach also incorporates a protected seaweed area. There are also various water sports available along the coast and a small volleyball court, as well as food and drink options, making it a good choice for both families and younger crowds. The lighthouse itself is picturesque, and a famous monument of the area. Access is easy by foot, bike, bus or car, with car parking facilities, cycling trails and walking trails. The beach also offers disabled access.   http://larnakaregion.com/page/beaches

Photographs by Mihalis Constantinou.