My gorgeous grandson, Leo, was surrounded by his adoring great-grandfather, grandfather and father. The love for him radiated from these three men. Watching them, I wondered how the experience of becoming a dad had shifted across the three generations.
Arthur (Great Pa, Pa, Dad) – Became a father in 1957 at the age of 25.
When Arthur and I chatted about him becoming a dad, my 92-year-old father-in-law had been married to his wife, Rhonda, for 70 years. He has three children, Greg, Steven and Jenell and has a clear recollection of when his oldest son, Greg, was born.
“Rhonda was in the kitchen when her waters broke, five weeks before the due date. In those days, in a country town, women went to the doctor when they went into labour, not the hospital. The doctor thought not much would happen as the baby wasn’t due but sent Rhonda to the small hospital for a check-up. Rhonda was admitted to the hospital, and I went home to bed. I got up at daybreak and went to work fixing milking machines.
I got back to town at about 10 am. People stopped me in the street and congratulated me on becoming a father to a son, but I hadn’t heard that the baby had been born. I rushed to the hospital. Rhonda was in the ward, and newborn baby Greg was in the nursery. As was common at the time, Rhonda hadn’t been allowed to see Greg since the birth. I went straight to the nursery to make sure he had 10 fingers and toes. He was perfect. I felt like I was the last one in town to know he’d been born.
Rhonda was out of hospital in a few days, but 5 lb premature baby, Greg, stayed in the hospital for about 3 weeks. Rhonda stayed with her mother, who lived close to the hospital, which made it easier for her to walk up and deliver expressed breast milk and see Greg.
I didn’t have time off work when any of our three children were born. Rhonda’s mother helped her. Each baby was taken weekly to the baby health clinics operated by the Country Women’s Association.
I did change nappies, and you flushed them in the toilet for the initial clean. You had to hold on tight to the corner, so you didn’t lose them and block the drains.”
The couple were 22 and 25 years old when they became parents. They lived in their own home, which Arthur was building around them. Rhonda described Arthur as “working from daylight to dark”.
Steven – (Poppy, Dad). Became a father in 1987 at the age of 28.
Next came my husband, Steven, Arthur’s second son. He described his experience of becoming a dad when our son Mark was born. My mouth was firmly shut and did not prompt him, because I was there too, but this was about his experience.
Steven with baby Mark. Day 1 of becoming a dad
“I first found out I was going to become a dad through a home pregnancy test.We did two of the tests just to be sure. This was something we had planned and were both very excited and a little surprised that it hadn’t taken us long to get pregnant.
We went to childbirth classes for a few weeks, and the most important thing I learnt was the importance of being there as a support to Anne, and that I wasn’t the one having the baby.
Anne went into labour in the evening. Through the early stages of labour, she was getting in and out of the shower; she seemed very capable and confident. I was timing the contractions throughout, as we didn’t want to go to the hospital too soon. On the flip side, we didn’t want to leave it too late either. I don’t remember being worried, but I was certainly a bit scared; I’d never done this before.
I drove us to Nowra hospital, where I had also been born. The labour bag was packed, and we were prepared. We were ushered straight to the blue birthing room. The nurses examined Anne and found she was only 5 cm dilated; this was a little disappointing as we had expected her to be further progressed. It seemed like there was still a long way to go.
I continued to help Anne in and out of the shower at the hospital, rubbing her back and holding her hand. The labour went on for hours, with Anne eventually having an epidural. I didn’t want to see her hurting, but I also knew she wanted the birth to be as natural as possible.
When the baby was crowning, the doctor asked if I wanted to look. Of course I did, but what I saw made me go weak in the knees, almost fainting. I quickly retreated and sat back down at Anne’s head.
We were thrilled to hear the Doctor say, “It’s a boy”; we had chosen not to know beforehand. Our healthy son Mark was wrapped in a blue blanket and handed to Anne. I cried happy tears of joy and relief.
There were no mobile phones in those days, so I drove over to tell Mum and Dad the exciting news, had a shower and went back to the hospital. Anne and Mark were home in a couple of days. I think I had a week off work.
Having a new baby was scary; I was particularly scared of jabbing him with a nappy pin, dropping him in the bath or knocking the umbilical cord wound. I did everything I could to help.
I remember we had a big yellow nappy bucket in the bathroom. As Dad said, you flushed the dirty cloth nappies in the toilet first, holding on tight not to lose them, then soaked them in the nappy bucket until you washed them.
Mark slept in a bassinet in our room. I was aware that the baby was not allowed to sleep in our bed, and I was scared of squashing him when Anne breastfed him in bed.
Mark met two great-grandmothers and his great-grandfather in the first week of his life.
It was an amazing, wonderful thing to witness this creation of life, so special.”
Steven was 28, and I was 31 when we became parents. We had recently moved to Nowra, where Rhonda and Arthur lived.
Mark (Dad) – Became a father in 2023 at the age of 35.
And the newest dad is Mark – Steven and my son, and Arthur’s grandson. I chatted to Mark about the birth of his son Leo, who is now 3 years old.
Mark with baby Leo. Day 1 of becoming a dad.
“We did IVF to have Leo, so it was a series of interventions and then tests. I was excited and nervous when I found out my wife, Kim, was pregnant. We’d already had a miscarriage.
We went to two birthing courses, one that the midwives ran and the other a hypnobirthing one.
The hypnobirthing course was more about the mother’s rights, how to ask questions and make decisions, rather than go with the whim of the doctors and midwives. I also learnt techniques about how to calm Kim and how to make us feel more connected as a couple.
The midwife course was more about medical interventions like epidurals and continuous fetal monitoring.
Kim went into labour when her waters broke in the morning. She had some contractions, and we went to the hospital in the evening. She got checked, but the contractions were not deemed that serious, and we were sent home.
The contractions went on for another two days, and we checked in at the hospital each day. On the third morning, we went to the hospital, and the decision was made to induce Kim. I’d forgotten the bags we’d packed, so I rushed home again, dropped the dog off with mum and dad and went back to the hospital. I felt silly and was worried the baby would be born before I got back.
We were lucky to be in a birthing room; we had music, diffusers, a mood board, fairy lights and a large exercise ball.
Kim’s contractions ramped up, becoming more intense and consistent. Kim used a TENS machine and gas for pain relief. She kept mobile until contractions became 1-2 minutes apart, then she spent more time on the bed.
I was standing with her, talking her through the contractions, holding her hand, encouraging her, reminding her that the pain was good and healthy.
When she was 8 cm dilated, we knew she didn’t have long to go. About half an hour later, she was ready to push. I was holding her hand and watching. For the first time, she said she couldn’t do it anymore, but you could already see his head. We knew it was going to be a boy.
Cat Stevens “Wild World” was playing when our son was born, and I cut the cord.
The doctor only came right at the end. The labour was managed by midwives.
Leo was born at 8.30 pm. It was a gobsmacking moment, loving. I cried. Kim was amazing.
I stayed until midnight, stopped at Mum and Dad’s to tell them our wonderful news. I was back at the hospital by 6 am. We left that day after all the tests and visits by physios and lactation consultants had been done.
I had six weeks off work when Leo was born, then took another three months off when Kim went back to work when Leo was one.
During those six weeks, I started learning how to be a dad. I changed nappies, bathed Leo and cooked meals. No nappy bucket for us, we used disposables. I made sure Kim was hydrated and fed.
Leo met his grandparents on the first day.”
Mark and Kim were both 35 when they became parents. Living in Brisbane, just 5 minutes’ drive from us. They are eagerly expecting their second son in March 2026.
And now a fourth generation
Three generations of men becoming dads, three very different worlds, and one shared moment: holding their newborn child for the first time.
Now there are four generations who share the middle name Osborne.
I can’t help but wonder what it will be like for Leo if he becomes a father one day.
Whatever the future looks like, I hope he feels what these three men felt — awe, love, and the quiet realisation that life has just changed forever. I hope he and his soon-to-be-born brother continue to feel the legacy of love that these men have bestowed on him.
Three gorgeous children, under the age of 8, in a Brisbane suburban backyard on a sunny Monday morning. They embark on a serious lizard-hunting expedition. My heart swells with joy…. and aches with sorrow as I watch them.
A Great Nephew
The oldest boy is my great-nephew. He is my sister’s grandson, visiting from New Zealand with his parents for a lovely long weekend of family connection and to join our annual Christmas Carols extravaganza. I visited my sister in New Zealand in January 2025. At 79 years old, she was living at home with her husband, and while she seemed somewhat withdrawn and a little confused, life was much like it had been for many years. I had an underlying sense of disquiet and gently encouraged her to talk about death and dying with her children. By May, everything had changed, and we found ourselves revisiting New Zealand. This time, my sister was living in an aged care facility and did not know who I was. She was frail and unable to walk. She will never watch her grandson curiously adventuring in her backyard or hear his yelps of delight.
A Great Niece
The girl is my great niece. She lives in Brisbane and is the youngest granddaughter of my husband’s brother, who died in 2024, too young at 66. We’ve had the delight of looking after her for six Mondays in the lead-up to Christmas. Although she lives close by, we have previously spent more time with her older sisters, so we relished getting to know this smart and inquisitive girl who loves exploring our garden. I wish her Poppy could see her now, eyes bright with wonder.
A Grandson
The youngest boy is my grandson, with us regularly on Mondays. He is the link between the two older children who come from different branches of his family. They are second cousins to him but strangers to each other until now. His excitement is pure, his joy contagious as his second cousins join him on a lizard hunt. In their laughter, I hear the next generation weaving new threads of connection.
Ordinary days, extraordinary moments
An ordinary day, but not an ordinary moment. It’s a moment heavy with meaning—a snapshot of family history, love and loss. A moment that rewards every effort to show up for these children, and honours the trust their parents place in us. A moment that whispers: This is what matters.
I am so grateful to be here on this day with these three children and hold this memory close.
What was your 2025 Moment?
This was mine—a simple backyard adventure that became a treasured memory. Life gives us these quiet, extraordinary moments if we pause long enough to notice them.
I’d love to hear your magic moment for 2025. What was the moment that made you stop, breathe, and think, This is what matters? Share your moments in the comments below. Let’s celebrate the beauty of everyday life together.
In Thailand and Cambodia people make offerings to spirits every day to create positive karma. We, as tourists, must have been included in their wishes for happiness and well-being as we’ve had a fortuitous trip.
We anticipated a spectacular but busy day at the Grand Palace as we joined the throng of tourists channeled through the entrance gates. We followed the crowds along the designated path to the resplendent buildings. Pausing to gain our bearings we found ourselves in front of a small sign offering a “Free English Tour at 10.30 am”, it was 10.27 am. Our unplanned morning allowed us to be here at exactly the right time and place. There were thousands of people visiting the Grand Palace that day but we joined a group of just three others. We enjoyed a funny, informative tour, with a guide who spoke excellent English and happily answered our questions.
The Flower Festival, Chiang Mai
We had no idea Chiang Mai held a spectacular annual flower festival for three days in February. On our second morning in Chiang Mai we caught a glimpse of one colourful exhibit as we drove past on our tour. After discovering it was the last day of the festival, and although we were hot and bothered that evening, we dragged ourselves along to Suan Buak Haad Public Park. There we were treated with an exotic array of 25 large parade floats ornately adorned with flowers, petals and plants. It was an elaborate celebration of botany, art and culture.
Meet the Family, Koh Samui
We gladly accepted the invitation to go to Koh Samui with our daughter-in-law, son and grandson where we would be joined by three of her sisters from England. With their partners and children we would become a party of 15. We built our trip to Thailand and Cambodia around the week we would meet the family.
The offerings we accepted that week included a trip to the elephant refuge, a wonderful day on a boat, shared meals, swims in the pool with the kids, sunset cocktails and numerous cups of tea. What a joy to share time with this loving and fun family. We watched our daughter-in-law bask in the love of her family and our grandson thrive with the doting care of his English cousins, aunties and uncles. In the steamy heat of Koh Samui relationships were built that will last a lifetime.
The Giant Puppet Project, Siem Reap
Wandering through the crowded streets of Siem Reap on our first night in Cambodia, an older man with a British accent yelled at us “Come on, you’ll miss the puppet show.” He ran on, excitedly beckoning to us. “Come on, come on, it’s about to start.” We followed him, unsure whether this was an offering or a scam. Then, around the corner we saw the giant light filled puppets, and were mesmerised. We had stumbled on the annual Giant Puppet Project which celebrates art, culture and community spirit. Each of the 9 puppets was lead by groups of children who had helped to create them.
Children Are Not Tourist Attractions
There was one offering I should have refused. A tour in Chiang Rai included a trip to the village of the long-necked Karen people. These colourfully dressed tribal women traditionally wear heavy metal rings around their necks. As refugees from Myanmar they have no right to work, education or health care in Thailand. We paid a fee to enter the village and the women sat outside their shops posing for photos.
Some women had their traditionally dressed school age daughters with them. Drawn by one of the young girl’s deep brown eyes and engaging sales skills, and moved by the poverty of the village, I bought a necklace from her. She posed for a photo with me, which I will not post here. That night I pondered whether buying from a child of about 7 years old was appropriate. Was I fostering child labour and reducing her chance of going to school?
Ten days later in Siam Reap, a sign on the back of a toilet door in Apopo Visitor Centre (where they train rats to find land mines) confronted me. It stated: “Children are not tourist attractions. Think before visiting an orphanage”. At Phare Circus, where we watched an astounding modern circus performance, a similar abbreviated sign on the toilet wall, simply said “Children are not tourist attractions.” Both Apopo and Phare Circus are community organisations.
The signs were by the Child Safe Movement who aim to stop “orphanage tourism” which contributes to separating children from families and often supports unscrupulous operators. A few years ago, while writing Not Forgotten: They called me number 10 at Neerkol Orphanage I visited the Little Flower Orphanage in Beijing, which is not open to tourists. I have long wondered whether volunteering or visiting orphanages is beneficial for the children living there.
Children are not tourist attractions. Would it have helped if I insisted on buying the necklace from an adult at the Karen village? Perhaps the offering was the moment of reflection and learning.
Sunrise over Angkor Wat, Siem Reap
Our Cambodian bike tour included a visit to Angkor Wat at sunrise. Despite the allure of the event, I dreaded the 4.40am pick up. For a night owl like me that’s torture. I tiredly sat in the dark waiting for the sunrise and was blessed to see it gently rise behind one of the most spectacular buildings on the planet. The following day our guide emphasised how lucky we were, as for weeks prior the sunrises had been consistently dulled due to cloud cover.
As I post this I’m waiting for the plane home, appreciative of all that we have been offered and accepted on this amazing trip.
This month, I’ve spent hours talking with friends and family about getting old and dying. It’s such a fun topic when you’re on holiday. Yet, discussing ageing and death is now part of the narrative of my life. At 68, if the media interviewed me, I would be considered an “elderly retired grandmother”. Not that I feel like that. When I was a young mum, I talked about babies and toddlers. Then I lamented with anyone who would listen about wayward teenagers. After those teenagers became adults and left, I discussed work. Now that I’m retired many conversations are around planning holidays, grandchildren, the state of the world, getting old, and death. It’s a bit like the Organ Recital, where we oldies discuss our ailments.
I understand ageing and dying are challenging topics, but I’m both surprised and saddened at the lack of preparation that many people put into this journey. It seems to me that they would prepare more for a long weekend away.
Here are three big questions that I think we need to ask ourselves:
Where am I going to live?
Most people want to age in their own home. I certainly do. What does this mean though? Does it mean staying in the house you raised your children in, or does it mean moving to a home that is more suitable for this time of your life? If you choose to stay in your home, are there alterations you can make to maximise your ease and enjoyment? Perhaps it’s as small as installing grab rails or as big as moving the laundry upstairs. It’s a challenge managing the conflict of wanting to stay as active and independent as possible, while also preparing for an unclear future.
My 92-year-old father-in-law and 90-year-old mother-in-law live independently in their family home. They have made some alterations like adding a step elevator for the front steps and installing grab rails and a bidet in the bathroom. They have help in the garden and a cleaner. Their home remains perfect for them, close to family and the community they have lived in all their lives. However, I decided I needed to move after falling down my internal stairs four years ago and breaking my ankle. I no longer wanted to live in a two-storey house on a steep block. Now we live in a flat-on-the-ground house which gives me easy access to the outside. I am more active here than I was in the other house. We only moved 600 metres, so we too are still in our community.
When did you last walk through your house and really look at it, thinking about how suitable it is for the next stage of your life? The thought of making changes or moving is anxiety-provoking but not as distressing as having to quickly make important life decisions in a health crisis.
The reality is, many of us are likely to need help if we want to age in place, whether it’s someone to do the gardening, cleaning, laundry, make beds, provide meals, or help with transport. I’d rather accept some help in my own home than be in an aged care home.
Who’s going to make decisions about my health if I can’t?
It’s unimaginable that I won’t be able to make decisions for myself, but I have seen the consequences of not planning for this possibility. At 65 years old, a friend had a stroke and was unable to make decisions for himself. After an initial hospital stay, he was moved to an aged care home. His family and friends had to make an application to the Guardianship and Administration Tribunal, so a guardian to manage his affairs could be appointed. Until this happened no major decisions could be made about his assets, and funds needed for his care were limited. My friend also had to be medically assessed as not having the capacity to make important health and personal decisions as evidence for the tribunal. These stressful and lengthy medico/legal processes would have been avoided had he prepared an Enduring Power of Attorney when he was well.
An Enduring Power of Attorney is a legal document where you appoint someone to make decisions on your behalf if you are unable to. This person is called the Attorney. While you are well you can choose who will best be able to manage your health care and assets, including paying bills and selling real estate. This is an important decision and if there is no one you know who can undertake this role then you can appoint the Public Trustee.
Imagine how stressful it would be for friends and family if you did not have an Enduring Power of Attorney, and they were unable to act rapidly in your best interests in a crisis.
What’s going to happen to all my stuff when I’m dead?
We all have “stuff”. It seems to accumulate no matter how many clean-outs we have. Some of that “stuff” is valuable, like your home, financial investments and other assets. I’m sure family and friends will select sentimental mementos when I’m gone, but they won’t want most of my chattels and I’m ok with this. However, although I plan to spend as much of my money as I can before I die, I do want to choose who will receive any remaining financial assets. The best way I can ensure this will happen as I wish is to make a Will.
A Will is a legal document that states who will receive your property and possessions after you die. At least one person must know where your Will is. This is usually someone that you have appointed as Executor during the process of making the Will. Here are a few links to Wills but get legal advice.
Preparing for aging and dying doesn’t start when you’re old. In fact, it’s more important to plan when you’re young. If you’ve got kids or have a home, then you better have an Enduring Power of Attorney and a Will. Imagine if something happened to you and grieving children and spouses didn’t know your wishes. A hard time made unnecessarily more difficult.
What are you doing, or not doing, to plan for getting old and dying?
P.S. I’m well and healthy!!
Postscript: I friend on Facebook made this comment and I thought it was worth adding
The lawyer in me says to look over your wills every few years to check they reflect the changes that occur in your lives and update if necessary.
It’s also important to have an Advance Health Directive (sometimes known as a living will) which outlines your preferences for care and medical procedures/interventions and appoints someone to make decisions regarding your health on your behalf, in the event you lose capacity to do so yourself.
Again like a will it should be reviewed every few years or if circumstances change.
I’m drawn to the tall bold totem poles found in many indigenous cultures. Seeing the ornately carved and painted ones in Alaska and Canada in 2024 inspired me to make totems for my suburban Brisbane garden. My totems couldn’t just be artistic; like all totems, they would have to represent history, values, spirit and community.
Can’t carve, draw or sculpt!
Only one problem prevented me from creating my first totem—I can’t carve, draw, or sculpt, but why let a lack of artistic skills get in the way of creativity or a grand project?
Preparing for the Moorhouse Totem
My first totem would be an homage to the Moorhouse family. I decided Christmas Day 2024 would be the perfect day to create my totem as I would have both the oldest and youngest members of the Moorhouse family present. Arthur, at 92, is the patriarch of the family. Leo, not yet two, is the youngest of his nine great-grandchildren. With them and 11 other family members present, I would have a captive audience to help me create my totem.
In preparation, I painted a PVC pipe (100 mm in diameter and 3 meters long). I needed a variety of colored paints for my project, but I only needed a handful of each color. As I was reluctant to buy 13 tins of paint, I requested leftover paint from my local Buy Nothing Facebook group. This generous group gifted me the paint I needed.
Hands across time
After lunch on Christmas day, I herded the family to my totem site and started painting hands, the youngest first, the oldest last. All chose a colour. One by one we placed our painted hands around the painted pipe, creating our Moorhouse totem. At the top were Arthur and Rhonda, 92 and 90 years old. Next, were Steven and me. How rapidly the years have passed, now we are close to the top of the family tree.
The totem handprints include one of Arthur and Rhonda’s children, three of their grandchildren, four of their great-grandchildren and three extraordinary daughters-in-law who have birthed and cared for this tribe.
A friend who was with us on Christmas day is a calligrapher and added the finishing touches.
A perfectly imperfect totem now graces my garden.
After our 2025 trip back to New Zealand, I’m planning my next totem, though it’s been suggested I use the Māori name Pouwhenua or pou whenua.
When old people gather (and I don’t mind being called old because I am, and the alternative is worse) it often starts as an organ recital. We update each other on our aches and pains, and how our bodily parts are functioning. For me this year it’s been about heart, hip and head, so I’ve had lots to contribute.
At first, I resisted these conversations, sure they would lead to boring diatribes. Do we have nothing better to discuss? I’d rather hear about a show you’re going to or your next trip away. I want to know your thoughts about what’s happening in the world or a great book you’ve read. Do I really want to hear about your ailments?
Yet now I have embraced the organ recital and thank the acquaintance that introduced me to the phrase. I look forward to updates on my friends’ health and what they are doing to stay well. I also share my health worries and am thankful to my friends for listening and supporting me.
Sharing the Expertise
I relish what I learn from these conversations. I got tips from a friend who has bladder problems and swapped my last black tea of the night, for an herbal one. Now I’ve had some nights where I’ve slept through, without having to get up to pee. This is a small miracle in my life. Caffeine irritates the bladder. I didn’t know this.
I introduced a friend, who had ghastly blocked sinuses and associated hearing loss, to sinus rinses. Her relief was immediate. She’d never heard of them and now calls me Dr Anne.
When my body starts to falter, I know there will be someone who has something similar. Us oldies also know which specialists are the best in the area and who to avoid.
Keep the Organ Recital Rhythm
Of course, these could be dreadful conversations. So here are my suggestions when you’re meeting up in a social group:
Keep it short and stay focused on what action can be taken
Don’t hog the conversation
Check with your doctor, not everyone plays the same tune or hears the same song.
Do you love the picture?
This was my first foray into AI. I asked it to make me “body organs playing music” and this is what it produced. I am amazed. What do you think?
It’s been two years since I last wrote a blog, but here I am. Now I’m inspired and encouraged to write again. I’m rediscovering that writing can be fun.
University of the Third Age in Brisbane (U3A)
I joined the University of the Third Age in Brisbane (U3A) when I retired. It’s a wonderful organisation run by volunteers that encourages lifelong learning for those of us who are in active retirement. Check it out. The Brisbane group has over 3,000 members and I’m amazed by how many courses they offer. They have many sites across Australia.
I participate in a U3A discussion group called “Dangerous Ideas”. We cover an array of topics including the pros and cons of nuclear power, transgender athletes, electric vehicles, whether we need a bill of rights and, are we a divided country. I enjoy the lively and stimulating discussion, but the best outcome of my attendance was connecting with two other writers and being invited to join their writing group. What an unexpected gift.
The Writing Group
Now I meet with a group of new friends twice a month for coffee, laughter, inspiration and writing. They have been meeting together for over five years and originally met through U3A. At first, I felt like an interloper, but they welcomed me warmly and I now feel like part of the group – albeit a newbie. I am impressed by the stories they can conjure up in 20 minutes while I fight the blank page for something to write.
What Will I Write?
Say hello to my messy writing space
I have a novel loosely rolling around in my head. When I started writing Not Forgotten: They called me Number 10 at Neerkol OrphanageI anticipated writing it in a novel form, but Samilya’s story was too horrific and important to fictionalise. Researching and writing the book was gruelling, and by the end, I had no interest in writing. Now I think it might be fun to play with writing that novel.
After joining the writing group, I entered a couple of writing competitions, Furious Fiction and Not Quite Write. I have even been long-listed twice with Furious Fiction. The competitions are such fun. You receive prompts on Friday night and have until Sunday night to submit and write a 500-word story. That’s what got me writing again.
I’m also inspired by my friend who I wrote about in Brave Enough to Dance for Your Man. She has been sending a reflective blog out once a week to her friends. Her discipline and commitment to writing spurred me on.
So, I’ll play with reigniting this blog and see where it leads. I’m not sure that blogs are in vogue anymore. Steven, my husband, suggests I make TikToks instead, but that seems a dance move too far for me!
Continuing to Learn
Now I’m plodding through a Udemy course – How to Write and Publish a Novel. The recommended text, Writing Fiction for Dummies, by Randy Ingermanson and Peter Economy, is incredibly useful and provides me with a pathway to writing my elusive novel.
I also have to relearn how to use this WordPress site. Some things have changed, and I’ve forgotten how it all works. AI keeps asking me if I want some help – do I? I don’t even know how AI works.
I know that each post comes with at least one frustrating technical challenge! If you’ve read this then it means I’ve successfully climbed that first technology mountain.
It was quiet in the practice on Wednesday evening, some of my colleagues were away, and others were working behind closed doors. I finished my last session at 7 pm, closed my trusty laptop, picked up my raggedy pad with scrawled notes, untangled the cords to my old-fashioned earphones, and packed my bag. Took my favourite green teacup to the kitchen, said goodnight to Millie who was managing the reception desk and slid out the backdoor.
I left behind the psychologist’s chair, its contours will be warmed by someone else, but no longer by me.
Tears slid down my face as I drove the 10 minutes to my home. That was it, I’d retired. I’d finished my career as a psychologist. Who was I now?
Gruelling goodbyes
I was only working two days a week but those last 20 sessions in the final fortnight were gruelling. Every session was a heartfelt goodbye. It was like putting unfinished books back on the shelf, but therapy is often like that. This time though I knew that the clients could not return. I would not witness chapters yet to be told or future chapters of their lives. I’d worked intensely with these wonderful people, some for many years and knew their hopes and dreams. I knew what held them back and I had to let them all go.
The tears that escaped only hinted at the turmoil within me. Grief, joy, fear, hope, regret, and relief whirled within me but were mostly contained during those last sessions. I hugged clients, shook hands, patted backs and, accepted gifts, letters and cards. “Goodbye, go well, take care” I whispered. I hoped I would bump into them in the street some time, but I have rarely seen clients outside the therapy room. Floundering for the final words, nothing I said felt enough.
I will miss the laughter
A friend asked what would I miss most when I stopped being a psychologist, and I surprised myself when I said “the laughter”. The laughter of therapy is like no other. We expect tears in therapy but not laughter and yet they come from the same deep well of emotions. I will miss those moments when a client suddenly laughs at what they are saying or thinking. It’s not a dismissive or condescending laugh, Nor is it an avoidant laugh. Rather it seems like a ray of sunshine, giggling with the delight of new knowledge. The joyful newness of discovering a new way of being.
How I will miss those clever, ironic and humorous comments made by clients when they suddenly understand a part of themself. I rarely laugh as deeply and with such compassion in my “real” life.
You’ll find me drinking Bloody Marys in my PJs
My son, daughter, and daughter-in-law celebrated my retirement by gifting me a bottle of vodka, Bloody Mary mix, lemon juice, a glass, and PJs. The Bloody Mary tradition was born while living in Papua New Guinea for eight years. I would board the plane to leave and order a Bloody Mary. It’s become our family marker of travel and transitions. Is this what they think I’ll be doing with the rest of my life?
Therapy is an act of love
While part of me still longs to do the therapeutic work I no longer want to sit inside a closed room for many hours of the day. I want to be free to create (perhaps to write another book), to enjoy the sun on my face. and perhaps to do nothing much at all.
I want to re-connect with the people I love but have not seen enough of.
For me, therapy has been an act of love. A love full of respect, safety, caring, boundaries, vulnerability, growth and hope. Therapy has often included raging against the injustices of the world. I will find ways to maintain both love and rage.
I have such gratitude for the wonderful, inspiring and insightful clients and colleagues with whom I have shared my therapeutic journey. Thank you.
When I started talking with Samilya and playing with the idea of writing her story I envisaged a historical novel. My fantasy included crafting turbulently romantic scenes and bold acts of heroism. I soon realised that this was not the pathway for recounting the abuse and neglect that had been foisted on Samilya. I needed to place Samilya’s story in a historical context and provide a psychological overview of the impact of trauma on her life. The reality became hours of library and internet research and ploughing my way through tombs of government documents.
I had no idea how to write a novel and even less idea of how to write a biography. Yet still, I persisted. I needed to become a better writer.
I asked for feedback on my writing
I am blessed to be surrounded by a group of intelligent, educated, thoughtful readers in my life and so I reached out for help – I asked for feedback on my writing. Handing over my draft manuscript was terrifying. Here was my best – what if it wasn’t enough? I was tentatively stepping into the arena and asking for criticism. I could no longer see what needed work in the manuscript, I was drowning in it.
And so started a process where I would edit the manuscript, hand it to a carefully selected reviewer, listen to their feedback and make more changes – or not. Then I would repeat the process with the next reviewer. It was often hard to hear what my readers had to say. Sometimes it was excruciatingly painful. Always it was useful and they made me a better writer. The manuscript is far richer for their input.
I asked for a lot of feedback. By the time I finished 15 people had read and provided feedback on my writing – psychologists, social workers, academics, a well-known author, those with legal backgrounds, some who saw the bigger picture, some who were detail-focused, a few who loved me and one who didn’t know me.
During the feedback process, I became better at asking for what I needed my reviewers to look for. I learnt to listen without becoming defensive. I became adept at choosing which feedback was useful and which wasn’t. I was full of gratitude for the time and consideration they took to share their thoughts with me. I have since given feedback on another writers manuscript and it’s a tough job.
And then I engaged a professional editor.
This weekend we celebrated
With great joy this weekend Samilya and I presented our reviewers with a signed copy of our bookNot Forgotten: They called me Number 10 at Neerkol Orphanage. It was wonderful to fill the room with friends who had read a draft version of the book and who understood how important Samilya’s story, and that of all Forgotten Australians, is.
Samilya has volunteered at LECNA for over 10 years. LECNA is a special place for Samilya, inspiring a chapter in the book – Somewhere to be and Something to do. As Samilya writes:
The Centre has been a lifesaver for me, they’ve helped me more than any Royal Commission or Forde Foundation. I did the Knowledge, Networking, Intervention and Training Program with them, they call it the KNIT program, it’s a positive behaviour management program. That was good. For a while, I went to the Centre just about every day. They gave me somewhere to be and something to do.
They clamoured for signed copies
While we always envisaged launching the book at LECNA, nothing prepared us for the love and support shown to Samilya on the day, and the days following.
The launch took place after the volunteers monthly lunch. Before we even had the books ready for sale we were besieged by Samilya’s colleagues and friends wanting a copy. Everyone clamoured for Samilya to sign their copy.
For a moment we felt like movie stars as we lined up for photos, with our own paparazzi.
Finding joy at a book launch
Gillian Marshall, Executive Community Manager interviewed us and we did our first ever book chat to a wonderfully supportive audience. We finished with the painful, and seemingly endless silence that happens when you ask “Any questions from the audience?” Then the real magic happened – one by one audience members stood up.
They did not ask questions but instead, they made heartfelt addresses to Samilya. Recognising the importance of her story, the courage she has taken to ensure all Forgotten Australians are remembered, the contribution she has made to the centre and the work she had done in the community. There were promises to promote the book. There were tears of sorrow and joy.
We never expected to find such joy at a book launch.
My gorgeous grandson, Leo, was surrounded by his adoring great-grandfather, grandfather and father. The love for him radiated from these three men. Watching them, I wondered how the experience of becoming a dad had shifted across the three generations.
Three generations of men becoming dads, three very different worlds, and one shared moment: holding their newborn child for the first time.
The oldest boy is my great-nephew. He is my sister’s grandson, visiting from New Zealand with his parents for a lovely long weekend of family connection and to join our annual Christmas Carols extravaganza. I visited my sister in New Zealand in January 2025. At 79 years old, she was living at home with her husband, and while she seemed somewhat withdrawn and a little confused, life was much like it had been for many years. I had an underlying sense of disquiet and gently encouraged her to 
An ordinary day, but not an ordinary moment. It’s a moment heavy with meaning—a snapshot of family history, love and loss. A moment that rewards every effort to show up for these children, and honours the trust their parents place in us. A moment that whispers: This is what matters.
In Thailand and Cambodia people make offerings to spirits every day to create positive karma. We, as tourists, must have been included in their wishes for happiness and well-being as we’ve had a fortuitous trip.
We anticipated a spectacular but busy day at the Grand Palace as we joined the throng of tourists channeled through the entrance gates. We followed the crowds along the designated path to the resplendent buildings. Pausing to gain our bearings we found ourselves in front of a small sign offering a “Free English Tour at 10.30 am”, it was 10.27 am. Our unplanned morning allowed us to be here at exactly the right time and place. There were thousands of people visiting the Grand Palace that day but we joined a group of just three others. We enjoyed a funny, informative tour, with a guide who spoke excellent English and happily answered our questions.
We had no idea Chiang Mai held a spectacular annual flower festival for three days in February. On our second morning in Chiang Mai we caught a glimpse of one colourful exhibit as we drove past on our tour. After discovering it was the last day of the festival, and although we were hot and bothered that evening, we dragged ourselves along to Suan Buak Haad Public Park. There we were treated with an exotic array of 25 large parade floats ornately adorned with flowers, petals and plants. It was an elaborate celebration of botany, art and culture.
We gladly accepted the invitation to go to Koh Samui with our daughter-in-law, son and grandson where we would be joined by three of her sisters from England. With their partners and children we would become a party of 15. We built our trip to Thailand and Cambodia around the week we would meet the family.
The Giant Puppet Project, Siem Reap
There was one offering I should have refused. A tour in Chiang Rai included a trip to the village of the long-necked Karen people. These colourfully dressed tribal women traditionally wear heavy metal rings around their necks. As refugees from Myanmar they have no right to work, education or health care in Thailand. We paid a fee to enter the village and the women sat outside their shops posing for photos.
Ten days later in Siam Reap, a sign on the back of a toilet door in 
Our Cambodian bike tour included a visit to Angkor Wat at sunrise. Despite the allure of the event, I dreaded the 4.40am pick up. For a night owl like me that’s torture. I tiredly sat in the dark waiting for the sunrise and was blessed to see it gently rise behind one of the most spectacular buildings on the planet. The following day our guide emphasised how lucky we were, as for weeks prior the sunrises had been consistently dulled due to cloud cover.
This month, I’ve spent hours talking with friends and family about getting old and dying. It’s such a fun topic when you’re on holiday. Yet, discussing ageing and death is now part of the narrative of my life. At 68, if the media interviewed me, I would be considered an “elderly retired grandmother”. Not that I feel like that. When I was a young mum, I talked about babies and toddlers. Then I lamented with anyone who would listen about wayward teenagers. After those teenagers became adults and left, I discussed work. Now that I’m retired many conversations are around planning holidays, grandchildren, the state of the world, getting old, and death. It’s a bit like the 
My 92-year-old father-in-law and 90-year-old mother-in-law live independently in their family home. They have made some alterations like adding a step elevator for the front steps and installing grab rails and a bidet in the bathroom. They have help in the garden and a cleaner. Their home remains perfect for them, close to family and the community they have lived in all their lives. However, I decided I needed to move after falling down my 
It’s unimaginable that I won’t be able to make decisions for myself, but I have seen the consequences of not planning for this possibility. At 65 years old, a friend had a stroke and was unable to make decisions for himself. After an initial hospital stay, he was moved to an aged care home. His family and friends had to make an application to the Guardianship and Administration Tribunal, so a guardian to manage his affairs could be appointed. Until this happened no major decisions could be made about his assets, and funds needed for his care were limited. My friend also had to be medically assessed as not having the capacity to make important health and personal decisions as evidence for the tribunal. These stressful and lengthy medico/legal processes would have been avoided had he prepared an Enduring Power of Attorney when he was well. 
We all have “stuff”. It seems to accumulate no matter how many clean-outs we have. Some of that “stuff” is valuable, like your home, financial investments and other assets. I’m sure family and friends will select sentimental mementos when I’m gone, but they won’t want most of my chattels and I’m ok with this. However, although I plan to spend as much of my money as I can before I die, I do want to choose who will receive any remaining financial assets. The best way I can ensure this will happen as I wish is to make a Will. 
When old people gather (and I don’t mind being called old because I am, and the alternative is worse) it often starts as an organ recital. We update each other on our aches and pains, and how our bodily parts are functioning. For me this year it’s been about heart, hip and head, so I’ve had lots to contribute.
This was my first foray into AI. I asked it to make me “body organs playing music” and this is what it produced. I am amazed. What do you think?
It was quiet in the practice on Wednesday evening, some of my colleagues were away, and others were working behind closed doors. I finished my last session at 7 pm, closed my trusty laptop, picked up my raggedy pad with scrawled notes, untangled the cords to my old-fashioned earphones, and packed my bag. Took my favourite green teacup to the kitchen, said goodnight to Millie who was managing the reception desk and slid out the backdoor.
My son, daughter, and daughter-in-law celebrated my retirement by gifting me a bottle of vodka, Bloody Mary mix, lemon juice, a glass, and PJs. The Bloody Mary tradition was born while living in Papua New Guinea for eight years. I would board the plane to leave and order a Bloody Mary. It’s become our family marker of travel and transitions. Is this what they think I’ll be doing with the rest of my life?
When I started talking with Samilya and playing with the idea of writing her story I envisaged a historical novel. My fantasy included crafting turbulently romantic scenes and bold acts of heroism. I soon realised that this was not the pathway for recounting the abuse and neglect that had been foisted on Samilya. I needed to place Samilya’s story in a historical context and provide a psychological overview of the impact of trauma on her life. The reality became hours of library and internet research and ploughing my way through tombs of government documents.
I am blessed to be surrounded by a group of intelligent, educated, thoughtful readers in my life and so I reached out for help – I asked for feedback on my writing. Handing over my draft manuscript was terrifying. Here was my best – what if it wasn’t enough? 
With great joy this weekend Samilya and I presented our reviewers with a signed copy of our book
With both trepidation and excitement, Samilya and I launched our book Not Forgotten: They called me number 10 at Neerkol orphanage at 
The launch took place after the volunteers monthly lunch. Before we even had the books ready for sale we were besieged by Samilya’s colleagues and friends wanting a copy. Everyone clamoured for Samilya to sign their copy.
