From My Dirt Road

My thoughts, my stories, my journey.

  • When you know, you know.

    When I’m not writing my blog, chasing after the family, or playing maid to my fur babies, you’ll often find me behind the wheel of an ambulance. I have the privilege of being part of St John Ambulance WA—both as a paid Transport Officer and a Volunteer EMT.

    What I love most about my job, aside from the incredible people I work with, is the amazing individuals I meet along the way. We cross paths with people from all walks of life—some heading to appointments or returning to a nursing home after a hospital visit, others in far more serious situations. Every person, every story, leaves a mark.

    In my experience, the best way to put people at ease is to have a chat—and anyone who knows me will tell you, I love a chat. Being Irish, I swear we could talk underwater! It’s in those little conversations, between ambulance stops and stretcher lifts, that the real magic happens.

    Being an eternal romantic, one of my favourite things to ask people is about their families—how they met their significant other, what their love story looks like. People light up when they talk about those they love. And through those conversations, I’ve come to realise something beautiful: there’s no one way to find “The One.”

    A few love stories have really stayed with me—like Sarah’s. She moved to Australia from the UK with her family as a “Ten Pound Pom” and settled in the southern suburbs of Perth. Sarah worked as a shop assistant in a ladies’ clothing store in Fremantle, and part of her daily routine was sweeping the footpath outside the shop.

    One afternoon, while doing just that, she caught the eye of a handsome young man sweeping outside a men’s store three doors down. All week they exchanged shy glances as they swept, day after day. Then on Friday, her colleague surprised her—she’d set Sarah up on a date with one of the boys from the men’s store. The twist? Both guys had the same name, so Sarah had no idea which one would show up at the dancehall that night.

    Luckily for her, it was him—the one she’d been secretly hoping for. They married just three months later, and 62 years later, they’re still as smitten with each other as they were back then.

    And then there’s John. He met his wife at a Saturday night dance. When I asked how long they’d known each other before getting married, he said, “Six weeks.” Two weeks to work up the courage to ask her out, two more to propose, and another two before the wedding. I laughed and said that was fast. He smiled and replied, “When you know, you know. What’s the point in wasting time?” They’ve been married 56 years, raised four children, and have twelve grandchildren—and they’ve never spent a single night apart.

    Most of the married couples I know today dated for years before tying the knot. It often makes me wonder—what’s changed? Is it that it takes longer to truly get to know someone these days? You’d think not, considering the countless ways we have to stay connected and communicate.

    If you think back to Sarah and John’s time, they often only saw each other once a week at the local dance. And yet, they made life-long commitments after just a handful of meetings.

    So why do we now spend so much time trying to be absolutely sure we’ve found “the one”? Are we more cautious because divorce rates are significantly higher? That could be a valid reason—but I can’t help wondering, are we focusing more on a possible ending than we are on a possible beginning?

    Or is it something else entirely? In a world where everything is at our fingertips and the possibilities are endless, maybe we’re holding out—just in case there’s something better.

    Whatever the reason, I think we’ve lost a little bit of the magic that comes with simply taking a leap—of trusting a feeling, a moment, a connection.

    Love, after all, was never meant to be a checklist or a perfectly timed plan. It’s in the stolen glances on a footpath, the courage to ask someone to dance, and the quiet certainty that sometimes… you just know.

    Maybe we don’t need to have it all figured out. Maybe love, like the best kind of journey, is about showing up, holding hands, and figuring it out together—one day at a time.

  • This old grey mare…

    Whenever I go shopping with my daughter Grace and I’m trying on clothes, I have this habit of asking her, ‘Are you sure it’s okay? Does it make me look like a mum?’ She usually just laughs and says, ‘You do realise you are a mum, right?’

    Of course I know I’m a mum—but I’m not a mum mum. You know what I mean? In my head, mums are older, middle-aged, responsible, have their shit together and are kind of frumpy. So I’ll admit to being responsible, and I sort of know where I’m heading in life. And yes, at 47, by every definition, I am middle-aged—but somehow, it still doesn’t feel like it fits.

    So when the hell did I get this old?

    The wrinkles seem to have doubled, and the grey hairs multiplied overnight. It’s like time snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking. I’m starting to forget little things—snippets of conversations I just had, items from the shopping list even though it’s written on my phone. And the classic: “Where the hell are my AirPods?” Cue a 15-minute, turn-the-kitchen-upside-down saga… only to find them in my ears. Yeah. That happened.

    I like to think it’s because I’m just so smart—my brain’s packed with so much information that something has to be pushed out to make room for the new stuff. It’s not forgetfulness, it’s… intellectual overcrowding.

    Physically, I’m not as strong as I used to be—which I guess is to be expected. We lose muscle mass as we age, after all. I even consulted a sports physician, who recommended that middle-aged women focus on strength training. Apparently, regularly lifting a G&T to my lips—even if it’s a large one—doesn’t count. Shame, really.

    When I look at my three girls—full of energy, motivation, and so physically fit—I can’t help but feel envious. They don’t forget things mid-sentence or worry about looking frumpy. They can spring up from the floor in one smooth motion, their bodies effortlessly in tune with the world around them. There’s a certain confidence they carry, a certainty in the way they move through life. I watch them with a mix of awe and longing, remembering a time when I, too, felt so vibrant and carefree.

    Me? Getting off the floor is a process. First, it’s onto all fours, then one knee, then I have to push myself upright like I’m doing some kind of low-budget yoga sequence. And even then, there’s the inevitable stiffness… followed by the classic old lady groan.

    And what’s that all about, when did I start groaning, anyway?
    I groan when I stand, groan when I sit, sigh when I get into bed like I’ve just returned from battle. Apparently, this is my life now.

    But on the flipside… there are advantages to being this vintage.

    I’m basically happy in my own skin. Would I like a bit less of it, and maybe wish it was a little more taut? Absolutely. But then I remind myself—this body has served me well. It carried me through life, and more importantly, it brought my four beautiful babies into this world.

    I’ve gathered some great life experience, knowledge, and wisdom—gifts that only come from living long enough to earn them. And with that, I get to be a sounding board and a guide for my children, offering support as they begin their own journey into adulthood.

    It’s one of the most rewarding parts of reaching this stage—knowing that I can be there for them, not just as their mum, but as someone who’s been through it, who gets it.

    I’ve noticed that the years have made me softer—not just in the sense of my six-pack, but in how I view the world, my priorities, and even my own sense of self has evolved in ways I didn’t anticipate. There was a time when I measured my worth by how much I could accomplish in a day, how many things I could juggle at once, how perfectly I could manage everything from laundry to life’s bigger challenges. But now? I’ve learned the hard way that some things don’t need to be perfect, and not everything has to be managed.

    It’s the little changes, the quieter moments, that stand out. I don’t rush as much anymore. I take time to savour the simple things—whether it’s enjoying a cup of coffee in peace, listening to the sound of rain on the tin roof, or catching up with my kids in the kitchen while we cook. I’ve realised that these quiet moments are the ones I’ll remember the most. They’re where the true meaning lies.

    And the way I respond to stress has changed too. I used to get so worked up over things that, in hindsight, seem so small. But now? I try to breathe more, I pause, I reflect before reacting. I’ve learned that some battles aren’t worth fighting, and that often, it’s better to let things slide. I’ve started embracing the idea that, sometimes, not everything needs to be fixed—sometimes it’s just about accepting things as they are, even if they’re a bit messy.

    I’ve become less concerned with the noise around me. There’s a certain clarity that comes with age. I no longer feel the need to keep up with the latest trends or to compare myself to others. I’ve come to realise that the people who matter, the things that matter, are the ones who’ve been there through thick and thin. My circle has gotten smaller, but deeper.

    And I think that’s the gift of growing older—the ability to let go of the excess. To shed the weight of expectations, of trying to please everyone, and to focus on what brings me peace and joy. My kids are growing up, carving out their own paths, and while I’ll always be here to support them, I’m learning to step back. The world doesn’t need me to fix everything anymore, and I don’t need to carry the weight of it all.

    I’m at a stage where I’m comfortable with the idea of change, even if it’s sometimes hard to embrace. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss the days when I could run a marathon without a second thought, when my body felt invincible, and when the world seemed full of endless possibilities. But I’ve realised that the possibilities haven’t disappeared; they’ve just evolved into something different.

    Maybe I can’t leap up from the floor in one fluid motion anymore, but I can still move through life with grace, humour, and wisdom. And maybe this old grey mare ain’t what she used to be, but perhaps she’s become something even better. She’s a little slower, a little more worn, but she’s also a lot wiser, more grounded, and more in tune with the world around her. There’s beauty in the changes, a quiet strength in knowing that even though the speed and stamina have faded, what’s left is something far richer—a deeper understanding, a fuller heart, and a spirit that’s learned to take it all in stride.

  • The hunt for my plus one…

    For the past 16 years, it’s been just me and the kids. And when I say ‘kids,’ I should clarify—that includes not just my actual children but also the dogs, cats, and chooks. At one stage, there were even a few pet lambs in the mix! Our home was always full of life, noise, and love. My main focus over these 16 years has been to work hard, build a good life, and raise decent humans—if I do say so myself, I think I did a pretty good job of it.

    Like many solo mums, I put my love life on hold—for a lot of reasons. I didn’t want to bring different men in and out of my children’s lives, I barely had the time, and to be honest, there was also the financial aspect. With no family around to help, I relied on babysitters, and by the time I covered their fees, taxis, dinner, and drinks, a simple date night turned into a bloody expensive outing. A sad fact, but true.

    Now, I wasn’t a complete hermit. There were a few dates and even a brief relationship or two—if I can even call them that. But no one ever felt worth the effort, and honestly, I don’t know if I ever really wanted it enough to try, until now.

    So, where to from here?

    Now that I’ve got some time to myself, the kids are all grown up, where do I start? Do I dare venture into the world of dating sites, or are they really as full of undesirables as my single workmates suggest? Is it still possible to meet someone down at the local pub, or has that ship sailed? Should I head to Bunnings and pretend to be a damsel in distress among the tradies? Or maybe a cheeky trip to the local cattle sale on Wednesdays might be the perfect chance to lasso myself a farmer?

    So what have I got to offer?. I like to think I’m a good catch. I’m a good kind person, I can cook and bake pretty well, and I love getting involved in my local community. I’m a straight shooter—you’ll always know where you stand with me- whether that is a good thing or a bad thing, I don’t know. I’m fairly independent too; I know how to change a tyre, swing an axe, and do all the other “blue” jobs around the house.

    And if I do find prince charming…

    Is dating still the same as it was when I was in my teens and early twenties?
    Will I still get those butterflies in my stomach as I prepare for our first date, that mix of nerves and excitement?
    Will I still try on every piece of clothing in my wardrobe to find the perfect “date outfit,” calling my best friend for the fifth time that day, just for some moral support?

    I do have to admit, my idea of a good first date has changed as I’ve gotten older.
    I’d happily swap the dress, heels, and fancy restaurant for jeans, boots, and a solid Parmi at the local pub.
    Or even just a few cold beers on the tray of the ute, looking out over the paddocks. I love the simple things in life, and to me, actions and small gestures mean more than anything else.

    I read a quote lately that said, “If you’re meant to be with someone, it will work out. Whether it’s next month or in five years, what’s meant to be will always be.”
    So maybe I don’t need to go searching. Maybe Mr. Right and I will find each other when the time is right.

    Whenever it is, here’s to new beginnings, new connections, and maybe even a few more butterflies

  • All alone in the playground

    I moved from Perth to the beautiful Southwest of WA just over four years ago. As a country girl born and raised, I wanted to return to the life I loved, the life I dreamed of having. I adore the slower pace, the lifestyle, and having a job I’m passionate about.

    Two of my four children moved with me, both still at high school at the time, there was a few weeks of adjustment and then they slotted right in both at school and in the community when they both secured weekend jobs in local businesses. It was like they had been here forever. For me however the adjustment was harder.

    Maybe I had built up an idealised image of small-town life in my head—where I’d be the “newbie” welcomed with baskets of muffins, where everyone would know my name and stop to chat. I pictured myself living a life straight out of Gilmore Girls, attending town meetings and countless local festivals. The reality was a stark contrast!

    When I lived in the city, I had an active social life—I was always involved in my kids’ school activities, a dedicated P&C member, a footy club manager, and had a job that kept me busy wining and dining clients. But when I moved south, all of that disappeared. Of all the changes I had prepared for and anticipated when relocating, the social isolation was the one thing I hadn’t factored in.

    It wasn’t that people were unfriendly—they weren’t. Personally, I believe it comes down to two things, one is age. People my age (let’s just say I’m closer to 50 than I’d like to admit) often already have an established social circle. On top of that, my kids were in high school, which meant there weren’t as many opportunities to meet other parents like I had in Perth.

    The second factor is priorities. As we age, our priorities shift—we no longer feel the need to constantly make new connections. Instead, we focus more on the quality of the time we spend with people rather than the quantity of friends we have. I often refer to this as the ‘grumpy old lady selection process’—it’s about being more selective and having less tolerance for drama and BS.”

    So, what’s the solution? I have to admit—that’s still a work in progress! Building friendships is a journey and its going to take some time. But what I do know If it still feels like a work in progress, that means I’m trying, and for now, that’s what matters.

  • A new kind of normal.

    Mornings here start early. I’m usually dragging myself out of bed around 5 a.m., greeted by the demands of the dogs—a crazy duo of energy and affection—eager for their breakfast. The cat, who unquestionably rules the roost, seizes the opportunity of my exit to sprawl luxuriously in the warm spot I’ve left behind. And the chooks? They’ve already begun their clucking chorus, making it abundantly clear that they expect to be let out for the day.

    With the kids grown-ish and gone-ish, the morning chaos that once filled the house has faded. In its place is a sound I’m still getting used to. Silence. And silence, I’m learning, has a sound of its own—both loud and quiet in its own peculiar way.

    There are some perks to an empty house. The kitchen remains just as neat and tidy as I left it, with no stray dishes lingering on the worktop, waiting to be put in the dishwasher. There’s no daily load of washing to hang out, food stays in the fridge longer than a day, and best of all—I have the TV remote all to myself.

    But an empty house has its downsides too. There’s no one to share the small, funny moments of the day with, no background chatter or laughter filling the rooms. Meals feel a little quieter, and sometimes cooking for one doesn’t seem worth the effort. The silence, while peaceful, can stretch a little too long. And while having the TV remote all to myself is a perk, there’s something about debating what to watch that I actually miss.

    At the end of the day, living alone is a mix of freedom and adjustment. The quiet can be comforting, but sometimes it echoes a little too loudly. Still, I’m learning to embrace this new chapter—finding joy in the little routines, appreciating the stillness, and savoring the space that’s just mine. Because, as it turns out, a quiet house isn’t always an empty one—it’s just waiting to be filled with new moments, in its own time.