Today, I had my 5th annual photoshoot, and I suddenly realised that each photo tells a story.
It's a reflection, a part of my journey, as a coach, working online, and I really felt the urge to share it with you.
Let's begin. Part 1.
As a child, my mum loved taking photos of me, more than I loved them being taken. I remember I would always cry, hide behind my sunglasses, and literally piss myself on the 70s style sofa bed, in protest to my photo’s being taken.
Little did I know that my mum was actually preparing me for my obsession with the camera! I so love a photo!!!
Our wonderful next-door neighbour who was literally my granddad (RIP Charlie) always took photos of us. From the moment we moved in, right up until I was pregnant in 2013, he always loved taking our photos.
He always saw our beauty, being practically the only brown ones in the village LOL (as in Indians in Essex LOL) and always made us feel special and wanted.
Despite having such loving memories, on camera, off-camera, my life wasn’t always that picture-perfect.
As a manifestor, and a child manifestor, I didn’t like ever being told what to do or being controlled. If only our parents knew that was just the way our human designs were, and that it wouldn’t actually change LOL.
Instead, I was always told off, scolded, and diagnosed as a complete pain in the ass!
But our parents, that generation, they didn’t know. They were only a reflection of their parents, and so forth.
The habits, behaviours of our grandparents were genetically coded into our parent's DNA therefore, life was always hard, difficult and painful as a child of the early 80s.
I did struggle to make friends, and learning, but I was so eager to make an impact.
I always remember being someone who loved to smile and laugh, and I so remember that strength in that little girl – but I had no idea that THAT fire in my belly was to turn into something more aggressive later in my teenage years.
My childhood don’t get me wrong, I remember NOW more than ever the good times because the past no longer dictates my present anymore, but I did grow up in an abusive household – mentally, physically, emotionally and sexually.
I remember at 7 years old, praying hard for 7 full days straight, and begging god to take me back. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to exist. I was so upset, frustrated, and angry at the world I was living in, and I would have done anything to no longer exist.
On the 7th day, I got a message. It was like a voice in my head saying – NO. Your purpose is important.
So how on earth did I survive my first ten years?
And most importantly, what was the effect of this type of upbringing?
Part 2 tomorrow…