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 wanting the fairy tale for myself: happily married, beautiful kids, a gorgeous home, and a great career by 30. But life didn’t read like that. I turned 40 unmarried, with no children, living in my sister and brother-in-law’s spare room. For my ego, it felt like a scary tale, so I hid in that room with ice cream and Netflix. Ponty’s Chair, have you ever noticed that at your worst, you always run into someone at their 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. Their life is perfect, and they tell you. There I was, hand on the fridge, stuck listening to her happily-ever-after. “Are you married? Kids? Your own business? You bought a house? Me? Great!” I wanted to die. I was a mess. My life was a mess. The spare room was a mess. And yet, that mess is where I found the last letter my dad ever wrote me. Seeing his familiar handwriting flooded me with grief. He wrote, “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 remember thinking, “Miracles, Dad? How? How do I write a different story about this?” I even went to Facebook to prove my point, and of course there were no inspirational posts about 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.” If anyone could say that, 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 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 about going from a corner office to selling insurance door to door. Instead, he said, “I’m working on my sales skills.” And the miracle was this: Dad became 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.” 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 when I wrote a different story, my life began to change. Within six months, I’d 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 something I still believe: it doesn’t matter who you are, where you are, or what chapter of your life you’re in. Something as simple as choosing to write a different story can make difficult circumstances a lot easier to deal with. And you’ll agree the last two years have been a rough read for us all. But we’ve also written different stories: neighbors serenading each other, businesses pivoting and innovating. My all-time favorite was when we all waved our wands and, bippity boppity boo, your room turned into an auditorium and mine into an international stage. Fairy tales are great to read to my son. Real life has detours, delays, and things that go wrong. But if your life is a book, every day you get to decide: is your story being written for you, or by you? When my dad reminded me 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. Trust me. It’s going to make for a great read.