Boundless and Unfiltered

Tag: life

  • The 5am Version of Me Knows Things I Don’t Yet Know

    There’s a very specific kind of silence that only exists at 5am.

    It’s not peaceful in the cinematic, soft-focus, birds-starting-to-sing kind of way. Not at first.

    It’s more like absence.
    Of noise. Of people. Of identity.

    And for a moment, you meet yourself without anything added.

    There’s a negotiation that happens in that space:

    Why are we awake. Why are we doing this. Who decided this was a good idea.

    But I go anyway.

    I run. I train. I move.

    Alone.

    No notifications. No meetings. No one needing anything. No one performing urgency at me through a screen.

    Just the gym lights. The road. The rhythm of movement.

    And then something shifts.

    Not dramatically. Not emotionally.

    Just… the mind stops resisting being there.

    And in that space, it becomes available.

    The untangling you don’t plan for

    There’s a kind of mental static that builds quietly.

    Not chaos. Not crisis.

    Just accumulation.

    Unfinished thoughts. Conversations replayed too many times. Decisions not fully owned. Questions that stayed open because there was never enough stillness to close them properly.

    And then I run.

    Or train.

    Or move.

    And something simple happens.

    The noise loses structure.

    Not all at once. Not in insight or revelation.

    More like tension leaving a system that no longer needs to hold it.

    A conversation stops repeating itself.

    A decision stops feeling heavy.

    A question stops demanding urgency.

    Not because it’s solved.

    But because I’m no longer standing in relation to it the same way.

    Anxiety doesn’t vanish. It loses authority.

    I don’t want to romanticise this.

    Nothing disappears.

    Stress still exists. Anxiety still exists. Life still exists.

    But in motion, they lose command.

    They stop presenting themselves as truth.

    They become what they actually are: mental weather passing through something that doesn’t need to react to every change in temperature.

    And something in me stops participating.

    I leave it there.

    Not as a decision.

    More as a natural release.

    Like setting something down because I’ve carried it long enough.

    What replaces the noise

    What replaces it is not clarity.

    Not insight.

    Not resolution.

    It’s presence.

    The simplest possible state.

    Unedited. Unperformed. Unexplained.

    There’s curiosity too, but not the kind that interrogates life.

    The kind that allows it to unfold without resistance.

    Less grasping. Less interpreting. Less forcing meaning onto everything.

    Just being there for it.

    The 5am meeting

    It turns out the most honest meeting I have each day isn’t on my calendar.

    It starts at 5am.

    No agenda.

    No slides.

    No performance.

    Just a return.

    Like arriving fully present in mind, body and soul onto a yoga mat, before you begin.

    Like Roark in that moment of stillness before the world asks him to explain himself.

    Like entering cold water before thought has a chance to resist.

    A quiet arrival back into myself before the world asks me to be anything else.

    Not to fix myself.

    Not to prove myself.

    Just to meet myself – properly.

    And somehow, every single time, I leave with exactly what I needed.

    Not answers.

    Just that feeling of being fully back inside my own life again.

  • Embracing the Suck… and Quitting (Yes, Really)

    At the start of this year, I decided it was high time to add another “adventurous me” badge to my collection: get a scuba diving license.

    Simple, right? I mean, I’ve run long distances for fun. I’ve trekked to Everest Base Camp. Surely, hanging out underwater, looking at fish, would be a breeze.

    Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

    Step 1: The Online Exam That Would Not End

    First came the RAID certification. Ten-plus hours of e-learning, dense manuals, videos, and quizzes designed to make you question every life decision you’ve ever made. The online exam felt like the final boss of a video game.

    I scored 86.6%. Yes, oddly specific, and yes, I celebrated like I’d just won an Olympic medal. Little did I know, this was only the warm-up.

    Step 2: Four Days in the Pool… and the Ocean

    Next up: four days of practical training.

    • Day One (Pool): Wow. This is serious.
    • Day Two (Ocean): Okay… I’m getting the hang of this.
    • Day Three (Ocean): I hate this.
    • Day Four (Ocean): Well… more on that later.

    Each day brought a new set of skills to master. And by “master,” I mean: perform them perfectly under pressure or face the terrifying possibility of having to do them again. In the pool, I could fake it. In the ocean… less so.

    The whole experience was supposed to be joyful — a break from the everyday, a chance to explore the underwater world. Instead, it became intense, serious, and, honestly, exhausting. Less “finding Nemo” and more “subaquatic performance review.”

    Step 3: Embrace the Suck… Navy SEAL Style

    There’s a famous phrase from the Navy SEALs: embrace the suck. The idea is simple: life will suck sometimes, so lean in, grit your teeth, and push through.

    I leaned in… and promptly realized something important. I wasn’t enjoying this. I wasn’t good at this. And, most importantly, there was no joy in sight.

    And that’s when it hit me: maybe embracing the suck doesn’t always mean push harder. Sometimes it means: admit this isn’t for you.

    Step 4: The Radical Art of Quitting

    On day four, I did something I rarely do: I quit.

    No dramatic exit. No shame. Just a quiet, deliberate, unapologetic nope. I walked away, and do you want to know the best part?

    I felt amazing.

    That weekend, I went back to the things that genuinely bring me joy — running, hiking, CrossFit — and had a renewed appreciation for my own “normal” adventures. I was relieved, happy, and, dare I say, proud.

    Step 5: Lessons From Sucking at Scuba

    This experience taught me several important things:

    1. Courage isn’t always about perseverance. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to walk away.
    2. It’s okay to suck at something. Really. You don’t have to be good at everything you try.
    3. Joy is a compass. If it’s gone, maybe that’s a signal.
    4. Embrace the suck… but selectively. Navy SEALs have one approach; life has many. Sometimes the bravest move is quitting with grace.

    So here’s my official advice for 2026: try new things. Fail spectacularly. Suck at something. And know that walking away doesn’t make you weak — it makes you human.

    After all, life’s too short to do things that aren’t fun (and, yes, that includes scuba, apparently).

  • Ballarat: The City of Sky (and Why I’m Running My First Marathon There)

    I grew up between London and Bombay – two cities where the sky is more of a rumour than a reality. In London, the clouds hog the limelight. In Bombay, the buildings do. You learn to live under a low ceiling… literally.

    So imagine me, a fully grown adult, arriving in Ballarat for the first time and being stunned – not by some landmark, not by a bustling street, but by the sky. Just… endless, unapologetic sky. A sky so big it felt like it had elbowed everything else out of the way. A sky that made me feel tiny, free, alive, and somehow wealthy.

    Honestly, I’ve decided your true wealth is measured not by what’s in your bank account but by how much sky you get to stand under. And Ballarat? Ballarat is loaded.

    I went there because of a boy – now my husband, Don – Ballarat born and bred, who casually introduced me to what he obviously assumed was a normal little town. Meanwhile, I was having a full spiritual awakening.

    Here’s how it happened:
    We’re driving in, and I’m thinking, Well this is quaint. Then the winter flowers start lining the streets like they’re auditioning for some kind of cosy fairytale. Before I know it, I’m feeling like I’ve walked into an Enid Blyton paperback (the wholesome version, not the slightly questionable ones).

    And then it hit me:
    I wasn’t just visiting.
    I belonged.

    Ballarat felt like home in the weirdest, warmest way. Not my “new” home – my original one. The one with cold air, grey skies, and the kind of comforting dreariness that instantly transported me back to my London childhood. But this time, with slow, quiet weekends that make you remember how to breathe.

    It’s funny – so many people talk about Ballarat like it’s the runt of the Victorian litter. The moody cousin. The town you only pass through on the way to somewhere shinier. People love to call it cold, boring, bleak… basically the Eeyore of Victoria. But to me? It’s magic. Underrated, underestimated, quietly spectacular magic.

    And then there are the lakes.
    Everyone knows Lake Wendouree. She is stunning. She’s also manicured, polished, and flanked by wealth. She’s the kind of lake that went to private school, plays piano, and probably has a trust fund.

    But Lake Burrumbeet?
    Oh, she’s wild. She’s gritty. She’s magnificent in a messy bun with no makeup. On a cold, stormy day, she comes alive like she’s starring in her own dramatic period film. The sky rolls in like theatre curtains. The wind gets ideas. The water doesn’t even pretend to behave. It is perfection.

    There was a day Don took me there, and for at least 20 kilometres, it was just us, the dogs, and nature, completely unbothered by civilisation. No people. No noise. No expectations. Just raw, Australian beauty at full volume. That’s when I decided that every good thing is close to nature – and Ballarat is very, very close.

    We go often now. It’s only an hour from home, but every time we roll in, it feels like the city gives me a giant bear hug. A cold bear hug, but still – love is love.

    And that’s why, in a few months, I’ll be running my first ever marathon there – the Ballarat Marathon. Because what better place to run 42.2 km than in the town that gave me sky, belonging, and a second home?

    Ballarat may not market itself as magical. But it has been for me. And I will forever be grateful to my husband for being from Ballarat – and for inviting me into this enchanted little underdog of a city that somehow became one of the great loves of my life.

  • “Child-free, drama-free, Golden Retriever-filled bliss”

    By a happy, child-free, dog-loving 40-year-old woman

    There’s a curious thing that happens when you hit 40 and you’re a woman without children. You become… a bit of a mystery. Or, depending on who you’re talking to, a tragic figure in need of sympathy, spiritual guidance, or possibly a casserole.

    I can’t tell you how often this plays out: I meet someone new — life does its thing — we exchange the usual pleasantries, they clock my husband and me floating along in our bubble of genuine harmony and happiness, and then — boom — “Do you have kids?”

    As if that’s the only logical next step in the fairytale.

    I say, “No.”

    That’s it. No explanations. No awkward chuckle. No scrambling to soften the blow with a chirpy “…but we’re trying!” or “We’ve got nieces!” Just a calm, unapologetic no.

    And then — I wait.

    The reactions are quite something. A squirm. A sympathetic head tilt. A confused blink. Sometimes even a gentle pat on the arm, like I’ve just shared news of a tragic loss. It’s as if I casually mentioned I was once in a cult that banned fun.

    Occasionally, I toss in a cheerful follow-up: “But I do have two dogs!” hoping to steer the conversation toward my happy place — golden retrievers. Fluffy, loyal, slightly dopey, perfect. I am ready — ready — to discuss their personalities, grooming routines, snack preferences, and how one of them sleeps like a drunken starfish.

    But instead of joy, I usually get, “Ohhh, they’re your fur babies.”

    No. They’re just… my dogs. I love them. I didn’t get dogs instead of kids. I got dogs because I love dogs. I always have.

    I got them because I’ve always wanted big, fluffy, affectionate shadows who follow me everywhere and love me unconditionally. Frankly, I trust them more than most people.

    Now, this might be controversial — brace yourselves — but I’ve never felt maternal. I’ve never cooed over a baby in a pram. I’ve never picked up a tiny onesie and felt my ovaries squeal. That maternal yearning? That biological clock everyone talks about? Mine never started ticking. If anything, it took one look around and said, “Hard pass.”

    Maybe it was my upbringing. I had a mother who made parenting sound like a never-ending endurance challenge with no medals. She spoke candidly about how hard it was — the sleepless nights, the sacrifices, the mental load. Nothing about it sounded appealing to me. It stuck. Possibly permanently.

    But, maybe I was just born this way. While other little girls were dreaming about weddings and babies, I was dreaming of mountains, forests, and giant dogs with hearts of gold. I didn’t want a perfect white wedding — I didn’t want the white dress and the baby carriage — I wanted a partner who I luckily found in my husband, along with hiking boots and a canine sidekick to follow me to the ends of the earth.

    And guess what? That’s exactly what I have. Two glorious golden retrievers, an extraordinary husband who is my best mate, and a life that feels full, joyful, and entirely mine.

    I don’t feel like something’s missing. I don’t wake up wondering what my baby would’ve looked like. My life’s purpose was never to be a mum — not because I failed, but because I chose differently.

    My purpose? To live kindly. To love deeply. To work hard, show up, keep growing, and enjoy the ride. That’s enough for me. More than enough.

    So to all the well-meaning folks who respond to my child-free status with confusion, concern, or a look that says “you poor thing”, as if I’ve said that I have lost a limb please know — I’m good. I’m more than good. I like my freedom, my sleep, my savings, and my ability to leave the house without packing snacks and wet wipes.

    My life may not fit the usual mould, but it fits me perfectly. I have love, loyalty, laughter, and dog hair on every piece of clothing I own — and honestly, that’s more than enough.

    And in case you’re wondering — yes, my dogs do have their own Instagram. Curious about my “fur babies”? Just say the word. I’ll pull out 73 photos, a treat pouch, and possibly a slideshow. You’ve been warned.