I am starting my Journal with this saying as I feel that it sums up the heart of the experience of a carer, a care taker. I thought I had heard from God - I was using my gifts for God - singing and leading praise and worship as directors of a christian church in Sydney alongside my guitarist husband. I had gone to Uni to become a nurse so that I could "go" with my husband on mission trips to help people with medical outreach. I was working at a cardiac unit for children in Sydney. I had 3 children of my own, I had started a not for profit to provide resources for Solomon Islands community (we were living in Sydney Australia) and I had followed my passion for helping others that led me to service in the Parramatta Lions Club in Sydney as a Director and President. then something shook my world pretty much. My own beautiful mum passed quite suddenly with Pancreatic Cancer. Life is precious. A gift that we are given. Was I where I was meant to be and doing what I should be doing. Then our foster daughter came into our lives. We were approached by the foster agency if we would consider taking in a child that was fully dependent for all cares. We were nurses. We kind of had an idea what was involved. If not us? Who? It was a huge ask. I knew that our life would have to change to cater for this little princess' needs. I replied we need to pray about this. I felt that God asked me to "trust him". When you feel that God says "trust me". what do you do? It has been almost 11 years now and our foster daughter will be 15 this year. till next time... Find me on The Creative Hearts Collective at Skool

I was really inspired by something @Leeanne Hurren shared today about that fear that shows up before meeting someone new. I see this pattern a lot and honestly, I catch myself doing it too. Our minds jump straight to worst-case scenarios. Not because something bad is about to happen, but because the brain is trying to protect us from the unknown. Here’s the thing: peace doesn’t come from eliminating fear,it comes from gently questioning it. So when your mind starts telling a scary story, try pausing and asking: What if this goes well? What if this is actually a blessing in disguise? That small shift can move you from dread into calm ,and sometimes even curiosity. Has your mind ever scared you for no real reason, only for reality to surprise you in a good way? I’d love to hear your wins below! 👇✨

I pulled up to a medical office complex and watched as a woman made her way toward my car. She moved slowly, deliberately—like someone carrying more than just a purse. It was the kind of posture I’ve learned to recognize over the years—the posture of someone hauling invisible weight. When she slid into the back seat, she let out a sigh that filled the car. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just honest. Her voice was tired but clear, and her words hung in the air like a quiet plea. I caught her eyes in the rearview mirror—exhausted, but still searching for something light. Something human. I asked what she did at the facility. “I’m a caregiver,” she said. “I work with people living with dementia. There’s so much going on at work—wandering, sundowning, confusion, heartbreak. I love them. I really do. But today?” She paused and shook her head. “Today I need a break and a laugh.” I smiled. “You’re in the right car. I’ve spent years working in senior living. I get it.” She looked relieved. Seen. “Okay,” I said, without hesitation, “here’s one for you. Why did the chicken cross the playground?” She paused, curious. “I don’t know… why?” “To get to the other slide.” For a split second, there was silence. Then she burst out laughing—not a polite chuckle, but the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep and forgotten. The kind that surprises even the person laughing. “That’s so dumb,” she said between giggles, wiping her eyes. “But it’s exactly what I needed.” From there, the car turned into a comedy club on wheels. We swapped stories—the kind only caregivers truly understand. She told me about a resident in memory care who once insisted I was her long-lost nephew and made me promise to take her to the circus. About a gentleman who serenades staff with Elvis songs every morning, complete with hip shakes and finger guns. We laughed about how dementia rewrites reality—and how sometimes the kindest thing you can do is step into that reality instead of correcting it. We joked about the endless supply of cookies in break rooms, caffeine-fueled survival tactics, and the universal truth that every care team has at least one person who swears by essential oils for everything. We laughed because laughter was the one medicine she hadn’t run out of. By the time we reached her destination—a local diner where she planned to treat herself to pie and silence—her shoulders had lifted. Her eyes sparkled. She looked lighter. Freer. Like someone who had just remembered what it felt like to breathe. I watched her walk inside and sat there for a moment, thinking about what had just happened. Laughter isn’t just relief. It’s resistance. It’s how caregivers reclaim a piece of themselves in the chaos. How do they remind themselves they’re still human? Still whole. Still worthy of joy. That day, the back seat wasn’t just a ride. It was a release. And sometimes, the best care we can offer isn’t advice or answers— It’s a good laugh and a safe place to land. Reflection Caregiving is heavy work. It holds grief, responsibility, unpredictability, and constant vigilance. But woven through that weight is something just as powerful—humor. Not because the work is funny, but because laughter becomes a lifeline. In caregiving spaces, laughter isn’t disrespectful. It’s survival. It’s how caregivers keep going when logic fails, plans unravel, and emotions overflow. It’s a reminder that joy can still exist—even in the middle of hard. This ride reminded me that sometimes people don’t need solutions. They need a moment where their nervous system can unclench—a place where it’s safe to laugh, even at the absurdity of it all. And sometimes, healing sounds like giggles echoing in the back seat of a car. Questions to Sit With When was the last time you laughed freely—without guilt or explanation? How does humor show up (or disappear) in your caregiving journey? What moments of levity help you feel human again? Who offers you a safe space to laugh when the weight feels heavy? And how might you permit yourself to seek joy—not as escape, but as care? Because laughter isn’t a luxury for caregivers. It’s medicine.

Mental Health Journal — Entry One Something I notice often in mental health work: Many people aren’t overwhelmed because life is too hard. They’re overwhelmed because they don’t feel safe enough to slow down. They keep functioning. They stay responsible. They hold everything together. But their nervous system never truly rests. So here’s a gentle question: •What happens inside you when you finally pause and what do you think your mind is trying to protect you from? If you feel like sharing, I’d love to read your reflections, only what feels safe . From experience, this question usually reveals something important, not something broken. If you feel comfortable, share your reflection. Awareness is often the first form of care.

I am a HUGE Billy Joel fan. I was so happy to see his surprise return after revealing a brain disorder. My wife and I have been to many concerts and his flow of care is his ability to share his music on stage. Also, some say I am Billy’s Doppleganger.