HER STORY

Stepping outside my comfort zone and committing fully to the 2025 Camino in Spain changed something in me. Not just physically—though my legs definitely noticed—but mentally and emotionally as well.

This poem was my expression of love and longing for those who are no longer with me.  I felt such deep sorrow and angst within my grief. And then finally coming to the other side of it, waking up to the gift that life is.

There is also a tenderness to curiosity in midlife. I find myself gentler with complexity. Less eager to label, more willing to sit in uncertainty. I don’t need the world to be tidy anymore. I just want it to be interesting.

I am honoured to share a poem inspired by the quiet power and steady presence of Mount Diablo State Park here in Clayton, California. Though not towering by alpine standards, this 4,000-foot “mountain” holds deep significance for me—an anchor in both the landscape and my life.

I’m a one-off volunteer—or at least that’s what I prefer for the most part. I always thought volunteering meant committing to monthly board meetings or regular shifts at the hospital, care home, or with local organizations. But I don’t want to commit because I want to be free to ramble, sleep in, or… well, you get the idea.

Sisterhood has shown up for me in every season of life—through grief, uncertainty, laughter, and growth. It has steadied me, carried me, and reminded me that I was never meant to do life alone.

If there is one thing I know now, it is this: there is no single path to becoming who we are meant to be. Sometimes the long way around is not a delay at all—but the very road that makes us ready.

Pickleball doesn’t care about your age, your hair colour, your job title, or what stage of life you’re in. It just asks that you show up. And when you do, something magical happens. Your mind silences. The mental chatter fades. The to-do lists, the worries, the grief, the “what-ifs”… all gone, replaced by one simple job: don’t miss the ball.

I often tell people that in Central Australia, I’m your Kapi Kunga — the one who brings the rain, thunder, and lightning when you visit. I’m a tour guide and driver in the Red Centre, and I genuinely love sharing this astonishing place with people from all over the world.

What I’ve learned is that blended families live in the space between choice and circumstance. We don’t choose how we begin, but we often choose how we continue. Over time, we build something that is part inherited, part earned.

I spent some time exploring a range of options, yet nothing fired my dopamine-seeking brain. Whenever I felt frustrated, I turned to maps and went out exploring. Over time, I began to realise that the answer lay somewhere in the woods, fields, and beaches I wandered.

After fifty years of always being someone’s other half, I’m learning to just be Robin. Not half of anything. Not smaller to make space for someone else. Just me — sensitive, strong, still learning, still here. And for the first time, that feels like enough.

For those who have already walked the Camino de Santiago, you know the lessons you learn out there stay with you. The Camino speaks to you. It tugs at you. Repeatedly. It never truly goes away.

A friend once told me, “Salt Spring Island has your name on it.” For years, I doubted those words. But now, after four years of challenge and growth, I see their truth. I’ve come to value the island’s best qualities—its spirit of adventure and entrepreneurialism.

From the outside, my life looked impressive—travel, prestige, and purpose. But inside, something was wrong. I was still teaching and globe-trotting, while unknowingly being in a manic state. I told my AA sponsor that the voices in my head were shouting. “That’s not right,” she encouraged me to see a psychiatrist who confirmed what I had suspected—I had bipolar disorder.

I grew up in a working-class family in the grey sprawl of a council housing estate in London, where money was tight and our annual holiday was usually to a seaside holiday park somewhere in Britain.

Being part of the Sea of Change Choir and the Strip and Dip movement has been a life-changing journey. It’s about much more than music or world records — it’s about courage, community, and supporting one another through life’s challenges.

When my mom passed away, my world shattered. I could no longer call her, hug her, laugh with her, cry with her, or share my life with her. I stopped walking—because walking, for me, became too painful. It reminded me of her.

High on my now-I’m-retired list is a desire to travel and do walks in far-flung places. A close second on said list is an entirely contradictory yearning to share my life with a dog. Drumroll, please…dog-sitting!