Creating your best life………

A conversation between the girl I was, the woman I am, and the woman I am becoming.

What if you could sit across the table from yourself at ten years old?

And then from yourself at nineteen?

And finally, from the eighty-year-old version of you who has already lived the life you’re still dreaming about?

What would you say?

More importantly…

What would she say to you?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

I’m 61 now.

And suddenly, the future doesn’t feel like some distant place called one day.

It feels much closer.

Close enough that I can almost see it.

A little bungalow surrounded by fields.

Trees moving in the wind.

A garden filled with roses.

A cup of coffee in my hand.

A suitcase waiting by the door because we’re off somewhere again.

Clothes I actually want to wear.

Time to breathe.

Time to create.

Time to travel.

Time to do absolutely nothing.

A life that isn’t necessarily bigger.

But somehow…

more mine.

And I find myself wondering whether the little girl I once was would recognise the woman sitting here today.

---

Dear ten-year-old me…

If I could sit beside you now, I think you’d probably want to know what happens.

Does everything work out?

Do we become successful?

Do we have adventures?

Do people like us?

Are we happy?

I wish I could tell you that life is going to be simple.

It isn’t.

But I can tell you something much more important.

Don’t lose yourself trying to be liked.

There will be moments when you’ll feel different.

There will be times when you’ll wonder whether you’re too much, not enough, too loud, too sensitive, too imaginative, too emotional, too you.

Please don’t spend your life trying to edit yourself into somebody else’s idea of acceptable.

You were never meant to be a copy.

You were meant to be you.

And that imagination you have?

The one that makes you see possibilities where other people see ordinary things?

Keep it.

One day, it will become one of your greatest strengths.

---

I’d tell her to keep making things.

Paint.

Draw.

Write.

Make a mess.

Try things.

Get it wrong.

Try again.

Don’t worry about whether you’re “good” at it.

Create because it makes you feel something.

Because creativity isn’t about producing something perfect.

It’s about discovering something inside yourself.

You won’t understand that fully yet.

But you will.

---

Then I’d meet the 19-year-old me.

And this conversation would probably be harder.

Because nineteen is old enough to think you should know what you’re doing…

…but young enough to believe everyone else does.

I’d look at her and say:

You don’t have to have your life figured out.

You don’t have to know exactly who you are.

You don’t have to make everyone happy.

And please…

don’t trade your authenticity for approval.

That one took me a while to learn.

You will sometimes mistake being accepted for being loved.

You’ll sometimes say yes when everything inside you is screaming no.

You’ll sometimes wonder why you don’t feel comfortable in a life that looks perfectly fine from the outside.

Listen to that feeling.

It’s trying to tell you something.

Your life doesn’t have to make sense to everyone else.

It just needs to make sense to you.

---

There will be difficult chapters.

I’d tell her that too.

Because I don’t want to pretend life is simply about positive thinking.

There will be grief.

There will be fear.

There will be things you never expected.

There will be people you love who won’t always be there.

There will be moments when you wonder whether you can keep going.

And there will be moments when you surprise yourself.

You’ll discover strengths you didn’t know you had.

You’ll rebuild.

You’ll change.

You’ll start again.

And eventually you’ll realise something:

You are much stronger than the person you thought you were.

---

And then I would bring both of them into the room.

The ten-year-old.

The nineteen-year-old.

And me.

I’d introduce them to each other.

And perhaps I’d say:

“Look. You made it.”

Not perfectly.

Not without scars.

Not without mistakes.

But here we are.

Still dreaming.

Still creating.

Still wanting more from life.

And that’s when I imagine the door opening…

And in walks another version of me.

---

My 80-year-old self.

She doesn’t rush in.

She’s got time.

That’s one of the first things I notice.

She sits down.

Looks at me.

And smiles.

I ask her:

“Did we get the bungalow?”

She laughs.

“Yes.”

It’s surrounded by fields.

There are roses everywhere.

Not just a few carefully planted bushes.

A proper rose garden.

Wild, colourful, overflowing.

She tells me she loves sitting outside in the morning listening to the birds.

I ask:

“Did we travel?”

She smiles again.

“Of course.”

She tells me about places we’ve been.

Places still to visit.

Little adventures.

Big adventures.

Things that didn’t go according to plan but somehow became the best memories.

I ask her:

“Did we finally learn how to relax?”

She looks at me.

And this time she doesn’t laugh.

She says:

“Eventually.”

---

“You spent far too long thinking you had to earn rest.”

Ouch.

She has a point.

Because perhaps one of the biggest lessons I’m learning at 61 is that rest isn’t a reward for finishing everything.

Everything will never be finished.

There will always be another email.

Another idea.

Another job.

Another person who needs something.

Another thing that could be improved.

Another reason to say:

“I’ll rest when…”

But my 80-year-old self knows better.

She tells me:

“Stop waiting for permission to enjoy your own life.”

---

“Wear what you want.”

Apparently my future self has opinions about my wardrobe too.

She tells me not to become invisible.

Not to dress according to what someone thinks a 61-year-old, 70-year-old or 80-year-old should wear.

Wear the colours.

Wear the clothes.

Wear the things that make you smile when you look in the mirror.

She tells me:

“Your body isn’t something you have to apologise for. It’s carried you all this way.”

And suddenly getting dressed isn’t really about clothes anymore.

It’s about freedom.

Being visible. Being yourself. Taking up space.

---

“And stop making everything a project.”

She knows me too well.

I tell her about all the ideas I still have.

The things I want to create.

The people I want to help.

The dreams for Art for Wellness.

The workshops.

The writing.

The podcast.

The things I want to build.

She listens.

Then she says:

“Wonderful. But remember to live between the projects.”

Go away for the weekend.

Sit in the garden.

Book the holiday.

Have lunch somewhere lovely.

Walk through the countryside.

Paint something that nobody will ever see.

Spend an afternoon doing absolutely nothing.

Not everything has to have a purpose.

Some things can simply bring you joy.

---

“You know what I really want to know?”

I ask her what.

She leans forward.

“Did you enjoy it?”

And suddenly I realise that this might be the question that matters most.

Not:

Did you achieve enough?

Did you work hard enough?

Did you become successful enough?

Did everyone approve?

Did you tick every box?

But:

Did you enjoy your life?

Did you laugh?

Did you love?

Did you travel?

Did you make things?

Did you sit in the sunshine?

Did you smell the roses?

Did you dance?

Did you wear the ridiculous outfit?

Did you take the photograph?

Did you make the memory?

Did you stop occasionally and think:

“I’m really glad I’m here.”

---

Perhaps my dream isn’t really the bungalow.

Or the rose garden.

Or the travelling.

Or the clothes.

Perhaps those things are simply symbols of something deeper.

Freedom.

The freedom to live at my own pace.

The freedom to choose how I spend my time.

The freedom to be creative.

The freedom to rest.

The freedom to travel.

The freedom to be surrounded by nature.

The freedom to be myself without constantly worrying whether I’m doing life correctly.

And perhaps that’s what I’ve been trying to create all along.

Not just a business.

Not just workshops.

Not just projects.

A life that feels aligned with who I am.

---

The little girl was onto something.

She wanted imagination.

She wanted colour.

She wanted possibility.

The nineteen-year-old wanted to belong.

She wanted to be loved.

She wanted to find her place.

And the woman at 61?

She wants something surprisingly simple.

She wants to come home to herself.

---

So what would I tell my younger selves today?

I’d tell the ten-year-old:

Keep dreaming.

I’d tell the nineteen-year-old:

Trust yourself.

I’d tell every version of me who came afterwards:

You don’t have to become somebody else to have a good life.

And I’d tell myself today:

Stop postponing the life you keep imagining.

You don’t have to wait until everything is perfect.

You don’t have to wait until the business is finished.

You don’t have to wait until the house is right.

You don’t have to wait until you’re thinner.

You don’t have to wait until you’ve achieved enough.

You don’t have to wait until you’re “ready.”

Because one day, if I’m lucky enough to reach 80, I don’t want to look backwards and realise I spent my 60s waiting for my life to begin.

---

I want to begin now.

Maybe the bungalow is still years away.

That’s okay.

I can plant the roses now.

I can travel now.

I can wear the clothes now.

I can create now.

I can rest now.

I can laugh now.

I can sit outside and watch the seasons change now.

I can make memories now.

I can choose myself now.

Because the future isn’t somewhere we eventually arrive.

It’s something we’re building with the choices we make today.

And somewhere, I imagine my 80-year-old self is watching.

She’s sitting in her garden.

The fields are stretching out beyond her.

The roses are blooming.

She’s got a suitcase packed.

She’s wearing something fabulous.

And she’s smiling.

Because she knows something I am only just beginning to understand.

The best life isn’t necessarily the life you planned.

It’s the life you have the courage to create.

So here’s to 61.

Here’s to the little girl.

Here’s to the young woman.

Here’s to the woman I am now.

And here’s to the woman I’m becoming.

I don’t know exactly what the next twenty years will bring.

But I know this:

I’m not waiting anymore.

I’m going to create my best life.

One rose.

One adventure.

One painting.

One deep breath.

One brave choice.

One beautiful ordinary day at a time.

And when I finally meet my 80-year-old self…

I hope she looks at me and says:

**”Well done, Deb.

You actually lived.”**

I’ve written about the conversation between my younger selves, my 61-year-old self and the 80-year-old woman I hope to become.

Because perhaps the question isn’t “What have I achieved?”

Perhaps it’s:

“Did I actually live?”

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