Tales from the Tangled Trail

Tag: love

  • From Cancer to Complete Healing: A Miracle Only God Could Do

    Jesus healed me from colon cancer just eight months after my mom passed away from the same disease. When doctors discovered her cancer, the tumor was the size of a tennis ball. When they found mine, it was the size of a baby’s head—at least, that’s how the doctor described it.

    I had watched my mom fight a long, painful two-year battle. She was a strong believer and often said she was “believing for her healing.” Yet privately, she would confess to me that she wasn’t sure what she had done wrong for God to give her cancer.

    I told her, “Mom, God didn’t give you cancer.” But I also knew why her healing never came. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive—especially not my dad, who had hurt her deeply for years, nor certain family members she felt had wronged her. She had walked with the Lord for many years, but to her, forgiveness seemed too simple, almost unfair.

    I believe this struggle came from wrong teaching about the love of God, from well-meaning but misguided preachers who had unintentionally planted distorted ideas. Coupled with a lifetime of rejection, those wrong beliefs kept her from stepping into the freedom Jesus had already provided.

    I watched my mom fight desperately for her life, placing much of her hope in chemotherapy, even as her condition worsened and the cancer spread. To this day, I often say my mother didn’t die from cancer—she died from chemotherapy. I swore that if I ever got cancer, I would never go through it.

    But my mother was determined to live for us, her children. She worried constantly that my father—who was notoriously bad with money—might remarry and squander everything she had worked so hard to provide. I was desperate for her to live too, because she was the glue that held our family together.

    Growing up, our home life was often tense. My parents fought constantly—sometimes over the pressures of running the family business, but also because my father struggled with anger he couldn’t control.

    When my mom became ill, my husband, our 10-year-old daughter, and I lived upstairs in their large house, while my parents stayed downstairs. My father had asked me to “come home” and help him run the business that my mom had mostly carried on her own. At first, she wasn’t happy about it—she didn’t want me drawn into the stress of life with my dad. But later, she told me how grateful she was to have me there to help care for her.

    My father did what he could, but he was too entangled in his own demons and fears to ever make her the true priority she needed to be.

    Words can’t truly capture what it’s like to watch your own mother die an agonizing death. At the time, I was also struggling in my marriage, and just like my mom, I found myself consumed by negative thoughts. Fear, worry, and unforgiveness kept me awake at night, making it hard to pray with any real faith.

    When she finally took her last breath, I felt a wave of relief that her suffering was over. But almost instantly, I was overcome with guilt for feeling that way. My relationship with my father unraveled further after her death, as I carried bitterness toward him for the way he had treated her. Only later would I come to see that he, too, was battling unhealed wounds and demons that made it impossible for him to love her—or us—the way he wanted to. But at the time, all I could see was the pain.

    Exactly one week after her memorial service, I felt a strange, dull ache on the right side of my belly. I dismissed it as indigestion, something I had struggled with all my life. Over the next eight months, the ache would come and go, sometimes intensifying into pain, but never lasting long enough for me to think it was serious.

    Then came weeks of persistent diarrhea and rapid weight loss. Even then, I didn’t think much of it—even though these were the same signs my mother had ignored. I think I was in denial. Finally, I went to the doctor, assuming I had a bladder infection. She ran a urine test and then suggested a blood test “just to eliminate anything sinister.” I agreed, went on with my day, and didn’t even bother to pick up the bladder infection medication from the pharmacy.

    The next morning when I arrived at my office, the night watchman rushed to my car. He said the doctor had called several times, urgently trying to reach me. I had my cell phone switched off and was running late, still oblivious to the seriousness of it all. I called her immediately, and she answered on the first ring:
    “Carol, you need to drop everything and either call an ambulance or get someone to drive you to the hospital right now.”

    Tests revealed a massive tumor the size of a baby’s head lodged in my colon. Emergency surgery was the only option.

    That was the beginning of a line of miracles. The surgeons removed the tumor along with 31 centimeters of my colon. The first miracle: I didn’t need a colostomy bag.

    The surgery lasted several hours. I spent days in a high-care ward, fed through tubes, waiting for the biopsy results. The waiting was unbearable. Finally, my surgeon came to see me. I woke up to his kind face leaning over me, his hand gently holding mine. Knowing how recently I had lost my mother, he had tears in his eyes when he told me the tumor was cancerous. He tried to encourage me, but all I could hear were the words: “You have cancer.” They echoed endlessly in my mind.

    The next miracle came in the form of a beautiful Christian nurse. As soon as the doctor left, she came and prayed with me, speaking healing scriptures over me. Fear and torment still plagued me, especially at night. Thoughts swirled: Who will take care of my little girl if I die? How will she cope? Will I suffer the same way my mom did? Sleep became impossible. Eventually, the doctor prescribed sleeping tablets, which helped, but deep down I wished I had been stronger at taking every thought captive to the truth—that by His stripes I was already healed, and I didn’t need to fear.

    Still, God knew what I needed. That nurse was His gift to me, a messenger of His presence. And when I was moved to the general ward, He surrounded me with even more encouragement. Friends and members of my church family came daily to pray, to lift me up, and to remind me of God’s promises.

    A week after I returned home, I had an appointment with the oncologist to discuss treatment. Now I was the one with cancer, and though I had always sworn I would never undergo chemotherapy, without the revelation yet that my healing was already complete, I considered it. All I could think about was my little girl, only ten years old. I was determined to fight for her sake.

    But then came the miracle that changed everything. The oncologist looked at me and said they had removed every bit of cancer from my body with the surgery. I was cancer-free.

    It took hours for the reality to sink in. Me? Cancer-free? It was a miracle I hadn’t even dared to hope for. God, in His mercy and grace—despite my doubts, fears, and unbelief—had completely healed me.

    And I can tell you today: God is still in the miracle-working business. You just have to believe Him and His Word. He is faithful. He is true to it.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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