In what ways have you overcome challenges in the past, and how can that inspire you now?

Challenges have been a constant presence in my life, but so has resilience. Looking back, I realize that I have never truly avoided hardship; instead, I have learned how to move through it. Every difficult season has shaped me into someone stronger, more compassionate, and more grounded, and remembering this now reminds me that I am capable of facing whatever lies ahead.

One of the greatest challenges I have faced is loss. I have lost people who were central to my sense of safety, encouragement, and identity—people who believed in me when I struggled to believe in myself. Grief has a way of dismantling the familiar, leaving behind silence where there was once laughter and reassurance. For a long time, I felt as though part of me had been taken with them. Yet, even in that pain, I chose not to let grief harden my heart. Instead, I honoured those I lost by continuing forward, carrying their words, values, and love with me. That choice—to keep going despite heartbreak—taught me that endurance is not about being unbroken, but about continuing to show up even when you are hurting.

Another challenge I have overcome is learning to trust myself. There were moments when I doubted my abilities, questioned my decisions, and felt overshadowed by expectations placed upon me. Building confidence did not happen overnight; it came through persistence, small victories, and the willingness to start again after setbacks. Whether it was pursuing creative projects, building something meaningful from the ground up, or stepping into leadership when I felt unqualified, I learned that courage often appears only after action. Each time I pushed through uncertainty, I proved to myself that I was more capable than I had believed.

I have also faced the challenge of reinvention. Life circumstances forced me to adapt, to redefine success, and to realign my priorities. Instead of resisting change, I learned to embrace it. I discovered that growth often requires letting go of old versions of ourselves. This process was uncomfortable, but it taught me flexibility, humility, and faith in the unseen. I learned that starting over is not failure—it is an act of hope.

These past challenges inspire me now because they remind me of my track record. I have survived moments I once thought would break me. I have rebuilt after loss, found clarity after confusion, and strength after exhaustion. When I feel uncertain about the future, I look back and see evidence of resilience, not weakness.

Today, I draw inspiration from my own history. I know that challenges are not signals to stop, but invitations to grow. The lessons I have learned—perseverance, self-belief, adaptability, and compassion—continue to guide me forward. If I have overcome so much before, then I can trust myself to rise again, no matter what comes next.

Want to Change Your Life in 2026?

Every year, as the calendar turns, we’re invited into the same familiar conversation: This is the year everything will change. We promise ourselves we’ll be better, stronger, calmer, more disciplined, more successful. And yet, more often than not, the year ends looking suspiciously like the one before it. For a long time, I thought change required some dramatic reinvention—new habits overnight, a new version of myself that somehow arrived fully formed on January 1st. What I’ve learned, through grief, faith, failure, growth, and grace, is that real change doesn’t begin with grand declarations. It begins with honesty.

If you truly want to change your life in 2026, the first thing you must be willing to do is tell yourself the truth—without cruelty, but without excuses. For me, that truth came quietly, not in a moment of triumph, but in moments of stillness. Early mornings, when the world hadn’t woken up yet. Long walks with my thoughts. Church pews that invited reflection rather than distraction. I realised that my life didn’t need fixing—it needed aligning. Aligning with my values, my faith, my boundaries, and the person I know I’m meant to be.

Change doesn’t start with doing more. It starts with letting go. Letting go of habits that keep you busy but unfulfilled. Letting go of relationships that drain rather than nourish. Letting go of the need to prove yourself to people who will never be satisfied anyway. One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that loyalty to others should never come at the cost of betrayal to yourself. In 2026, if you want your life to look different, you must be brave enough to choose yourself—not selfishly, but truthfully.

I used to believe that discipline was about punishment—pushing harder, being stricter, denying myself joy until I’d “earned” it. Now I see discipline differently. Discipline is devotion. It’s waking up early not because you hate your body, but because you respect it. It’s choosing nourishing food not for punishment, but for energy. It’s moving your body because you’re grateful it carries you through life. When I committed to early mornings and consistent routines, my life didn’t just become healthier—it became quieter, clearer, and more intentional. Change followed naturally, not forcefully.

Grief has also been one of my greatest teachers. Losing people who shaped my life cracked me open in ways I never expected. It taught me how fragile time is, how precious ordinary moments are, and how deeply love marks us long after someone is gone. If 2026 is going to be different, it cannot be lived on autopilot. You must show up while people are still here. Say the words now. Take the photos. Have the coffee. Forgive sooner. Love louder. Tomorrow is never promised, and once you truly understand that, you stop postponing the life you want to live.

Faith has played a profound role in my own transformation. Returning to Church didn’t suddenly make life easier, but it gave me something far more valuable—perspective. It reminded me that I don’t have to carry everything alone, that surrender is not weakness, and that peace is found not in control, but in trust. If you want to change your life in 2026, ask yourself what you’re placing your faith in. Is it external validation? Productivity? Approval? Or is it something deeper and steadier that holds you when everything else falls away?

Another uncomfortable truth: you cannot change your life while clinging to the version of yourself that kept you safe but stuck. At some point, survival must give way to growth. That might mean disappointing people. It might mean being misunderstood. It might mean outgrowing spaces that once felt like home. Growth is rarely loud or glamorous—it’s often lonely and deeply internal. But it’s also where freedom lives. In 2026, choose growth even when it costs  you comfort.

Change also requires patience. We live in a world obsessed with instant results, but the most meaningful transformations happen slowly, quietly, and consistently. You don’t wake up one day suddenly healed, disciplined, or confident. You become those things by showing up again and again, even on the days you feel tired, unmotivated, or unsure. I’ve learned to stop asking, How fast can I get there? and start asking, Can I stay committed even when no one is watching?

Perhaps the most important shift I’ve made is redefining success. Success is no longer about how much I do or how much I achieve. It’s about how aligned my life feels. It’s about integrity—living in a way that matches my values. It’s about peace—being able to sit with myself without needing distraction. It’s about impact—knowing that the way I live encourages others to live more honestly too. If you want 2026 to change your life, redefine what success means to you before the world does it for you.

So, if you’re asking yourself whether 2026 can be different, my answer is this: yes—but only if you are willing to be different first. Different in how you speak to yourself. Different in what you tolerate. Different in how you spend your time, your energy, and your love. You don’t need a new year to become someone new. You need courage, consistency, and compassion for yourself.

Change isn’t a destination waiting for you in 2026. It’s a choice you make daily, starting now. And if you’re willing to make that choice—not perfectly, but faithfully—your life won’t just change. It will finally feel like yours.

Movie Recommendation: Isabel’s Garden (2024)

 

Isabel’s Garden (2024)

Isabel’s Garden (2024), directed by Kit Rich, is a quietly powerful film that unfolds with gentleness and emotional sincerity. Rather than relying on dramatic twists or heightened spectacle, the film invites viewers into an intimate space where grief, healing, and connection grow slowly—much like the garden at the heart of the story. It is a film that does not demand attention but earns it, lingering in the mind long after the final scene.

The story follows Maya, portrayed with remarkable restraint and depth by Karen David, as she navigates life after the sudden death of her husband. Maya is not only grieving her loss but also attempting to build a relationship with Isabel, her late husband’s daughter. What makes Maya’s journey so compelling is its honesty. She is not written as a flawless caregiver or a perfectly resilient widow; instead, she is visibly carrying pain, uncertainty, and emotional fatigue. David’s performance captures this beautifully, allowing viewers to feel the heaviness Maya bears without ever overstating it.

The evolving relationship between Maya and Isabel is the emotional core of the film. Initially marked by distance and discomfort, their bond develops through shared routines, unspoken understanding, and moments of quiet vulnerability. The garden they tend together becomes a poignant metaphor for healing—representing patience, care, and the courage to nurture something new even when the soil has been disturbed by loss. This symbolism feels organic rather than contrived, reinforcing the film’s overall sense of emotional authenticity.

Visually, Isabel’s Garden is understated yet striking. The cinematography uses natural light and soft framing to mirror the emotional states of its characters, drawing viewers gently into their world. One of the film’s most unexpected and touching elements is the inclusion of animated sequences inspired by a beloved book series. These scenes act as windows into Maya’s inner life, adding warmth and imagination while deepening the emotional texture of the story.

Jayne Taini’s performance as Grace, the thoughtful neighbor, provides an additional layer of calm and wisdom. Grace serves as a quiet anchor in the narrative—someone who understands that support does not always mean offering solutions. Her presence reinforces the film’s message that healing often comes from being seen and gently accompanied rather than fixed.

While the pacing of Isabel’s Garden is undeniably slow, this deliberate rhythm allows the story room to breathe. The film trusts its audience to sit with discomfort, silence, and emotional nuance, making the experience more reflective than passive.

I would wholeheartedly recommend Isabel’s Garden to viewers who appreciate tender, character-driven storytelling. It is not a loud or flashy film, but it is an honest one—offering a quiet reminder that even through grief and pain, it is still possible to grow something meaningful and beautiful.

What are your strengths, and how can you leverage them for success?

For a long time, I thought strengths were loud, obvious things — confidence that never wavered, boldness without fear, success without detours. But life has taught me that real strengths are often quieter, forged through loss, persistence, humility, and the choice to keep going even when it would be easier to stop. When I look honestly at my strengths today, they are deeply tied to my experiences, my values, and the way I show up for the people and work I care about.

One of my greatest strengths is resilience. Not the dramatic, headline-worthy kind, but the steady resilience that gets built through repeated setbacks, grief, and reinvention. I’ve experienced loss that reshaped me, moments that emptied me, and seasons where I questioned everything I thought I knew about myself. Yet each time, I found a way to stand back up — not unchanged, but wiser. This resilience allows me to face uncertainty with less fear. I don’t panic as easily when things don’t go to plan, because I know I can adapt. To leverage this strength for success, I lean into challenges rather than avoiding them. I take calculated risks, knowing that even if something fails, it will teach me something valuable. Resilience gives me staying power, and success often belongs to those who simply don’t quit.

Another strength is my ability to connect deeply with people. I listen well. I notice what others miss. I care — genuinely. Whether it’s in family, friendships, faith communities, or business, I value relationships over transactions. This strength has helped me build trust, loyalty, and meaningful collaborations. People feel seen and heard around me, and that creates strong foundations for anything I’m involved in. To leverage this, I choose people-centered leadership. I build networks slowly but intentionally, nurture long-term relationships, and prioritize empathy even in professional settings. Success, I’ve learned, is rarely a solo effort — it grows faster and lasts longer when built with others.

I also have a strong sense of purpose. I don’t do well with work or projects that feel empty or disconnected from meaning. Whether it’s writing, creating, building something new, or sharing ideas, I need to know that it serves a bigger picture. This sense of purpose keeps me grounded when external validation fades. It helps me make decisions that align with my values rather than chasing quick wins. To leverage this strength, I anchor my goals in “why” before “how.” When my actions are aligned with my beliefs — faith, integrity, contribution, and growth — I stay motivated even when progress is slow. Purpose gives direction to effort, and direction turns effort into impact.

Creativity is another strength that runs through everything I do. It shows up in how I communicate, how I problem-solve, and how I reimagine what’s possible. Creativity isn’t just about artistic expression; it’s about seeing options where others see limits. It allows me to pivot, innovate, and bring originality into crowded spaces. To leverage this strength, I give myself permission to think differently and trust my instincts. I don’t force myself into rigid molds that don’t fit. Instead, I design paths that play to my natural way of thinking. Creativity becomes most powerful when it’s paired with consistency, so I’ve learned to balance inspiration with discipline.

I also possess self-awareness — a strength that took time and humility to develop. I know my flaws. I know my triggers. I know where I need boundaries and where I need growth. This awareness helps me course-correct faster and avoid repeating the same mistakes. It allows me to receive feedback without crumbling and to own my missteps without shame. To leverage self-awareness, I reflect often. I ask myself hard questions. I stay open to learning, even when it’s uncomfortable. Success isn’t about perfection; it’s about evolution, and self-awareness is the compass that keeps me moving in the right direction.

Finally, one of my quiet but powerful strengths is faith — not as a performance, but as an anchor. Faith reminds me that I don’t have to control everything, that timing matters, and that setbacks are not the end of the story. It gives me peace in uncertainty and courage in action. To leverage this strength, I practice trust alongside effort. I do the work, but I also let go of outcomes I can’t control. That balance keeps me steady, hopeful, and focused.

Leveraging strengths isn’t about pushing harder; it’s about aligning smarter. When I lead with resilience, connection, purpose, creativity, self-awareness, and faith, success stops being a destination and becomes a way of living. These strengths don’t just help me achieve goals — they help me build a life that feels whole, meaningful, and true to who I am.

Movie Recommendation: Noel (2004)

 

Noel (2004)

Noel (2004) is a film I return to when Christmas feels quieter, heavier, and more reflective than celebratory. Set against the cold, dimly lit streets of New York City, it follows several individuals whose lives intersect during the holiday season. Each character carries their own form of loneliness—grief over a loved one, emotional isolation, or a sense of being lost at a crossroads in life. Watching Noel does not feel like consuming a conventional holiday film; instead, it feels like sitting beside someone and sharing a moment of sadness, hope, and quiet understanding.

What makes Noel especially affecting is its gentleness. The film does not rush emotions or exaggerate suffering for dramatic effect. Susan Sarandon and Penélope Cruz deliver restrained, deeply human performances, allowing pain to exist naturally, the way it often does in real life—unresolved, subdued, and lingering. Their portrayals feel authentic, as if the characters are not trying to be understood but simply trying to survive their circumstances. This understated approach gives the film its emotional honesty.

The pacing of Noel is slow and deliberate, which may not appeal to viewers looking for a lively or traditional Christmas story. However, this unhurried rhythm is one of the film’s strengths. It allows space for reflection and invites the audience to sit with the characters’ experiences rather than rush toward resolution. The film understands that healing does not always arrive in grand moments. Often, it comes quietly—in a shared conversation, an unexpected connection, or a simple act of kindness. These small gestures carry immense emotional weight because they feel earned and real.

One of the most compelling aspects of Noel is how it captures a side of Christmas that is rarely acknowledged. While many holiday films focus on joy, reunion, and celebration, Noel recognizes that the season can also intensify grief, longing, and memories of those who are absent. The film does not suggest that sadness should be erased or replaced; instead, it gently acknowledges its presence. In doing so, it offers comfort to viewers who may feel disconnected from the forced cheer often associated with the holidays.

There is also a subtle sense of faith and grace woven throughout the film. This element is never loud or preachy, but it remains quietly present, suggesting that meaning and love can still find their way through even when life feels fractured. The film hints that connection—whether spiritual or human—can exist even in moments of despair.

Noel is not a movie that tries to lift your spirits quickly or offer easy answers. It is best suited for a reflective mood, perhaps on a quiet night when you find yourself thinking about the year that has passed and the people you miss. I would recommend Noel to viewers who appreciate introspective storytelling and emotional subtlety. It does not try to cheer you up; instead, it sits with you—and sometimes, that is exactly what we need.

What have you learned from your past failures, and how can you grow from them?

Failure used to feel like a verdict on my worth. When something didn’t work out, I didn’t just see it as a wrong turn or a lesson missed—I saw it as confirmation that I wasn’t enough. Over time, and through many quiet reckonings with myself, I’ve learned that failure is not a final judgment but an invitation. It asks uncomfortable questions, but it also offers the possibility of growth if I’m brave enough to listen.

One of the earliest lessons my failures taught me is that effort alone does not guarantee outcomes. I have poured my heart into relationships, projects, and dreams that still unraveled despite my best intentions. For a long time, this felt deeply unfair. I believed that if I just tried harder, loved more, or sacrificed enough, things would fall into place. Failure showed me otherwise. It taught me that while commitment matters, so do timing, boundaries, wisdom, and discernment. Learning this shifted me from a mindset of self-blame to one of self-awareness. I began to ask not only, “Did I try?” but also, “Was this aligned with who I am and where I’m meant to be?”

Another hard-earned lesson is that ignoring my own needs often leads to collapse. Many of my failures were rooted in saying yes when I should have said no, staying silent to keep the peace, or carrying responsibilities that were never meant to be mine alone. I used to equate endurance with strength, believing that pushing through exhaustion and discomfort was noble. Failure stripped that illusion away. Burnout, resentment, and emotional depletion became unavoidable signals that something was wrong. From this, I learned that self-respect is not selfish—it is essential. Growth, for me, now looks like honoring my limits and trusting that rest and clarity are just as productive as relentless effort.

Failure has also humbled me in ways success never could. It forced me to confront the parts of myself I would rather avoid: pride, fear of rejection, and the need for external validation. When things went wrong, I had no choice but to sit with discomfort and ask why it hurt so much. Often, the pain came not from the failure itself, but from what I believed it said about me. Through this process, I learned to separate my identity from my outcomes. I am not my mistakes, nor am I defined by moments where I fell short. This realization brought a quiet freedom—one that allows me to try again without the crushing fear of being exposed or diminished.

Some of my deepest growth has come from failures tied to loss—losing people, seasons, and versions of life I thought were permanent. These experiences taught me that not all failures are things to fix; some are things to grieve. I learned that growth does not always look like moving on quickly or finding silver linings. Sometimes it looks like sitting with sorrow, honoring what was, and allowing it to reshape me gently. Through this, I’ve grown more compassionate—not only toward others, but toward myself. I’ve learned that healing is not linear and that it’s okay to carry tenderness alongside strength.

Failure has also refined my sense of purpose. Each setback stripped away illusions of control and forced me to return to what truly matters. I learned that success without meaning feels empty, while progress rooted in values feels grounding—even when it’s slow. This understanding has helped me grow by making more intentional choices. I now ask myself whether my goals align with my values, my faith, and the kind of person I want to become, rather than chasing validation or approval. Failure taught me to measure growth not by speed or applause, but by depth and integrity.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that growth begins with honesty. Failure invites me to tell the truth about what worked, what didn’t, and why. Instead of rewriting the past or masking disappointment with positivity, I’ve learned to face it with humility. This honesty opens the door to learning, resilience, and renewal. It allows me to take responsibility without shame and to move forward without bitterness.

Growing from failure, for me, means carrying its lessons without carrying its weight. It means trusting that every misstep has shaped my perspective, strengthened my empathy, and clarified my direction. I no longer see failure as something to fear, but as something that has quietly formed me into a more grounded, reflective, and compassionate person. In that sense, my failures have not held me back—they have led me forward, one hard lesson at a time.

What Christmas Means to Me

 

I woke up this morning to a simple message from a friend: “Deb, can I ask you—what is the meaning of Christmas to you, besides the birth of Jesus?” It was such a sincere question, yet it lingered with me long after I read it. It made me pause in a way I hadn’t in a while. That single message made me reflect deeply—not just on the season itself, but on the journey my life has taken, the people who’ve shaped me, and the faith that continues to guide me. And as I sat with my thoughts, I realized that Christmas, to me, is a tapestry woven from love, memory, gratitude, and the quiet beauty of giving.

Of course, Christmas begins with Jesus—His birth, His presence, His promise. But beyond the manger, the star, and the sacred story, there’s an everyday meaning that touches the heart in ways words often struggle to capture. To me, Christmas has always been about the intangible things: the moments we treasure, the people who stand with us, and the values that hold our lives together, even when the world feels uncertain.

From my perspective, Christmas is not merely a date on the calendar or a celebration marked by lights and gifts. Instead, it’s the season where the things that matter most shine their brightest. Love becomes louder. Family ties feel stronger. Gratitude sits gently at the forefront of the soul. And unity—true unity—feels possible and present, even in the smallest gestures.

When I think about Christmas, I think about my family first. I think about the unwavering bond I have with my mum—the woman who has been my anchor, my comfort, and my quiet reminder of what resilience looks like. Every Christmas we share is a reflection of the years she’s poured love into me, guided me, supported me, and believed in me even when I struggled to believe in myself. Our traditions, whether big or small, are stitched with that love. They’re the same traditions that remind me that family is not just defined by blood, but by heart, loyalty, and the way we show up for one another.

Christmas is also a time when the memories of those we’ve lost feel both closer and more tender. For me, it’s the season when I feel the presence of the loved ones who once held space in my life and heart. Their legacy doesn’t fade; it settles into the season like a quiet candle, glowing with warmth. Christmas reminds me that love never ends—it simply changes form. Every act of kindness, every donation I give, every bit of joy I try to spread becomes a tribute to them. In honoring others, I honor them too.

It’s also a season that brings my children to mind. Watching them grow into their own paths—whether it’s Lani graduating as a fashion designer or Logan chasing his dreams fearlessly—fills my Christmas with a sense of gratitude that words can’t express. Supporting their dreams is one of the ways I express love during the season and beyond. Their milestones, their joys, their struggles, and their accomplishments become part of what Christmas means to me. It’s about being present—not just physically but emotionally. It’s about celebrating their victories and being their safe space when life gets overwhelming.

Another part of Christmas for me is reflection—deep, honest reflection. The end of the year invites us to look inward and ask whether we’ve lived in alignment with our values. Have I been as generous as I could be? Have I shown kindness even when it wasn’t easy? Have I honored the people God has placed in my life? Have I given more love than I’ve received? Christmas calls me to examine my heart. And in that reflection, I often find gratitude—gratitude for where I’ve been, where I’m going, and the quiet way God has guided me each step of the way.

Christmas is also about spreading joy, something I’ve been blessed to do through my books and through my faith. Whether it’s sharing my juicing journey, offering inspiration, or putting a little goodness into the world, I see it all as part of the spirit of Christmas. Every person who reads my books, every message I receive from someone who found hope in my words, every opportunity to give back—these things remind me that God gives each of us gifts, and Christmas is a reminder to use them well.

And then, there is community. Christmas is a time when community feels alive. Whether it’s building something new with my family, or simply sending a warm message to someone who needs it, I see the season as an opportunity to reach outward. Community isn’t just a group of people; it’s the space where our hearts meet one another. It’s the place where generosity transforms into connection, where strangers become friends, and where acts of kindness ripple far beyond what we can see.

Ultimately, the meaning of Christmas for me is a testament to how I want to live my life, not just during the holidays but every day. Christmas represents the values I hold closest: love, gratitude, unity, faith, and the enduring beauty of giving from the heart. It’s about choosing connection over convenience, presence over perfection, and compassion over indifference. It’s about remembering that each of us has the power to bring light into someone’s life, even when we don’t realize it.

Christmas, in all its fullness, is the reminder that we’re here to love one another deeply, support one another sincerely, and reflect God’s love in the ways we move through the world. Whether I’m celebrating milestones, honoring the legacies of the people I’ve lost, supporting my children, or simply spending time with my mum, everything comes back to one thing: love—the love that God gave us, the love we share with others, and the love that remains long after the season ends.

So when my friend asked me, “What does Christmas mean to you?” this is my answer: Christmas is the heartbeat of everything I value. It’s the season where the sacred meets the everyday, where memory meets hope, and where love becomes the most powerful language of all.

It is, in every sense, a celebration of the way I strive to live—with intention, with gratitude, with faith, and with a heart always open to giving.

Movie Recommendation: A Housekeeper’s Revenge (2016)

 

A Housekeeper’s Revenge (2016)

A Housekeeper’s Revenge (2016) is a gripping Lifetime thriller that proves even the most ordinary roles can harbor dark secrets. At first glance, the film appears to follow a familiar formula: a domestic worker enters a family’s home, creating a sense of comfort and stability. However, beneath this veneer lies a slowly escalating tension that transforms a seemingly mundane story into a suspenseful psychological drama. The movie’s strength lies not in groundbreaking plot twists but in its ability to make viewers feel the creeping sense of danger as the housekeeper’s true motives are gradually revealed.

The narrative centers on a housekeeper whose initially benign presence in the family’s life slowly morphs into a sinister obsession. What makes this film particularly compelling is the methodical way in which she blurs boundaries, inserting herself into the family’s private world one subtle step at a time. Each intrusion, though small, accumulates into an unsettling sense of suffocation, creating tension not only for the characters but also for the audience. The film excels at portraying this psychological unraveling, turning everyday domesticity into a landscape of paranoia and fear.

Performances play a critical role in making this story resonate. The lead actresses bring depth and authenticity to their roles, portraying a complex mix of vulnerability, charm, and underlying menace. The housekeeper’s character is both relatable and terrifying; her quiet intensity and unpredictable behavior keep viewers on edge throughout the film. Meanwhile, the family’s reactions—ranging from trust to suspicion—highlight the fragility of their domestic world, emphasizing how easily it can be destabilized. This careful attention to character development allows the movie to transcend the limitations of a typical made-for-television thriller, making the suspense feel earned rather than contrived.

Beyond its tension-filled plot, A Housekeeper’s Revenge touches on universal themes of obsession, identity, and loneliness. The housekeeper’s fixation with the family can be interpreted as a reflection of her own isolation and longing for connection, adding psychological depth to what might otherwise be a straightforward thriller. At the same time, the film invites viewers to consider the vulnerabilities inherent in inviting outsiders into one’s home and the sometimes invisible boundaries that keep domestic life stable. These themes are explored subtly, woven into the narrative without overshadowing the suspense that drives the story forward.

While it adheres to the conventions of the Lifetime thriller formula, the movie succeeds by maintaining a steady build-up of tension, culminating in a chilling payoff. It is not reliant on excessive gore or sudden shocks; rather, it uses a slow-burning sense of dread and psychological insight to captivate its audience. For viewers seeking a thriller that is both suspenseful and character-driven, A Housekeeper’s Revenge offers a compelling experience. It reminds us that danger often lurks in the most familiar places and that even the most ordinary roles can harbor extraordinary darkness.

In conclusion, A Housekeeper’s Revenge is an engaging and well-crafted thriller that elevates a familiar premise through strong performances, psychological tension, and careful storytelling. Its blend of suspense and emotional depth makes it a standout choice for fans of psychological dramas and Lifetime thrillers alike.

Where in Your Life Do You Experience Opposite Realities?

Where in Your Life Do You Experience Opposite Realities, and How Can You Invite God Our Father Into These Spaces to Bring Hope and Peace?

Life has a way of holding two truths at the same time, and I often find myself standing right in the middle of them. These opposite realities don’t cancel each other out; instead, they stretch me, challenge me, and sometimes overwhelm me. Yet, in those very contradictions, I’ve begun to recognise the quiet invitation of God our Father—an invitation to bring everything to Him: the joy and the sorrow, the clarity and the confusion, the strength and the weakness.

There are seasons where confidence and doubt coexist in my heart. I may look strong on the outside—capable, dependable, someone who keeps going no matter how heavy the load—but on the inside, uncertainty whispers its way into my thoughts. I think of the dreams I am building, the responsibilities I carry for my family, the mission I feel called to, and the legacy I hope to leave. There are days when everything aligns and I feel unstoppable, and then days when I wonder if I am doing anything right at all. These opposite realities—assurance and insecurity—live side by side more often than I admit.

Another tension I experience is between gratitude and grief. God has blessed me abundantly with family, meaningful experiences, and opportunities to grow. Yet woven into these blessings are deep losses that still ache. The people I’ve loved and lost are never far from my thoughts. Their absence has shaped me as much as their presence once did. Some days, memories bring comfort; other days, they reopen wounds I thought had healed. It is a strange space to live in—thankful for what was, heartbroken for what can no longer be. And still, both are true.

There is also the pull between patience and restlessness. I know in my heart that God works in His perfect timing, that every delay carries purpose, and that waiting can be sacred. Yet I am human, and there are moments when I want answers now. I want clarity, direction, and doors that open quickly. The waiting feels like a stretching of the soul—holy, yes, but often uncomfortable. The desire to move forward fast and the call to remain still live in tension within me, each tugging in its own direction.

In all these contradictions, I am learning that opposite realities are not signs of weakness, confusion, or failure. They are human. They are honest. And they are the very places where God our Father desires to meet me most. Not when I have everything figured out, but when I am standing in the gap between what I understand and what I long for.

Inviting God into these places begins with acknowledgement—being unafraid to name the truths that coexist in my life. When I bring them before Him, I am reminded that He is not a God of “either-or,” but a God who works beautifully in “both-and.” He can hold both my confidence and my doubt, both my gratitude and my grief, both my patience and my restlessness. And if He can hold them, then so can I—not by my strength, but by His.

Hope begins when I allow God to step into the places where my realities collide. Sometimes, this invitation comes through prayer—not always eloquent prayer, but honest prayer. “Lord, I don’t understand,” or “Father, I need You here,” or simply, “Be with me.” Other times, the invitation happens in silence, when I allow myself to stop running, stop pushing, and just let God be God.

Peace comes when I surrender the need to resolve every contradiction. When I trust that God can bring meaning out of what feels messy, harmony out of what feels fragmented. His peace is not the absence of opposing realities; it is His presence in the midst of them. A peace that whispers, “I am with you in all of it.”

And gradually, something beautiful happens. The tension becomes less frightening. The contradictions begin to soften. I start to see how God uses these very oppositions to shape me. Grief deepens compassion. Doubt creates humility. Restlessness fuels growth. Waiting builds spiritual endurance. In each of these, hope is born—not from ideal circumstances, but from the assurance that I am never alone in them.

By inviting God into the in-between spaces of my life, I discover that opposite realities are not barriers to faith but pathways to deeper intimacy with Him. They teach me to rely on His wisdom, not mine; His timing, not mine; His promises, not my fears.

In the end, I realize that hope and peace do not come from having one clean, simple reality. They come from trusting that God is present in every reality, even when they collide. And as long as He is there, I can breathe, I can rest, and I can continue forward with a heart anchored in Him.

Smoldering Moments: A Beautiful Night Shared Over Food and Friendship

 

Wednesday night’s dinner at Smolder Restaurant in Outram turned out to be one of those evenings that linger long after you’ve gone home—one filled with warmth, laughter, good food, and the kind of conversations that only happen when you’re surrounded by people who feel like home. I walked in expecting a pleasant catch-up with dear friends; I walked out feeling nourished in a way that only genuine connection and thoughtfully prepared food can provide.

The moment we stepped through Smolder’s doors, I felt my shoulders drop. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, with soft lighting that made everything feel calmer, kinder, a little slower. The décor was modern without being cold, and there was an ease in the air—as if the restaurant itself knew how to respect the quiet rituals of dining with people you love. We settled in quickly, sinking into our seats as though the place had been waiting for us.

To ease into the evening, we ordered glasses of red wine from their happy hour menu. There’s something about that first sip of red—the warmth that spreads through your chest, the way it softens your mind after a long day, and how it gently unravels conversation. We raised our glasses in a small, unspoken toast to friendship, gratitude, and simply being present. Happy hour quickly became happy us hour.

What did we order?

The Mussels in herb and wine sauce, arrived in a steaming bowl that perfumed the table. Briny, plump, and meaty, each mussel tasted like the sea had been simmered down into its sweetest essence. But the real magic was the sauce—aromatic, buttery, irresistible. Thankfully, it came with grilled garlic bread, charred and crisp at the edges, perfect for soaking up every last bit. 

Next came the Calamari—lightly crisp on the outside, tender inside, a beautifully balanced dish. Alongside it was the Grilled Squid, smoky and flavourful, cooked with that perfect snap that only well-prepared squid has. These starters brought the table alive as we leaned in, shared bites, exchanged favourites, and marvelled at how the simplest dishes can sometimes be the most satisfying.

We also ordered the Broccolini, which turned out to be one of the quiet stars of the night. Charred baby broccoli paired beautifully with their homemade romesco sauce—a rich, nutty, slightly smoky creation that made even the vegetable skeptics among us sit up a little straighter. It was earthy, vibrant, and unexpectedly addictive.

But the dish that stole the show—at least for me—was the Blackened Seabass. The seabass was crusted generously with Cajun spices and grilled to an irresistible char. The outside had that smoky, slightly fiery kick, while the inside remained tender, flaky, and bursting with natural sweetness. Each bite was bold yet balanced, a perfect dance of heat, seasoning, and freshness. It was one of those dishes that makes the whole table fall quiet for a moment—just long enough to savour.

Of course, no evening is complete without dessert, and Smolder did not disappoint. The Olive Oil Cake arrived warm, tender, and fragrant. Moist without being dense, subtly sweet without being overpowering—it had an elegance that made us slow down and appreciate every forkful. Just when the night already felt full, we surprised Teresa with a quiet, heartfelt moment of celebration. As the cake sat between us, glowing softly under the warm lights, we sang her a gentle, joyful “Happy Birthday.” It wasn’t loud or extravagant—just sincere, warm, and filled with affection. Teresa’s smile, the laughter that followed, and the way the table seemed to glow a little brighter made the dessert feel even sweeter. It was one of those small but meaningful moments that turn a good dinner into a cherished memory.

But the dessert that truly made us close our eyes for a moment was the Spiced Apple Wontons with Vanilla Semifreddo. Crisp, golden wonton pockets filled with warm spiced apple, paired with smooth, cool semifreddo—it was comfort, nostalgia, and indulgence all at once. Each bite tasted like a warm memory folded into pastry and served with a silky whisper of vanilla.

Yet, as incredible as the food was, it wasn’t just the dishes that made the night special. It was the company. There is something profoundly comforting about sharing a meal with friends who understand your stories, who laugh with you without needing an explanation. Between bites and sips of wine, our conversations moved effortlessly—from playful teasing to heartfelt reflection. There were moments of uncontrollable laughter, moments of quiet understanding, and moments where time seemed to slow just enough for us to feel deeply grateful.

Smolder became the perfect backdrop for all of it. A place where food was crafted with intention and care, and where the ambience encouraged connection rather than distraction.

By the time we stepped back into the cool Outram night, I felt full—not just from the meal but from the warmth of the evening. Good food nourishes the body, but good company nourishes the soul. And Smolder delivered both in a way that felt sincere, comforting, and memorable.

It’s the kind of place I know I’ll return to—not just for the dishes, but for the way it made a simple dinner with friends feel like a beautiful, lasting memory.

Smolder

271 Outram Road, Singapore 169062

www.smolder.sg

Movie Recommendation: Goodbye, Butterfly (2021)

 

Goodbye, Butterfly (2021)

If you’re looking for a gripping, emotionally charged thriller that stays with you long after the credits roll, Goodbye, Butterfly (2021) is a film I highly recommend. It’s one of those rare low-budget gems that proves you don’t need blockbuster effects or over-the-top action to tell a powerful story. What this film delivers instead is raw humanity — grief, desperation, moral conflict, and the quiet terror of not knowing how far a broken heart might go when pushed to its limits.

The story follows a grieving father who becomes convinced that he has found the man responsible for his young daughter’s murder. That premise alone is chilling, but it’s the execution that elevates the film. Rather than turning the narrative into a typical revenge fantasy, Goodbye, Butterfly digs deep into the psychology of loss. You feel his pain — not in loud, dramatic outbursts, but in the subtle moments: the exhaustion in his face, the tremble in his voice, the way he seems to exist half in the present and half trapped in memories of the daughter he’ll never see again.

Adam Donshik delivers a standout performance, carrying much of the film’s emotional weight with a quiet intensity that feels painfully real. His portrayal of a father on the brink — torn between justice, vengeance, and the fear that he might be wrong — creates a tension that sits heavy on your chest. You’re not just watching a character unravel; you’re pulled directly into his torment, forced to question what you might do in the same horrifying situation.

One of the film’s strongest elements is its pacing. Instead of racing through plot points or packing in unnecessary twists, it builds its suspense slowly and deliberately. Each scene adds another layer of doubt, dread, or emotional complexity. This restrained storytelling allows the tension to simmer rather than explode, making the final moments hit much harder.

What impressed me most is how grounded the entire film feels. Yes, you can see that it’s a low-budget production — the sets are simple, the cast is small, and the cinematography is straightforward — but none of that weakens the impact. If anything, the stripped-down approach enhances the film’s authenticity. It doesn’t feel like Hollywood fiction; it feels like real life, messy and unresolved. The rawness of the visuals mirrors the rawness of the emotions.

Another aspect that stands out is the film’s moral ambiguity. It never tells you who to root for or what to believe. Instead, it lets you wrestle with the same uncertainties haunting the main character. Is he right? Is he blinded by grief? What is justice when the truth is unclear? What is a father capable of becoming when his world has been destroyed?

By the time the story concludes, you’re left with more questions than answers — and that’s exactly what makes the film memorable.

If you appreciate thrillers that are emotional rather than explosive, thought-provoking rather than predictable, Goodbye, Butterfly is absolutely worth your time. It’s haunting, intimate, and quietly devastating — a powerful reminder of how fragile the line between grief and vengeance can be.

What motivates you to get out of bed every morning?

Every morning when I open my eyes, the first thing I feel is purpose. Not a loud, dramatic sense of purpose, but a steady, quiet pull that reminds me why I keep going, why I rise even on the days when the weight of life feels heavier than usual. My motivation comes from a blend of people I love, the promises I’ve made to myself, and the faith that has carried me through both triumph and heartbreak.

One of my greatest motivations is my family—my mum who has always been my anchor, my children who have grown into their own beautiful paths, and the loved ones who are no longer here but remain deeply alive in my heart. Each of them left a mark on me so profound that their love continues to shape the way I live. When I wake up in the morning, I carry their voices with me: voices that believed in me, encouraged me, and taught me to keep moving even when life felt unbearably heavy. Their absence hurts, but their memory motivates. I want to honour them—through the choices I make, the kindness I give, and the person I continue to grow into.

My daughter Lani and my son Logan also give me a reason to rise with intention. Watching them navigate their lives, finding their passions, and stepping into adulthood reminds me that I must lead by example. Their courage inspires mine and they remind me that showing up every day matters, even in the small ways.

But beyond family, I also wake up for myself. For the goals I’ve set—like building my empire, continuing my juicing journey, supporting my health, and nurturing my mission work and spiritual growth. I’ve come so far, especially in my faith. Returning to Church has breathed new life into my mornings. Now, I begin each day not just with tasks to complete, but with gratitude. Gratitude for God’s presence, for the peace He places in my heart, and for the chance to grow a little more each day. My mornings have become an invitation from Him: to reflect, to listen, and to become a better version of myself.

And yes, some days are hard. Some mornings I wake up with the familiar ache of grief, or the tiredness of a long week, or the heaviness of memories that still sting. But even then, I get up. Because I believe in hope. I believe in pushing forward. I believe that my story isn’t done yet, and every sunrise is a reminder that I still have chapters to write.

What motivates me every morning? Love. Faith. Purpose. And the deep desire to honour the people who shaped me, the God who guides me, and the woman I am still becoming.

What motivates you to get out of bed every morning?