The brutal reality of adult friendships.

When exclusion leaves you feeling like the lonely girl in pigtails on an empty playground.

If you’re over 35, the running theme of Instagram reels on your algorithm would have you thinking that the only problem with adult friendships is how hard it is to get together. The back & forth texts and WhatsApp group chats of trying to find the holy grail weekend where all of you are miraculously available to catch up. Or on the other hand, the fact that cancelled plans are now your favourite plans. Which I believe can be attributed to two things:

a.) You’re old as fuck and no longer have the energy your 15yr old self did.

b.) Your 15yr old self lived in your parents’ house where only one room was your domain and you were bound by rules, curfews and watchful eyes. You wanted time out! Now, home is your haven, curated by you. Why would you ever wanna leave?! (Although it’s definitely ‘a’).

But what about the thing we’re not meant to talk about? That shameful, dreaded feeling of being excluded. Of being the only one left out. When you see the insta posts & stories of a group of friends or colleagues standing around in their beautiful outfits, with their beautiful hair, laughing at a joke that you weren’t in on because you weren’t there to hear it. Admit it, this has happened to you at least once, and you were mentally transported back to your schoolyard in pigtails, feeling so small and invisible.

Hey Siri, play Celine Dion’s ‘All By Myself’. (GIF courtesy of https://tenor.com/)

The last year forced me into so many uncomfortable situations as part of my growth metamorphosis. Each and every situation was uncomfortable, many hurt, and others left me pulling a dagger out of my back.

I always expect to be tested in many areas of my life from career, to finances to buried traumas. What I didn’t expect to come across in the last few months but received an absolute barrage of, was being excluded by peers. It started small, a group of friends (although more accurately ex-colleagues), liking each other’s Instagram posts but rarely if ever, liking mine. And you start to reason with yourself that perhaps they didn’t see it, but they never miss a story, so you know you’re not muted. Then the farewell parties and engagement parties started, and you found yourself notably absent from all of the beautiful pictures, although other girls who had also left the company were included, as well as brand new girls who didn’t have such a long history of friendship. You then find yourself with a mean case of insomnia as the heavy weight of exclusion lay on your chest (this is why I never look at my phone late at night…no good can come of it!)

Then the local mum group followed suit. When you walked past one of them, so excited to see a fellow sister in the trenches and scream out “hi!” Only to be told she was on her way to meet the other mum you’re extremely close with (like has met your whole family, close). You then get invited to come along but all you can think is, “why wasn’t I invited earlier? And if you didn’t run into me, I wouldn’t have been invited at all”. You start to wonder why it is that you always ensure you text both of them when catching up, to ensure that no one feels left out, but the rule didn’t apply to you.

They start to think that you’re being weird or too sensitive as you pull back but you can’t help it. The hurt is like a bowling ball on your chest, and you can’t seem to get up, no matter how hard you try.

You then replay the last few catch-ups over in your head, you remember your mental health was really bad back then and all you wanted in the world was to have a good chat about your feelings, but they kept losing eye contact and not listening to what you were saying, that you find yourself thinking, “Why am I even here? Can anyone see me?” And you go home with an empty cup.

Motherhood is without a doubt the most joyous and rewarding time of life, but it can also be incredibly lonely and isolating. What you crave, is that village. When that village isn’t embracing you, you feel lost.

Is that what I look like when I wear a belt with jeans?
(GIF courtesy of https://tenor.com/)

Now before you send help, or before I regress too much into this pity party, let me give you my silver lining. I look around me and see that no matter what is happening in everyone’s lives, no matter how much weight I’ve gained, no matter how daggy my clothes are; my ride or die besties I’ve known since high school…30 years ago this year (bones creek) are literally always there. They see me, they hear me, they make me feel whole. They’re not just a cosy blanket, they don’t just tell me what I want to hear, they also hold up the mirror when I’m running from what I need to face. And I do the same for them. It’s a second family.

The friends with incredible depth & empathy. Unlike so many groups I’ve tried to burrow into, these friends never talk about body shape, appearances, status or social media followings. We talk about things that matter. Things that I’ll continue to think about as I approach my last few years in this earthly body.

For this, I am eternally grateful. I am so blessed. I already have all that I need.

In about a week, the Chinese Astrological year of the snake ends as we welcome in a Fire Horse Year. The Year of the Snake was a cruel bitch to nearly everyone I know. She forced you to view situations and relationships that no longer fit, or perhaps never fit, so you can shed the dead skin as you welcome in situations far more aligned with your values and meet you where you’re at. Like that perfect pair of jeans they no longer manufacture, so you find yourself wishing you bought ten pairs to last you a lifetime.

More than that. It’s an upgrade.

If these words are resonating with you, perhaps you’re about to receive a major upgrade.

I have absolutely decided to shed the dead weight of misaligned friendships. Or perhaps, they already shed me. My ego will occasionally decide to pop up and question why I was excluded, why all of a sudden people seem to be turning a blind eye to me. Have I become annoying? Am I the Anne Hathaway of Sydney? (Sorry Anne, I have nothing against you, I’m just going by the general consensus). Are my consistent podcast reels annoying everyone? But tough shit, that’s what I’m passionate about, I’m speaking my truth, it resonates with those who are meant to hear it. But the main thought that keeps popping up is that I wasn’t ENOUGH. I never had the right hair, I never had the right designer outfits, I never ate at the fancy restaurants, I was never thin enough. I’m too old. All I post on my insta stories now is footage of my son which I swore I would never do but then I met him and I absolutely can’t NOT! 

When the exclusion comes from people you never really liked or didn’t click with anyway, it’s easy to move on. When the exclusion comes from people you adored or even someone who can only be described as your work wife, who once confessed to calling you more than her partner…it really fucking hurts.

I don’t care how much meditation, therapy or shadow work you’ve done, when someone you care about shows that you no longer matter to them, it really, really hurts.

If you’ve ever felt this way, it’s not your fault! We’re biologically wired with the need to be part of a tribe, because if you weren’t part of a tribe in cave man days, you died. The tribe meant shelter, food, protection, procreation and survival. Sure, you can survive now on your own, but even the stats show that connection and a sense of community extend your life span. Hell, even daily hugs make you live longer! No amount of supplements can replicate connection. That’s Biohacking 101.

The emotionally immature part of myself (she’s only at about 20%) wants to hold up my middle finger and say a big fuck you to everyone who excluded me in the last year. But we all know that the people who say fuck you, are the people who are hurting most.

The other 80% of me wants to acknowledge the hurt, sit in it for a minute (yuck, so uncomfy) then wish them well, then wish them away.

I hope that they have the most beautiful life, full of love & adventure. That’s what they deserve and that’s always been my wish for them. But I don’t want to see it, and I don’t want to know about it. That’s my self-preservation bargaining chip.

We have a limited resource of energy. Mentally, emotionally, physically. I have big dreams, I can’t be wasting any of that reserve on the wrong people or places.

That’s my 20% speaking.
(Image courtesy of https://www.reddit.com/r/seinfeld)

Maybe the problem isn’t adult friendships. Maybe it’s trying to make ‘new’ friends as an adult. Are we cemented in our group by age 23? I like to think that I’m changing and evolving all the time and I’d love for my friendship groups to always do the same.

I cannot express just how much I love getting to interview such positive, thought provoking people through my podcast. I truly feel like I’ve been so blessed in the last year with the new people I’ve gotten to meet and collaborate with. Some are so supportive of my show and so engaging on social media, some I haven’t connected with since our chat but think of them so fondly because the chat impacted me so much. Then there was one whom I thought I was building a professional relationship with, until I noticed she had randomly followed about 40 of my Instagram friends that she hadn’t followed before our chat. And has never met or interacted with at all. The absolute most random list of people from my high school friend’s teenage little sister who is still in high school (that gives me the major ick, teenagers are always off limits), my best friend’s aunty’s boyfriend’s sister (I’m literally not making this up) to women in my Mum group and ex colleagues from various jobs over the years. Many of whom had private accounts (there were presumably many more who didn’t accept the follow request). Anyone with a lick of common sense understands that this is simply not cool. It’s giving Single White Female. Not only is it not appropriate social media etiquette, but it’s incredibly intrusive and left me feeling very uncomfortable. It’s the online equivalent of someone rifling through your underwear drawer, which thankfully no longer contains any form of adult toys after my son came barrelling through the living room with what could only be described as a blue light sabre in one hand and a pink in the other (they have since discovered higher ground away from curious, chubby little hands).

And 2025 brought out the absolute worst! (GIF courtesy of https://giphy.com/)

If you’ve read my blog for a few years now, you might be thinking that this one hits different. It feels more like a rant or a bitch session as opposed to my usual ‘glass half-full’ take on life. And it is. But you know what, that’s OK. In case no one told you today; your feelings are valid and your voice is important. I was hurt, I was bothered, I was angry and now I’ve said my piece, and I feel two kilos lighter! This blog is like an emotional colonic irrigation. Better out than in, right?

You won’t hear me discuss this after today. That’s part of my process. Name it, sit with it, and let it go. I hope everyone I’ve ever interacted with is living their best life. I just don’t need to know about everyone’s lives anymore. That’s the beauty of choice.

As I sit here writing this, I think about last night when I read a book to my son before bed. It was one of the those ‘lift the flap’ books, but he keeps ripping them off so now it’s just, well, a book. It had a picture of a kite and as I was reading it, I felt compelled to break out into a chorus of Mary Poppins’ “Let’s go fly a kite!” My son sat up in bed, looked into my eyes with nothing short of enamoured glee and erupted into passionate applause when the song concluded.

Nothing, I tell you, nothing can harm me anymore. No pain caused by people I once knew can ever compete with the massive ball of love that exploded in my chest as I watched him clap and smile with such ferocity that his beautiful little eyes squinted at the rise of his cheeks. I am loved here. I am valued here. I belong here. Everything else is white noise.

May the white noise always pale in comparison to the love in your life.

Quitting the 9-5 job, working for myself + juggling motherhood

It’s true that as time goes on and life gets busier, the gaps between each blog gets a little larger. However, the fact that my last blog about saying farewell to maternity leave as I prepared to return to the workforce, was a whole 10 months ago, speaks volumes about how my 2025 has played out, thus far. Has yours been a bit of a shit show too? (USA, blink twice if you need help).

I returned to almost full-time work when my son was 5 ½ months old. Lucky enough to be working a hybrid work model of a few days at home and a few days in the office. No words of warning from other parents can prepare you for the absolute chaos that returning to work after creating a human less than 6 months ago is. Because just in case you didn’t know, you actually have to care for that human 24/7 and then somehow miraculously balance everything else simultaneously.  Being away from him makes you physically ache, but being with him 24/7 can equally make you fucking crazy.

As I left the house to return to my first shift in the office, I thought I would cry. I thought he would cry. He didn’t even turn to farewell me at the door, and I hopped into the car with a face full of make-up, tits in an actual bra and pumping the best pop a 90’s kid can find. It felt amazing to see my friends, to have adult conversations about you as a person, and to concentrate on a task at hand without the sounds of tears or Ms Rachel’s voice in the background. Until it got to lunch time, when my body ached to be away from him, and tears prickled at my eyes when I FaceTimed him.

I guess I thought I would just settle into a routine, but when I came up with that idea, he was a baby who didn’t move that much and wasn’t awake that much. Each week was a new development. First, eating solids 3 times a day, which it turns out is messier that Pro Hart or Jackson Pollock, so you’d better be prepared to bathe them 3 times a day (the kitchen sink is utterly acceptable in my opinion). All I wanted was to feed him myself because it’s neater and more efficient, but putting their pudgy little digits all through the food (and hair and eye lashes) is part of their development, and you don’t want to be the selfish bitch who inhibits their development because customers are screaming at you to reply to them. Then it’s crawling, then it’s walking (over achiever that he is, had to start this at 10 months) then it’s yanking on your leg and crying every single time you sit down to do your actual job that you’re being paid for.

GIF courtesy of https://tenor.com/

I have spent my entire life being a people pleasing perfectionist. Always loving that pat on the head for doing a good job. What returning to the workforce made me feel like, was a failure, loser, neglectful piece of shit. When I left for my maternity leave, I was a highly valued employee who knew her role inside out and could put out fires with ease. What I became, was someone who could never finish her shift on top of her workload.

As a mother. I took on the role with ease and confidence from the second my son’s flesh touched mine. Suddenly everything made sense, and everything came naturally to me. Which is pretty fucking amazing considering I never read one parenting book, or listened to one parenting podcast or showed any interest in parenting content at all. Including through pregnancy. I was my son’s favourite person in the world. When I returned to work, I swiftly dropped to 3rd place behind his Dad and Ms Rachel. Are you surprised? I had my back turned to him for at least 8hrs a day on my WFH days. Or 12hrs away from him on office days where I would leave as he woke and return as he was hopping into bed. Spending my train ride home gently sobbing as I scrolled through newborn pictures of him. The joyful times we used to share like our long walks by the water or playing in the park then became chores I needed to tick off my list before throwing him in front of the TV (something I swore I would never do until he was 3) whilst I ran back to reply to whatever email was telling me that I was somehow failing in my role as well.

I’ve spent my life as an over achiever and this year as an utter failure. Or sub-par at best.

GIF courtesy of https://tenor.com/

If that wasn’t bad enough, the conversation of full-time childcare was then brought up by my employer. Completely understandable from a work perspective. And I realise now how impossible it was to do both at the same time. But I’ll tell you what I told them; I didn’t have a child just to see him on the weekends. As well as the fact that all the childcare centres are at capacity in my area, and how about the fact that the cost of childcare would pretty much negate my very modest salary.

The math just wasn’t mathing.

I ask you in all honesty, how the actual fuck are we supposed to do it all?!!! How are we supposed to take care of these kids physically and emotionally, work full time to pay for groceries and houses that only billionaires can afford now, be a good wife / sister / friend / aunty, / neighbour, meditate, yoga, run, lift weights, attend 1000 appointments, grocery shop, buy birthday gifts, drink water and have those infrared saunas for your postpartum recovery.

I am fully aware that it was my individual choice to have a child, but this society is in no way set-up to support mothers. If you don’t have family who can help everyday or loads of money to hire help, you’re all on your own and you’re absolutely fucked.

As the stress coursed through my body like an electric current, I threw my son in the pram (not literally, don’t call DOCS, I’m actually a great Mum, in spite of the rant that is this blog) and grabbed my husband and said “let’s go for a walk, something’s gotta give”.

My husband runs his own business and it was always the plan that I would one day help him with the business, until my podcast became such a hit that I would do that for a living (seriously though are you subscribed? Have you left me a 5-star review?) We just had a different timeline where there would be a lot more business to fund our whole family. But the desperation of the situation fast-tracked the decision and I handed in my notice.

The words of everyone’s favourite Green Goddess, Elphaba from Wicked, just kept swirling through my head…

“Something has changed within me. Something is not the same. I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game”.

GIF courtesy of https://tenor.com/

I’m simply not who I was before. I created a life. My priorities have shifted. My views on the world have evolved. Plus, I’m 42yrs old and have been working for someone else since I was 15. I was just done. I didn’t want to pour all of my energy and creativity into something that didn’t have my name on it anymore.

I finished up in July and have been working on my own business and my husband’s business since. I’m loving my freedom to dictate my schedule. I’m loving meeting new people each week and I’m loving being creative and knowing that whatever money I bring in, will go into businesses that ultimately build our family’s wealth. But on the other hand, I’m very uncomfortable (which is what I said I wanted to do in 2025, try new things and get comfortable in the uncomfortable.) It’s terrifying not knowing when the money will come in. There are no sick days when you work for yourself and there sure as hell ain’t any sick leave from parenting.

I spent the first half of the year with plenty of money in my account but extremely time poor and devoid of any true joy. Just merely a lab rat on autopilot. And I march into the second half of the year with a terrifyingly empty transaction account, but a heart of full of unimaginable love because each day, I get to hear my son’s shrieks of joy as I push him higher and higher on the swing.

As I write this blog with a bulge in my throat and the prickling of tears behind my eyes, partly because I’m on my luteal phase and partly because I’m incredibly sleep deprived after a week of rough sleeps with the annual change of season cold spreading through the house, I’m looking over at this tiny human with his mouth open and eyes fluttering from a dream (presumably about hopping bunnies) and I know that I can do this. I know that I can tell the little voice of fear and doubt to shut the fuck up, because this perfect little person chose me to be his Mum because he knows that no one will take better care of him. I just have to keep reminding myself that he doesn’t give a shit if I can’t buy him as many new outfits this Spring and Summer. That many of the outfits will be $14 Kmart sets as opposed to the $80 Goldie + Ace outfits I got him last year. Because what he prefers (and deserves) is a Mum who can sit down and build blocks with him. A Mum who pops him in the trolley and takes him to the shops to look at the new Christmas Globes in DJs. The Mum who laughs and dances with him in the living room instead of popping anti-anxiety meds, just to get through one more shift at work.

“As bad as things were before, that’s how good they became”.
GIF courtesy of https://www.tumblr.com/where-our-stories-start/183922710940/as-bad-as-things-were-before-thats-how-good-they

I will succeed at my business ventures, because I choose to only entertain the idea of success and reject the notion of failure. I will live a life where I prosper through my creative outlets not only because that is what I deserve, but because the world is a better place when we’re thriving.

If you’re a Mum who’s struggling and feels pulled in a hundred different directions, I see you and I hear you. You’re doing such a great job. I hope you get some time to take care of yourself and have loads of fun, very soon.

If you’re thinking about starting your own business or project, I hope you succeed. And in case no one told you today, I think you’re fucking marvellous.

Whatever day, season or year you’re having, you got this, bitch. I believe in you.

And whenever you start to doubt yourself, let Maya Angelou’s words leave your lips…

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

Love Leo and Mummy. And side note, the $14 Kmart outfit is pretty cute, right?!