SPEAKING.APP

When I was a little girl, I loved snuggling on my dad’s lap while he read me fairy tales. So I grew up expecting my own fairy tale too: happily married, beautiful kids, a gorgeous home, and a great career by 30. I never imagined I’d turn 40 unmarried, without children, and living in my sister and brother-in-law’s spare room. To my ego, it felt like a scary tale. So I hid in that spare room: ice cream, Netflix, and what I call the “Pontius Chair,” stuck and avoiding my life. And of course, at my worst, I ran into someone at her best. I dragged myself to the shops for more ice cream, thinking no one I knew would be there. But there she was, that friend. You know the one: life is perfect, and she’ll tell you. There I was, hand on the fridge, stuck listening to her happily-ever-after. Married with kids. Own business. Bought a house. Me? Great. I wanted to die. I was a mess. My life was a mess. The spare room was a mess. But that mess is where I found the last letter my dad ever wrote me. Seeing his familiar handwriting flooded me with grief. “Verity, your life is a book. And if you’re not enjoying the read, write a different story. And then watch for a miracle because I’m watching too.” I shouted back, “A miracle, Dad? And how? How do I write a different story about this?” To prove my point, I went to Facebook, and you guessed it: there were no stories of miserable 40-year-olds living in spare rooms. But the letter just lay there. It was like it was looking at me, almost whispering, “Write a different story.” And if anyone could write a different story, it was my dad. He wasn’t a glass-half-full guy. He was an “aren’t I lucky I’ve got a glass” guy. When Dad was 60, he lost his job. We lost our home, and we had to live in a camper van. But the story Dad told was, “We get to live like we’re on holiday.” He never complained he’d gone from a corner office to selling insurance door to door. Instead, the story he told was, “I’m working on my sales skills.” And the miracle that happened? Dad was salesman of the year, and he bought us a new home. Even in our last phone call, on his way to hospital, do you know what he said to me? “Don’t worry, V. You know I love breakfast in bed.” Shame hit me like a bus. My whole life, Dad had been showing me how to write a different story. So I picked up my pen. I looked at that friend and thought, “40 is going to be my best chapter.” I looked at the spare room and thought, “This is my safe place to start over.” I looked at my love life and thought, “I have got to stop kissing frogs.” And when I wrote a different story, my life began to change. I went from feeling shameful to feeling grateful. For the first time, I stopped worrying about where I wasn’t, and I started enjoying where I was. And the miracle that happened? Within six months, I moved into a new cottage, much to my sister’s relief. Within a year, I’d kissed a prince, much to my relief. At 44, I had a baby boy, much to my doctor’s disbelief. That letter catapulted me into discovering something simple and powerful: it doesn’t matter who you are, where you are, or what chapter of your life you’re in. Choosing to write a different story can make difficult circumstances a lot easier to deal with. And I know you’ll agree the last two years have been a rough read for us all. But we’ve also written different stories: neighbors who serenade each other, businesses that pivot and innovate. My all-time favorite was that time we all waved our wands and your room turned into an auditorium, and mine into an international stage. My fellow storytellers, fairy tales are great to read to my son. Real life is full of detours, delays, and things that go wrong. But if your life is a book, then every day you get to decide: is your story being written for you or by you? When my dad reminded me that I was the author of my life, my life changed. So if you’re looking for a change, you want a new chapter, or you just fancy a miracle, pick up your pen and write a different story. Write me. It’s going to make for a great read.