Actually, Not Love

I don’t know these people. Never met them. But as “friends of friends” things go on social media, you stumble upon stunning photography, exotic travel locations, professionally plated meals, and flowers—copious amounts of flowers. When the inevitable, though not fully intended, exposure hits, it somehow makes its way into one of the bottom drawers of my, sadly, photographic memory. It’s meaningless to me, yet it takes up space. It’s an ice-storm night, and we landed through “moderate turbulence,” so uneventful that the stingy airline actually served us free booze. Happy to be alive alongside my family, in a mercifully short Nexus line, I feel the strife of a young couple at the machine next to me. He’s doing something wrong, repeatedly. She’s whiny but offers no solution. I tap my card, take a bleary photo of myself—I should probably start wearing makeup when flying—but the machine doesn’t seem to mind, promptly spitting out my receipt. With a flash of green, the little clear plastic gate opens and gets me closer to my bed, or so I think. It’s an ungodly hour already, and I don’t know yet that it will take over eighty minutes for the one suitcase we have to arrive. So time I have for people-watching. I love airports.

It’s between Christmas and New Year’s. With a faint smile, I guess who’s family, who’s friends, who’s lovers. Who’s retired, who’s dreading going back to work, who’s starving (me!), whose luggage—with a sexy sequin dress—will arrive only on January 2nd. I spot the Nexus couple high on the escalator. He’s holding two carry-ons. She’s a step below, but twisted 180 degrees, facing him, still whining, only louder. He’s quiet, looking down—not at her, but at his feet. She struts off the escalator, fast. He drags his step, seeming old, still looking at his feet. Defeated. She turns back toward him, and I hope to see something tender—a smile, perhaps a hug. After all, they also survived a turbulent landing. I’m a sucker for happy endings. Without a word, she comes close and yanks the receipt out of his hand, still carrying her luggage, and walks away. He never lifts his gaze. There wouldn’t have been a story, perhaps, if somewhere in the initial silence of our ride back home, or later, once our driver decided to share, with enthusiasm, why we must get the exact hybrid Lexus (he hasn’t purchased gas since June!), my ridiculously busy brain hadn’t opened that bottom drawer, pulled out a file I didn’t know was even stored, and revealed that I actually knew who the unhappy couple were: the recently engaged son of an Instagram friend’s friend and his bride-to-be. Perhaps I’m just overly sensitive. December 2025 marked thirty years since I was dumped by my then-husband, nine months pregnant, and still—despite all the fear of the unknown—I felt that January 1st, 1996, granted me a brand-new chance to make a really good life. I hope they each get a chance to make a really good life, but I will never know, as all parties have since been unfollowed.

Dial M for: Marriage, Motherhood, Memoir

On today's date 22 years ago I didn't know it was Mother's Day weekend.

Serbia doesn't do Mother's Day, or Father's Day for that matter.

1994

Twenty two years ago May 7th was "Djurdjevdan" - a big day in Serbian Christian-Orthodox Calendar represented by St.George on the White horse slaying a dragon. It's a patron saint day of many families in Belgrade, though not mine. On Saturday, May 7, 1994 my family was celebrating something completely different: their daughter's wedding. 

That daughter happened to be me. 

The decision to marry my boyfriend, once I had dated him for a few years, while diligently completing all the checkmarks my parents had insisted on (graduate from university, license as a pharmacist, find a good job, not get pregnant etc.) - well, the talented Bruno Mars perfectly sums it all up in the very first verse of  "Marry You" : "It's a beautiful night, We're looking for something dumb to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you!"

The initial wedding date was supposed to be in early April since my sister was emigrating to Canada in mid May and I wanted to give my parents a breather between these two monumental events in our family life. However, my pharmacy technician Mira, who was much older and wiser and also hypnotically persuasive - all that gypsy blood flowing through her veins - told me as we were manning a heavy afternoon shift in the pharmacy wholesale warehouse: "Never marry in April. April marriage--April joke." May 7th seemed like a perfect and safe day. 

Mother's Day 1996 was on May 12th. I wish I knew Mother's Day existed, not because by then I was a mom for the whole 110 days. I wish I knew because by then I learned how much I needed a mom, how much my mom meant to me and how at peace I was with everything that happened as if I wasn't doing my motherhood all by myself. If there is anything that touches the essence of my mom's motherhood it is the first few months of me being a mom - in my case, a single mom. 

My mom welcomed me home after a failed marriage. 

My mom went with me for ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.

My mom was at the hospital the night I gave birth to my son. 

My mom assembled (having our friends and neighbours pass down baby items) the most magical nursery for me to enjoy and heal in.

My mom woke up every night to keep me company while I breastfed. 

My mom cooked delicious home-made soups and baked pies.

My mom ironed mountains of cloth diapers each and every day. 

Bajce the Best!

My mom cleaned projectile vomits, soothed the crying baby and readily managed diaper explosions.

My mom patiently fed him his first solid foods. 

My mom assured me there is no rush to potty train. 

My mom...

My mom followed us to Canada at age 60.

My mom was my son's day-care. And a tutor. And a bestie. And a confidant.

My mom saved my sanity. And taught me everything I know about motherhood. 

And if I had to choose between that husband or this mom - I would've gone for this mom every single time!

2016

I'm aware of my incredible good luck to have this mom be my mom. 

I measure my great luck for being a mother of three boys myself, while still having my mom around - fun and wise and full of life. 

And to make sure my boys will know how to carry our good fortune and extraordinary parenting forward, I'm researching, interviewing and capturing it all in a memoir. 

Here is an excerpt of an early draft:

        It was January. There was no baby formula. No glider chair. No dryer. Only lukewarm radiators. 

I am sitting on a sturdy orange kitchen chair in what used to be the bedroom my sister and I shared as teenagers. My leg is propped on a ledge, my whole body coiled uncomfortably on one side trying to avoid—sitting. 

The newborn in my arms is crying. His mouth gaping open, like in cartoons. Red toothless gums framing a miniature paper-thin tongue. It’s a hungry, frustrated cry. 

1996

I’m crying. Mine is an exhausted, desperate cry. Manual for new moms was clear about breastfeeding. “Offer the breast whenever the baby cries. Mother’s milk is perfectly nutritious, served at the ideal temperature and always bacteriologically safe.” 

Mother’s breasts, the book failed to mention, were swollen and tender, chestnuts tightly packed into a balloon, hard from the milk that started pouring out all at once through the utterly unprepared ducts. The yellowish, greasy colostrum was everywhere, soaking and staining my bra and my PJs, spraying baby’s eyelashes, getting into his nostrils, sticking in his tiny soft golden hairs. It went everywhere but into his mouth. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Crying, chanting, I rocked myself front and back then stopped jolted by the sharp pain. The tiny mouth managed to latch and started sucking, sounding big gulps, almost choking at times, gnawing the nipple until it bled, yet never letting it go. I was nursing a wolf, not a boy. 

It was January. There was no maternity-leave pay for a retail pharmacy manager. Equal opportunity anything hadn't arrived in Serbia. No food in the supermarkets. No gas at the stations. Pampers for newborns sourced on the black market, too big for the skinny 6-pound body. One diaper, one Deutsch mark. 

“You WILL grow to hate me. You will look at me one day and ask ‘how could someone fail so profoundly at basically everything? At motherhood. At breastfeeding. At providing you with a warm room to sleep in. A clean diaper. A safe childhood. A normal family. A country with no war.’” 

The father-to-be handed me an envelope with neatly signed, stacked and stapled divorce papers ten days before the baby was born. “In case the child is born alive (for still birth please see below), the mother has the right to give the name and make sole decisions regarding medical, religious, educational and all other needs.” Then he disappeared. 

Twenty years later, I am sitting on a chair watching a 6’4”, broad-shouldered man with a hipster beard pack the last few items he’ll need in his sophomore year. Laptop—check. Guitar—check.

“Filip, how was it growing up with just me… never meeting your biological father?” 

“Oh, mama!” He turns around and gently taps the top of my head. Then he smiles. “It was magical!”

Happy Mother's Day!

Stuff I Learned About Life From Intense Interval Training

Who am I kidding?
Me the queen of marathon-chatting sessions with girlfriends while holding a hot-caffeinated beverage in hand? The gold-medallist of all things sofa - books and movies and writing and cuddles? Me?! Interval training? When in the past, success was if I crawled uninjured after a Zumba class, for seniors?

Actually - yeah!

This happened to be a winter of deep hibernation for me - and those are dangerous!
For someone who already had one serious encounter with a beast called depression, being as much as even lightly brushed by its wicked whip poses a major threat. When depression approaches obstacles start to appear larger than they actually are. Minor everyday problems acquire a long and dark shadow. The appetite dissapears (which - I agree - for the first little while sounds like a welcome gift).
Wickedly, the bed then starts exerting its gravitational pull, the muscles go sluggish and the duvet is right there to conveniently muffle even the softest of cries. Shame moves in. It's so dangerous because it's so easy. It feels like comfort. Sleep is good. I am just tired. Let me put my head down...

I credit an incredible army of people for making sure I didn't get caught into the treacherous spiralling-down depression web that was so eager, so motivated, so applied to suck me in. Left on my own, I would have surely succumbed to it without a fight. Like a fierce giant insect, depression sucks life juice out of you, than effortlessly crushes the shell. Eats your heart. Then rips your head off.

But what if you - somehow - get dragged to take care of that shell first? Well, thankfully, I was.
He did it very much in a cave-man fashion, as - almost literally - he had to drag me there by my pony tail (thank you husband!).

There is this truly punishing gym in our neighbourhood my sole-mate raves about. They have classes called TreadSanity and ROWster and H.I.I.T. and Gravity, and countless others I am yet to try. Fellow-gym goers for the most part look as if they are all training for the friggin' Iron Man. It is intimidating as hell to step inside, but once you do - regardless of the level of ultimate unpreparedness - pure magic happens.

Here is what I learned about life from sprints and burpees and kettlebells and slamballs and shoulder-presses and push-ups and bands and sumo-squats and bosu balls. And buckets of epsom salt afterwards.


1. You do one hard thing as a break from another hard thing

This is also exactly how my grandfather taught me how to study when I was little. Doing what's hardest first (math) then taking a break with another demanding subject (French) than relaxing with the easiest thing (art project) so I can return to the second hardest (history). Without procrastination all was done right after school and the rest of the day was free for play and friends and writing.

The same rule goes for the gym: running on treadmill under an ever increasing incline is abruptly halted so I can enjoy 20 Mountain Climbers or burpees (oh how much I still hate those), or push ups. Who knew I would learn to rest doing a 60 second plank!?


2. Your weight is all yours - unless you drop it, you've got to carry it

Gravity Gear

This is just like life coaching - you can select to drop the baggage and travel light through life or it is all yours to carry forward. My personal twist is that I learned to quickly start loving my baggage at least for the duration that I have to lift and carry it as a burden. Instant gratification rarely exists when what you want is real, long-lasting and meaningful. I tend to joke about my load - it makes it lighter and I sometimes don't even notice when it disappears! Poof!

It is nowhere more obvious that all my weight was mine than in this workout called Gravity - 60 minutes of having my core, arms and legs pull all of the glorious me I managed to acquire under my own skin, especially since my little kids were born! There are no fairies, helpers or marines descending into the gym to help. One must carry one's own weight until the clock says so, no matter what.

3. You can do anything for 60 seconds

I learned this one night between January 23/24 1996. during the marathon no-epidural-available birth of my first son. As fellow women who attempted natural birth know - a contraction, that minute long WTF?! How did we even survive as species?! intense sensation, a contraction is a perfect example of us being wired to survive anything if it is a minute long. I still have the watch I had on my wrist in labour mesmerizingly envisioning the relief I would feel when the second handle passes the moon.

Some wicked gym guru clearly knew this because when we to this H.I.I.T class staying on each station for a minute with 40 sec of insane intensity and 20 seconds recovery time the body is tricked into a relief that really never arrives while the reward is amazing!

4. Angry music makes for great motivation

I admit. Growing up, I was a total new-wave snob with tunes (and mixed tapes and posters) of Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Visage, Ultravox and OMD. I scoffed at people who wore AC/DC and KISS T-shirts while injuring perfectly fine denim jackets by embedding pointy metal beads into them. Listening to heavy metal. Shaking a big head of unwashed hair, tongue sticking out!

But boy can that 'angry' music make for an amazing trip while running or rowing indoors! I close my eyes and transport myself somewhere Mad Max-like and listen to the machine zip under my vigorous steps and pulls. It's rocket fuel. Who knew?!

5. Pick a great crew: Rocky Balboa, Hurricane Carter & moi

If in need of the initial drive to get one started it was so worth re-watching movies that celebrated a man's turn to physical empowerment as a stepping stone to mental strength. The hidden gift of hibernation is that days are really long and Netflix is really generous.

Those moments when the burn would be excruciating (ahem, only for me - the rest of the gym-goers seem to be immensely enjoying themselves) I got silver screen peeps to join me, make it meaningful and even more fierce. Imagination is an amazing gym prop!

6. Never say never

I ❤️my gym!

I know. The king of all clichés. But if I ever feel that it is true, it is right now.
There is no less likely person to enjoy being on a treadmill than me. How many times have friends tried to lure me into the Running Room group or a 5k run? My excuse was always the same: "Oh, I am not a runner!" Then I pull out the data about knees and ankles and running in filthy city air. Sure, I would do a Hawaii marathon, however... I love running on treadmill. Crave it. Just like I do yoga. Super weird.

The point is not to get as fit as to qualify for the Olympics. Or to match/surpass the number the 'treader' next to me seems to be effortlessly blasting through. The point is to look at each day like a marathon I was chosen to run. Then show up. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Sweat. Hustle. Burn. If I could do it - anyone can do it. And when a whiff of Lysol wipes fills the air, it means 60min expired and it's time to get the equipment ready for the next group of warriors. And that alone feels like gold!

F like Fifty, like Fabulous, like Friends

For the last 24h I totally reverted to being a teenager: I went to a party. I met some incredible new people. I danced. I had a beer. I sang my heart out. I laughed out loud. I was happily squeezed into a slow dance. I totally lost my voice. I slept till noon. And woke up to a delicious and already served lunch!

Our Yoga studio

All because of this one woman...

But let me tell the story from the beginning. 

January 2015 in T.O. was brutal. Deep freeze, grey skies, spring nowhere in sight. In lieu of a regular Saturday 'date-night' my husband and I decided to go to a hot yoga class. There is something undeniably sexy in stretching, sweating & suffering together! Bring it on Virabhadrasana II!

We got out of the 75min class happy yet wrung out. The icy rain was drizzling. As we rushed towards the car I heard a scream. I paused. The street was dark, the parking lot packed and although I looked around I couldn't see a thing. I was just about to enjoy the comfort of heated leather seats that would take me to a deserved long hot shower when I heard a deep moan. 

A woman was lying on the very edge of the parking lot having slipped on the ice that has treacherously formed between the cars. She was crying. She said her knee was badly injured. Afraid to move her, I slid my yoga mat under her head while my husband went inside to alert the studio staff and call 911. He came out with a bunch of dry towels and we covered her the best we could offering comfort between her cries - she was obviously in deep pain. 

She said her name was Tanya and asked if I could call her husband. I asked what his name was. 

"Hello, Tom, hi - you don't know me. I am here with your wife Tanya and she is OK, but she has slipped on the ice in front of the yoga studio and injured her knee. We called 911, but you need to come. Her car is here. I am going to hold the phone now so she can talk to you."

As she started talking my ears registered something unusual. My eyes opened widely. 

"Tomo, pala sam. Dodji odmah, molim te..."

The language and the accent were super familiar to me. Not only was it Serbian, it was 'capital city' Serbian I don't get to hear very often. As Tanya said goodbye to her husband, I went:

"Umm... just so you know, I understood everything you've just said. My name is Marina. I'm from Belgrade."

True friendships can start in the most amazing of places, not just in early childhood or during glorious school days. They start while waiting for kids at the summer camp. While flying to a conference. In a haute-couture boutique. While at work. While volunteering half way across the world. During Life Coach training. Or as I'm becoming a better writer. 

How about a dark January night on a f'n frozen parking lot, under the relentless drizzle of ice rain, while our sweat turned into icicles and her knee and everything below it was lying next to her, looking horrendously detached from the rest of the body? 

I think it was the higher power that chose me in particular to find Tanya that night. Apparently, when dialling 911 if one wants them to come right away words such as: head, bleeding & unconscious need to be used. Just a mere dislocated knee? It took about 35 minutes of lying on the icy concrete under now-soaked frozen towels. 

And what is the way to spend those long minutes of anguish well? Entertain the injured woman to no end, so that her laughter masks the excruciating knee pain. 

"Let's see if this Toma of yours is a keeper... I'm gonna time him!"

"I heard that paramedics are hot. Let's channel some serious 911-beef that will be taking care of you, sister!"

"Trust me - I'm a pharmacist. Percocet is fun."

Toma was a keeper. The split time of just over four minutes was only one of the reasons. When the 6'6" towering man emerged from the cab I knew that was the real superhero moment of the night. He knelt next to her, speaking tender words while caressing her wet hair. He assured her all would be alright. 

The silent 'awwww' filled my soul.

The paramedics were not as hot as we - OK, only I - hoped for, but they did have Percocet. Between the four of us, Tanya was lifted on a stretcher and loaded into a flashing ambulance. Like a true 'Mother Courage' she elected for the dislocated knee to be put in back ASAP and not wait for pills to kick in or the x-ray to become available nor the anesthesiologist on call to wake up. Getting shit done - the Serbian way!

Tanya's 50 & Fabulous Party!

Last night we celebrated Tanya-the-fabulous turning fifty. The atmosphere was electrifying, the tunes those we all grew up with in the Balkans, the food delicious. Tanya burned the floor dancing as if that knee never got yanked out after all! If I hadn't already known she was one of those remarkable women you meet in life, I only had to look at her friends - genuine, affectionate, welcoming, funny as hell, uninhibited, letting loose and letting love connect us all. Here is to the next 50! 

Živeli! L'Chaim! Cheers!

Always a bride, never a bridesmaid!

The first wedding I ever attended in North America was that of my friend Mary, whom I knew from work. She was the right hand of one of the specialists I worked a lot with in those early years. When she invited me to their wedding I was elated! Firstly, she and John are a great couple. Secondly, they're Scottish and Scottish people I had heard knew how to chill. Thirdly - ok, firstly - there would be bachelors wearing kilts and I was very single back then. I was looking forward to checking out the offerings, if you know what I mean!

[Public notice: Kilt-wearing men and firefighters in uniforms - yes, women often have a thing for that sort of attire, just so you know!]

There was no 'plus one' on my invitation and I pretty much didn't know anyone at the wedding other than the bride, so after an hour or so of people watching I felt compelled to talk to someone. It's moi after all! 

The easiest target was the jolly-looking father of the bride. With his rosy cheeks and cute outfit I was sure I would find something to talk to him about.

"Hi - my name is Marina. I work with Mary." I leaned into him so that he could hear me over the background noise of the talking people and clinking glasses.

 "Congratulations! It must be exciting to be at your daughter's wedding!?" - I said that both as a statement and a question thinking it might propel him into telling me of the many suitors she had turned down while still overseas, finally settling for John in Canada.

"Ayeeee... Weddings!" - he screeched a thick Scottish accent - it sounded like "weedings". He put his arm on my shoulder as if he were about to reveal some rare truth - "It's all rubbish!"  His rough rolling "r" is still ringing in my ears, making me laugh all these years later!

Credit: Black Lamb Photography

And although I too once thought that weddings and marriage were rubbish, this third and last time I tend to love the idea of a marriage. But not the one I grew up with - with the expectation and pressure to find a soul mate slash equally-educated slash gainfully-employed slash 'good genetic material' (ha, ha, ha #youknowwhoyouare) slash no-baggage kind of deal while the biological clock is ticking.

My perfect marriage is the one with the sole-mate, s.o.l.e. - someone with whom you walk effortlessly through this lifetime. Soul-mates are everywhere - most of my girl-friends are my soul mates – but there is only one sole-mate. The one with whom you will aimlessly walk the world's cities. The one who will go with you to the parent-teacher meetings and paediatrician's appointments. The one with whom you will look at funny silly videos on YouTube. The one who will tell me the hotel is booked and so is the car rental and now we just have to hunt for flights. The one who convinces me it's time for an All-You-Can-Eat sushi dinner. The one who appreciates what I do for our family. The one who surprises me with how much he does for our family. And the one who is happy for me go to places like India to fulfill my desire to experience something raw and intrinsically important only to myself.

Tomorrow, one of my dearest and closest friends will say yes to her man. Linda was the very first person I met on my very first day at work in Canada almost seventeen years ago. Let's just say we've been through a lot together. The ups and downs and heartbreaks and real scary moments and hope and courage and joy and infinite love and gratitude. Linda is a soul-mate of mine!

I guess it must be a good thing that Linda and her man decided to have a relaxed ceremony followed by a night of dancing and debauchery (the actual words on the invite!). This means no formal uptight stuff. Just heart and soul and fun stuff. But alas, this also means no bridesmaids. Which consequently means no war with a certain Jen I'm about to meet tomorrow as well as an army of her childhood friends aka "beach-getaway-girl-crew" I was always so jealous of. That's good, because I don't take rejection very well and one clearly can't have 10+ bridesmaids, can one? But I have never been a bridesmaid!!!

And I really wanted to be one for once, dammit!

I can't fall asleep tonight in the sweet anticipation of seeing my friend standing tomorrow gloriously happy. And, oh, happy she is! Congratulations! Félicitations! Čestitamo! Mazel Tov, you guys!

Let me now go to my sole-mate and watch this for the umpteenth time... The supreme court and the slice of lasagna part! OMG!!!

Matt Bellassai - The Worst Things About Weddings

Hinglish for Beginners - Part Two

One of the big surprises of my time in India is the utmost curiosity (UTSUK) about stuff we kinda tend to keep private back at home - age and details of marital status.

Oh, yes - and since I was involved in the diabetes project - body weight.
No darling PSI team, I will not be the subject of the body fat calculation. Not today. More on that in a minute (note to self - time is a stretchable category in India - a minute could easily take half an hour!).

Given my good genes and a sunny demeanor I'm always happy to answer the "How old are you?" question (AAPKI UMAR KITNI HAI?) with "MAIN 46 SAAL KI HOON" (which is true: on the inside I'm not a day over 26; my left shoulder is 66... The package is 46 indeed!)

But when it comes to the question of SHAADI - marriage, I tend to grab my little photo book to the rescue and proudly present my husband and three handsome sons conveniently skipping my personal marriage statistics, let alone the fact that the only thing that I ever needed being arranged for me was that nasty first divorce. 

The above picture is no joke, and I take full credit for snapping that newspaper out of my friend's hands in order to have the marigolds in the frame as we were just about to depart in order to catch the sunrise at the Taj Mahal. We made it there in time! 

Meeting Mr.Right in India is an elaborate process riddled with controversy of casts and religions - marrying up or marrying down - that is often left to parents and matchmakers and can begin pretty much as early as toddlerhood. The new generation of educated and more empowered women fueled by the on-line world is beginning to slowly shift the need for so much assistance. Still, seeing the extremely low divorce rates I wonder whether that is the right thing to do?
One of my friends told my puzzled face with a smile, as a comment to her own arranged marriage: "I love and respect my parents so much that I know they will choose better for me than I would have chosen for myself". What started with an exchange of photographs and has been arranged, indeed turned to be real, true love for a very long time now. When I was trusted to arrange my own first marriage at age 24, the prevalent criteria was my then extremely low self-esteem. Having my wise mom and my good dad point out at least a smarter direction let alone an actual smart man, would have been both helpful and welcome! 

On that note, Canadian single ladies - I met a few terrific bachelors while here - young, educated, with impeccable work ethics and handsome enough to model for the cover of the GQ! You know how to find me! My only ask is that you remember to invite me to your big fat Indian wedding. I'll help you decorate your house!

And also sit with you for hours applying henna from the tips of the fingers all the way to the elbows. What an extraordinarily beautiful and bonding way for women to celebrate their friendship and femininity and the upcoming forever love!

That Indian minute is up so I will go back to the topic of body weight that is oh, so taboo in North America. 

Fact number one - at 5'6" (157cm) I'm really tall - I'm towering over most women and men in group photographs! 

Initially devastating to my body image, on my first day in India, my shopping for the colorful long shirts (KURTI) ended up in the L-3XL section! #shocking

At home I'm a medium, for crying out loud!

Fact number two - being a bit chunky is considered attractive in India! It suggests health, wealth and prosperity. Who knew!?

Lakshmi Narayan or the Birla temple in Delhi requires visitors to surrender their smartphones and cameras otherwise I would have placed right here a photo of a beautiful statue of the Hindu Goddess Durga - the Mother Goddess also known as Shakti (a powerful word that means life force). It is confidently showing her belly button section that - seriously - looks just like mine, those 46 years and three pregnancies later!

Fact number three: body-shaming is a man-made disease that doesn't spread this far! It's a myth. Women of all generations rock wearing their Saree's, their middle section sometimes fully exposed - it's kind of liberating to recieve a permission to be you, wearing your own flesh and skin, regardless of color, age and shape. Revolutionary!

I'm committed to be getting there: to fully and unconditionally love my body and consider it a sacred temple for my soul.

In the meantime a group of Indian girlfriends from work helped me put on the Saree for the first time today, giggling because initially at home, I've got it all wrong despite a handful of safety pins. They totally ignored me as I begged for full coverage. The result?

I have never felt more beautiful -SUNDAR!

(to be continued...)