I am a great communicator.

I say this to myself maybe seven hundred times a day. 

Every time an email pops up, or a text pings on my phone, or my phone rings, or I have a WhatsApp voice note I really, really, reeeeally need to listen to but the not-knowing of what it contains has been paralysing me for days.

I say it on fast-mode-repeat before every meeting.

Makes the day kinda exhausting when it’s not until 4pm, or the night kinda restless when it’s at 7am the next day.

Thing is, I never thought I wasn’t a good communicator until a few years ago when a client said as much to my partner (in life and business) at the time.

Up until then I’d lived a good 25 years safe in the knowledge that I studied Professional Communication at uni, did well on my English exams in school, was working on three books concurrently, had been the editor of two online publications, produced a documentary…

Not to mention FREQUENTLY had my dad tell me a piece I’d written had changed his view on an issue – and if you know how I stubborn I am, know that he is the tree I learnt it from. 

And for the past few years, this new ‘bad’ communication story has pushed me against every single edge I have, every single day. 

But it isn’t mine.

I’ll accept the anxiety story which I also work on daily. 

I’ll accept the residual stress story from past abusive relationships that included hundreds, if not thousands, of messages and phones calls that take me back there every time my phone rings.

And I’ll accept that the way I communicate is a little bit different, because it’s on a soul level, a heart level, a gut level. It’s on the level of sitting in a team meeting and truly feeling a beam of neon light connecting us across continents and internet connections.

But I refuse to be defined by these stories, and I refuse to be defined by a story that has been pushed on me as a scapegoat excuse when the reasons for my and others’ behaviour is really more about rejection and abandonment wounds and shifting blame, and my current story de jour: every man will always let me down. Thought work is fun, aye?

Because actually, I get paid to help people tell their stories, to co-conspire stories with them, to document and create and believe in and share. 

Some days I get PAID to write POEMS about people to help them remember who they are. 

I see people.

I feel them.

I love them. 

And I’m here for something a little bit bigger than answering an email within the hour. 

I think you are, too, and I think we should probably chat. I promise I’ll do my best to answer the phone.