Why?

It is often said that those who endure marathons and long, gruelling distances know the severity of deep pain. While I am sure there are many who have never run 500 metres yet have suffered immense trauma, for me, physical pain has always been easier to manage than the battles of the mind. No, I am not a victim. Never have been, never will be. But this is a culmination of my many stories within one greater story of me.

I do not share this for acknowledgment, praise, or sympathy, but because every human being wrestles with challenges, loss, disappointment, and heartache. Yet we often shy away from revealing our struggles, afraid our vulnerabilities will be wielded against us, judged, or dismissed. But the truth is, we are all trying not only to survive but to thrive -to feel alive.

I am not a therapist. I have no degrees in life coaching or fitness. And when asked how I “coped” with the toughest times in my life, I genuinely have no concrete answer. The only thing that worked for me was breaking my days into small, manageable moments rather than attempting to face an overwhelming 24 hours at once.

Like the journey of a thousand miles, it begins with one step. And then another.

Family and Foundations

I was born into an exceptionally warm, loving, and supportive family. I cannot praise my mother, my sister, and my late father enough. We laughed together, cried together, and carried each other through everything. But the intensity of our love meant we also bore one another’s burdens as deeply as we shared in each other’s joys.

My sister, my best friend, was like a Disney princess. A top student, a natural leader, adored by everyone. Boys fell at her feet. I, on the other hand, was always the friend, never the girlfriend. Chatty, cracking jokes to break the ice, always finding a way to deflect from problems at hand. But I was no underachiever. I worked hard, went the extra mile, aced top marks, and was elected Head Girl. Twice. Once at primary school, once at high school.

Where I truly shone was on stage. Public speaking, debating, acting – I loved it all. Not because I craved attention, but because I hated myself, my body, my looks, so much that I treasured every opportunity to be someone other than me. I threw myself into my characters, meticulously researching them, developing their backstories, writing character diaries. I disappeared into roles, and in those moments, I felt free.

And through it all, my parents were my unwavering pillars. They never missed a school play, a debate, a match, or a single milestone. They sacrificed time, energy, finances and so much more just to ensure that my sister and I had the confidence to chase our dreams. I still remember seeing them in the audience, watching their faces as I performed. My mom’s proud smile, my dad’s eyes welling up, the single tear that would trickle down his cheek. Their pride was an accelerator, an inspiration, a silent nod that said, keep going, you are better than enough.

Even when they were exhausted, they showed up. My mother, driving me to endless rehearsals, waiting outside in the car, never complaining. The two of them, watching every night of a production, not just one. When I was selected as Deputy Mayoress on the Mini City Council, they made sure I got to every meeting, every event, never once making me feel like it was too much trouble.

I have always hoped that I could be at least half the parents they were to us – because if I could do that, then I would know I had done something right.

A Battle with Anorexia

I loathed my body. I was never overweight, but I wasn’t model-thin either. Then, at 16, my hero, my dad, suffered a heart attack and underwent emergency double bypass surgery. I will never forget being called into the principal’s office and told his life was hanging by a thread. Arriving at the hospital, I found my mother in tears, pulling strands of her own hair out in terror, her way of coping with unbearable stress. His arteries were 98% blocked. Survival was uncertain.

Thanks to G-d and the incredible doctors, my father survived. But the year that followed was an uphill battle with hospital stays, complications, adjustments to a “new normal.” I watched my once-strong father become frail. I saw him transform his lifestyle, realising that neglecting his health had nearly cost him his life.

And that is when I found myself battling anorexia.

I never consciously decided to starve myself. I simply lost my appetite – for food, for life. If my father wasn’t going to make it, I didn’t want to live without him. If food had nearly killed him, then I would eliminate it from my life too. It was my warped 16-year-old logic. Looking back, I realise that as much as I didn’t want to be alive without him, if I lived, I wanted to be the healthiest I could be.

Anorexia consumed me. Depression, social anxiety, isolation. My gut health deteriorated. Bones protruded through thin skin. Teeth crumbled. And worst of all, I felt like a burden to my already-stressed family. My father was fighting for his life, and I had just added another layer of worry.

My mother held my frail body, telling me how much she loved me, then scolding me in the next breath for making her hug bones. As a mother myself, I understand her now.

Outpatient visits to Tara were constant. I was warned that if I didn’t gain weight, I would be admitted. The thought of hospitalisation in wards filled with the stench of hidden food rotting in mattresses and vomit terrified me. I put on weight, but weight gain didn’t erase the pain. When my body was deemed “healthy” again, people assumed I was fine. But I wasn’t.

Drama and Pivots

High school ended, and with it, the familiar comfort of routine. University began, and with boundless hope, I pursued drama, dreaming of the silver screen, of stage lights illuminating my passion, of breathing life into characters that weren’t me. Acting was my escape, my freedom, my truest love. I poured everything into it. Training, rehearsing, embodying roles with every fibre of my being.

Then, reality hit like a gut punch. I lost two major TV roles. Not because I lacked talent, dedication, or drive, but because I couldn’t fluently speak an African language. Under apartheid, we were taught only English and Afrikaans. And in the new South Africa, where the industry was rightfully shifting to inclusivity, I found myself at a crossroads. My dream, the one I had built my entire world around, crumbled before my eyes.

I grieved. I wrestled with the injustice of it, the heartbreak, the sheer weight of a future I could no longer see clearly. But if life had taught me anything by then, it was that survival depends on adaptation. If one path closes, you carve out another.

So, I pivoted. I channelled my love for storytelling into a different craft – advertising. I completed a post-graduate diploma in copywriting, immersing myself in a world where words had the power to shape perceptions, build brands, and tell stories that mattered. It wasn’t the stage I had envisioned, but it was still storytelling, connecting, entertaining. And in many ways, it saved me.

Fast forward to today. I am the owner and creative director of NikNak Studio, where my passion for storytelling not only thrives but defines me. I no longer just step into stories; I create them. I help brands find their voice, craft narratives that resonate, and connect with audiences in ways that leave a lasting impact.

Life may not have gone according to script, but the best stories rarely do. And perhaps, in this version of the story, I was always meant to be the writer, not the actor.

Marriage, Motherhood, and Loss

In 1995, I met a man who I believed adored me. A year later, we were married.

Then came the struggle of PCOS. Trying to have children became a cycle of tests, hormone injections, and heartbreak. After a year of disappointment, I finally fell pregnant, only to miscarry. The devastation was unbearable. The self-blame was relentless. After another six months, two perfect eggs matured, and this time, they both took. Twins.

Motherhood was both beautiful and exhausting. The marriage, however, was abusive and finally crumbled when my children were three. The divorce was traumatic. I lost all self-esteem, and started to waste away as my weight once again dropped. Financially, I was alone. Court battles over maintenance drained me. I juggled three jobs at a time, guilt-ridden, feeling like I was never fully present for my kids.

When my twins were seven, I met a man who changed everything. He was warm, caring, funny. Recently divorced, with a one-year-old daughter, he understood me. He didn’t just love me. He loved my children as though they were his own. He became the father they had never truly had, filling our home with laughter, adventure, and unwavering support. We married on the beach in Plettenberg Bay, surrounded by only our closest family, believing that our forever was set in stone.

Then, he lost his business. And with it, his will to live and continue to fight this world. I watched the light in his eyes dim, his shoulders sink beneath an invisible weight. No matter how much love surrounded him, no matter how many times I told him I didn’t want anything from him, only for him, that we would find a way through it together, the darkness swallowed him whole.

The day he took his own life shattered mine. The world as I knew it collapsed in an instant. The unanswered questions, the agonising what-ifs. They tormented me and gnawed at my soul. He was my love, my anchor, my children’s protector, and then, in a single moment, he was gone.

Depression was his illness, and despite every effort to save him, it took him from us. The emptiness he left behind was a chasm too vast to ever be filled. My children grieved in their own ways. Anger, confusion, inconsolable sorrow. They had finally known the love of a father, only to have it ripped away. Every day was a struggle, a battle to get out of bed, to breathe, to pretend we were coping when inside, we were drowning. The pain, the trauma, the nightmares – they ripped at my heart, over and over again. Every song, every road we travelled down, every shop we walked into, TV show we watched, outfit I wore, date on the calendar – all of it was a brutal reminder of him. His presence had been so immense, and his absence was even greater. We were lost in the void he left behind, trying to find a way to exist without him.

The Road That Saved Me

Atter his death, I ran. Not away from the pain, but through it. Running, which I once despised, became my therapy. Each step a desperate plea for relief, each breath a battle between sorrow and survival. The pavement and treadmill were my silent confidants, absorbing my grief without judgment, carrying the weight of my heartache with every pounding footfall. Some days, I ran until my legs burned, just to feel pain other than loss. Over time, I got stronger. Not just in body, but in spirit.

Then COVID hit. Gyms shut down. The world locked in. But the road remained open – an unbroken path when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

And then, I found my tribe. A women’s running group. A sisterhood built on sweat, perseverance, a shared determination and steadfast support. Women who showed up, not just for themselves, but for each other. At 5am, every single day, in the dark, come rain or shine.

From there, everything changed. The loneliness that had once wrapped itself around me began to loosen its grip.

It was one of the only spaces I wasn’t constantly reminded about not having a partner. I did not feel alone nor any less worthy. They were humans who only cared about having your running shoes and your company on the road. It wasn’t about what car you drove, where you lived, or your financial status. Just genuine friendships that became a true bond, strengthened with every step.

Each hard climb, each plateau, and the ones who pushed you forward when you struggled. Women who empowered each other, who helped one another reach new distances -10km, 21km, 32km, marathons, and beyond.

If you don’t run, you may never understand the addiction, the thrill, the love and the types of bonds formed on the road –  sole mates pushing each other through.

Love and New Beginnings

Another angel I was sent was my boyfriend. After losing my husband, I resigned myself to the idea that I would be alone for the rest of my life. I was still so in love with my late husband that I could not imagine opening my heart to another, nor did I want to. I had endured too much heartache, too much trauma, too many failed relationships – for myself and for my children. I couldn’t risk more pain. So, for the next seven years, I buried myself in my kids, my work, and my running. The busier I was, the less time I had to be alone with my grief.

Then, life did what life does – it surprised me. When we least expect it, life has a way of bringing us exactly what we need, even when we don’t see it at the time. I sometimes wonder if my late husband, having witnessed the severity of my anguish, sent this person to me to help heal it. Looking back, I realise how one tragic event led me toward something I never would have discovered otherwise. His death almost forced me into running, and that single step into the unknown opened up an entirely new world -introducing me to people, places, and passions I never would have encountered. When you are in the thick of things, the darkness is overwhelming, suffocating. But in hindsight, you begin to see that maybe, just maybe, there was always a bigger picture unfolding.

Whilst working as a creative director and storyteller for a connected healthcare company, I was tasked with finding a brand ambassador to help launch our new health and well-being app. Through my running group, I had been following extreme endurance athletes for inspiration – people who pushed their bodies and minds to the limits, who understood struggle, perseverance, and grit. And then, out of the blue, a top South African adventurer, living in Mozambique, reached out to me. He was preparing for a 1000km ultra-endurance run and was looking for sponsors.

The planets aligned. Eight months later, he became our brand ambassador. Over the next nine months, we worked closely together, virtually at first, separated by cities and borders, but connected through purpose. We shared ideas, conversations, dreams. He ran 1000km, and in the process, he ran straight into my heart.

Three years later, we are stronger than ever. Maybe the saying is true – those who run together, stay together.

Writing My Own Story

In my years of advertising, I have been retrenched three times. It’s a gut-wrenching experience. Watching a place you love, a team you’ve built bonds with, and projects you’ve poured your heart into suddenly become nothing more than a chapter in your past. The uncertainty that follows is brutal. I have seen talented, hardworking people, stripped of their livelihoods, unable to cope with the fear of not knowing where their next paycheque will come from. I have witnessed far too many who couldn’t face another day of financial uncertainty, who saw no way out and ended it all. It is devastating and it is real.

So, I decided to take control. I formed my own company. Not just as a career move but as a commitment to myself. No more waiting for someone else to dictate my future. No more pouring my soul into something only to have the rug pulled out from under me. Now, I get to decide which stories add value to mine and which I want to share in. Because not every story has to be ours.

Building something from the ground up isn’t easy. There are moments of doubt, moments where fear creeps in, and moments where exhaustion makes you question everything. But there is also freedom. Freedom to create, to shape my own path, to choose work that aligns with my values. I am no longer at the mercy of an employer’s decisions. I am the author of my own career.

Through it all, my children have been my constant. They have seen me rise, they have seen me break, and they have seen me rebuild. And now, they are carving out their own paths. Strong, independent, and resilient. We all have chapters in each other’s stories, woven together by love, support, and an unbreakable bond. But above all, they remain my greatest reward.

I pray that every chapter they write in their lives is better, more inspiring, and more beautiful than the one before. And as I turn the page, I know my story is far from over.

The Next Chapter

Life hasn’t always been easy. None of our journeys are. We all face challenges, heartbreak, and unexpected turns. Mine are no more tragic than others, yet they have shaped me in ways I never could have imagined. Through it all, I have learned that while we cannot control the cards we are dealt, we do have a choice in how we play them.

I don’t believe that G-d only gives us what we can handle. If that were true, there would be no lost souls to the weight of despair. Some burdens are heavier than others, some wounds never truly close. But within the darkness, there is always a flicker of light. A choice. To stand, to step forward, to trust that there is more beyond the pain. Because even the longest night must surrender to the dawn.

Looking back, I see how every loss, every love, every disappointment, and every unexpected turn was a thread in the tapestry of my life. Running, once a punishment, became my sanctuary. Words, once an escape, became my power. The friendships I never knew I needed became my lifeline. And love, when I had all but given up on it, found its way to me again.

We are not just the sum of what has happened to us; we are the creators of what comes next. Every chapter that closes is not an ending, but an opening. And the most beautiful part? The pen is in our hands.

Where we are today is only a moment in time. The path ahead is ours to design, and I, for one, am still writing.