There’s something amusing about being told that starting again is a wonderful opportunity to reinvent yourself.
Usually by someone sitting in a very comfortable house, with a healthy bank balance and absolutely no intention of reinventing a bloody thing.
It’s all very well talking about fresh starts, exciting possibilities and the joys of a clean slate when you’ve got somewhere to live, money coming in and a reasonably good idea of what you’re doing. It’s a totally different thing when life has pulled the rug out from under you, taken the furniture with it and left you wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do now.
I speak from experience.
A few years ago, if you’d told me that everything I’d spent years building would eventually come crashing down around my ears, I’d probably have laughed, poured another coffee and carried on with whatever daft amount of work I’d got lined up for the day.
I was always working towards something. There was the farm, the businesses, the house, the gardens, the animals and a seemingly endless collection of projects that needed doing. My days were rarely quiet, and to be fair, I liked it that way.
I loved the bustle of it all. The early mornings, the changing seasons, the satisfaction of making something happen, even the occasional disaster that inevitably comes with animals, old buildings and an overly ambitious to-do list.
There came a time, though, when it became clear that life wasn’t as secure as it had been. Looking back, the sensible thing would have been to let go while I still had the chance to walk away with something, even if it was only a fraction of what we’d once had.
But I didn’t.
That was my biggest mistake. I became so determined to save everything I’d built that I couldn’t bring myself to accept what was happening. And when things had gone too far to pull back, I became even more convinced that somehow, against all the odds, I could still turn it around.
Eventually, I wasn’t carrying on because I believed everything would be all right. I was carrying on because I was frightened of what would happen if I stopped, clinging to the tiniest glimmer of hope even when, deep down, I knew there was none.
Even then, I never imagined that one day I’d be starting again with almost nothing.
And yet, here we are.
Nobody mentioned this bit in the brochure
If you’ve read my first post, Well, That Wasn’t the Plan, you’ll know that life took a spectacular turn in a direction I hadn’t anticipated.
I lost the home I’d worked so hard for, the business I’d built and much of the security I’d taken for granted. There were some extraordinarily difficult times, including a period when finding somewhere safe for Molly, the dogs and me to sleep was the scariest thing I could ever have imagined.
I remember the bitter cold during those days. Scotland in February is hardly the ideal setting for a spot of spontaneous homelessness, particularly when temperatures decide to drop to minus ten. I can assure you there was very little romance involved.
And there were the dogs, of course. Seven Scottish Terriers, each with their own opinions about absolutely everything. If you’ve ever owned a Scottie, you’ll know they’re not particularly interested in your personal circumstances. They still expect dinner at the appropriate hour, comfortable sleeping arrangements and a reasonable standard of service.
In some strange way, that helped.
However difficult things became, there were still little faces looking up at me, waiting for their breakfast or wondering why I hadn’t yet organised the day’s entertainment. Life had to carry on because they expected it to, and I couldn’t bear the thought of letting them down any more than I already had.
Eventually, a friend gave us a caravan, and what might have looked to somebody else like an unlikely solution became something enormously precious to us. It was a roof over our heads, somewhere to put the kettle on, somewhere to shut the door at night and feel that, for the moment at least, we were all safe.
I don’t think I’ll ever take those ordinary little comforts for granted again.
The trouble with having time to think
One of the unexpected things about losing the life you thought you were going to have is that, once the initial panic begins to settle, you find yourself asking questions you probably wouldn’t have considered before.
For years, so much of my identity had been wrapped up in what I did. I was the woman with the farm, the animals, the businesses, the never-ending projects and the extraordinary ability to find yet another job that needed doing when I was already up to my eyeballs in work.
I knew that life. I knew how to do it, even when it was difficult, and I knew what I was working towards.
Suddenly, I didn’t.
At first, that was terrifying. I wanted the familiar things back, particularly the security of having a proper home and knowing that we were going to be all right.
I still want those things, actually. Let’s not get carried away with the romance of living differently. I would be absolutely delighted to have a beautiful old house, a rambling garden, a kitchen big enough to make the most lovely feasts in and somewhere the Scotties could charge around without me having to conduct a headcount every five minutes.
But somewhere along the way, I began to wonder whether I necessarily wanted everything else to go back to the way it was.
I’d spent so many years working, building and keeping everything going that there were things I’d barely had time to think about, let alone do. Places I wanted to visit, things I wanted to make, books I wanted to write and all sorts of little ideas that had been tucked away for another day.
And now, inconveniently, I had a head full of them.
More ideas than hours in the day
I’ve always been one of those people who can find something interesting in almost anything.
Give me an old building, a rambling garden, a dusty antiques shop or a collection of beautiful things that somebody else has overlooked and I’m happy for hours. I’ve always loved making things, growing things and discovering how other people live, particularly those who’ve managed to turn an unusual idea or a particular talent into a business.
The trouble is that one idea invariably leads to another. I might start the morning thinking about making something beautiful for the house and somehow end up researching an entirely different business, wondering whether I could learn a new craft, or making a list of places I’d like to explore.
Before long, there are notebooks everywhere, half a dozen projects competing for attention and an optimistic belief that I can somehow fit everything into the next fortnight.
The truth is, I don’t particularly want to stop being like that.
For years I thought I needed to concentrate on one thing, build it into something successful and keep going until I’d achieved whatever it was I’d set out to do. And there’s nothing wrong with that, of course. But I’m beginning to realise that I enjoy having a life with lots of different interests, where one day might involve writing, another making something, and another discovering something completely unexpected.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing the same thing just because it’s sensible. I love the idea of a life where creativity, curiosity and business can all exist together, where the things I enjoy doing aren’t necessarily separate from the things that earn me a living.
And I don’t see why they should be.
Perhaps I don’t want my old life back after all
That’s a strange thing to admit, especially when there are parts of my old life that I miss enormously.
I miss having a home that was truly ours, the familiarity of my surroundings and the lovely everyday business of making somewhere beautiful and comfortable. I miss the gardens, the animals and all those little rituals that make up a life.
There are memories I wouldn’t swap for anything, and I’m proud of much of what I achieved.
But I also remember how relentlessly busy I was, how much responsibility I carried and how easily the things I loved became things I simply had to get done.
There were always jobs waiting, problems to solve and something else that needed my attention. Even the loveliest things can lose a little of their magic when you’re permanently exhausted.
I don’t want to rebuild that part of my life.
What I want now is something that has room for all the things that make life feel wonderful. A lovely home, yes, and the security of knowing that we’re all right, but also time to enjoy it. I want to create things, build businesses that excite me, spend time with the people and animals I love, discover beautiful places and occasionally do something completely ridiculous just because it sounds like fun.
I want to wake up looking forward to the day rather than immediately wondering how on earth I’m going to get through everything on the list.
And I want to remember that there’s no point waiting until life is perfect before allowing yourself to enjoy it.
God knows, if I waited for that, I’d be waiting a bloody long time.
An unfinished sort of life
I wish I could tell you that I’ve worked everything out, that there’s a wonderfully organised plan pinned to the wall and that I’m now gliding serenely towards a glorious new future.
Unfortunately, that would be complete bollocks.
There are still practical things to work out, ambitions to turn into reality and a fair distance between where I am today and where I want to be. But there’s also something exciting about having so much still to discover, especially when I think about how many things I’ve yet to try.
I’m learning to enjoy the little things again, to appreciate the comfort of an ordinary day and to give myself permission to imagine possibilities that might once have seemed completely unrealistic.
And perhaps that’s what this next chapter is really about. Not trying to become somebody entirely different, and certainly not trying to recreate everything I had before, but taking all the experience, knowledge and creativity I’ve gathered over the years and putting it towards building a life that feels right for who I am now.
I’ve always been curious, creative and a little mischievous. I’ve always loved the idea that life should be an adventure, and somewhere beneath all those years of work and responsibility, that part of me was still there, waiting for a little room to breathe.
I don’t know exactly what the next few years will look like, but I have some wonderfully ambitious ideas, the determination I used to have and seven Scottish Terriers who will undoubtedly continue to supervise proceedings with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
What I do know is that I don’t want to spend the years ahead simply trying to get back to where I was. I’d much rather discover where else I might go, what I might create and all the lovely, unexpected things that could become part of our lives along the way.
There’s so much I still want to do, see, make and experience, and for the first time in a long time, I’m genuinely excited about the possibilities.
After all, you don’t have to wait until life is wonderful to begin living wonderfully.
