Cathy McMahon ~ Seven years of missing you

It was the Ancient Romans who first suggested the idea of a broken mirror bringing seven years bad luck. This stems from another piece of Roman lore stating every seven years life would renew. And any broken parts of your life- would be fixed.

And here we are, surfacing from a 7 year war.

Returning home.


Ready for a renew.

And although I don’t recall breaking a mirror. Seven years ago my heart broke. Proper broke. And it’s been fumbling around my chest for years doing it’s best. Keeping me alive.

Seven years ago. Thousands of tiny heart shaped glass shards danced through my body, cutting all in it’s path. This was physically noticeable through my skin and hair. Internally this brought upon a new plethora of allergic reactions. And emotionally did quite a number on destroying all and any potential serotonin. In addition, adding a hint of abandonment issues for flare.

Seven years. Pieces of my broken heart have been raining havoc. Playing its own tune, swaying me back and forth. Rocking too fast to a very slow song while missing the beat every time. Two beautiful left feet of destruction.

Seven. The favourite digit. Numerology life path and today commemorated in years. I have danced with this number as the Romans suggested. Bunkered down and swayed. Taken hit after hit of emotional whiplash and awaited patiently to be released. My time is up.

Now walking in hope that my body can endure grief while taking less damage. Take more steps without getting cut from those broken heart-shaped pieces.

As I reflect back on the past seven years I search for gratitude from the experience. Some light buried underneath a heap of PTSD.

I have none.

Seven. Go fuck yourself, you’ve been a terrible dancer.

Mothers Day

I waited a day because this isn’t always received well from people who are unable to accept anything other than surface level positivity.

Mother’s Day. Along side Christmas and many other monumental days is a challenging time. For me, there’s one thing that niggles at me the most. Not the fact I miss out on Sunday dinners, phone calls, general support, love and care that walked beside me for 27 years. Nor the fact I don’t know who to write on my emergency contact list. It’s not the fact I see others experiencing what I was stripped from. Or the gaping big hole in my heart I carry everyday- some days better than others.

It’s regret. It really irks me!

It’s the fact I could have shown my mum how much I loved her exponentially more. I want nothing else than to be given an opportunity to show her how much she was adored. As humans we naturally take people, places & things for granted. Best believe, I know. But this is a reminder that although you may not have experienced great loss- you’re responsible for how you treat others right now. This spreads to all relationships.

No one is exempt from feeling grief. Your life could be flipped on it’s ass tomorrow and I understand that’s a hard pill to swallow but it’s reality.

Love your people. Because nothing is more painful than living with regret.


Time cannot touch my love. Where my heart resides, there are no clocks. Grief is no different. I let time touch it. Romance it, swish it around like mouth wash and spit it right back when I was ‘ready’.

I wasn’t.

I then sat with it. Accepted it. Cried and ate through it. Read the five stages of grief to it and asked time to gently pass it back when I was ‘ready’.

I wasn’t.

My love doesn’t understand time, they’re not even distant cousins. They don’t coincide. There is no end date here. Because grief is love in deep pain and neither recognise time.

So now, neither do I.

Sit down. We need to talk

~Words at my dads Funeral~

Hi my name is Heather for anyone I haven’t met. I’m Gerards daughter and was gifted with a lovely mini me for the past decade- her name is Sienna and my dads one true love. On behalf of his girls, I’d like to thank you all for being here.

I’m supposed to start with memories and how great my dad is but we are all familiar with what an incredible man he is, a gentlemen in every sense of the word and what a light he brought into every room.

Instead, really hoping this is the last chance I’ll have to talk in front of a room full of grieving people- I’d like to touch on loss and what I think would help us all going forward and how we can incorporate my dad into our future.

Each person in this room is either affected directly or indirectly by this great loss. And the more we speak on the reality of grief, the easier it becomes. The more we tell the truth. How hard this is, how hard it is to be alive. To love and to lose, the easier life becomes. And we are most useful to each other when we find ways to keep our hearts open amongst the nightmare, not to lose sight of love amongst the wreckage.

If we’re going to live here, if we’re going to get through this together we need to be more comfortable with pain. Loss gets integrated, not overcome. Your heart and your mind will carve out a new path amid this weirdly new future. A future we didn’t want, but is here nonetheless.

In saying that, my dad was stripped from tomorrow but his vibrant soul lives on. In me, my baby and everyone else who was touched by his presence.

With the knowledge of how dad would want us all to behave I’ll share with you a couple of things I’ll personally be doing and I hope you can take some with you today.

I’ll be ordering a lot more xxxx golds.

On the days where it’s hard to get out of bed, I’ll get up, do my hair and spray perfume because dad always looked amazing and I have no reason to appear like I’ve been dragged from a hedge when the man was sick and was still the best dressed in a room. To all the gentlemen who have a suit gathering dust that only make appearances at weddings and funerals. Maybe throw it on to grab some milk. Live the G way.

I’ll continue singing in hopes to lift the spirits in a room, just like he did. And best believe I’ll be the first one on the dance floor.

I’ll use his jokes and sayings.

I’ll have great work ethic. Because I was shown that way.

When possible I’ll take the long way, just for the journey.

I’ll continue to aim up to his impeccable social skills.

I’ll be kind and respectful

I’ll love with everything I have left.

And when there’s moments when I struggle doing any of that. That’s okay too.

Grief hits us all in different ways and we can only do what we can. But I’ll tell you this now, where possible get up and carry on. For no other reason then- HE WOULD WANT US TO! And for a man who radiated positivity, it would be an injustice not to at least try.

When dad and I were in the ambulance on the way to hospital, we had the paramedic play his favourite songs. We held hands and sang the whole way. He was on the way to pallative care and still managed to sing and tell the paramedics that it was the best Uber drive he’s ever had and he’ll give them 5 stars. Now If that doesn’t inspire you all to be better people, I honestly don’t know what will.

Papa G

Papa G,

My heart, a few words, for you. To read whenever you need. A reminder of all that you are and how grateful I am, for you.

Genetically, I’d like to firstly thank you for my eyelashes and for skin that seems to fight age with such ease, it can be deemed unfair.

Thank you for the ability to speak honestly and with good intent. You’ve created an open space that has always allowed me to navigate through life as the driver. The driver who may take some questionable turns, yet you’ve provided the time and knowledge to always navigate back on track. You make sure I have my seatbelt on, sit in the passenger seat and offer encouragement and guidance.

You supply me with the perfect mix of freedom and support. Love and discipline. Thank you for highlighting the importance of keeping a clean car. For introducing new music and showing me how to place a bet. Thank you for being the greatest Dad and Pappy to our angel, we are very lucky and forever grateful. My heart is full, knowing we have created a bond that cannot be broken.

The road ahead does seem scary. A featureless landscape. A flash, a reckoning and white noise. It has tested all the strength I have. Fear lingers from every corner. I talk and my voice breaks. Now the road ahead is blurred, tears have created a pool of distortion.

I stop, get out of the car and move to the passenger seat.

You’re driving this next stage of the journey Dad. I’m merely a passenger and will offer the support and guidance that you’ve always provided me. I will make sure our seatbelts are on, I’ll choose all the good music and be right there when we hit a bump.

And maybe, just maybe in this space where nothing is clear and nothing is fair. Maybe in this space, we will look to each other and find our way.

I will love and support every decision you make, guide you and hold your hand throughout. I will look after you, listen to you and be a voice of reason.

One thing I’ve learnt through grief is strength doesn’t always come from battling alone. It takes a giant leap to be vulnerable and sometimes all you need is a good passenger, to ease the road ahead.

Love is the only thing time cannot touch.

I love you.

Dusk 2.0

Sleep. Intricate pieces of memories that replay violently the minute my eyes drop in demise. Flashes of rooftop quests and dusk-filled skies. Delude my dreams, leaving a trail of blood behind. Every night another story, ending in goodbye.

Break me open and you’ll see, there’s no more fight. Just a white flag drowning in memories and rough tides. Pain so great it seeps into time. Weeks become months enabling thoughts that aren’t mine.

Each night I feel the touch of your hand, perfectly entwined. I see hollow eyes that were once kind. Finger tips trace each freckle with another lie. Visions of your neck falling onto mine as I grip into flesh until the pain subsides. Teeth bite so hard, I want it to hurt, feel my cries. Tears paint a story that neither one could survive.

Dusk, once idolised.

My favourite time. Now embedded in nightmares I wasn’t equipped to revise.

Some nights I manage to distort that last piece. I turn the gun from my chest and place it neatly at our feet. I beg you to finish the job, please end this defeat! Impossible, when your hands are tied by regret and deceit.

You scream in a language I can’t understand. I was never taught the tongue of misguided men. I shout back my pain yet nothing comes out. Instead dusk-filled colours stream from my mouth, writing the word stop upon your self doubt.

There’s a shadow behind you, broken in despair. Holding a shattered heart in one hand with blood stained fair hair. “Thank you”, he whispers. He seems relieved. Only now I realise he was you, before me.

There are voices of people, muttering a circus of words. Always lined up in red & begging to be heard. They have mirrors to reflect all that I’d ignored. Flashes of apologies light up every turn, with three broken bodies hurled over my bedroom floor. I run away and glance back only to see, those people were my warning signs I’d failed to see.

Fragments of colours have built a home in my mind. Every night I visit a kaleidoscope of death disguised as dusk skies. The burnt pinks blend with the dark of night. That leaks into blood and drips heavy down my spine.

Lucid dreams are an incredible art form in itself. I’ve felt every move towards death as I tighten the belt. Grabbing a paint brush, black acrylic every time. And I paint over colours that flash over my goodbye.

I can hear the cracks from my heart mend with each final breath. Recluse from dreams you’ve hijacked as the unwelcome guest. A peaceful darkness for a second as I step off that ledge. Only to awaken in reality, frightened and without rest.

Months turn into years and I’m still waking up in sweat. Haunted by the memories of that afternoon…

you left.


Bring urgency with the same precision as a hunter.

Evaluate the risk,


Don’t hesitate.

In that time,

I’ve already picked you apart.

Catch me early,

Before I attack.

Only then,

Will you have the chance,

To emulate the power

Of a woman.

~Art by yours truly


The house she envisions. Vast in greenery, far as the eye can see. Fear can’t extend to this prestige mountain home. The gentle song of birds are the only splash-back and clarity seeps from every corner of tapestry. It’s only here, where she deems safe.

She runs towards it, shoes in hand, gasping for breath. Wolves chase, gripping their teeth into her desperation. Snapping at her vulnerability while shreds of white cotton fall to the earth. The leader of the pack makes it hard to gain ground, constantly pouncing every time she stands tall. They feed off her soft exterior. The growls drown out any cries for help.

But I hear her.

She frantically begins climbing up the steep hill towards the house. Dress shredded, hands covered in blood. Falling to the ground, shoes tightly wrapped around bruised nail beds. Shaking and disoriented, she cannot see.

But I see her.

“Silly girl, what are you doing?”

I walk towards her broken pieces, pick them up and face them gently towards the destruction she had been running from. I rattled the tiny remaining fragments into the clean air.

“Look closely at what you’re hiding from. This is what you’ve created.”

Slowly raising her head from the hallucination of bloody hands and defeat. She stared back into the greenery that laid out so beautifully ahead. Eventually locking eyes with the pack of wolves, who now sheepishly retract. Snarling teeth replaced with apologies and claws morphing into severed promises. Her dress, perfectly placed. Her delicate hands, now unscathed.

“So listen, and listen carefully. Like all art, the process is simple, but a single misstep can kill you. Don’t rush, child: first, you must prepare yourself for the call. The songs of the sirens are sweet but deadly; they’ll cut through rope and twine and strike only at the heart. The heart, you see, is a deceitful thing. Its blood will choke you as fast as it gushes with life. In the end, it’s your heart that will guide the knife to your own throat.”- Shreya Vikram

With a slight nudge, she takes the first step back down into the ethereal environment. Bare foot and painless. She directs her attention to one of the wolves. Walks confidently up to the broken animal, stares straight back into his blue eyes and states;

“Start running”.

Cutting Away From My Inbox

Stomach churning as I click on the Outlook Icon one regular Monday morning. Preparing myself for the plethora of emails that have managed to build up over the previous 48 hours. Squinting- because that eases the pain, I prayed to the big man upstairs before speedily grazing over the shit storm of requests.

-Heather, can you please…

-Heather, would you mind checking on…

-Heather, how is this travelling?

-Heather, can you arrange this…

-Heather, help!

-Heather, how long?

-Heather, what’s this?

-Heather, can I…

Too many ‘Kind Regards’ later, I’m now completely overwhelmed and reciting the Lords Prayer. Frantically trying to reply with the same level of professionalism and urgency that they always seem to project. My ass hadn’t even warmed the chair and of course more flood in.

‘And forgive us our trespasses. As we forgive those who trespass against us…’

Strategically identifying the urgent from human annoyance is a legitimate skill in itself. A skill however I did not possess. It was in my nature to reply to the urgent as well as the unnecessary while mid anxiety attack. This repeated for longer than I’d care to explain. I found myself going into the office while on annual leave just to check the nightmare. I was a slave to it, assuming it would help when in fact I was inventing a new mental health by-product. Creating an unattainable expectation and quickly adding PA to my job title.

My personality wasn’t suited for this unhealthy relationship. I could not sustain this pattern, therefore slamming on the breaks mid reply. I didn’t even give the relationship a curtesy ‘away from computer, will reply at the earliest convenience’ note. It didn’t deserve the time. I just started undoing a behaviour I had created myself.

I stopped replying instantly to every hand-holding ask of me. I’d limit time to check my inbox throughout the day and slowly learnt to identify the people who didn’t require a response at all. Subject headings became resumes and if they weren’t engaging, they didn’t get a look in.

During this adaptation, I realised a few things;

  1. Some urgent emails are not actually urgent.
  2. I had created this overflow of required assistance myself by over servicing in the first place.
  3. Constantly adhering to emails impacted my work life.
  4. People will call if it’s serious.
  5. Long winded apologies, while spacing out paragraphs and triple checking punctuation was time I could not regain back.
  6. Kind Regards and Many Thanks are not necessary.
  7. Time management is real and absolutely crucial in a corporate environment.
  8. Setting a tone for future behaviour- also crucial.
  9. Email was never an avenue for communication that required an instant response.
  10. People who make home permanently in ones inbox are the same people who use the ’12 items or less’ isle at Woolworths with a full trolley.
  11. Email has no real power unless you give it yours.




“Get on your knees,” I whisper.

Not that I wanted him on his knees. To emasculate was not the intention. I prefer reverse psychology in the domination space. Trying to step over the line while hoping I never get near.

I enjoy the push back. The challenge excites me.

“No”, he whispers back. Unaware he’s just rolled the first dice in my game.

“Get on your knees”, I repeat. This time amplifying the seduction while dropping the shoestring straps from my shoulders.

“No fucking way”. He stands tall while unknowingly throwing double sixes.

This is what I wanted. Trying desperately not to show weakness, I stared back emotionless. Still.

He grabbed my waist with his left hand while using his right to scrunch the hair back from my face.

“Get on your knees”, he says strongly.

I wanted to drop right then and there. My knees naturally bent in submission.


I needed him to work for it. To showcase that masculine assertiveness I was craving. Roll again.


Smiling with gratification, I slowly moved downwards. This is the part of the game where I happily drop the dice. Game over.

I enjoy making him assume the win. Oblivious I fabricated this scene. I enjoy watching him grab the title even though I was the one who put him there.

“Okay”. I replied.