Tales from the Tangled Trail

Author: Caz

  • 101 Disastrous Dates in America : Part Two

    After the date with Matt-the-Rat — and seeing that I was clearly one emotional wobble away from adopting thirty-seven cats — my cousin Jackie invited me to spend the weekend at her house. I grabbed the offer like it was the last lifeboat off the Titanic of my love life.

    Jackie, spoke my language – we shared an appetite for the party lifestyle. She enjoyed a cheeky drink once the kids were in bed, and — bless her nicotine-loving heart — she smoked. To me, this was basically an international sign for “safe space.”

    Over the weekend, I poured my soul out to Jackie. I told her everything: how Matt the Rat was a definite no-go, how there was no way I could marry him without entering the Witness Protection Program, and how guilty I felt for letting Jennifer down after she’d basically rearranged her entire life to make space for me. (Probably not realizing how long it would take to get rid of me. Honestly, at that point, I wasn’t even sure how long it would take to get rid of me.)

    Jackie, being the ultimate take-charge kind of girl, decided it was time to switch gears. She was going to take over the matchmaking. A deal was struck: Jackie had two kids, her youngest almost a year old, and in exchange for a place to stay, I’d look after the baby while she went back to school to get her teaching degree. The arrangement was perfect — no kids to chauffeur around, a spare room downstairs where her mom used to stay, and best of all, zero pressure to marry anyone named after a rodent.

    I felt pure, unfiltered relief. I loved Jennifer deeply — she was like the sister I wished I’d been born with — but I was battling a war inside myself. As much as I admired her faith and the life she was building, I couldn’t seem to let go of my party-girl lifestyle. That was where I’d built my identity, and without it, I wasn’t sure who I even was.

    Every time I went to church, I felt like a fraud. Sitting there, I couldn’t shake the weight of my past: all the bad choices, all the mistakes, all the nights I’d rather forget. Instead of feeling redeemed, I just felt like a walking contradiction — singing hymns on Sunday and still clinging to the girl who lived for Friday nights.

    And then there was the shame. I didn’t feel worthy of a good man — not one who was kind, steady, and actually respectable. But here’s the kicker: even in my mess, I was too shallow to settle for an “ugly” decent man. I wanted my cake, my champagne, and my handsome dreamboat too.

    Life at Jackie’s was definitely “livelier”. She made me her personal husband-hunting project, and I — because I was busy picturing the grand entrance of my future dream man — went along with it. Within days, she’d identified her prime candidate: a bachelor named Larry who lived alone on the corner of her street.

    According to Jackie, Larry jogged past her house at the same time every morning. So there I was, for the next few mornings, “casually” stationed at the window, baby on hip, pretending I just happened to be there, when in reality I was trying to look both available and not at all like a woman waiting for a man she’d never met to run by.

    Larry wasn’t bad-looking, but he wasn’t exactly the swoon-worthy dreamboat I’d imagined sweeping me off my feet in a slow-motion, hair-blowing, movie-scene kind of way. He was clearly a few years older, but he was all there was.

    Jackie wasn’t about to let this opportunity jog past her — literally. One day, after spotting him trotting down the road, she marched outside like a woman on a mission, struck up a conversation with Larry, and before I knew it, I’d been lassoed into the small talk.

    Somehow, the conversation meandered to movies, and I casually mentioned that one of my all-time favorites was The Bridges of Madison County. The very next day, a mysterious gift bag appeared at the front door. Inside? A DVD of The Bridges of Madison County and a box of chocolates.

    Jackie was beside herself — convinced that wedding bells were practically echoing down the street. Me? Not so much. My main concern was that other people might take one look at Larry and think, Oh, honey… you could have done better.

    One day, while Jackie was off at college, there was a knock at the door. Standing there was Larry, smiling confidently, and before I knew it he’d asked me out to dinner. I accepted with a nervous smile — though inside my stomach was doing somersaults with a ball of lead. It wasn’t excitement; it was the heavy weight of compromise, sitting there like a bad meatball I couldn’t digest.

    Jackie, of course, was ecstatic. If it were up to her, I’d have been engaged by the following Tuesday. With great pomp and ceremony, she paraded me around her bedroom, determined to “tart me up” for the evening. She fluffed my hair, picked out an outfit, and practically hummed the wedding march while applying my lipstick.

    When the doorbell finally rang, Jackie’s husband answered, ushering Larry inside. It was mid-summer — the kind of humid, sticky heat where you pray deodorant will hold the line. And in walked Larry… wearing a black turtleneck. A black turtleneck. Paired with pants so tight they gave me circulation issues just looking at them. I didn’t know whether to offer him dinner or a crowbar to peel himself out of that outfit.

    Jackie shot me a wide-eyed grin that screamed, He’s perfect! Meanwhile, all I could think was, Oh Lord, I’m about to spend the evening with a man dressed like an off-duty cat burglar.

    He politely declined a drink — which was honestly a relief, because I just wanted to get out of there and not spend the evening watching Jackie and her husband silently debate the deeper meaning of his… let’s say, “interesting” wardrobe choice.

    He ushered me into his very nice car (point in his favor) and drove us to an equally nice restaurant (another point in his favor). Honestly, the tally sheet was looking good. The ambience was lovely, the food smelled divine, the lighting was soft and flattering — it was all perfect. Perfect, that is, except for the glaring detail that I would’ve preferred being at home in sweatpants watching reruns of Friends.

    When it came time to order, my inner foodie perked up. If I was going to endure this, I may as well enjoy it. I went big: a gorgeous, slightly pricey seafood dish. Totally worth it.

    Then Larry said the unthinkable.
    “I’ll have… the salad.”

    A salad. A salad.

    I felt my face flush bright pink, like I’d just been caught sneaking a swig from the communion cup. Who orders a salad on a dinner date? Suddenly I wasn’t sure who the girl on this date was — me, or Mr. Turtleneck-Tight-Pants-Salad-Orderer.

    After dinner — which I barely touched because I was hyper-aware of every shrimp sliding down my throat while he daintily crunched away on lettuce — I declined dessert. Honestly, I prayed he wouldn’t order anything either, because at that point I just wanted to go home and pretend the whole evening had been a bad dream.

    Instead, he hit me with, “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

    Now, here’s the thing: I had walked past his house countless times on my walks, so I was curious to see the inside. But I also worried that stepping foot over his threshold might give him the wrong idea — like I was more interested than I actually was. Still, I couldn’t exactly rush home and tell Jackie, “Yeah, it was awful, I bailed.” So, against my better judgment, I said yes.

    His house turned out to be extremely neat, decorated in what I can only call “early bachelor minimalism.” Maybe he just wasn’t a man for fuss, or maybe he’d never met a throw pillow in his life. Either way, the place was tidy… almost suspiciously tidy.

    There was only one couch — no armchairs, no second option. Which meant, of course, I had no choice but to sit there. He poured us both a glass of wine, then came and sat down way too close. The kind of close where I suddenly wondered if personal space was a concept that had somehow skipped him entirely. But what was I supposed to do? Scoot onto the coffee table?

    Trying to fill the silence, I asked why he’d never married. That cracked open a long, sad story — the details of which I’ve completely forgotten. What I do remember is that it was bleak. The man was in his early forties (ancient, to me at the time) with no wife, no kids, and nothing but that lone couch for company.

    Now, Jackie would have considered this the jackpot: no ex-wife drama, no stepkids to wrangle, and no competition for his inheritance. In her mind, he was basically husband gold. Me? I sat there nursing my wine, desperately trying to squint hard enough to see the “potential” she was so convinced was there.

    The evening ended abruptly when he offered me a second glass of wine. I declined, and that’s when I saw it — the unmistakable lean-in. He was going for a kiss. I sprang off that couch so fast you’d think the upholstery was on fire. “Oh, I’m just so tired after looking after the baby all day,” I blurted, which was a complete lie but the only excuse I could conjure up to escape the impending lip-lock.

    To his credit, he didn’t push it. He walked me back home and gave me a polite peck on the cheek. That, I could deal with. But the whole thing was so painfully awkward I wanted to melt straight into the sidewalk.

    The very next day, there he was at the door again, asking if I’d like to come over for lunch and movies on Sunday. With Jackie and Dean both standing within earshot, I had zero chance of wriggling out of it gracefully. So I smiled, nodded, and accepted my fate.

    Sunday arrived, and Larry pulled out all the stops. He put on The Bridges of Madison County, handed me a glass of wine, and set out popcorn. Honestly, if you’d written this into a romance novel, it would’ve been the dream date. Every box was ticked — food, wine, movie, cozy setup.

    But there was just one tiny problem: I felt nothing. Absolutely no attraction. Zilch. Nada. I should’ve been floating in dating heaven, but instead I was mentally checking how long the movie was and wondering if it would be rude to fake a migraine. Even I couldn’t understand myself. Here was a man doing all the right things, and I was still as emotionally engaged as a potted plant.

    I knew the kiss was coming. It was only a matter of time, and I resigned myself to just letting it happen. Part of me even wondered if, by some miracle, his kiss might flip a switch in me — that maybe sparks would fly, violins would swell, and I’d suddenly feel the attraction everyone else thought I should.

    Well… nothing changed. At all. His kiss wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t good either. It was just… awkward. Awkward and awful. And to make matters worse, he sensed how stiff I’d gone, like I was bracing for a flu shot.

    “What are you thinking?” he asked.

    Oh dear. The dreaded question. By then I knew he’d thrown in the towel, and my guilt poured in like a tidal wave. I felt terrible for him — and, honestly, even worse for me. Here was a really decent guy, kind and thoughtful, and I couldn’t muster a single flicker of attraction. I kept wishing I could just get over myself and make it work.

    But the truth was, it really wasn’t him. It WAS me. He deserved a woman who didn’t come with the suitcase full of issues I was lugging around. In the end, I actually did him a favor.

    Of course, that didn’t make it any less awkward. I still had to adjust my walking route so I wouldn’t pass his house every day. Nothing like rerouting your cardio to avoid an ex-almost-something.

  • 101 Disastrous Dates in America : Part One

    Following my nightmare odyssey from Miami to Tampa (a trip that still haunts me like a bad country song), the rest of the holiday was—miracle of miracles—incident-free. Well… almost.

    The only hiccup was that I had to share a hotel room with my parents and my aunt. All three of them snore—not just regular snoring, but competitive, synchronized snoring. I’m talking the kind of deep, guttural, freight-train-meets-blender sound that could make an insomniac weep.

    The Snore Games: Midnight Bathtub Retreat
    When sharing a room means sleeping with the snore symphony.

    Most nights, I’d last maybe ten minutes in the bed I was sharing with my aunt before my sanity started to fray. Then, in a dramatic midnight exodus, I’d grab my blanket and relocate to the bathtub. Yes—the actual bathtub. With the bathroom door shut for extra soundproofing. I’d curl up like a slightly disgruntled cat, convincing myself it was “cozy” while quietly mourning my spine.

    Meet the Hallmark Cousins—and Their Perfect Lives
    Why jealousy is a powerful motivator.

    When the trip wrapped up, I had planned to spend a few days with my cousins before flying home. This was my first time meeting their husbands, and I’ll admit, I had a moment of pure, green-eyed envy. They were both so lovely, so warm, so disgustingly functional. Their lives seemed straight out of a Hallmark movie—handsome husbands, two kids each, cute houses, family photos where no one blinked.

    My cousin Jennifer, a kind-hearted angel who apparently moonlights as a matchmaker, listened to my tales of tragic dating and had an idea.
    “Why don’t you move to Florida?” she suggested. “Come to our church. That’s how both of us met our husbands. You could meet a nice guy here too!”

    It was like she had handed me a golden ticket to the Love Lottery. Their lives looked so perfect, I was ready to buy into the dream wholesale. When I got home and told my mom about this “Operation: Husband Hunt,” she practically started packing my bags for me.

    By Monday morning, I was in the office handing in my resignation, smiling like a woman about to be swept into a Nicholas Sparks novel. My mom, fully invested in my romantic quest, bought me a ticket back to Florida. And just a few weeks later, I boarded that plane—determined to find myself a husband in America.

    Because honestly, what could possibly go wrong?

    Saint Jennifer’s House: A Bedroom Shuffle for Love
    Making room for romance, one child at a time.

    The plan was for me to stay with Jennifer, who, bless her saintly heart, rearranged her entire household to make room for me. She even moved one child into the other’s bedroom—a small but noble sacrifice in the name of my grand romantic mission. Honestly, it felt like the kind of selfless act that should be commemorated with a plaque.

    The Singles Sunday School Illusion
    Where men lurk… or don’t.

    I arrived brimming with anticipation, fully convinced I’d meet the man of my dreams at their church. According to Jennifer, the real magic didn’t happen during the Sunday service itself—oh no—it happened afterward, in the Singles Sunday School class. That’s where all the eligible men supposedly lurked, waiting to be swept away by a God-fearing woman with excellent hair.

    At no point in this elaborate plan did I actually consult God. I simply assumed He’d be on board. I mean, why wouldn’t He? I was attempting to marry a wholesome Christian man—surely this was His department. Never mind the fact that my lifestyle up to this point had been a little more… spirited… than saintly. But if Jennifer, a proper Baptist girl, could find love at church, then clearly I could too.

    Culture Shock: Quitting Smoking and Living Like a Raccoon
    The price of American independence.

    There was, however, one immediate sacrifice required: I had to quit smoking. I figured it would be easy—after all, I was giving up a vice in exchange for a husband. Seemed like a fair trade. Spoiler: it was not easy. It was pure, unfiltered agony. Nearly as agonizing as my second, unexpected culture shock—apparently, in America, you clean up after yourself. No domestic worker magically appearing to pick up your clothes, make your bed, and bring you tea. You either stayed tidy or slowly descended into living like a feral raccoon. This was not in my romance plan.

    Invisible at Church: The Unseen Outsider
    When your social skills don’t translate.

    Still, I had bigger things to focus on—like Sunday. My first church service arrived, and off we went. Afterward, we headed to the much-hyped Singles Sunday School class, where, presumably, I’d be wooed by a charming, Bible-quoting bachelor. Instead, I found myself standing in a room full of strangers who somehow made me feel even stranger. No amount of strategic makeup or stylish outfits could hide the fact that I was an outsider—a slightly sinful stray who had wandered into the fold.

    But I didn’t give up. Week two rolled around, and Jennifer handed me her car so I could drive myself to church. On the wrong side of the road. I figured my ability to survive American traffic was at least an attractive quality in a mate. But week after week, the same thing happened—nothing. No smiles, no coffee invites, no “Hey, let’s do a Bible study together.” It was as if I’d been issued an invisibility cloak at the door.

    The only thing I was attracting was mild jet lag and a creeping sense of doom.

    I’m not sure what I’d been expecting. Maybe some breathtakingly handsome man—think my cousin Jackie’s husband, but single—would spot me across the room, be struck by divine lightning, and immediately drop to one knee in the fellowship hall. Instead, I was just another anonymous face in a sea of well-adjusted, church-going people who could somehow smell that I was wildly out of my element.

    And yet, I persisted. I mean, I hadn’t quit smoking and house-trained myself for nothing.

    After several weeks of coming home from church with exactly zero romantic prospects, Jennifer began to… gently apply pressure. Nothing too overt, just the occasional “helpful” suggestion, a few pointed questions, and the odd reminder that maybe—just maybe—I could be putting in a bit more effort.

    The problem? I suffered from a chronic case of Cinderella Syndrome, courtesy of Hollywood. In my head, I wasn’t supposed to look like I was hunting for a husband. No, my knight in shining armor was supposed to just appear—preferably on horseback—fall instantly in love, and sweep me off to our happily-ever-after. Instead, all I was getting was Jennifer’s unsubtle hints that perhaps I needed to make myself a bit more… noticeable.

    So Sunday mornings went from being filled with hopeful anticipation to being filled with dread. How exactly was I supposed to stand out in a sea of polished, wholesome singles? Wear a tiara? Trip in front of the communion table?

    And then—finally—luck struck. Or divine intervention. Or maybe just a random act of social bravery.

    Snack Table Salvation
    How desperation can make rodents seem charming.

    That Sunday, in a desperate bid to look approachable, I forced myself to grab something from the snack table instead of making my usual quick exit. I even sat down to eat, pretending I wasn’t silently calculating how quickly I could leave.

    That’s when it happened.

    He approached.

    Let’s call him Matt.

    My first impression? Matt looked like a rat.

    I know, I know—terrible. But hear me out. He had jet-black hair, a long, skinny face, a very prominent (read: enormous) pointy nose, and a small mouth. If you’d told me he moonlighted as a villain’s sidekick in a Disney movie, I would have believed you.

    Still, credit where credit’s due—he was the first man in weeks to actually approach me, and for that alone, I felt obligated to at least pretend to be interested.

    As expected, our conversation opened with my accent. This was my standard church interaction:
    “Oh wow, where are you from?”
    Followed by the usual Greatest Hits: “Do you ride elephants? Is it safe? Do you know Charlize Theron?”

    I played along, but I was also subtly scanning the room, just in case a less rodent-esque man was lurking nearby, waiting for his turn. Alas, the crowd seemed almost aggressively indifferent to my existence, so I resigned myself to giving Matt the Rat my undivided attention.

    After a while, he glanced at his watch and said he had to go—but plot twist—he invited me to a cookout one of the girls from the Sunday School class was hosting.

    The Cookout Invitation
    When a number exchange feels like signing a treaty.

    A social event! My inner Cinderella immediately perked up. Surely this was the perfect opportunity to expand my options, get some much-needed exposure to other men, and maybe—just maybe—meet someone who didn’t look like he could gnaw through drywall.

    Then came the moment of truth—Matt asked for my number so he could send me the details.

    I hesitated.

    This was clearly a man with a plan. And while I wasn’t exactly swooning, I figured accepting the invite might improve my odds. A cookout meant casual mingling, plenty of people, and—most importantly—a brand-new playing field.

    So, with a mix of optimism and mild concern, I handed over my number and braced myself for whatever came next.

    Jennifer’s Reluctant Sidekick
    Dragging a non-party animal to the social minefield.

    I know this sounds pathetic, but I practically begged Jennifer to come with me to the singles’ cookout. Thankfully, her husband understood just how socially inept I’d become without the crutch of alcohol and gave her the green light. This was no small favor—Jennifer is many wonderful things, but “life of the party” is not one of them (that crown belongs to her sister, Jackie). So, I knew she was doing this purely out of love.

    We arrived and quickly got swept into a conversation with a little huddle of other girls—clearly also there to scope out the field but far too nervous to leave their protective wallflower cluster. Safety in numbers, I suppose.

    Enter the Rat-Man.

    Matt slithered into the circle like it was his natural habitat, planting himself right next to me. Once again, he launched into conversation while I nodded, smiled, and engaged just enough to be polite, all the while scanning the crowd for any non-rodent-like knight who might swoop in and save me. No such luck. Even the wallflowers eventually found a socially acceptable escape route, leaving me trapped in one-on-one small talk purgatory.

    After what felt like several decades, Jennifer mercifully announced it was time to go. I had survived. Barely.

    Unfortunately, my survival was short-lived. Not long after, Matt called and asked me out on a date.

    Jennifer was elated.
    I was… significantly less elated.

    Friday arrived, and so did Matt. Coincidentally, my cousins and my aunt were all “visiting” when he came to pick me up. They sat at the kitchen table like a welcoming committee, smiling warmly as he introduced himself and turned on the charm.

    Eventually, he announced he’d made a dinner reservation. When pressed for details, he just smiled and said, “It’s a surprise.”

    Intriguing.

    After a loooong drive (not only in miles but in awkward silence), we pulled up to the Don CeSar Hotel—the legendary Pink Palace of Florida. I’ll admit, I was impressed. This was no casual Applebee’s date. This was full-blown romantic.

    Matt’s One-Man Show
    Hamsters, weather, and the art of not asking questions.

    We dined in a courtyard overlooking the ocean, the warm breeze adding to the dreamy ambiance. It was the kind of setting you’d see in a romantic movie—except in my movie, I was desperately wishing someone else was sitting across from me. To make matters worse, Matt did not stop talking. The entire dinner was a one-man show about Matt: his job, his hobbies, his thoughts on Florida weather, his childhood pet hamster. Not once did he ask me a single question. By the time the main course arrived, I could have drawn a detailed diagram of his extended family tree, yet he still didn’t know what I did for a living. And these were the dark ages before cell phones, so there was no fake “urgent text” to rescue me—I was trapped until the bitter end.

    By dessert, Matt was already talking marriage. At some point, I must have mentally checked out of his constant monologue—nodding and smiling on autopilot—because I suddenly realized he had probably just spent the last twenty minutes listing all the reasons why this one dinner should fast-track into a wedding date. For all I knew, he’d already picked the church, ordered the cake, and decided what our future children would be named… and I’d just been sitting there, wondering if the ocean breeze was strong enough to blow me out of my chair.

    I broke out in a cold sweat, flashing back to the Duncan Proposal Incident, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in. Since “flight” wasn’t an option when you’re trapped at a five-star resort, I chose Option C: nervous laughter and strategic subject changes.

    When I finally got home, Jennifer was practically glowing. In her mind, I was now officially on the fast track to getting a ring on my finger—just when she’d been about to lose all hope.

    I, on the other hand, had vowed never to take another call from Matt and never set foot in that church again. Now all that was left was to break the news to my poor, sweet Jennifer—who had probably already picked out her bridesmaid dress and was mentally rehearsing her toast for the wedding reception.

    Little did I know, this was only the opening act in what would become 101 Disastrous Dates in America—and if Matt the Rat was my warm-up, heaven help me for what was coming next.

  • The Great Miami Run (And the plane that nearly flew me to Heaven)

    If you ever find yourself sprinting through Miami International with a suitcase in one hand, a handbag in the other, and your entire life’s belongings scattered behind you, then congratulations—you’re basically living my nightmare. This is the true story of how a simple family trip turned into a full-blown adventure involving moving walkways, lost passports, near-death experiences, and prayers whispered at 30,000 feet. Buckle up—it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

    So, to set the scene: I’d just turned 30. My parents decided to take me along on a trip to the States—four of us in total: me, my parents, and my Aunt Betty. The three of them had planned a longer vacation, so I was joining them in Miami about ten days after they’d left.

    Fast forward to me, fresh off a 19-hour journey from Durban, South Africa to Miami, my long legs folded into origami in economy class. By the time we landed, I was basically 70% jet lag and 30% airplane pretzels.

    After surviving the terrifying gauntlet of U.S. customs (where every officer looks like they’re auditioning for a crime drama), I strutted into arrivals expecting a warm welcome from the family. You know—smiles, hugs, maybe even one of those cheesy cardboard signs.

    Instead… nothing. No familiar faces. Just me, my giant suitcase, my handbag, and a travel envelope crammed with my passport and tickets—an envelope so big it deserved its own boarding pass. Why I didn’t buy a bag that could actually fit it is a mystery for the ages.

    I stood there looking like an abandoned extra from Home Alone 2, when suddenly my name echoed through the PA system. Now, here’s the thing about being South African with the name “Carol Liquorish”: when an American, especially one with a syrupy Southern drawl, says it three times, it takes a while for your brain to catch up.

    On the third announcement, my ears finally tuned in—something about going to the nearest payphone. Which was odd, because back home, payphones were basically museum pieces. Still, I wandered over and picked it up like I’d been doing it all my life.

    A voice on the line asked, “Are you Carol Liquorish?”
    I said yes, still unsure if I was about to be recruited for a spy mission.

    Then she launched into a long, molasses-slow sentence I had to mentally translate from Southern into English. The gist? My father was in the hospital in Tampa, and I was booked on a flight leaving in the next FIVE MINUTES.

    She added—loudly—that I needed to get to that terminal NOW.

    Cue my internal monologue: Father in hospital? In America? Oh no. How bad? Heart attack? Stroke? Wait—five minutes?!

    Adrenaline kicked in. I grabbed my bags and bolted into a dead sprint.

    Then—hallelujah!—I spotted a moving walkway. You know, the magical conveyor belt for tired travelers who can’t bear the thought of walking like peasants. Brilliant idea, I thought. I’ll run on it and get there even faster!

    Great plan… until it wasn’t.

    The first moving section went perfectly. But in my frazzled, panicked state, I forgot about the gaps between walkways. My foot hit the stationary floor, and physics took over.

    I wasn’t just airborne—I face-planted with such force that I slid, like a clumsy penguin, right onto the next moving belt. I lay there, winded, riding it like some tragic piece of luggage until it unceremoniously dumped me at the other end.

    Only then did it dawn on me: all my worldly possessions—suitcase, handbag, duty-free snacks—were now scattered in every direction back at the first intersection. Which meant I had to walk back – this time on terra firma, to gather my belongings before continuing my so-called sprint to the gate.

    Ten minutes (and the probable loss of both lungs) later, I stumbled up to the check-in counter, drenched in sweat and clinging to consciousness.

    “Passport, please,” the agent said.

    I reached for my travel envelope.
    It wasn’t there.

    Panic hit me like a freight train. My passport, my travellers cheques (remember when we had those to deal with), my entire identity—all sitting exactly where I had left them. On top of the payphone.

    The check-in agent took one look at my face, pointed down the terminal, and said, “I’ll hold the plane. Leave your bags. RUN.”

    I didn’t ask questions. I dug deep, summoning some mysterious reserve of energy (possibly borrowed from my future grandchildren), and sprinted back like an Olympic hopeful in the 100m dash. My heart pounded with a singular fear: If my envelope was gone, so was I.

    Miracle of miracles—it was still there. Right where I’d abandoned it in my shock. What can I say – America in the 90’s!

    Back I ran, lungs screaming, legs staging a mutiny. The gate staff practically shoved me onto the plane, where eleven other passengers were glaring at me for delaying departure by a neat half hour.

    As if that wasn’t enough, Miami had apparently been under tornado warnings all day. I’d ignored them, of course—because the sun was shining when I landed, and clearly I control the weather. But now? Dark skies, howling wind, and rain hammering against our tiny aircraft.

    And when I say tiny, I mean tiny. The flight attendant was casually seated at the back, passing around a box of peanuts and juice like it was a picnic in the sky.

    I had a window seat right behind the wing. We took off at what felt like a 90-degree angle, and I was still trying to recover from my airport marathon when—

    CRACK!

    A blinding bolt of lightning lit up the sky. I was convinced it had hit the wing, because suddenly the plane tilted. One second we were flying normally; the next, the wing was pointing straight at the ground.

    Below me, the city lights looked like a miniature toy set—tiny cars, tiny buildings—growing bigger by the second as we plummeted. People screamed.

    I didn’t.
    I was too busy accepting my imminent death.

    In that moment, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I prayed. Not some deep, poetic, soul-stirring prayer. No. I defaulted to the one I’d learned in school assemblies:

    “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

    I figured if I was about to meet God, I should at least say hello. And maybe apologize—because honestly, my life choices so far hadn’t exactly been pointing me in His direction.

    Just as I reached “Amen,” the pilots somehow leveled us out. The city dropped out of sight, and the captain’s voice came over the intercom:

    “That was a little rough, folks, but we’re now on our way to Tampa for what should be a nice flight.”

    A nice flight. Sure.

    I let out a shaky breath, convinced the worst was over. Then I heard it—sobbing.

    I turned around.

    It was the flight attendant.

    The woman whose job it was to reassure us. Ugly crying!

    And just like that, my relief evaporated.

    I didn’t die on that trip. Neither did my dad. Turns out, he’d always suffered from weak kidneys—and because he’s too proud to use an airplane loo, he hadn’t had a sip of water for almost 24 hours. That little stunt earned him a few days in the hospital.

  • How a Flying Walkman Ended My Gym Life (After 6PM)

    Laughter, Treadmills, and One Epic Fall

    They say laughter is the best medicine—and I agree. I aim to have at least one good belly laugh every day. Sometimes that comes from a well-timed joke, other times from YouTube. But yesterday, a video of people flying off treadmills sent me into a full belly-laugh spiral… mostly because it triggered a memory I’ve never quite lived down.

    Laughter Really Is the Best Medicine

    The Daily Goal: One Good Belly Laugh

    I’ve always maintained (as the Bible has) that laughter is good medicine. I try to make it my aim to have at least one good belly laugh a day. Sometimes you have to resort to watching videos, and sadly, the most laughter often comes from watching other people do dumb things.

    The Trigger: A Compilation of Treadmill Fails

    Yesterday, I stumbled across a compilation of people flying off treadmills at the gym. And I laughed—with extra gusto—because it brought back a very specific memory.

    Back to the 90s: A Scene Set for Disaster

    Not Sicily—But La Lucia

    Picture it—no, not Sicily—but the Health & Racquet Club in La Lucia, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, in the late 90s.

    The Durban North Gym Vibe

    Granted, I lived in La Lucia, but people came from miles around to work out at this gym. It was the place to be seen if you were part of the trendy Durban North crowd. Think: “after work, before drinks”. Girls in matching crop tops and leggings barely breaking a sweat. Guys flexing like peacocks in mating season.

    My Reason for Being There Was Different

    No Fashion, Just Function

    I wasn’t there to mingle. I didn’t have the fashion budget, and I never cracked the nod into those circles. I was there because I needed to exercise. And for me, sweating was inevitable.

    Not Sporty by Nature

    Now, I’ve never been one of those naturally sporty types. I need external motivation: a committed gym buddy or a good beat. Since I didn’t have the first, I relied on the second—my trusty “walkman.” Not the sleek cassette one, mind you. No, this was a portable CD player the size of a small stereo. This was pre-Bluetooth, pre-anything convenient. If you wanted to change the song or the volume, it required the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb disposal units.

    The Treadmill Incident

    A Blasé Mistake

    I’d been doing this treadmill thing for a while, so I guess I got a bit blasé. One packed evening, I finally nabbed a treadmill. You only had 30 minutes, so I hopped on and got it going immediately. Then I turned to my walkman. Slipped the giant CD player into the bottle holder, popped the earphones on… nothing. Silence.

    Distraction and Disaster

    I figured the batteries might be dead. But by now, I was already moving at a decent pace and desperate for my music fix. While fiddling with the buttons—distracted and probably muttering under my breath—my foot strayed just slightly off center.

    Takeoff and Impact

    That was all it took.
    My whole body catapulted off the back of the treadmill. The walkman flew into the air like a Boeing, soaring over the white railing… and directly toward the indoor pool downstairs.

    The Fallout: Public Humiliation in Full Swing

    Collateral Damage

    That pool was not for show. It was full of serious swimmers—people who trained, not posed. And now they were being bombarded by an airborne stereo system.

    Trapped and Mortified

    Meanwhile, I had landed in the most awkward position imaginable: my backside wedged between the treadmill and the railing, the belt still moving beneath me. The noise alone was enough to stop conversations around the gym. I tried to untangle myself, all while burning with humiliation.

    Oh Look—The Cute Rescue Team

    And then came the rescue party—several rather gorgeous gym instructors who had witnessed the entire drama unfold. Because OF COURSE they had.

    Bonus Humiliation: An Angry Swimmer

    As I tried to pretend I wasn’t dying inside, one of the swimmers stormed up the stairs to berate me after almost being knocked unconscious by a flying walkman. Another returned the now very sodden device, having retrieved it from the bottom of the pool.

    The Aftermath

    New Workout Schedule, New Life Choices

    Needless to say, I never went to the gym after work again. From that day on, I only showed my face at 6:00 AM—different staff, fewer people, and no eyewitnesses to my mortification.

    RIP Walkman. I Survived.

    As for the walkman? It never recovered. But I did… eventually.

    Moral of the Story?

    If you’re still using a device the size of a boombox while trying to look cool on a treadmill… maybe just embrace the silence. And always secure your electronics—or risk turning your gym session into a comedy feature for someone else’s belly laugh of the day.

  • My Big Fat USCIS Adventure

    The Journey Begins (With Tea and Tar)

    So yesterday I had what can only be described as The Great American Immigration Quest: Biometrics Edition — a tale of sweat, smoothies, soggy shoes, and divine delays.

    It all started when I got the golden ticket—a letter from USCIS summoning me for biometrics, which sounds way fancier than it is (translation: fingerprints and a mugshot). I was still VERY excited. One step closer to that magical green card!

    Google Maps estimated it would take 2 hours and 15 minutes from Ocala to Jacksonville, so like the responsible adult I occasionally pretend to be, I left at 10am for my 1pm appointment. Plenty of time, I thought. Oh sweet, naïve, me.

    For some reason, my GPS decided i95 was too mainstream, and rerouted me through the scenic route—which I now call the National Geographic Tour of Northern Florida. Forests, bridges, lakes, and… roadworks. Of course.

    At one stop, I got to watch a surprisingly attractive, tiny-but-mighty road worker lady absolutely dominate the tar-shoveling game. I swear she couldn’t have weighed more than 45 kilograms soaking wet, but there she was, shoveling like a gladiator while the big dudes stood around “supervising.” I was sipping tea from my thermos, living my best life and thinking, “you go, girlfriend!”.

    Where GPS’ go to die and the quickest Biometrics in the West

    Then I hit Jacksonville.

    Let me tell you something—Jacksonville is not for the faint of heart or the directionally challenged. It’s all highways stacked on top of highways like some sort of spaghetti bowl of doom. I went from peaceful tea sipper to sweaty-palmed GPS worshipper in 30 seconds flat. Somehow, I made it to the USCIS office with 30 minutes to spare. Victory?

    Not quite.

    There was a serious-looking officer guarding the door like he was auditioning for FBI: The Musical. And there I was, bladder bursting from that huge thermos of tea and stomach growling from that one sad slice of toast I had hours ago. So I detoured to Smoothie King (blessed be thy overpriced blends), grabbed my Chocolate Protein Power smoothie, used their glorious restroom, and sped back to USCIS—brain freeze and all.

    And then as I get back… the sky opened up. Full monsoon. I looked like a poodle in a power washer. I clutched my documents, shoved the smoothie into my bag, and bolted toward the door like I was storming Normandy. The scary officer greeted me with a glare that could curdle milk and said the unthinkable:

    “Ma’am, you’ll have to throw away your smoothie.”

    NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

    Goodbye $8 smoothie and any trace of dignity. Inside, I was double-scanned because apparently necklaces are a national threat. Finally, I made it to biometrics where a lovely lady took my fingerprints and captured what I can only describe as my “wet rat glamour shot.” Whole process: 10 minutes.

    First world efficiency, baby!

    When Your Car Locks You Out… and God Locks You In (For a Reason)

    Feeling slightly defeated but proud, I walked back to my car… and reached for my keys…

    Oh no.

    Yep. In my sprint to avoid the downpour, I’d locked my keys in the car. Because I drive an ancient Chevy Spark that lets you do that sort of thing. #ClassicMe

    I called my sweet husband Stevie, who said he’d drive 3.5 hours with the spare. Lovely gesture, but I was sitting outside a federal building, phone dying, with the nearest coffee shop across a 4-lane highway of doom. I started pacing like a spy who missed the drop-off.

    Then, miracle! Stevie remembered our car insurance includes roadside assistance. 🕊️ A lovely man showed up 45 minutes later and opened my car in three seconds flat like it was child’s play. I cheered. He did not. But I cheered anyway.

    So back to Smoothie King I went—justice for Smoothie #1!—got a new drink, and began the 2.5-hour drive home. This time, the GPS took me on i95… just in time for it to announce a major accident ahead.

    And then… it hit me.

    Maybe—just maybe—that whole ridiculous adventure, the rain sprint, the locked car, the delay… it was heaven’s way of keeping me safe. As I approached what was a massive, multi-vehicle wreck involving a truck pileup, I realized…

    If I hadn’t been delayed, I might’ve been in it!!

    Almost Out of Gas… and Definitely Out of Dignity

    So there I was—post-biometric, post-drenched, post-smoothie-mourning—finally settled back in my car, ready to head home and emotionally process the day’s drama with some light sobbing and worship music.

    But nope. Not yet.

    Because as I’m pulling out of Jacksonville, I glance down and there it is—my fuel light blinking like a toddler in a tantrum. I had completely forgotten to refuel in all the biometric excitement. No problem, I think, I’ll just take the next exit and hit up the BP station like a responsible adult.

    Except… just as I’m about to turn left to BP, I spot the golden arches of road trip salvation: Buc-ee’s. I mean, it’s Buc-ee’s. Bathrooms like palaces. Jerky in 87 flavors. Gas pumps until kingdom come. Obviously, I decide to turn right instead.

    Except…

    That “right” was actually the onramp back onto the i95.

    Panic mode engaged.

    I yank the wheel in a desperate attempt to correct my course, nearly colliding head-on with a poor, unsuspecting traveler just trying to enter the highway in peace. I execute the world’s most dramatic wheel spin onto a patch of grass (Fast & Furious: Immigrant Edition), and realize with horror that there’s no way back—I’m now officially back on the highway with nothing but prayer and fumes in the tank.

    Cue me whispering, “Please Jesus, not the roadside assistance twice in one day. My dignity can’t take it.”

    Thankfully, hallelujah for America, where you can find a gas station every six feet. I coasted into a station, probably on angel wings, and filled up, swearing I’d never ignore my fuel light again (a promise I will definitely break).

    Rain-Soaked but Rescued: Publix, Peace, and Peanut Butter

    One final task before heading home: get peanut butter. Yes, after a day of governmental bureaucracy, accidental fast-lane stunts, and smoothie sacrifices, all I wanted was to cradle a jar of crunchy, comforting peanut butter.

    I walked into the grocery store like I was on a mission from God… and came out with peanut butter. And also a loaf of bread, some bananas, a candle I didn’t need, and possibly a potted plant. Because healing is a process.

    And just as I reached the door… BOOM. Another sky-dumping cloud burst. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

    There I stood, in the entrance of Publix, holding my peanut butter and my pride, dripping yet again.

    But here’s the thing (serious voice now 🎙️): as much as it felt like the enemy of my soul was doing everything in their power to steal my peace, my joy… maybe even my life—they didn’t win.

    I had a great adventure.

    I saw the hand of God in the delays.

    I was protected from disaster.

    And I still got my peanut butter. 🥜

    Moral of the story?

    Sometimes what feels like a delay is actually a divine detour.
    Even in the chaos, God is weaving protection, provision, and maybe even a little humor.

  • A Woman After God’s Own Heart

    I’ve been trying—for what feels like the hundredth time—to follow a Bible reading plan that takes you through the entire Bible in a year. I’ve started this project before, full of enthusiasm and good intentions, only to lose steam a few weeks or months in. I would fall behind a few days, feel guilty, and then quietly give up when the distance between me and the plan felt too wide to close.

    But this year has felt different.

    I’ve given myself grace for the days I fall behind and have remained determined to keep going. I’ve stopped reading just to check a box and started reading to listen. Each day I ask, “God, what do You want me to see in this?” And what I’ve found is that when I lean in—even when I’m tired or distracted—He speaks.

    Lately, He’s been speaking through the story of David.

    For most of my life, I saw David as one of the Bible’s heroes. The boy who slayed Goliath. The worshipper. The king. The man after God’s own heart. I’d heard about his affair with Bathsheba, and I assumed that was his one dark moment—his single failure.

    But as I read through 1 and 2 Samuel, I was stunned.

    Not only did David commit adultery, but even after being forgiven and restored, he went on to disobey God repeatedly. He made choices that led to pain, destruction, and death. And yet—God still loved him. God still used him. God still called him His own.

    David’s Repeated Disobedience

    InfractionScripture ReferenceWhat Happened
    Polygamy2 Samuel 5:13David took many wives and concubines—against God’s design for marriage.
    Adultery with Bathsheba2 Samuel 11David saw a woman bathing, took her, and got her pregnant—knowing she was another man’s wife.
    Murder of Uriah2 Samuel 11To cover up the pregnancy, he arranged for Bathsheba’s husband to be killed in battle.
    Parental Negligence2 Samuel 13–18He failed to confront his son Amnon for raping Tamar, leading to Absalom’s revenge and rebellion.
    A Prideful Census2 Samuel 24David ordered a military census in pride and self-reliance. God responded with a deadly plague.
    Trusting in Enemies1 Samuel 27Out of fear, he sought safety with the Philistines and even offered to fight for them.

    As I read these stories—these painful, messy, complicated accounts—I heard the Lord whisper something that shifted everything in my spirit—it was as if a veil had been lifted, and suddenly I saw His heart more clearly.

    “I knew everything David would do—and I still chose him. I still loved him. I still delighted in him.”

    And in that moment, I felt His presence wash over me.
    “I knew everything you would do,” He said, “and I still chose you. I loved you then and I love you now. I took delight in you then, and I delight in you now. You are a woman after My own heart.”

    I’ve carried shame for years—for decisions I made, for paths I took, for times I knew better and still chose wrong. But God isn’t looking for perfection. He’s looking for a heart that turns back to Him, again and again. David was deeply flawed—but he was also deeply surrendered. He repented. He worshipped. He trusted. And God, in His mercy, stayed close.

    If you’ve ever found the Bible boring or irrelevant, maybe it’s because you’ve been skimming the surface. But underneath the words is the heartbeat of a God who sees you fully, loves you deeply, and delights in speaking to you through every page.

    You won’t just find history in these stories—you’ll find hope.

    And perhaps, like me, you’ll begin to believe that you too…
    are someone after God’s own heart.

  • My Accidental Escape from a Marriage Proposal – Episode 3

    The Dinner Before the Disaster

    Duncan had gotten dressed and said he’d meet me down at the hotel’s fancy restaurant. Now, ordinarily, I’d be thrilled—because I love food. Especially good food. But this time? I took my sweet time getting ready. Not because I wanted to impress Duncan, but because I was still fuming over the “oops, only one suite left” situation.

    I wasn’t exactly leaping at the chance to head downstairs. Something in my gut told me this evening was going to be weird—and not the fun, spontaneous kind of weird. More like the “I’m about to be emotionally ambushed” kind. If I could’ve buried my head in the minibar like an ostrich and pretended none of this was happening, I would’ve.

    But instead, I took my time getting dressed—part stalling tactic, part emotional armor. I wasn’t going to waltz in all sunshine and sparkles like I hadn’t just been wedged into a suite-sharing situation I never signed up for. No way. I decided to go with a look I like to call disengaged but dazzling. Think: hostage chic, but with lip gloss.

    By the time I floated into the restaurant, I was composed—at least on the outside. On the inside? Still rage-simmering with a hint of “how-do-I-escape-this-trip-with-my-sanity?”

    We had just ordered our first course when I decided—against all better judgment—to have a glass of wine. Maybe it would help smooth over my mood. Maybe it would just help me sit through another night of Duncan talking about wood grain finishes.

    But then—just as I took that first hesitant sip—he leaned in.

    “I’ve really loved our time together,” he said, eyes soft and serious.
    “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since you worked for me.
    This trip… was so I could finally tell you.
    I want to marry you.”

    Cue internal collapse.
    My heart froze. My jaw didn’t drop (I have some dignity), but my stomach absolutely did a backflip.

    Why was it always the men I had zero interest in who insisted on loving me with Olympic-level intensity?

    Then—as if this couldn’t get worse—he pulled out a little black velvet box.

    Oh, sweet mercy.

    He didn’t even get down on one knee. Just handed it over. Like a contract. Or an unsolicited invoice for emotional damage.

    Inside? A diamond. A very large, very sparkly, very innocent-looking diamond.
    Too bad it was giving me a full-body anxiety rash.

    Panic!

    I was speechless. Not in the happy, teary-eyed, “oh my word this is the best day of my life” kind of way. More like the stunned, wide-eyed, “I might faint into this bread roll” kind of way. And I could only pray Duncan wasn’t mistaking my silence for the romantic kind of overwhelmed.

    His lips were still moving—definitely still talking. Something about love… forever… destiny, maybe? I honestly couldn’t tell. All I could focus on was the twinkling diamond glaring at me from inside its velvet cell like a sparkly little accomplice to this crime of confusion.

    Then came the question:
    “Are you going to say something?”

    Oh, Duncan. I wish I had.

    To this day, I have no memory of my actual response. I think it was something weak and non-committal like, “Wow… I’m so honored you feel this way.” Which, let’s be real, is the international code for: “Absolutely not, but I’m too polite to say it yet.”

    That’s when full-blown panic took over. I began listing every possible reason why I would make a terrible wife. Surely, surely, logic would win the day.

    I was too emotionally unavailable.
    I didn’t know what I wanted in life.
    I still had commitment issues… with gym memberships, let alone marriage.

    But Duncan? Unfazed.

    He had a counter for every excuse I gave—calm, confident, relentless. It suddenly made perfect sense why he was such a successful lawyer. I was basically presenting Exhibit A for “This Is Not Going to Happen,” and he was expertly cross-examining it into oblivion.

    Meanwhile, I was spiraling.

    How on earth was I going to turn this down without nuking my future business prospects… and possibly a shot at international travel and financial salvation?

    Then the food arrived.

    But while Duncan tucked in with the joy of a man who’d just proposed and assumed it went well, I could barely chew. Every bite felt like it came with a side of anxiety. I washed it all down with more wine—hoping it might give me either the courage to be honest, or a nap I wouldn’t wake up from until we were back in Durban.

    He, of course, misread my wine consumption as a celebration.
    Me? I was mourning my exit strategy.

    Couch Couture and Midnight Madness

    Eventually, sometime between the cheesecake and my third glass of liquid denial, Duncan asked the inevitable:
    “So… do you have an answer?”

    Panic.
    I stalled. “I’ll need some time to think about it,” I said, in the most non-committal, conflict-avoiding tone I could manage.

    A flicker of disappointment passed over his face—followed, interestingly, by what looked like relief. I hadn’t said yes (praise be), but I hadn’t said no either. Just… a diplomatic holding pattern. He could still hope, and I could still breathe.

    But then came the real challenge: returning to the suite.

    It was still too early to turn in, but Duncan announced cheerfully that he was calling it a night.
    “Oh, okay! Good night!” I chirped—maybe just a bit too brightly—as I made a dramatic beeline for the miniature couch like it was a perfectly reasonable sleeping arrangement and not a glorified footstool.

    Now, let’s remember—this was the 1990s in South Africa. We didn’t have cable or streaming or anything remotely entertaining past 10 p.m. What we did have was SABC, our one sad little channel. On Saturday nights, the movie would end promptly at 10, followed by a string of solemn religious programming (think: pipe organs and softly spoken sermons), and then—if you were still awake—the grand finale: a test pattern and the national anthem. That was it. Entertainment closed for the night like a tuck shop on a public holiday.

    Midnight hit.
    Exhaustion hit harder.

    And that couch? It had all the comfort of a shoebox lined with regret.

    I weighed my options. Cling to this glorified bench and wake up with spinal trauma? Or admit defeat and slide silently into the enormous king-sized bed?

    I chose survival.

    So, I layered every item of clothing in my suitcase like a human onion, crept across the room, and eased into the very far edge of the mattress—as in, one accidental roll and I’d be on the floor. Mission: do not touch Duncan.

    I must’ve passed out instantly.

    Because the next thing I knew, I was under attack.

    Snore Wars : The Final Deterrent

    I jolted awake to find Duncan looming over me, wielding a pillow like a weapon and hissing:
    “Carol! Will you STOP SNORING?!”

    Apparently, the allergies I’d been ignoring all day had blossomed into a full-blown, symphonic, soul-shaking snore-fest.
    Duncan was livid.

    Whether it was the noise, or the shock of seeing me lying there—bundled like a human burrito in every item of clothing I owned—it clearly spelled out what I hadn’t managed to say over dinner: this was never going to be a love story.

    He stormed off without a word, stomped onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and glared at the horizon like it had personally offended him. Bare-chested. Sleep shorts. Smouldering with betrayal.

    I did feel bad.
    Sort of.
    But mostly? Immensely relieved.
    I no longer needed a carefully crafted “it’s not you, it’s me” monologue. My nasal passages had done the heavy lifting. My snoring had spoken the unspoken.

    Needless to say, the pot of gold I thought Duncan represented turned out to be an old rusted tin can with holes in the bottom.

    The drive home? Painfully silent. So silent, you could hear my regret shifting awkwardly in the back seat.

    What was I supposed to say?
    “Sorry my nasal passages betrayed you”?

    And the more the kilometres rolled by, the more irritated I became.
    Had this whole “business venture” just been a romantic ruse? A bait-and-switch wrapped in handcrafted wooden bowls?

    I hadn’t seen his kindness as anything but… well, kindness. And sure, maybe I’d laughed at his jokes or smiled politely over dinner—but that’s not a binding contract. It’s basic social grace.

    By the time we pulled up to my car in Umkomaas, I couldn’t decide if I felt more guilty for not feeling guilty, or just mad that the whole awkward circus had even happened.

    Either way, the fairy tale was over.
    Not with a glass slipper, but with a snort and a slam of a car door.

    On Reflection….

    I never heard from Duncan again.

    And honestly, I didn’t expect to. He was a good man—kind, respectful, and genuine—and while I did miss him, I couldn’t bring myself to reach out. I didn’t want to give him false hope or rub salt into what was likely still a pretty raw wound.

    The whole episode didn’t leave me feeling triumphant. Quite the opposite, actually. It chipped away at my already-fragile self-esteem. I’d hurt someone who didn’t deserve it—however unintentionally—and that truth stuck with me. What stung even more was the uncomfortable realization that I had been this close to a better future. Stability. Travel. A solid, kind-hearted man. But I let it all go… because, if I’m being brutally honest, he didn’t look like Brad Pitt. Turns out, I was that shallow.

    The whole Duncan chapter became one of those cringe-worthy “what was I thinking” moments I often take to God in prayer. Thankfully, in His endless grace, He has led me into a spacious place—a life where He truly has turned all things for good (Romans 8:28). The shame, the regret, the bad choices? He’s repurposed it all.

    And while I still have a suitcase full of questionable decisions and terrifying detours to share, I tell these stories not to glamorize the mess—but to hopefully make you laugh, and more importantly, to warn younger girls: Get healed. Get whole. Don’t waste years wandering down dead-end roads like I did.

  • My Accidental Escape from a Marriage Proposal – Episode 2

    Just when I thought the only thing in my future was toast and tears in my pyjamas, Duncan called with a business proposition.

    Not the pyramid scheme kind, thankfully. No, Duncan had a vision—to export handcrafted wooden bowls made by women artisans in the Transkei. These weren’t just bowls; they were intracately carved by hand from the beautiful Wild Olive Tree, and Duncan believed they’d be a hit in European homeware boutiques. It wasn’t a terrible idea. In fact, it was the first thing that had given me a flicker of hope since I crash-landed back in Durban with heartbreak, no job, and a champagne lifestyle I could no longer afford on a ginger ale budget.

    It wasn’t just the potential income that drew me in—it was the chance to travel, to start something new. Things were finally looking up.

    The Business Trip Proposal

    Duncan suggested we take a weekend trip to the Transkei to scout for suppliers and see the business potential firsthand. I was all in—I’d never been to the Transkei, and any excuse to leave town sounded like an adventure. He offered to pick me up en route, since I’d be in Umkomaas on Friday night. Technically, Umkomaas was wildly out of the way, but I wasn’t about to skip the party. One of my school friends lived there with her fiancé, and he had a tribe of handsome, single friends. None of them showed even a flicker of interest in me, but that wasn’t going to stop me from putting in the effort. “Perfect,” I said with breezy confidence. “I’ll be ready.”

    How Not to Arrive on a Business Trip

    To say I overdid it would be an understatement. I drank far too much, spent a good portion of the night making best friends with the toilet, and got maybe an hour of sleep—if we’re being generous. By the time Duncan pulled up the next morning, bright-eyed and full of road trip enthusiasm, I looked like a cautionary tale in a health textbook. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t showered. I hadn’t even brushed the disappointment off my soul.

    Duncan, bless him, was thrilled to see me. Beaming, chatty, completely unaware that I was one sip of water away from disaster. I told him—somewhat sheepishly—about my wild night. He was kind about it, even chuckled and said I could nap on the drive.

    Nap? Please. I blacked out like someone had tranquilized me. Mouth wide open, head tilted back, full-on drool situation. By the time I resurfaced from unconsciousness, we were pulling into our first hotel—The Royal Swazi. A very fancy, very majestic place that I could not have cared less about because all I could think was: Is lunch still being served? I was dizzy, dehydrated, and still had last night’s mascara flaking down my face like a dusty shame trail. I probably looked like I’d been dragged through a nightclub and then rolled into a bush. But hey—business trip, right?

    Trinkets, Tiredness & the Toasted Agenda🥴

    Once I’d inhaled something resembling lunch and had a moment to resuscitate my soul, Duncan and I set out on our grand mission: to find authentic, handcrafted bowls made by the famed Transkei women carvers.

    What we found instead?
    A whole lot of wooden rhinos, giraffes, and generic tourist trinkets. Not a bowl—or woman artisan—in sight. It was like going on a hunt for buried treasure and coming up with themed fridge magnets.

    Still clinging to the hope that tomorrow would be more fruitful, we returned to the hotel. That evening, Duncan suggested we meet at the bar for a drink. I physically recoiled. After the previous night’s wine-fueled meltdown, the thought of alcohol made my internal organs shudder. I ordered soda water. He looked a little disappointed, but frankly, he wasn’t someone I needed to dazzle. He was my former boss—not my Tinder match—and ideally, my soon-to-be business partner who’d lead me to financial freedom (and maybe a European buying trip or two).

    I managed to endure one polite drink and dinner, though I can’t recall much of the conversation. Duncan was in full storytelling mode, but exhaustion was steamrolling me. My brain had officially checked out. I excused myself, went straight to my room, and collapsed.

    I slept like the dead. No dreams. No stirring. Just blackout recovery mode. So deeply asleep, in fact, that I completely missed our very ambitious 8 a.m. breakfast meeting. Duncan had to call my room. I shot out of bed like I’d been electrocuted, did a 90-second beauty triage in the mirror, and flew down to breakfast—apologizing so profusely that I almost offered to buy the hotel a new clock.

    Bowls, Business…and One Bed?

    After we checked out of the rather regal Royal Swazi, Duncan and I hit the road for our next stop—a hotel on the opposite end of Swaziland. We drove for hours, still scanning the roadside for those elusive bowl artisans, but there was a noticeable shift. Duncan no longer seemed too bothered by the lack of handmade goods. In fact, he looked… relaxed. Almost like the bowls were suddenly optional.

    I tried steering the conversation back to business—suppliers, logistics, pricing strategy—and to my relief, he responded with some solid ideas. That little entrepreneurial spark reignited. Maybe this trip wasn’t a complete disaster. Maybe I was on the verge of turning my financial ship around after all.

    Four hours (and zero bowls) later, we arrived at the next hotel.

    Then came the twist.

    At check-in, the receptionist gave us that smile. You know the one: “I’m about to ruin your day, but I’m going to do it politely.”

    “I’m so sorry… we’re overbooked. We only have one room available—but it is a suite.”

    My internal alarm bells started clanging. I turned to Duncan with a hopeful, please-tell-me-this-isn’t-happening expression.
    He grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh, you don’t mind, do you?”

    Reader—I minded. I REALLY minded.

    Still, my ever-optimistic brain tried to soothe me. It’s a suite, I reasoned. There will be a couch. You’ll sleep on the couch. No problem.
    Except… the couch was one of those decorative ones. You know the kind—designed to look expensive, not to be used. It was about the length of a yoga mat and looked like it would buckle under the weight of a handbag.

    Oh well, I told myself. I’ll make it work. This is just a blip on the business journey.

    We dropped our bags and Duncan suggested heading to the pool for a drink. Finally—something safe. No surprises. No intimacy. Just water, maybe food, and hopefully a moment to recalibrate. The afternoon passed uneventfully, with more business talk and less bowl talk. I let myself get hopeful again.

    Then came dinner.
    And that’s when the wheels really started to fall off.

    Coming up next in the final episode: A proposal, a panic, and my desperate attempt to keep a straight face while my internal monologue screamed. 🙃

  • My Accidental Escape from a Marriage Proposal – Episode 1

    Champagne Problems and Secretarial Woes

    When your “plan” is to find a husband with a plan…

    Let’s start with the basics:
    After four years of being in a relationship with a man who made it crystal clear he’d never marry me—like, bold underline, all-caps, skywritten by a plane clear—I finally walked away. Heartbroken and with nowhere else to go, I dragged my tail back to Durban and back into my parents’ house. They never approved of him (they were right, of course), and they were also very religious… and I had spent the last few years living like someone actively trying to dodge both God and good decisions.

    To top it off, I’d quit my job that morning—sent a dramatic message to the attorneys saying I’d never be back. So there I was: unemployed, emotionally wrecked, and back under the roof of people who would’ve fainted if they knew even half of what I’d been up to in Joburg.

    Let’s just say returning home was humbling. Champagne lifestyle? Please. Durban didn’t even offer a bubbly on a budget version of the life I’d been living.

    I was broke. I was bitter. And I was working for my mother.

    Not exactly the opening line of a bestselling autobiography, but we’re being honest here.

    At this point in my life, my career goals could best be summed up as:
    “Marry someone with ambition so I don’t have to develop any.”

    it’s not that I was lazy—I just didn’t know what to do with myself.
    Well, besides chasing men with red flags and stabbing myself in the eye every morning trying to nail that darned winged eyeliner.
    (And still walking out the door looking like a raccoon with commitment issues.)

    By day, I was a secretary in my mom’s office, which was every bit as soul-sucking as it sounds.
    By night, I was on a romantic scavenger hunt for someone—anyone—to rescue me from myself.

    Spoiler: that person never showed up.
    (Unless you count that one guy who thought a packet of biltong was a suitable birthday gift. I do not.)

    My salary? Laughable.
    My expenses? Mostly overpriced cocktails and late night dinners with my girlfriends.
    Rent wasn’t a concern—I lived at home—but somehow, I was still financially gasping for air every month.

    You’d think partying four nights a week on a shoestring budget would slow me down, but oh no.
    I just became really, really good at eating crackers for dinner.

    Then came The Call.

    Dramatic pause. Cue hopeful violin music.

    Out of nowhere, I got a phone call from Duncan—an attorney I used to work for at a fancy law firm back in my more “respectable” days (read: before fleeing the city like a dumped contestant on The Bachelor).

    Duncan was a quiet, serious man, older than me, and very professional…and very short.
    Think legal version of a little Mr. Rogers – minus the cardigans…and the full head of hair.
    I’d always appreciated how kind he was, especially the night we both had to stay at work until 2 a.m. helping a millionaire matriarch rewrite her will out of pure spite.
    (She was leaving nothing to her family and everything to her cats. You think I’m kidding.)

    When I ghosted that job post-breakup meltdown, Duncan was the only one who called to say goodbye.
    No guilt. No passive aggression. Just kindness.

    So when he rang again—months later—I was genuinely happy to hear from him.

    We chatted. Caught up. Laughed a little.
    He said the firm missed me. I said something self-deprecating and charming, probably while sitting in my pajamas at 2 p.m. eating toast.

    Then the calls kept coming.
    Once a week.
    Then every other day.

    And then?

    Duncan had a business idea.

    Ladies and gentlemen, this is where our story really begins.

    🛎️ Coming Next: Episode 2: The Wooden Bowl Hustle and Hope in a Suitcase

    International dreams, backseat naps, and the hangover that nearly ruined everything.

    Subscribe so you don’t miss a moment of this wild tale, or drop a comment below:
    💬 Ever tried to find meaning at the bottom of a wine glass? Same.
    Let’s swap notes.

    💬 Note from the Author

    I want to pause and say—this isn’t a story I share with pride. Especially not the parts about my wild lifestyle or the choices that led me down a path I now see so clearly for what it was: a slow unraveling. I was chasing validation, fun, escape… but mostly, I was running—from God, from truth, and from myself.

    I tell this story not just to entertain (though yes, parts are laugh-out-loud ridiculous), but to offer a quiet warning wrapped in real-life mess. If you’re reading this and something inside you whispers, ‘this feels familiar‘, please know you’re not alone. You don’t have to figure it all out by yourself.

    If any of this hit close to home and you need someone to talk to—someone who’s walked that road and turned around—I’m here. I’d be honored to walk alongside you.

    See you in Episode 2!!

  • Seven Seconds

    The Last Seven Seconds: What My Stepdaughter’s Death Taught Me About Grace

    Some stories stay locked inside us for a long time—because they’re heavy, because they hurt, or because we’re not sure how to tell them. This is one of those stories. Two days ago, we marked the anniversary of Lauren’s passing—my stepdaughter, our Lolly-Polly, gone far too soon. Her dad and I aren’t together anymore, but this story still burns inside me. Not just because of the loss, but because of what God revealed to me through it. If you’re holding on for someone you love, if you’re praying through heartbreak, or wondering if grace could possibly reach far enough—this is for you.

    When We First Met

    I met Lauren when she was twelve. Some mutual friends were trying to set her dad and me up on a blind date—but what they failed to mention was that I’d also be babysitting. I didn’t know what I was signing up for, and honestly, I was irritated. Babysitting wasn’t in the plan. But then I saw her dad—and my first thought was basically badda-bing, I’ll babysit your kid every weekend if that’s what it takes.

    Lauren was sweet from the start. We spent the day sitting by the river, talking, laughing, watching the paddlers go by. She was waiting to catch a glimpse of her dad—heroically bringing up the rear of the Dusi Canoe Marathon, making sure no one was left behind. That was how it all began.

    Trying to Hold it Together

    To cut a long story short, her dad and I were married eight months later—but not without some painful truths coming to light first.

    Lauren’s life hadn’t been easy. Her parents had divorced before she was even two, and her mom had moved to Port Elizabeth—far from her dad in Durban. The distance made visits rare, and the environment she was raised in wasn’t stable. Boundaries were loose, supervision was inconsistent, and Lauren ended up exposed to things no little girl should be.

    I remember one of our early dates—a few days after our meeting at the Dusi—he pulled me aside to talk where she couldn’t hear. He’d found cigarettes in her bag. She was barely twelve. He was shaken—not just by what he’d found, but by the lie she told when he confronted her. This was probably their first real conflict. Up until then, they had a close, affectionate bond, even though they only saw each other once or twice a year. But now, that trust was fractured. I could see how much it hurt him—like something precious was slipping through his fingers.

    Still, eight months later, she stood beside her dad at our wedding. No best man—just his beautiful daughter. She’d come up for the ceremony, and as far as he could tell, she wasn’t smoking anymore.
    But I knew she’d just gotten better at hiding it.

    The Breaking Point

    After the wedding, her dad and I were offered a career opportunity abroad. We took it, packed up our lives, and left—returning 18 months later. Just days after we got back, the call came.

    It was Lauren’s mom. Lauren had just turned 14—and had been arrested for marijuana possession.

    Her mom didn’t sugarcoat it. She told my husband, “You need to take her. I’ve lost control.”

    He was crushed. First cigarettes, now weed. It felt like every time he looked away, something in Lauren’s world slipped further out of reach. But there was no hesitation. We made arrangements and drove the long, winding roads through the Eastern Cape to go get her.

    I was terrified. I had just suffered a miscarriage, and now I was about to bring a troubled teenager into my home—a teenager I barely knew. Everything in me felt unsteady.

    When we reached Lauren, it was clear she didn’t want to come. She was leaving behind her friends, her history, her chaos—everything she knew—for a father she barely saw and a stepmother who was basically a stranger. She cried for 17 straight hours on the drive back.

    And honestly, so did I. Just not out loud.

    A House on Fire

    The next 11 months with Lauren were some of the most turbulent we’d ever lived through.

    We enrolled her in a new school, hoping for a fresh start. But she quickly found the wrong crowd—like it was magnetic. It didn’t take long before the clashes with her dad started. He was trying to introduce structure, lay down rules, enforce consequences. But for Lauren, boundaries were foreign. Accountability wasn’t something she’d ever been held to.

    Their relationship, already fragile, turned into a battleground. He was desperate to guide her. She pushed back harder every time. I was caught in the middle—watching them crash into each other over and over again.

    There were some sweet moments, brief and tender, but mostly it felt like we were constantly putting out fires—at school, with her friends, and inside our own home. It was relentless.

    The Final Straw

    One constant in our lives was church. My husband and I went faithfully, and amazingly, Lauren never pushed back on coming with us. I never saw her engage much—no signs that she was listening or opening up—but she came. And in those days, that was enough.

    During her stay with us, I fell pregnant. When her baby sister was born, it felt like a turning point. A fresh start. A reason for hope. For a moment, it seemed like the chaos might finally take a back seat.

    But it didn’t last.

    Lauren and her dad were soon at each other’s throats again. The smallest “no” from him would trigger tantrums and shouting matches. Then came the night she lied—said she was staying at school for the weekend (she was at a weekly boarding school), but instead, she and a friend snuck off and spent the weekend in an apartment with two unknown men and in all likelihood, more weed was involved.

    Her father went ballistic. She was grounded—seriously grounded.

    That’s when her mom started interfering. She called my husband and accused him of being a bad father. Told him he was too strict. Said he should let Lauren go out, go to parties, loosen up. She told him that Lauren had said she was so unhappy she was threatening to take her life.

    We knew it was a manipulation tactic—another weapon in the ongoing tug-of-war—but the damage was done. I could see what it was doing to him. He looked broken.

    Meanwhile, I was beyond exhausted. I had a baby who wouldn’t sleep, a household full of tension, and a teenager who brought drama with every step. That’s when I snapped.

    The Final Straw

    I couldn’t take it anymore.

    I picked up the phone and called Lauren’s mom. I told her plainly: she needed to support us if we were going to have any hope of helping Lauren. She needed to back our rules, not undermine them.

    She refused. She said my husband was just as bad a father as his own father had been to him. I was stunned. I tried to defend him, to explain how hard he was trying with a daughter already spinning out, but the more I said, the more aggressive she became—especially toward him.

    That was it. I’d had enough.

    I told her, “If you’re not prepared to support us, we’ll have no choice but to send Lauren back to you—since you clearly know what’s best for her.”

    And then I said the thing that sealed it:
    “I’m sending her back to you, because I would never be able to live with myself if something happened to her on my watch.”

    So that’s what we did.

    At the end of her Grade 9 year, we put Lauren on a plane—back to her beloved friends, her old life, her mother. We sent her back because we didn’t know what else to do.

    Seven Seconds

    Exactly six months later, we got the call.

    It was Lauren’s mother. Lauren had died in the early hours of that Sunday morning.

    There are no words to describe what it was like to watch my husband receive that news—that his Lolly-Polly was gone. I’ve never seen pain like that. Nothing prepares you for it. It was more horrific than I could ever put into words.

    The story we were told is that Lauren had been at a party. At some point, she took a scooter and gave a friend a lift home. On her way back, she ran into another friend on a scooter. He dared her to race him—back to the party.

    They took off.

    Further down the road, that friend looked into his rearview mirror and saw her scooter flipping, cartwheeling down the street.

    Lauren had slid across the road and hit her head on a telephone pole.

    The friend raced back, took off her helmet, and checked for a pulse.

    He felt one—for seven seconds.
    Then she was gone.

    Grief Vs Guilt

    Watching my husband walk through the grief of losing Lauren was excruciating. It wasn’t just sorrow—it was guilt, too. And I felt it right alongside him.

    I kept hearing my own voice—“I’m sending her back to you, because I would never be able to live with myself if something happened to her on my watch.”
    Something had happened. And even though we couldn’t have known, couldn’t have predicted, the weight of that last sentence clung to me.

    Lauren’s mother sent us the coroner’s report. Her blood alcohol level was off the charts. We’re not sure if they tested for drugs—but truthfully, I think her father didn’t even want to know. Some doors are just too painful to open.

    But the hardest thing I ever heard him say came one night, quietly, brokenly:

    “I don’t know if I’ll see her again.”

    He meant in eternity. In heaven.

    When Lauren lived with us, we were regular churchgoers, and most weekends she was at home with us. Even when things were tense between her and her dad, she never pushed back about coming to church. She never made excuses or begged to stay home. So every Sunday we were in church, she was there too. For Lauren, it was likely the first time she had ever stepped into a church—especially one like ours, which was spirit-filled and alive with worship. She might not have shown it outwardly, but she was in the room. She was in His presence. Week after week, seed after seed.

    But…we had never seen Lauren publicly surrender her life to Jesus. And given the choices she made, the lifestyle she fell into, it was hard—painfully hard—to reconcile her with the faith we held so tightly to. I didn’t know how to answer him. I didn’t know what to say.

    My heart broke for him. And for Lauren. And for the unknowable questions left hanging in the space between love and loss.

    The Vision

    That question burned in me for days. “I don’t know if I’ll see her again.”

    I had no answer. I was broken too.

    But then, on the morning of her funeral, I had what I can only describe as a vision.

    In the vision, I was standing on a road. Across from me was a telephone pole—the telephone pole. A streetlight on it cast a soft glow over the scene below.

    There, lying casually with her head propped up against the base of the pole, was Lauren. And sitting next to her, cross-legged on the ground, was a man. He had shoulder-length dark hair and wore loose cream-colored clothes—a shirt and pants. He was holding her hand, gently playing with her fingers like someone completely in love. There was no urgency, no fear—just an intimate, tender calm.

    Then, he looked up and saw me.

    He motioned for me to come closer.

    I walked behind him, looking down at Lauren. She didn’t see me—but I saw her face. Her eyes were locked on his with absolute adoration. Like she was seeing everything she had ever longed for, all in one face.

    Then I heard him speak.

    “OK, Lols,” he said gently, “I need to go now. But you have a choice. You can come with me, or you can stay here. It’s up to you.”

    But he didn’t even finish the sentence before she answered.

    “I want to come with you!” she said, her face lighting up like someone who’d just won the lottery. She was excited—overflowing with joy.

    And then I woke up.

    Hope Ignited

    I lay there in bed, completely overwhelmed—trying to make sense of what I had just seen. And then, in that quiet space, I heard the Holy Spirit whisper to me.

    “My darling girl, I was with Lauren in those seven seconds.
    There is no time with Me. I created the entire universe in seven days—but one day is like a thousand to Me.

    When I sat with Lauren, she recognized Me.
    Because I was with her all along.

    All those Sundays she sat next to you in church—I was there.
    All those prayers you whispered on her behalf—I heard them.
    And in those quiet, confused, lonely moments you never saw, she spoke to Me.

    She knew Me when I came for her.

    And yes—she will see her dad again.

    Because that’s what grace looks like.

    Just like the thief on the cross who used his last breath to believe—every one of My children gets that chance. And Lauren said yes.”

    I sat up immediately. The weight of what I’d just heard, what I’d been given—it cracked something open in me. I woke my husband and told him everything. The vision. The words. The choice. The grace.

    It meant the world to him. It gave him the strength to face what came next—her memorial, the grief, the empty space where Lauren used to be.

    It didn’t take away the pain. But it gave the pain meaning.

    And it gave us hope.

    Forever In Our Hearts

    Acts 16:31 says, “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved—you and your household.” I believe that promise deeply. Yes, each person must ultimately make their own decision to follow Jesus—but our faith, our prayers, our lives can open the door for those moments we never get to see. Moments like the one Lauren had. So if you’re praying for someone you love—someone who seems far, or lost, or closed off—don’t stop. Your prayers matter. Your love matters. And so does the way you live. Get as close to Jesus as you can. Let His presence shine through you. Because when the moment comes—whether it’s in a church pew or the final seconds of a life—may they recognize Him… because they’ve seen Him in you.