Be-coming in Middle Age

Posted on October 18, 2025 by amy freya

With every year that goes by, there is an invitation to drop deeper into a relationship with self. There can be many selves, faces and parts of a story that make up one human.

As I listen to podcasts of people’s stories (shout out to current fav Heavyweight), I’m often in spontaneous tears for qour fragility, our hopes and our regrets, longing and loving as humans, a rare delicate species of contradiction.

Here I stand at 46, more wildness with smokey colored hair yet a steadiness within that was never there in my 20s. More grounded than my frenetic 30s of managing the necessary self-sacrificing involved in child rearing. The constant busyness surrounded with thinking about others and neglecting my own needs.

There are still myriads of oscillating moods and ladders/snakes to ride in this game called life. But I embrace the narrative of becoming in middle age, instead of the BS about loss of external ideals (beauty, allure, worth). The hard won lessons begin to line up, the way callouses form on well worn fingers.

I am seeing middle age in terms of a doorway, a threshold of sorts that we reach and it’s a holy undertaking. It’s not some fantastical window, it is quite literally a choice to let go of baggage or otherwise be drowned by it. Be weighed down by past regret, joints stiff with suppressed emotions, nerves jiggling with unease unless we take stock.

I remember the slow realisation that I was not who I thought I was. The slippery soup of resentment and discontent started to show its face in subversive ways and my mind would go into defending my actions as a way to collude and keep the status quo. It can be confronting to get real with yourself. It was unpleasant to see the hidden anger that I’ve pushed down since birth to maintain the lie we are sold about being too much if we show it, express or unleash it. Somehow, we won’t be as acceptable or palatable, we will wander into un-becoming territory and be shunned for it.

So where does the energy go? We swallow and suck in, bite our tongues and tense our jaws, until it lies dormant in our bones, a dense layer of stuckness. A sleeping tiger that we may not even know is there until the peri-portal of menopause comes to shake things up.

Maybe that’s the purpose to purify and burn off what lies behind our masks or any false self operating in this world. And isn’t this world a lot? There is no wonder we develop ways of coping and surviving. There is no shame in how we survived up until this point. But there is a reckoning, a call to evolve beyond our coping strategies, to become more em-body-ied.

To do that, we have to face what lies within these skin sacks we call home.

I strained a relationship with a dear friend because of my anger. I could feel the burning rumble of its power with thoughts trying to marry up yet not quite making sense, the justification and entitlement came swinging out, and it hurt someone that I love deeply. It surprised me with its force. I was not prepared for its edge, its righteous possible ancestral depth, it felt more than me. And it was not pretty. It was brief yet volcanic, and it’s taken years to walk it out, to reflect and even now I don’t kid myself to fully understand. But respect it I do. That energy had spite and spunk in its fury, something I’ve needed to release before it hurts others again or makes me sick. I see its root in learnt beliefs about holding on to emotions, to battling, being silenced and continual striving throughout my life as a mode of operandi, yet all the while stuffing this repressed e-motion down below my awareness.

It was a painful lesson to nearly lose a friend and have a relationship permanently changed. Yet this was the price needed for me to take action. And even in that action, I pussyfooted around, minimised feelings and built more landmines in the process as I avoided the truth. The truth being I was afraid of being confronted, of falling short, of not knowing where to start…

This is the wrath of peri menopause, and maybe this is why it can last a decade or so, because we need time to digest its force and its messages. It required me to stop kidding myself, stop projecting or making excuses, and get quiet enough to listen to the shadows within.

If they say our body is our temple, it involves a thorough clean out of all the rooms, looking under the floorboards, behind the curtains and below the windowsills.

Not easy but worth it for some level of peace on the other side.

If the ‘how’ question remains unanswered, it takes time and effort to retro fit this personalised journey. I needed to call in my support crew (women who were ahead of me), educate myself about this transition and ask for support from multiple sources. I’m still doing it.

Search for self worth

Posted on December 9, 2023 by amy freya

When I was in high school for about two years, I use to watch every calorie I ate and over time it became easier to skip meals and restrict the amount of food I had as well. My memories are a bit hazy, but it felt good to have self control and as our society rewards us for this trait as well as having a slim body, it was quite a reinforcing cycle. In my teen mind during the huge change of neural pruning that was upon its networks, somehow I internalised the idea that if I can maintain this socially acceptable appearance (which I believed was the only worthy thing about me) I would feel better. Furthermore, our culture bombards us with billboards, magazines and social media sprouting thin/beauty ideals about how we need to look to be accepted and secure in the social hierarchy.

Fast forward decades, I work as a therapist at an eating disorder facility. Whilst piecing the puzzle together as to how someone ended up where they are is often met with a solid wall of denial about what their reality has become. This makes me ponder on how difficult it can be to accept our reality as it is and as humans we construct, invent, defy, push, control and try to fix our experiences into a shape that is more palatable. However, the problem is that it can wear us out until our original pain is buried 10 feet under layers of suffering. It is so often about trying to avoid our feelings that we end up with endlessly complex behaviours to keep ourselves busy and productive, distracted and numb. Over time, we are disconnected from our bodies, our inner selves, and of course our emotions that we don’t know who we are or what we actually feel about anything.

One does not have to develop a raging eating disorder to relate to this predicament. I would hazard a guess that our modern lives and societal messaging programmes us for carrying on with chronic busyness, productivity and achievement-focused intellectualisation in the fruitless pursuit of self worth. I am not against goal setting or taking on challenges that shape and define us. Yet I am against the idea that our self worth is tied to what we achieve, how we look or what we own. Marketing has shaped these ideals as the path to happiness and fulfilment. Well if that was the case, why are there a lot of high achievers from affluent backgrounds reaching perceived milestones with poor mental health and low self esteem?

We need more of the idea that we are inherently worthy just as we are. It’s a concept that secure attachment to loving parents who put the onus on effort rather than outcome (achievement) can help to foster. Yet even with this protective factor, many people simply inherit these feelings of unworthiness in our competitive Type A culture. I’ve seen emotionally sensitive, empathic people internalise these beliefs as gospel which takes some effort and support to shift, until they realise that this not good enough narrative is not part of who they are, but what they’ve learnt.

Basically, the system is broken, not us. The system that portrays that external validation will lead to peaceful, contented lives. It’s like placing your worth badge on the jacket of a capitalist patriarch as they walk out of the door, never to be seen again.

I’m done with being told how I should look, act, spend money or get in debt to have arbitrary satisfaction. Outside the shoulds and shouldn’ts, I’ll meet you there.

Sculpture at Woodfolk Festival 2022, artist unknown.

Move over Plan B

Posted on April 13, 2017 by amy freya

I am a uni drop out again. I enrolled in a masters of social work in a hope to find some certainty to that perennial ‘what do you do‘ question in this far from sure world. There’s dysfunction dripping thus demand for social workers is high and I wanted to find a ‘secure’ profession.

But life had a trail of little wakeup calls. I was shaking after a colleague downloaded about her abusive boyfriend and hearing yet another stress leave story, found me in bed contemplating:

What is driving this decision? And for whom am I doing it?

I am a slow learner. It takes me several times around the block over the same terrain for things to become clear. This current vocational plan (there has been many..) is yet another time I’ve placed onus on Plan B as a protection from owning up to my true desires, Plan A. It gets exhausting trying to hoodwink your soul. This conflict is something many artistic creatures face as following your passion in the arts is a hard, bloody road, not helped by society perpetually questioning its relevance, legitimacy and economic prospects.

But is it really a choice?

I lay there quietly asking the deeper parts of myself, and the answer was no.

After years of feeling like I need to find a career- an answer tied up with a pretty bow, it was there all the time. When I stood at the photocopier at my graduate job for a multinational, a poem licked my face. From the recovering heroin addict with a PhD in mathematics who helped change a flat tyre on my courier bike to the elderly lady who asked me (a support worker) to collude with her by hurriedly changing her spotted blood dressing gown so she could look ‘put together’ before the resident nurse came to do an in home assessment, stories have coloured my life. As I tidied away the decay in her Mosman apartment, we chatted early days at Women’s Weekly, her role as editor and laughed about the wickedness of life. I stood poker faced when asked if she was fit enough to remain living alone. Later I got a call from Deirdre’s son with a heartfelt thank you and news that she passed away peacefully in her own home weeks later.

I remember being asked ‘What do you want to be?’ upon graduating from high school for our school magazine. With ‘unthinking’ speed I answered

A constant Kombie cruiser

I have lived up to that. I have found by seeking new places, experiences, jobs and people- I find endless material, stimulation and variety that feeds my writing. Not good for a CV per se but when you are called to write and reflect on what you see in the world, you can’t turn it off. Where do you learn how to be a writer? Yes you can do university and always get something out of it. But the qualitative research comes from living life. And maybe that’s what I have actually been doing, even when I felt I was ‘failing’ at this career game.

In Maleny, I am waiting tables, gathering dialogue and indulging in voyeurism. Chatting with customers and asking questions to tap into threads that hold opinions together. Moments that may find another life one day now I’ve fired Plan B.

I’m sitting here naked ready for Plan A-rse in the chair work of dancing whispering ghosts with grit under my keyboard.

Wish me luck and thanks for reading thus far.

Love Amy

Greener Pastures

Posted on October 1, 2014 by amy freya

So for those who’ve been here since the beginning, you may remember my post about our landlords and their attitude to children, in particular noisy children.https://bangonaboutbattambang.com/2014/08/20/peace-in-paradise/

After Beau managed to put a dart through a fly screen; pull a wicker cupboard on top of him smashing the mirror on his head, beautify the wall with crayon, get trigger happy on the bum gun one too many times, we’ve parted ways. The landlords eager to find us a new place and us eager to feel like we weren’t living with our parents.

Our New Digs

According to our previous landlords, this place was just waiting for us. The owner is a judge who moved to Phnom Penh a while ago, not desperate to rent the place remained elusive. That was until our previous landlord desperate to find us a new domicile accosted her calling up to ten times a day and a deal struck.

We now live further out of town amidst paddy field green and buffalo tracks. The kids can play rough and tumble in the garden lined with 4 dragon fruit trees (large succulent sculptures), mangos, limes and passionfruit. We have an extra bedroom that’s swiftly been utilised as a kid free zone as it has a lockable door. This is where I’m shacked up to write this piece.

These beauties in our garden

The local neighbours are Khmer and have already inquisitively scoped out our joint. Quinn and Beau can be found out the front with any number of sticks or swords in action.

Goat Curry ?

These four legged friends were seen on our first bike ride to the market. The market being a cross between an abattoir, a farmer’s market, hardware store and a bargain shop. All live or not so lucky critters (eels, crabs, insects, chicken, goose, duck, pork, beef, snails, snake) and fresh vegies/fruit are rolled out on grass mats for your perusal. Best to get there early because after the sun is higher in the sky, so are the number of flies.

Quinn turned 7 this weekend. It feels like quite the milestone for all of us. He’s growing into a thoughtful, sensitive and artistic young man. He was full of home made pinata and commando course building ideas for the party. None of which actually happened…but water pistols fights and pass the parcel sufficed.

Chocolate cake! Quite a rarity

We had quite a turn out. Tim being the social broadcaster he is- invited everyone we’ve met since arriving 3 months ago. It turned into a beautiful motley crew of Khmer and Expat- from the hotel owner and porter from the Royal Hotel where we stayed when we first arrived, to our old landlords, to work colleagues, new French friends from Beau’s preschool to the entire staff from our local, backpacker bar Here Be Dragons. 8 kg of barbecued meat later and eons of coconuts, beer and sweet cakes, everyone was suitably porky. Even a souped up ice cream van Cambodia-style came who must have got the call up.

Suzuki City cum Mr Whippy

So we are adjusting to our new digs peacefully. It feels like a new chapter has begun for our time here. Whenever, I leave our walled garden and ride my bike along the country lane, I feel like I’m in a movie- the seated fishermen by the irrigation ditch with their home made fishing stick; the local jetty made out of a few pieces of bamboo easy to replace after heavy rains, smells waffing from outdoor ‘kitchens’ of the neighbouring corrugated huts.

What year is it? What century are we in?

Peace in Paradise

Posted on August 20, 2014 by amy freya

Meet Beau

I made a promise to myself, and my readers to write honestly about the good times, and the harder. There is often that feeling that writing about potentially negative stuff isn’t what people want to read. But being real, is just that.

We are in our eighth week of settling into our new home. We are all feeling emotional as we navigate new territory, trying to establish a connection with a place, and its people.

We miss our family, friends, school and little shrines of familiarity. My whizbag, jelly foam pillow that miraculously has a memory, to cherish all the hours we’ve spent together.

Quinn misses his top bunk haven with its secret compartment hidden from his brother’s tenacious, prying fingers. Here, the 2 brothers share a double bed, one mosquito net and numerous cuddles or wrestles depending on their romantic mood.

Tim misses his tools. and his man cave made out of a converted shipping container. Far enough down the garden path, and nestled into oleander, to give him much needed solace and privacy. Not a dude to ever frequent our local Umina pub, this space, for both artistic pursuits and thinking time, is his temple.

Beau being the most rambunctious of our lot, and the youngest, seems quite content, being a toddler mutant ninja turtle, as long as his family are within earshot. But even he is showing signs of mild distress, mainly I feel through soaking up our frustrations.

We are all a noisy, vibrant bunch. Putting it positively, we are gregarious. But now we live within a compound, with our landlords and another foreigner, a British guy with a demanding job overseeing the removal of all landmines across Cambodia. He is often away in Angola. But he isn’t showing much paternal penchance and is more interested in Asian women.

Our landlords, have worked hard in the US, leaving in 1980 in the aftermath of the Khmer Rouge, Tong worked as a security guard and Pheak, his wife in an electronics factory, her job was to put the battery part into the ubitiquitious ceiling fan. After 22 years of being migrants in another culture, and working 6 days a week 12 hours a day, they decided to return to their homeland. They had saved enough to buy a big house and live out the rest of their days in peace. They are examples of the resilient spirit that many Cambodians, and migrants world over exhibit. I stand in the face of this story, humbled by privilege and a fanciful nature, that has been able to grow wild in my garden of fortunity.

So there is a big adjustment by all parties in this microcosm. Our children make noise, bouncing a ball and squealing as they ride their bikes. Yes they are loud, and surely improvements can be made, but they are also children. Tim likes to play his guitar, it is a lifeline soothing a deep thinking, sensitive soul. He has been asked to play quietly and not outside at night.

And then there are my actions. It is time for one of those self reflecting mamma moments. You know those times when you see, are forced to look, at how yes, I’ve been yelling a bit too much. Possibly it starts as a reaction to the kids’ continual chatter, I have to raise a few decibels to be heard. But it is also wielded as a tool upon deaf ears with…no effect. So the cycle begins, ends and continues.

I’ve been coping with the change, with the kids lack of friends and subsequent boredom, by resorting to the comfort of cooking. Cutting up onions and discovering new herbs, has become a relaxing pastime for me. But ironically, whilst I’m enjoying the aromas of fried garlic, the kids are running amok in the courtyard. And my lack of supervision is seen as neglectful. Yesterday during a particularly large downpour, a welcome relief to the heavy cloak of heat of past few days, Quinn and Beau were delighting in waterfalls coming off the roof. Quinn then decides to start riding the downpipe like a horse, the end breaking off. Tong seeing all of this, needless to say wasn’t happy. It is fixable. But the point has been made, that I can’t control my kids, and Tong is worried they will hurt themselves one day. That very morning, Beau was trying to lift up the water pump cover. His curious fingers could have met with 240volts.

We’ve had a family meeting with the kids about ‘out of bound’ areas and respecting other people’s stuff. It is a learning curve. A life lesson for living in a society with others. Quinn at nearly seven gets it. Beau at three, was thinking about the zombies that live in the blue house up the street.

This parenting gig is HARD. Even when you want to escape to places in your imagination or hide in the linen press, they require your attention. Quinn amazed me with his insights- I asked him how should I tone down my yelling- ‘mum, I could post signs up all around the house for you?’. Bingo. Reminscient of a movement called Orange Rhino ( http://theorangerhino.com) that I discovered then forgotten about back in Oz. A great exercise in consciously trying to change your behaviour and getting your kids to help.

I just want to salute all the parents out there. A difficult job without a manual, and this generation of parents are steering into unchartered waters. Without child labour, industrial revolution and corporal punishment as a basis for discipline, societal pressures and occupying kids’ time, how things have dramatically changed over the last century.

Has anyone noticed how joyful and well behaved your kids are when you give them time and your undivided attention?

Always a juggling act.

Bang On About

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