The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Daniella

Photography: Marlene

Sometimes I’d like to think of my life as a book and who knows? Maybe one day it could be. I believe anything is possible but in the mean time I am excited, nervous but humbled to have been asked to be a part of this wonderfully inspiring project. 

I was ten going on eleven and very athletic. I ate well, enjoyed school and life in general. I became unwell with many different symptoms but no one could figure out what was actually wrong with me. At one point, the doctors thought it was merely my imagination and an attention seeking ploy to get out of school. It was distressing to hear their prognosis. It was just as difficult for my parents to hear it who had to, a certain point, acted on the given information.  

After six or so months of being in hospital, my weight had plummeted down to three and a half stone (22kgs/49 lbs). I was fed through a nasal gastric tube, unable to walk and almost reached the end of my short life on an operation table. My parents and a young registrar had previously voiced their concerns to the NHS doctors that my symptoms could possibly be M.E but were dismissed instantly. Thankfully, my parents had the foresight to check me out of hospital and take me to an M.E specialist. They had a hunch and decided to trust their intuition. 

The M.E specialist saved my life. I was overjoyed and felt an incredible sense of relief that someone within the medical profession finally believed that there was something legitimately wrong with me. And it had a name. An actual diagnosis. It took enormous weight off both mine and my parents’ shoulders. Fourteen years on, I still suffer from the debilitating illness but have learnt to manage my condition better. I don't know if I will ever recover. I always hope but for now, I take each day as it comes and I do my best to manage my energy levels.

The ongoing battle trying to deal with the ignorance and being judged by people as well as the majority of medical professionals, is exhausting. One day, I hope to find a way to contribute in order to dispel the ignorance, lack of understanding and government support in funding scientists to get to grips with this loathsome disease.  

There has been another struggle that my family and I have had to face. Up until three years ago, my family could’ve been easily mistaken for a normal family (if there is such a thing) but on the inside, we were far from it. No one could make you laugh the way my father did yet no one could bring as much misery as he did. Our lives were in the hands of a mentally and verbally abusive man. I didn’t always have a horrid childhood for I have had some truly wonderful memories. My sister and I have had a somewhat privileged upbringing. Ever since I could remember, I have always lived in fear of my Dad. He has a ferocious temper and a loud voice which when used in anger, was terrifying. His temper could be provoked at the flick of a switch. He was admirable in many ways. He came from nothing and along with my mum, they built a successful business. He always said that there was no such word as can't and anything can be achieved if I put my mind to it. He really was someone I looked up to in many ways. 

However, when he turned forty, his unpredictable outbursts reached frightening levels. None of us knew what was going to trigger an onslaught of verbal abuse. It could be as simple as leaving a light on, not being able to find the T.V remote, not answering the phone in time (bearing in mind my sister and I suffer from M.E and a simple task like that, at times, can be very tiring) or walking too loudly. 

Once when I was fifteen, I’d accidentally spilt sugar on the kitchen side. I was having some Weetabix (cereal). I figured I’d go back and clean it up once I’d eaten (Weetabix goes soggy very quickly, Weetabix lovers will know this) but unfortunately, this led to another verbal attack. After sitting there listening to him rant on at not only myself but my mum and sister,  I, being the hormonal teenager that I was, swore at him. I knew instantly it was the wrong thing to do. It was only going to add fuel to the fire. He picked up the nearest object (a dvd in this case) and hit me across my curled up body several times. In their attempts to defend me, he simply pushed my younger sister and mum down. 

On another terrifying occasion, he threw my sister and her 1 year old son out whilst waving a knife erratically after yet another heated argument. His unpredictable anger made us all very nervous and wary. We were constantly walking on eggshells, and even now, I am overwhelmed with anxiety if I’d dropped something, a door slammed or if someone went down the stairs heavy footed. It was noises such as these that would set him off. Though a lot of the abuse was verbal, I believed that it was down to our compliancy that kept us safe and prevented him from escalating into physical violence. 

In hindsight, there were always elements of mental and verbal abuse but when you've grown up with it, you believed it was the norm. It was only when incidents spiraled  to extreme levels, that my sister and I knew something wasn't right. Reading certain articles really brought things to light. It was an indescribable feeling when you read about someone being in an abusive relationship or coming from an mentally abusive family and being able to relate. It was reassuring, as it certainly helped me to feel less alone whilst giving me a glimpse of hope. 

Three years on, my father is still doing everything he can to hold off the divorce. It’s an ongoing battle but I know one day, we will be free. It hasn’t been not an easy hill to climb in the slightest. It has taken courage and a lot of self healing. I do wonder if some of the mental scars will ever heal but it will always be better than living in a abusive home. We have gone from being well off financially to literally scraping by at times. As long as we have each other, that is all that counts. There will always be someone somewhere worse off. We will continue to show grace, strength and courage. 

For years, I’d struggled with the possibility that I might not ever be able to have a "real" job due to the unpredictable nature of M.E. It wasn't so bad when I was a teenager but as I approached my twenties, I felt an immense pressure and guilt for not being able to pursue a career. Starting my blog was a defining moment for me. It was a way for me to create and express my love for style, fashion and clothes. It is also a form of escapism, a way of forgetting my illness and the stressful environment within my family home. 

My boyfriend, Conan has helped me to build up my confidence and I guess, liberated me in a sense. He bought me a camera so I could document my outfits and also lent a hand to develop my blog in a big way. My sister who is psychically gifted had also assisted with opening my mind to endless potentials, which at the time I didn't believe but she has proven to be right in her predictions.  

Despite it all, I count myself tremendously lucky. I have an incredibly supportive mum, boyfriend and sister. I have a beautiful nephew who is by far, the greatest gift from God. In my darkest hours, he has given me a reason to live. I have been able to grow spiritually, understand and see things in a different light. While I have missed out on all those normal things teenagers and young adults normally do, I’ve been blessed with learning life lessons that you simply don't get taught in school.

Sharing this story in particular has been a bit of a process for me. I have barely spoken out loud about this before now,  let alone write about and share it with pretty much the whole world but the reason I felt that I should talk so openly, is with the hope that this might just help someone who has either been in a similar situation or is going through one. You shouldn't feel guilt nor shame as it's not yours to carry, it's the abuser’s. Be an inspiration, not a victim, for you will be surprised at how much inner strength you possess and maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to share your story one day and bring to light what is too often left in the dark. 

Daniella also blogs at Lella Victoria.

If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, please share them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support.  

Interesting Reads for the Weekend

Sometimes what you see is all made believe. Instagrammed versus what really happened.

This song "Agape" is based loosely on a real story of a mother who sacrificed her life to save her baby during the Sichuan Earthquake in 2008.

10 things I've learned in my career.

31 photos that will rock you.

Blowing the lid off racial profiling.

Skinny jeans: destroyer of iPhones, enemy of sperm and threat to the world.

As more Asian friends and THEIR friends, all in their 20s discuss about having multiple cosmetic surgery procedures done on them, it made me think of this.

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Keri

Photography by Marlene.

“There is no security in following the call to adventure” - Joseph Campbell

It’s 2007 and I feel like the world is my oyster as I plough my heart, soul and life savings into launching my own recruitment agency.  An agency specializing in the library industry, as the world teeters on the cusp of one of the worst recessions to date and the biggest cuts to the public sector. Fuelled on by some crazy spirit of creativity and independence, I ride the wave in the first year trading and I am thrilled to be able to create jobs for a small but fabulous team in one of the most deprived towns in the North West of England.

Little was I to realise then that I would be creating jobs at the expense of being able to draw my own salary a few years down the line.  As a team, we were able market the company well and secure some great clients and candidates, but as a small business I was unable to secure all but the smallest overdraft.  Coupled with constant chasing of invoices to clients who included large city law firms and investment banks, I start to realise that we were struggling financially.  In recruitment, especially contract recruitment, it is the agency’s responsibility to be able to pay its temporary staff on time whether or not it takes the end client four to five months to settle an invoice.  

Three and half years later my husband Chris comes home from work to declare that the public sector organisation he is working for are making him redundant.  On a whim, and realising that we can’t survive financially for much longer, I contact my former boss and friend.  He and his wife had successfully sold the recruitment agency I worked for several years earlier for a seven-figure sum and had embarked on a new life in France renovating properties and injecting new life into local businesses in the Averyon, one of which was a beautiful bed and breakfast and tea shop, in a pretty but remote mountain and riverside village.   

Feeling that we’d done our ‘London years’ and approaching our late thirties with no children, we decided to make the leap and throw in the towel for a new life in the French ‘idyll’. In the months running up to our move, I wind down my company and knowing that we would be moving into fully furnished accommodation, scale down on literally all our household possessions and belongings.  

With plans to open the business ready for the Easter and summer seasons of 2011, we reluctantly serve notice on the property we had happily called home for five years and started preparing our goodbyes to friends and family.  With a month to spare, I suddenly start to feel a general sense of malaise and overwhelming tiredness.  Putting this down to the stress of moving and packing, I push this to the back of my mind.  It’s only when a friend jokingly asks if I am pregnant that the penny finally drops.

Always the ‘London career and fashion girl’, our friends and family are surprised but not as much as me!   We set up a Skype call to France and tell our new employers to sit down as we have something to tell them.  Immediately they know why I am calling and fall about laughing;  ‘Keri you don’t do things by halves! This can still be an amazing opportunity for a new life for you all as a family, and although it will be hard work, we know if anyone can make a success of things it will be you’.  Some may call it mad, but never ones to shy away from challenges we pack up the car, our beloved cat Poppy and dog Alfie, and set off on the two day drive to the South of France. It was the beginning of what would be the biggest roller coaster experience of our lives.

Ever the fashionista, I while away the journey admiring the changing and dramatic landscape of our new home. Passing the time and riding with the waves of morning sickness, I dream of wearing cute maternity outfits as I stroll along the medieval lanes with a baguette tucked under my arm. In the following months we are thrown into the French life, grappling like most expats with the language. With good humour, we are welcomed with open arms by our lovely French neighbours.  We survive the Easter rush in the B&B and teashop. We even survive the Royal Wedding. But the cracks are starting to appear. Hired to ‘manage’ the businesses, we arrive work at 7am each morning and during the summer season are still entertaining into the early hours of the next morning. The hours in themselves and the physicality did not faze us, but our work began to be criticized and our confidence knocked.  

Things came to a head three months later. Myself eight months pregnant, we were called into a meeting and told that we were surplus to requirement. Never one to be at a loss for words I was left speechless, whereas my usually calm and collected husband lost his composure and demanded an explanation. To this day, the only explanation we received was that they are ‘entrepreneurs’ and business must come first.  As it slowly dawned on me that not only were we about to become jobless and homeless in another country, I realise we are also unable to return home immediately with our pets on the British passport scheme.  Breaking down into tears, I wobbled back to our ‘home’, which had just been deemed more profitable as a holiday apartment for the owners’ surplus guests.

I shove close the typically French shuttered windows to our bedroom and gather Alfie and Poppy onto the bed with me as I curl up into a ball and cradle our unborn son, blinded by tears and panic.  Metaphorically speaking, I realise now that I also closed the shutter doors on my mind and usual bright optimism. Looking back I can see that much of this was probably due to being tired and pregnant but I can honestly say that my mind went into free fall.

I guess like many women, I am a fixer, a doer, a planner, and some may even say a control freak. So the feeling of not knowing where we were headed next was completely overwhelming. Our employers’ one concession was that we could remain in the apartment until our baby was born. However, with only four weeks to spare all we wanted to do was get back to the UK and to our families. Having struggled my way through the French maternity system at the local hospital and prenatal checkups with much sign language involved, I felt that I wanted to return ‘home’ to give birth.       

As is typical in small rural villages, news spread fast and thankfully a lovely lady who I now think of as a friend (albeit an overseas friend) came to our rescue.  A real animal lover like me, she took it upon herself to re-home our cat Poppy and organised for her friends to temporarily look after our dog Alfie until we could return to France some ten weeks after Luca was born to bring him back to the UK. For me this was the hardest part, saying goodbye to our animals.  I had rescued Poppy from the famous Battersea Cat and Dogs Home some fourteen years earlier, as usual not telling my husband. He came home from work one evening to find a pretty young white cat scaling his vinyl record collection. Alfie was a similar story. Rescued when he was eleven weeks old and Chris away working in London. Sadly it was my last goodbye to Poppy. She died of a stroke last spring. She was the only one of us who got to live out her days in the beautiful French countryside, ironically in a gîte named Poppy Cottage.

Luca was born two weeks early and we found ourselves living in what was my office, which, apart from a bed and moses basket, was bereft of any furniture. It was a roof over our heads, much more than some, but not ideal with a newborn baby. With the initial joy of a having a healthy newborn starting to fade, I felt physically and emotionally exhausted.  As well as defeated, I felt cheated. Possibly the most ridiculous things to feel cheated of, but in my mind, I was cheated nonetheless.  Cheated of the fun of having a baby shower, which I’d enjoyed organising for other friends and cheated of having the money, time and home to plan and decorate a nursery. In all honesty, I still feel a little cheated of those memories.

It took five months for Chris to find work and when he did it was based in Durham, a five-hour one-way journey. In order to make this work financially for us, for five months he had to travel to the North East on Sunday afternoons and return home just before midnight on Friday evenings. Finding myself left with a young baby on my own during the week, living in a not great location, I started to slip into depression.  I usually pride myself on being able to spin a tale or two. As an only child I’ve often been reliant on using my imagination and find writing to come naturally to me. But when the tale is one that takes some soul searching, it’s not too easy. 

I’ve never felt useless before or lost for ideas and solutions but I could not see a way out at all. I would wake up crying looking out of the window hating where we were living, and would fall asleep looking out of the window hating where we were living. I felt completely embarrassed to feel so low, the rational side of me appreciating how lucky I should feel: I had a lovely family and the happiest and healthiest little boy. But still, I felt helpless and trapped by our situation. Looking back, my biggest regret has been the time I wasted sitting worrying and constantly questioning. Questioning how we could have been treated so unfairly when we are both hard workers and I was so pregnant.  When I wasn’t caring for Luca I started to revisit blogging and sought solace with friends from all over the world whom I had met prior to moving to France and who had shared in our journey via my blog. I relished every consolatory comment and enjoyed sharing pictures of Luca and our progress.   

Three years later I am relieved to say we are just getting back on our feet. It’s funny, how at the time, I could see absolutely no light at the end of the tunnel but in actual fact things have turned out for the best. We have moved again, not quite to France this time, but to one of the prettiest villages in West Dorset. Two years ago, I could not even have begun to imagine how we would land on our feet again. Ironically we now call Tolpuddle our home. Treated unfairly by our employers, we now live in a village famed for the Tolpuddle Martyrs (story: in 1834, a group of farm workers shared a secret union meeting to protest their unfair wages and as a result were exiled to Australia). 

To this day, I hate the term ‘entrepreneur’, even though I now run a number of micro businesses. I feel there is a better and kinder way to operate a company.  Luca brings a renewed sense of joy to our family and all the wonder of an almost three year old.  We have even been reunited with Alfie, so together boy and dog enjoy many countryside walks and trips to the Dorset beaches.

I guess there are many morals to our story, some of which I need to remind myself of daily.  Transitioning from career girl to working mum, only now do I realise I am more than ‘my job’.  When we first returned from France, I dreaded having to explain where we were living and that we were not working. I felt that I had lost any sense of my own identity. I better appreciate now that happiness isn’t attached to ‘things’, although I will still fight you for a designer handbag and pair of shoes!  There have definitely been days when I’m not sure how we managed to survive, particularly financially, but we did because we had to.  To anybody sharing our story, remember that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, even if it takes some time to appear. To end in the words of Joseph Campbell, "We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us”.      

Keri also blogs at The Chronicles of the Dollie Daydream.     

If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, please share them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support.    

Fall/Winter Wish List

Outfit: (tried on) Etoilé Isabel Marant Joff jacket, Zara jeans, Alexander Wang t-shirt, Hermes belt and Nicholas Kirkwood heels (old but more here)

1. Etoilé Isabel Marant Joff jacket

2. Etoilé Isabel Marant Caja top

3. Hermés Collier de Chien bracelet

4. Miu Miu catwalk sunglasses

5. R13 waxed jeans

6. Office Chelsea ankle boots

7. Acne scarf

8. Balenciaga envelope clutch

I had a chance to try on the latest Isabel Marant Fall/Winter collection at their preview event recently but it was the Etoilé line that caught my eye more. The price tags from the Etoilé range didn't make me break out in hives as much as the mainline. The Caja top is a reissue from Isabel Marant's previous collections. There's a similar version in black from  the main collection at more than double the price.

I was captivated by the black Joff jacket. It comes in red too but since my favorite color is black, I naturally gravitated towards the dark side. Funnily enough, I normally take a size 38 but the one I tried on was a 40. Though I'm not exactly endowed with Marilyn Monroe sized boobies, I would've struggled to button up had it been a size 38. Ahhh.....Isabel Marant...please consider those with a slightly more *ahem* padded upper torso. A friend mentioned that the shoulders are a little too wide but I've noticed that nearly all my IM jackets have exaggerated shoulders anyway. I love the slightly nipped waist which adds a touch of femininity and the 4 (!!) pockets (hands up those who love pockets as much as I do).

I've never really bothered much with pants but lately, I'm tired of the same boring skinny jeans. Thus began another quest to find a pair with an added oomph. These R13 waxed jeans are waaaaay high up on my wish list at the moment. I haven't found a cheaper alternative. Another missing gap in my closet is a pair of black heeled ankle boots. I still think Isabel Marant Dicker boots are universally flattering and comfortable. Too bad she doesn't make them in my size. Their smallest size runs big too..... Argh. Bummer. I might give these Office chelsea boots a try instead.

What's your fall/winter wish list? Scored anything lately?

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Andrea

The philosophy of life - speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil

Photography: Marlene 

Dear Mum,

This year on August 7th marked 13 years since your passing. 13 years since I held your hand, 13 years since I heard you call my name and 13 years since I looked into your beautiful blue eyes. Not a day passes where I don't think of you. You were an amazing woman and mother. I was so blessed that for 27 years, you were mine. In that time, I got to know you as a woman and not just as my mum. We did so much together in the time we had and for that I am glad. Concerts, holidays, day trips and special mum and daughter time. Memories which I hold dear to my heart. We laughed, argued, cried and lived but always loved. 

You had an amazing sense of humour and taught me not to be so serious and to laugh at myself! You were always so positive even though life was not always easy, it never got you down. Now time has passed, I often remember you with a smile and not with a tear. I also remember most of the advice you gave me during the time we had together but one conversation stuck in my memory more then most.

When I was 16, we had 'the talk'. You advised me not to have children until later in life. You were frank in your speech when you told me that if you could turn back time, you wouldn't have had my brother and I so early. You told me to travel, have a good career and do all the things that you didn’t get to do. Later in life after raising us, you built yourself back up and had a good job. You started to travel and even drove a sporty little number when you devastatingly passed away at just 52.  

As you know, I heeded your advice. I had a fantastic job, travelled the world and at age 24,  I purchased my first property. I can remember the excitement of collecting the keys and going shopping with you for my first home. Whenever I travelled, you never once lectured me on staying safe or what to do or what not to because you trusted that you had brought me up well enough to just know. When I announced my plans, you would just say “go get me your bags and I’ll pack for you.” I miss that as you were an expert packer but you will be glad to know that I still roll and not fold.

I can see and appreciate now, Mum that for those earlier years you lived your life through me and as long as I was doing all of those amazing things, you were happy. Selfless. You were always completely selfless and giving. We were together when the consultant told you that your cancer was terminal. I’ll never forget how you turned to me and said that you were sorry for ruining my life by dying and that was the only time I saw you cry throughout your whole illness. You didn’t ruin my life, Mum. You gave me life and molded me expertly into the woman I am today. You were strong, brave and selfless right up till the end. I can only hope that I have become half the amazing woman and mother that you were.

They say that you shouldn’t regret anything in life and it’s a statement that just doesn’t sit true for me, for the biggest regret that I have in heeding your advice is that you never got to become a grandmother. You never got to meet your 2 beautiful grandchildren and they were robbed of having the world’s most amazing Nana.  I was to become a mother without having you there. When I gave birth, on both occasions, I took your photograph with me and whenever I felt like I couldn’t go on I looked you straight in the eye and could hear you telling me to get on with it. Just like you always did.

You did a grand job in advising me against motherhood until later life but now you’re not around, it makes it so much more difficult. I often think back to my childhood and I seriously don’t know how you did it all. I wish you were here to let me in on the secret. Had you been here, you would've told me that Weetabix dries to a concrete like substance when not immediately wiped up, that WWF style wrestling moves would be required when cutting a toddler’s toe nails and warned me to never, ever leave an unopened pot of Sudacreme laying around.

I also wish that you were here for me to apologise for being the world’s worst teenager at times and for turning your hair grey. To say sorry for all of the awful times when Bruv and I drove you insane as children. Those are the times that I can see and recognise only now as my children do it to me. I’m quite certain that you are sitting up there on your cloud laughing at the payback I am now receiving.

Becoming a mum is so rewarding and beautiful but it is also demanding and difficult but becoming a mother without having my own around makes it that much more harder, Mum. Life isn’t a bowl of cherries as you would say. On days when things get tough,  I soldier on and always will as after all.....I am your daughter and you’d set me a fantastic example and for that, I will always be grateful. 

Love as always,
Andrea

(Andrea also blogs at In Mama's Wardrobe)

If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, please share them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support.

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Marlene

Photography by: Lucian Paraian 

I remember the assault vividly, as if it was just yesterday. It was dusk, a time of the day that never failed to send a frisson of unease within me until I left Borneo at 17. I woke up disorientated from a nap to find out that I was left at home with a relative to babysit me. My mother had left with my younger siblings to visit a relative. He was an older cousin in his late teens whom my parents have kindly allowed to stay with us in order to set him on the right path. He would take this opportunity to rape me. Bewildered, fearful and guileless, I couldn’t comprehend what was happening but I knew whatever he was doing was wrong. So I struggled and pushed and resisted. I managed to save myself by the skin of my teeth. Regardless of my “lucky" escape, I’d never felt so dirty in my life and the shame, that perhaps I’d done something to bring this upon myself. Why me? What have I ever done to deserve this? My troubles were far from over as he continued to live with us.

My happy childhood ended at age 7 and would continue to spiral downward for the next decade. I was only a year younger than my own daughter whose carefree existence fills me with gratitude. At 7 years of age, I lost my innocence and learned to fear all boys and men for the very first time in my life including my own brothers and father. Unable to tell anyone for fear of being killed and family members attacked, I kept quiet and had never felt more alone and helpless in my life. I became withdrawn and fearful. My academic results plummeted. I became the target of many bullies in my school throughout primary and secondary school. 

The physical scars healed but the verbal and public humiliation pierced through my heart. I could still recall the day when a classmate asked our teacher if she’d like to hear a story. She went on to mimic my little foibles to the class of 50. As they laughed at me, I laughed along because the alternative, which was to burst into tears was worse. It was easier to show how unaffected I was despite feeling a sense of utter betrayal. Bullies were cruel but people who pretended to be your friend with the purpose of making you an object of ridicule were worse.

There was no respite at home either. In a family of high achievers, the label “stupid” was tacked on my forehead and was spoken enough times for me to internalize it as a fact. In my darkest hours, I contemplated suicide many times but stopped short of carrying out the act. My cousin would return to my home 5 years later to stay for a stint. I lived a life full of fear with a secret that I could share with no one. Gathering whatever courage that was left in me, I made his life a misery by stalking his every move to ensure that he did not enter into my sister’s bedroom nor mine. I huddled on my bed and slept with my fists clenched and lights on. I would lay awake all night worrying if he would attack again. Thankfully, he left soon after. I considered this a minor victory, however small it was. 

Two things happened in my teens that gave me a glimmer of hope. I heard God’s voice for the very first time at 13. It was, and still is, an extraordinary and utterly unbelievable experience despite having read in the bible about how God used to speak to His people. It transformed the way I viewed my relationship with Him and Christianity. I didn't come from a strong Christian background and knew little about the bible. Over the years, His voice and infinite wisdom would teach me to avoid pitfalls, guide me through life and rebuke me like a father to his child when I disobeyed.

I was at a church nursery helping out with the younger kids. An exhausted looking mother came by to drop off her 3 month old baby boy. While gently rocking the screaming baby, the Sunday school teachers gently shooed his mother away, insisting that she took a break and attended the service downstairs. Despite all desperate attempts to calm him, the baby proceeded to howl for the next 20 minutes, causing much distress amongst the rest of the children. All of a sudden, I heard a deep, commanding and deafeningly loud voice that reverberated through every corner of the room. “TOUCH THE BABY.” I grabbed the arm of my friend who was standing next to me. 
“Did you hear that?,” I implored.
“You mean the baby?,” she replied.
“No, I mean a man’s voice?”  
“No. Just the baby and kids. Are you alright? You’re looking very pale.”

It seemed completely absurd now but I was petrified of holding babies for fear of dropping them. The authoritative voice continued to repeat the same command, one oddly enough that ONLY I could hear despite being in a room full of people. I was at my wit’s end, battling crippling fear yet knowing I had to obey in order to get rid of the voice. I ran over to the teacher who was holding the baby and asked for permission to hold him. As I reached out and touched his leg, he stopped abruptly in mid cry, causing everyone in the room to turn to look at me in surprise.

At 14, I was dragged to my very first Taekwondo class by a good friend of mine whose only motivation for going was to check out a guy she had a crush on. She left months later when the object of her affection was found to be in a different martial arts discipline. Meanwhile, my mother wasn’t as understanding when I tried to quit. She’d forked out a heck of a lot of money for my gear and as far as she was concerned, I had to continue until I outgrew my uniform (which could’ve been the next decade). I limped on for the next year, dreading each training session. At my first grading, the instructor buried his head in his hands in despair. I was pretty darn horrific, to say the least. I wasn’t a natural athlete and had no sense of coordination. An orangutan could’ve performed better.

One day, I overheard myself being dissed by a couple of guys. They mocked my feeble attempts and wagered how long I’d last before quitting Taekwondo altogether. For the first time in my life, more than ever, I was determined to grit my teeth and get that darn black belt even if it killed and maimed me. Just to peeve them off. And……there was that intense satisfaction of doing the exact opposite of what they expected me to. 

Three years later, with the unwavering support from my mom (thanks mom for being a chauffeur/physical therapist) and instructor plus countless of injuries, bruises and tears - training 6 days a week, 2 to 5 hours a day on most days, I finally received my 1st dan black belt. The day I got up on the podium to receive a smattering of trophies and medals in front of the entire school was the day all bullying blissfully ceased. I’d dreamt of this day for so long when I could silence the bullies. Most importantly, I’ve learned to protect myself and never needed to fear men ever again.

I left for New Zealand to further my studies soon after. It was an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and leave the old me behind. I was hell-bent on changing myself, that each year from then on had to be better than the one before. I made myself go out each day to talk to a stranger so that I could improve my English. I learned to speak up and not whisper. To pause in between words when I spoke so I wouldn’t stutter. 

I opened up to two new friends about my past for the first time and found out that they too were molested in their childhood. More confided in me about their own traumatic experiences. A relative of mine was gang raped by her own boyfriend who’d orchestrated the crime. As she laid on the floor in agony, the perpetrators discussed how to kill and discard her body. It was sheer determination that she managed to convince them to spare her life. It was then I knew how prevalent sexual violence was. And how many of us kept silent. Like me. 

I went back to Borneo for a summer vacation when I was 19 and enlisted a group of friends to help me. I called up as many secondary schools and colleges in Kuching (a city in Borneo) as possible and spoke to their principals about allowing me to speak to their students. I contacted the women’s refuge, hospitals and those in law enforcement to try to understand exactly more about sexual violence in Sarawak. We did the rounds, speaking about sexual harassment and violence, the avenues where they could go for help (there weren’t many) and ways they could defend themselves. Many male students jeered, shouted obscenities and stomped out during my speech. When I felt that all my efforts were for naught, a group of women came forward to thank me because sexual harassment was rife in the college but they were made to feel that they'd brought it on themselves.

Sadly, rape or any sexual assaults is still a taboo even in the 21st century. The victims suffer in silence while the perpetrators go on with their lives and continue to commit similar crimes. I’m forever grateful for my faith because without God’s grace and wisdom, I wouldn’t have healed and become more resilient. He has taught me compassion and given me inner strength when I had none. His voice continues to guide me to this day.

Here’s what I’ve learned about bullying in hindsight, more than 20 years on. What was once considered a liability may one day be your greatest asset.
1. I'm infinitely grateful for the earlier harsh life lessons because they’d equipped me to deal with bullies at work and racial discrimination in my early days in New Zealand. I was also able to coach my daughter to overcome bullying in her school.
2. The bastardization of my Chinese name which sounded like (the Chinese cooking) wok (guali in Hokkien) used to invoke peals of laughter for years…… Well, I wish my old friends would continue using my Chinese name because I’m rather fond of it now. By the way, being the foodie that I am, I'm attached to my wok these days.
3. The word pipsqueak pretty much defined me throughout school and the cause of my woes because I was teeny tiny, socially awkward and looked younger than my years. By genetic default, I’ve ended up with more fat on my face than my backside which helps plump up any fine lines. I’ve saved a bundle in anti-ageing potions though if I’m not careful, I may end up looking like a chubby cheeked squirrel which had one nut too many. 
4. A few kids in school made up a song called  “broken English” and used to sing it whenever I walked past. Years later, I would teach English in a high school (briefly) and I now make a living from it. Life’s funny that way…….

I’ve learned to forgive my cousin. Not for him but for myself so I could move on and not become like him. So that I wouldn’t have this bitterness festering in me and pass it on to my child. I’d rather be a survivor and overcome the challenges than stay a victim forever because there are so many more things in my life that I’m grateful for. This project has been 34 years in the making. The best revenge is not to avenge the crime myself but to rise above. Above all, gratitude, compassion and resilience can only be learned during difficult times.

“I guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths. When you walk, your steps will not be hampered" Proverbs 4:11 verse 11-12.

If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, please share them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support.

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket

A year ago, I promised myself I would produce a project, one I hope would make a difference. An idea, over time metamorphosed into a more defined concept which eventually became a reality today, thanks to the many individuals who wholeheartedly embraced this project. I want to thank all the participants from the bottom of my heart for their courage to bare their souls on my blog because they believe that their stories may help another in a similar situation.

I'm indebted to my friends, Lucian and Adriana Paraian of Adrienne Photography who'd spent countless of hours filming, photographing and editing as well as Dilip Shukla for putting my vision into a more tangible action plan.

Our first story will be featured here on Wednesday and the remaining will be published on Mondays and Thursdays in the following weeks. If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, then please support us by sharing them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support.

Winner of Philips Compact Juicer Giveaway

The winner is kj19 (@Parsnip_Pete. Please contact me via Twitter or email to claim your prize. Congratulations!!

Old Sir Walter Tyrrell House, New Forest

Recently, I had a chance to explore the Old Sir Walter Tyrrell House in New Forest only because a friend of mine was the interior decorator. It's nestled within the New Forest grounds, a stone's throw away from the spot where King William the Second aka Rufus was killed. He was later brought back to Winchester and buried in the Cathedral.

Remember I'm a Kiwi....and anything that's more than 200 years old is like ................wow, UNBELIEVABLY ancient. By the way, that abbreviated regurgitation of history refers to the year 1100 A.D (I touched the soil where he died. Like, seriously like...wow. Sorry, a teenager has taken possession of my body).

I come from a land of sheeeeeeeep. There are more sheep than humans in New Zealand but ponies? Just in case anyone asks (and I've been asked many times before), no, I never saw sheep or a kiwi bird sauntering past my house. There was the jaw dropping moment when the ponies trotted and pranced about just meters away from the front door. It's oddly comforting to have an afternoon tea outside while gazing at the ponies and squirrels dashing about.

Sneak preview of The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket

1st photo by Josephine, edited by Marlene. All remaining photos by Marlene

The launch date may be 5 days away but here's a sneak preview of the line up of the 7 women participating in the project. It has been a long and arduous journey up to this point but we hope that our stories may strike a chord with those who are going through similar challenges so that they know they're not alone. There IS light at the end of the tunnel.

I've chosen to have the stories published online on a relatively safe platform (my blog) because our tech savvy generation are reliant and tend to seek for help online more than ever. The media like to portray perfection which in reality, is unachievable. The pressure to be thin, youthful and have the perfect life is immense and more so for our children. I've decided to feature real women with real issues. My motto for this blog is and has always been "Keeping It Real". Photoshopping is kept to the minimum (exposure, saturation and contrast).

This has been a team project with just as many working behind the scenes because they believe in the message that I'm trying to convey. Our video will be released on Monday, September 15th. Thereafter, two stories will be shared each week.

I would like to thank all the courageous women who've participated as well as dozens of others who've supported us by spreading the word of The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket project. I'm beyond grateful to Lucian & Adriana Paraian, the husband and wife team behind Adrienne Photography who'd helped me scout location, photographed and filmed, Dilip Shukla and Mia Preston who'd pitched in with the filming, Heather Sario and Josephine Chen for their help with the editing and social media.

We're excited but equally nervous about our launch but we hope you'll like what we've created for you. Thank you!

Giveaway: Philips Compact Juicer

I've talked about juicing previously. It's something I aim to do at least once a week though ideally, it should be more often than that if I'm not getting enough vegetables. Beetroot has been known to lower blood pressure quickly but it gives me a headache. I've resorted to using celery but combining it with the more palatable and subtle flavors of cucumber, green apple and carrot.

Curry's has kindly sponsored a giveaway here by donating a Philips Viva Collection juicer worth £69.99. More details about the juicer can be found here. Pop your name or an alias in a comment box below. A winner will be picked this Friday, September 12th. Please note that this giveaway is only open to UK residents.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Jacket

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Jacket. 1 jacket. 7 women spanning 3 countries. 1 year of planning, traveling and orchestration. This is the story of HOPE and COURAGE. Their inspiring stories will be launching on September 15th until October 9th here on Chocolate Cookies & Candies.

"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim" - Nora Ephron.

Smart & Sleek winter coats

My lifestyle is so casual these days that I've stuck to my denim shorts in summer and live in my sweats most of the time. I've had my moments of panic when I'm invited to more dressy events (should I wear sweatpants or ripped jeans??). Since I've disposed of my corporate attire before coming to the U.K, I rarely own anything smart unless you count a handful of blazers hanging in the closet BUT I have multitudes of sweatshirts, sweatpants, t-shirts....etc in neutral tones. Alas, I'm a creature of habit who has stuck to my uniform of choice as it's a sartorial recipe that works for me. It means getting dressed is a 3 minute job. And I don't have to think because I'm rarely at my best in the morning. Hence there's little need to show my outfit shots here.

The cocoon coat was a big hit last year but I've learned that unless you're tall and fairly slim, it's hard to pull the look off without resembling Mr Michelin. And when you're short and have a small frame like me, trying to layer during the winter months.......weeelllll......I look like a caterpillar encased in its cocoon.  A structured coat with a slightly nipped in waist (either buttoned or unbuttoned) and sharp shoulders is more flattering. Nothing too blingy like a decorated Napoleon either or else I'll set off the alarm at the airport.

What I'm loving right now is a sleek, tailored and classic dark coat with a contemporary spin. My favorite £25 Zara jacket has been worn so much that the lining is now in tatters. But then again, it's Zara. Seeing that the exterior is in superb condition, I'm happy plonk down extra dosh to have it repaired. Don't get me wrong. I'm still into statement coats but there's nothing like a sleek dark coat to smarten up an otherwise fairly ho-hum outfit.

By the way I'm on the hunt for a pair of black killer ankle boots that are......yes....badass (the older I am, the more I want to rock the badass look) and nothing treacherously high as I don't want to disable my joints. Anyone has any ideas?

New Forest

It never fails to fill me with awe to see ponies prancing about and trotting right up to the main streets of Beaulieu. They're completely at ease with strangers walking up to them. Each pony is branded with its owner's mark but is allowed to roam the forest freely. The donkeys are a lot bolder though. They'll poke their heads through your car window hoping to nab some food. I'm a city gal and sights like these are utterly foreign to me.

One other thing which only a fellow foreigner will completely understand and not snicker. New Forest was King William the Conqueror's hunting ground since 1079. Yup. That old. So I had to touch the soil just so that I can brag that I've actually touched a thousand year old history (give or take a few decades. What's a few when we're talking a thousand?!).