We are braver than we think, stronger than we realise

Penny Muller
Jul 9
9 min read

Perhaps this is a time to reflect on our past experiences

As June moved into July, fresh energies swept into the planet, lifting the frequency and making it lighter. I kept hearing that it was a time for play - for entertaining the inner child - and it seemed that way for me. I was feeling particularly grateful and content, and optimistic about the growth I was experiencing and the positive change that I could feel was coming. The other night, I went downstairs - as I usually do - to sing or practice some songs. Out of nowhere, I had a recollection from the past - from about 11 years ago, of my friend from work who had died of cancer, and I started crying at the keyboard. It really took me by surprise. The transitional energies feel so strong at the moment, and maybe this is also a time to reflect and process past events and emotions. I have had multiple 'sudden thoughts' like this lately, and perhaps you have too. These are gifts - they mean that we are processing additional layers of our emotional history that we were perhaps unable to work through at the time. This also means change is afoot and we are being prepared for a new phase.

I thought about my life, and how often I have compared it with that of others, thinking that they had experienced more trauma or achieved more success than I had. I remembered that there had been so many sad moments in my life and many beautiful ones - that there had been moments when I had been overwhelmed with pain, or with gratitude - with amazement for what I was experiencing or for where I was standing in each particular moment. I thought about the last time I saw Sonya, when she came to work to say goodbye. As I hugged her, she encouraged me to continue writing my blog and told me she would keep reading it. In shock at how thin and fragile she was, I cried and was comforted by my boss in another room, after she had gone. Not long before, when we thought her cancer was curable, she had wistfully told me that I was ''so thin'' - I thought about how futile that pursuit of thinness had been and how grateful I had felt, thinking of Sonya, to have had access to a healthy body. I wished I had treated it with more kindness during the first half of my life.

I thought about the last time I saw my uncle, so very fragile like Sonya and barely able to walk, at my aunt's funeral. His only concern was for the singing competition I was going to do the next day - he insisted that we hurry home so I could rest and be ready for it. When he hugged me, he said, for the first time, ''I love ya mate''. I remembered sitting on my bedroom floor, as a thirteen-year-old, reflecting on my poppa's death - I remembered the joyous laughter we were having as a family, around the table, just before we received the call and my dad rushed into town - how being so happy just moments before had seemed so wrong. I remembered watching my grandpa break his neck the day after his ninetieth birthday and holding his hand in the hospital at midnight, before flying back to my home in Melbourne the next day and bursting into tears from shock in front of my coworkers in the kinder room. I remembered the warmth in my nanna's eyes, at ninety-five-years-old, when she woke up in her chair and said, ''I think it's nearly time'', and the look of happy surprise in my grandma's face when I leaned close to her chair in the darkened aged-care home in Adelaide and said, ''It's Penny''. I remembered the sadness of sitting on the bed with my arm around my grandpa, realising that, for the first time, perhaps he didn't know me.

I remembered standing in front of a man, looking into his eyes, and telling him that I was leaving my job because I had feelings for him. I remembered his kindness. I remembered that I stopped eating and that a few days later, when I tried to get out of bed and go to work, I couldn't walk - I had to call in sick. I thought of the countless tragic poems and songs I wrote throughout my life, all the nights that I had cried myself to sleep, and all the days that I had walked through my days in grief - vowing that I would never allow myself to feel that kind of pain again, and then, of course, a few years later, realising that I had - experiencing loss of love, or the dream of it, again, felt like a knife to the stomach. I remembered transmuting that pain into new pathways, like studying for my Masters - and the imposter syndrome I experienced sitting in a classroom on my first evening at Melbourne Uni - knowing it was second in the world to Harvard, and hearing students use words I was not familiar with - like ''discourse'' and other various '...isms' - and how proud I was when I was asked, a few months later, if they could use some of my essays as exemplars.

I remembered how I had struggled for years, not knowing how to find my place in the world and how to function within it - not knowing if I would ever be able to - not knowing what to do for work. I remembered always feeling that I was in the wrong place, wishing I was somewhere else - feeling my body shut down and finding it almost impossible to move through the days. I remembered deep depressions, emptiness, despair, and burning out over and over again. I remembered lying in bed for two weeks in my studio apartment in Melbourne, crying, with my legs in so much pain, not knowing what was wrong with my body. I remembered the humiliation of a doctor laughing at me and telling me to ''go and live my life''. I remembered, three years later, still not knowing what was wrong with my body, seeing my health become worse - not knowing if I would ever be well - feeling terrified and not knowing what to do - sometimes not being able to walk more than a few steps. I remembered waiting for hours at the bulk billed doctors' surgery - not having the money to go to an ordinary doctors' surgery - and then crying in fear and frustration to the lady in the pathology room.

I remembered the relief and joy I felt, realising after several years, that with much concentrated effort and rest, I had healed my adrenal/chronic fatigue - discovering that it was almost a rite of passage for the 'highly sensitive person'. I remembered that in my early twenties I had travelled to Europe for the first time - stepping through my fear - and healed my own depression, knowing with certainty that I would never experience it again. I remembered all the times I had taken back my life - all the places I had been - five trips to Europe and three to the U.S., and also New Zealand - the moments of awe and wonder, standing in places I had dreamed of visiting all my life - seeing sights that took my breath away with their beauty - crying tears of overwhelming joy and pride. I remembered that I had felt sadness about experiencing the world alone and experiencing life alone - wondering why I had failed, what was wrong with me, why perhaps I wasn't worthy of love - only to realise that this was the key to my becoming - I had chosen to become braver by facing my fears on my own. I remembered the two trips that I took last year - that sadness, at last, was gone - my 'becoming' was what mattered most.

I remembered holding my newborn nephews and my niece in my arms, seeing them look at me with the wisdom of thousands of lifetimes - never wanting to put them down. I remembered the special bonds I had with the children I cared for, and with my work colleagues, and my honorary nieces and nephews. I remembered all the friendships I've had - some decades-long, some as close as sisters. I remembered all the close, bonded moments I had with my own sisters, and how special they are to me - and how my parents have always been there for me and let me follow my path. I remembered hugging my friends, crying with them, laughing with them - countless sleepovers and camping trips - countless mugs of Milo and confessionals under the covers. I remembered the twenty-first birthday party we shared and the cruise for our thirtieth birthdays. I remembered how proud I was to know that as a sixteen-month-old visiting my newborn sister in the hospital, rather than resenting her presence, I offered her my bottle as comfort. Also, I remembered the thrill of meeting my youngest sister at the train station in Milan on our first trip to Europe - laughing as we called out ''ciao bella'' - and joining her for a short time on two subsequent trips - staying at Hyde Park Inn hostel together while we were both working in London.

I remembered the honour of standing on many stages - the powerful feeling of communicating to an audience - looking into a dark theatre and seeing the lights in my eyes for the first time - being fitted for a microphone for the first time - saying my first 'line' in my first musical - singing in my first exam - my first audition - my first eisteddfod. I remembered making my first recording and having it played on the radio. I remembered The King and I, Hello Dolly, and Fiddler on the Roof. I remembered a long bus trip to Nhill, hours from Melbourne, performing HMS Pinafore with the Gilbert and Sullivan Society - altering our own costumes and starching our petticoats to make them as big as they could be. I remembered being draped with fabrics and having them pinned on me, wearing beautiful gowns and an enormous hat in My Fair Lady - and, every time I walked into the room, having the costume designer, a well-known milliner, gaze at me as if he was admiring a painting - telling me that he saved his favourite fabric for my costumes. Then, several years later, singing and dancing in the chorus of Ruddigore with Opera Queensland - twirling and swooning on stage - and giggling backstage, as half naked, we were fitted for corsets and bloomers. I remembered all the ballet concerts that I loved, and the countless times I played the piano and sang for others throughout my childhood and teenage years.

Of course, I could go on and on, there is so much in a life, but this is what I remembered in this moment. In this reflection, I feel peace, I feel gratitude, and I feel contentment in knowing that nothing in my life has been wasted and nothing has been a mistake - there has been so much growth and so much joy. Most of all, I feel anticipation for the future. Although there is much more to learn and master, there is so much peace in knowing that it is a much stronger, more balanced, and more grounded 'me' that is ready to meet the next phase of my life. I'm not sure why I have felt this need to write this detailed reflection on my life and to share it publicly, but for some reason, it felt right in this moment. Maybe it will provide some comfort or understanding for someone. I always enjoyed reading people's life stories. I found it reassuring to see the arc of a person's life - the highs and lows, and how most people somehow survive and keep going. Even in my darkest moments, there was a thread of knowing that I was here for a purpose and that I needed to have courage and continue on. I have always called out for help and received it. I have always known I was being protected and guided. I hope you can feel this too. Have courage and continue on - with faith and with joy.

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