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When people, from strangers to neighbours, start to label young kids with terms like "hyperactive" or "slow" or as having "attention deficit disorder" it makes my blood boil. These traits may or may not apply, but why are people so quick to label kids, especially those who are not their own?
The "big" aunty in tights, walking gaily down the chic mall or the neighbourhood market, and who still in a very evolved world generates snickers, may have run an obstacle course to get herself to buy her first pair, and climbed a mountain of belief to wear it! Against her family, her husband, her kids, her magazines, her friends' sense of aesthetics, and who knows what else to reach the finish line of confidence.
Over the past 12 months, I've worked my way back into civilisation with a very real goal -- to publish my book. I'm thankful that after a tumultuous journey, this month, my memoir Holy Cancer: How A Cow Saved My Life is finally releasing. In the past year, I've had to constantly reflect, reaffirm and reflect again on these years that my book highlights.
Recently I read, in a newspaper no less, that a woman was divorcing her husband a week into the marriage because he had poor table manners. I gasped when I read the article and then doubled over in laughter. I wondered, have we really stooped to such lows in our quest to achieve perfection in everything in our lives? Is imperfection that bad? Why is it difficult to be happy with what we have, flaws and all?