Tales from the Tangled Trail

Tag: faith-over-fear

  • 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!!

  • Stranded, Scared, and Saved: My Night on the Concrete Highway

    One of my previous posts was about another angelic encounter that helped me in a dire situation. This is another account of what can only be described as angelic intervention.

    Stranded on the Highway With a Broken Fuel Gauge and a Barefoot Stranger

    Buying my first car felt like winning a mini lottery—okay, more like finding a crumpled R50 note in your jeans. It was secondhand, scratched, and smelled vaguely like old sandwiches, but it was mine. No more relying on my boyfriend for rides like I was his clingy little co-pilot. I could go where I wanted, when I wanted. Independence never looked so… slightly dented.

    The dream, however, came with one tiny, catastrophic flaw: the petrol gauge didn’t work.

    Since I couldn’t afford to fix it (or really fix anything), I adopted the “human calculator” approach. I tracked my mileage like my life depended on it—because, apparently, it did. I’d drive until I thought it was time to refuel, then top up just before things got dicey. It wasn’t ideal, but hey, it worked.

    Until it didn’t.

    Enter: A Wednesday Night Disaster

    It started with dinner at my boyfriend’s mom’s house—classic midweek visit that began fashionably late because he just had to hit the gym after work. I left around 10 p.m., cruising onto Joburg’s shiny new “concrete highway,” which, back in the 90s, was still novel and exciting. Fast lanes. Fewer robots. What could go wrong?

    As I headed uphill, the car gave a little judder. Then another. And then it started coughing like it had swallowed a spoon. My stomach dropped. I had forgotten to check the mileage.

    I was out of petrol.

    I somehow managed to steer into the emergency lane, pulling off like a Formula 1 driver who just realized they were out of fuel—and also had no pit crew. The engine died. The lights dimmed. And just like that, I was alone. On the side of one of Joburg’s most notorious roads. At night.

    This particular stretch had a reputation: carjackings, assaults, fake “help” lures that ended in horror. I knew the stories. Everyone did. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it over the passing traffic.

    Fight, Flight, or… Wave Pathetically?

    I had three options, none good:

    1. Stay in the car and hope no one bothered me. (Unlikely.)
    2. Walk home. (Alone. In the dark. Nope.)
    3. Flag someone down and pray they weren’t a serial killer.

    I chose option 3, mostly because it didn’t involve movement. I got out and stood next to my car, arms folded like I was waiting for a taxi that would never come. Cars flew past, their headlights slicing through the night, not even slowing down. Twenty minutes went by. Nothing.

    Eventually, I raised my arms and started waving like one of those inflatable things outside a used car dealership. Another 15 minutes. Still nothing. My arms went limp. I was tired, scared, and dangerously close to tears.

    So I did what any desperate 90s Joburg girl might do in that moment: I whispered a prayer.

    “Please, God. Help me.”

    To be honest, I wasn’t even sure He was still taking my calls. But before I could spiral further into self-doubt, something happened.

    A white VW Jetta pulled up.

    The Barefoot Miracle

    A young man stepped out, dressed entirely in white—shorts and a shirt—and, bizarrely, no shoes. He looked calm, relaxed, like a guy who mistook a highway emergency for a beach stroll.

    “Are you alright? Can I help you?” he asked.

    “Yes! Please!” I blurted, explaining my fuel faux pas. Midway through my rambling confession, I realized I had no money on me. None. Not even a crumpled R2.

    He frowned a little. “Oh dear,” he said, like we’d just run out of biscuits at teatime. “I don’t have money on me either.”

    Then he casually walked to his car, dug into the ashtray, and emerged with a handful of copper coins. Maybe enough to buy half a loaf of bread—on special. “Let’s see what we can do,” he said. “I’ll take you to the petrol station.”

    I got into his car without hesitation. Normally, my self-preservation instincts would’ve kicked in. But in that moment, I felt totally safe. He was shorter than me, which for some strange reason reassured me. No weird vibes. No ulterior motives. Just… calm.

    Faith, Fumes, and a Jerry Can

    At the petrol station, the attendants scrambled to find a container small enough to justify the pocket change. Eventually, we filled up with whatever fuel we could afford and headed back.

    On the drive, we talked. Not small talk—real talk. He asked about my life. I found myself opening up to him, like he was an old friend I just hadn’t met yet.

    When we got back to my car, we poured in the fuel. I turned the key, hoping for a miracle.

    Nothing.

    The car didn’t even cough.

    I felt my whole body sag. But he wasn’t fazed.

    “Alright,” he said gently, “let me take you home. You can sort it all out in the morning.”

    Grace in a White Jetta

    I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even think about the fact that I was letting a barefoot stranger drive me home in the middle of the night. That’s how safe he made me feel.

    On the way, I nervously joked about my car being stolen or stripped. He just smiled. “It won’t be,” he said, like he knew something I didn’t.

    He dropped me off, wished me well, and drove off into the night. No numbers exchanged. No dramatic farewell. Just gone.

    Looking Back

    It took me a while to process what happened that night. But the more I reflect, the more I believe that man wasn’t just some helpful stranger. The odds of a barefoot guy in white pulling over, having just enough coins, and making me feel totally safe?

    That’s not luck.

    That’s grace.

    In a city as wild and unpredictable as Johannesburg, on a night that could’ve gone horribly wrong, I was protected. Delivered. Helped by someone who showed up out of nowhere, with nothing, and gave me everything I needed in that moment.

    “For He will command His angels in regard to you, to protect and defend and guard you in all your ways.” – Psalm 91:11

  • As Far as the East Is from the West: Letting Go of Shame

    The Lie the Enemy Keeps Telling Me

    Yesterday, I was reminded afresh of something I did nearly 40 years ago that I deeply regret. And once again, I allowed the enemy to whisper lies into my mind—reminding me why I wasn’t worthy of love or attention. I’ve spent a lifetime believing that I wasn’t enough. A lifetime of trying to please people in the vain hope that they would accept me. So much of my life has been marked by feelings of condemnation, judgment, and rejection.

    I could probably come up with a hundred reasons why I became this way or how it all started. But what disappoints me most is that even now, as an almost 60-year-old woman, I am still so affected by these things.

    Shame’s Echo Across the Years

    I’ve been the kind of person who, by the world’s standards, would be labeled an overthinker—constantly analyzing how people see me, whether they accept or reject me.

    And by Christian standards, I’d be seen as someone who struggles to take every thought captive. I believe much of this stems from my formative years in a church where I heard a gospel that said: “Yes, God loves you enough to die for you—but if you sin, He will turn His face from you and punish you.”

    That teaching was further solidified at home. Though I know now that my parents loved me, back then their own unhealed wounds caused them to reinforce a message of performance-based love. When I messed up, the punishment never fit the crime. Each incident left me drenched in shame, and from that place of shame, I began my relentless quest to earn love and acceptance.

    Over time, shame became the lens through which I viewed myself and my world. One painful event piled upon another, building a mountain of guilt and embarrassment. And the event I mentioned earlier still haunts me—forty years later.

    The Relationships That Reflected My Pain

    There have been so many rejections. But perhaps they weren’t all others’ fault—I had unhealthy expectations. I was never just “me” in a friendship; I was always striving to be the perfect friend, and still, I felt like I never measured up.
    Again, not their fault.
    Mine.
    I didn’t know how to just be.

    When it came to romantic relationships, I was always drawn to the wrong kind of man. Looking back, I realize it probably had a lot to do with my own low self-esteem. I craved validation, and I believed that if a good-looking man was interested in me, it somehow proved that I was attractive—that I had value. But time and again, those relationships ended in betrayal. The truth is, I was choosing people based on how they could affirm me, not how they could love me. And maybe it’s no surprise that none of those connections were healthy. Because if I couldn’t love and accept myself—the person God created me to be—how could I ever expect someone else to?

    As Far as the East is from the West

    But when does the bleeding stop?

    I don’t want to still be affected by something foolish I did 40 years ago. Jesus came to deal with that very thing on the cross—and in His eyes, it’s already gone. “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us” (Psalm 103:12). By refusing to forgive myself, I’m the one keeping myself locked in a prison of shame, handing the enemy the key.

    I recently read an excerpt from Shaping Your Future by Barry Bennett:

    “Your future consists of thoughts, words, and actions that have yet to be expressed. You can allow your heart to be a warehouse for the past—hurts, anger, offenses, failures, and memories—or it can be a factory of faith for the future… In your heart reside the issues of life.”

    Shame, as Brené Brown describes it, is the voice that tells us we’re not just wrong—we are wrong. It convinces us that we are unworthy of love and belonging, and it locks us into the pain of our past. Shame thrives in secrecy and silence, but when we bring it into the light and speak it with honesty and vulnerability, it loses its grip.

    As Brené says,

    “If you put shame in a Petri dish, it needs secrecy, silence, and judgment to grow. But if you douse it with empathy, it can’t survive.”

    Naming our shame and offering ourselves compassion is the first step to healing.

    The Truth That’s Setting Me Free

    At the end of the day, no matter how many times I’ve let myself or others down, I know this:

    there is One who loves me and accepts me exactly as I am.

    And He says I am more than enough.

    That One is Jesus.

    I choose to forgive myself.
    I choose to please Him only.

    And in Him, I am enough.