INTRO: Hi there. In today’s episode, we bring you a special live recording of Colourful Stories featuring community voices from Joondalup and the surrounding suburbs, made possible with funding from the City of Joondalup and training by Centre for Stories. These experiences come from local residents who had never shared their stories in front of a live audience before, but stepped up to the challenge for one special evening to share their belief in the power of connection and community. Set to the theme of ‘Better Together,’ their stories remind us of the strength and value we gain when we overcome individual desires, ego and biases to value unexpected people and places around us. Recorded in the City of Joondalup in March 2024, this next story comes from Jenny Martin. Enjoy. 

JM: Enjoy. My story begins when my husband was made redundant and had the mother of all midlife crises, took a job thousands of kilometers away in Alice Springs. As you can imagine, from there our relationship deteriorated when I realized he wasn’t coming back here and I certainly wasn’t going there. And so it was that I found myself alone at the age of invisibility because no one sees the 50 plus year old woman, especially the one in her original packaging at the time. There were a lot of stories in the media about women in my situation discarded after a long marriage stating that they were at the risk of homelessness. Now, I knew I had people in my life who loved me, family and friends who would never let that happen, but still the doubt was there. There was one particular article where it stated there are two possible pathways for women in my situation. 

We either lunch with our girlfriends in cafes and enjoy yoga, or we become financially destitute couch surfers reliant on the kindness of others. Now, this fear of homelessness wasn’t even my main problem. It was just one element of my main problem, which was a crippling anxiety. I worried about job security, parenting alone, eating alone, changing light bulbs, unclogging plug drains, finding a reliable mechanic, finding tradiesI could trust. These all combined to make the anxiety that raged in my gut and fuzzed up my head. And it was at that stage that I discovered beach therapy, specifically Mullaloo Beach Therapy. Mullaloo Beach is a wonderful expanse of coast with white sand, mesmerizing waves. It is long enough that I could walk to exhaustion and so deal with my insomnia. Also, walking made barefoot in the sand, I was truly grounded, which I know sounds like hippy dippy stuff, but it is true. 

After one of those walks, I felt I could take on the world and do anything. Sometimes when I walked, I would start to sigh as sometimes the beginning halfway through, and I would just sigh and release, sigh and release until the fuzziness in my head and the raging in my gut would calm themselves. And then there was, immersing myself in the ocean, a virtual baptism every time. And I can’t forget the wildlife moments, the birds, the Willy Wagtails that would chase at your heels, the stilts on the impossibly skinny legs, how do they even balance? The terns that dive for their dinner time and again, time and again. And my favourite, the oyster catcher with its black and white feathers and its matching trim of orange beacon legs, strutting and poking along the shoreline. Then in a whole other category are the dolphins, every sighting a blessing. 

I remember one morning I woke early and agitated. I knew there was no more rest for me, so I jumped in my car, I drove to the beach. I walked down the path to greet the ocean, and there at the end of the path in the water, as if waiting for me was a dolphin. And as I walked the beach, it swam companionably along with me, just glorious. So now the beach is a part of my routine. I walk, its expanse. Often I recognize the regulars, the work colleagues I meet who look oddly vulnerable in their bathers, the man who has a bag with him and picks up all the little bits of plastic off the beach, a never ending act of love for the ocean. The fathers there early on a Sunday morning with the kids, each one representing an exhausted young mum at home having a sleep-in. And there’s even a set of twins, probably about my age, but in bather tops and shorts who stride the length of the beach as if they hold a grudge against it. 

So then there’s the swimming. So I swim, used to swim seasonally and very proudly. As the weather got warmer, I would post my first swim of the season on social media. But now I swim year round. I still love the calm, peaceful days where the ocean embraces me and I can float and wallow. But I’ve also come to love the rough washing machine, sandy days where the waves buffet my body and the water is shockingly cold. I also have a weekly routine with a dear friend. Every Friday after work, I go to the beach. She’s an old mum mate, where our days at the beach go back to when we took our young sons. They would always moan and complain about having to get up and go, but they would moan even louder when it was time to go home. They’re now in their early twenties. But my friend and I, we still frequent the beach together, and every Friday we have what we call walk and wine, and we mean W-H-I-N-E, as well as W-I-N-E. So we meet at the beach, we walk the length of the beach, unpacking the days that have gone before, swim at the end of the beach, walk all the way back again, and then reward ourselves with a glass of rosé each at a cafe overlooking the beach and watch the sunset. 

So as it turns out, I’m one of the fortunate ones who gets to frequent cafes with my friends, and I also actually do yoga. And at the moment, every week when I come to the yoga mat, the intention I set myself is the one that Mullaloo Beach is teaching me, which is: I am enough. Thank you. 

OUTRO: Thank you for listening to our courageous, brilliant storyteller. The stories we’ve shared today are what drive our organization. Centre for Stories is a small, not-for-profit, relying in part on your support. If you liked these stories today, please let us know by emailing us your thoughts or any feedback you have to info@centerforstories.com or by making a donation at our website centreforstories.com. Big or small, all donations help us to keep sharing these important experiences from our community and support our mission of changing the world through building empathy and connection one story at a time. Thank you.