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Welcome to my imperfect email.

As always, every week, we’ll send a question that will help you reflect on your own imperfect life, inspired by this week’s episode.

Grab your notepads and pens, Ben Crowe, friend of the show, and mentor of many, many incredible people (helllooooo Dustin Martin circa 2017), is back in the studio to impart some wisdom.

Expect* nothing but greatness,

Bell

*the only context we’ll ever use the dreaded ‘e’ word, promise.

We'd love to hear your answer to this question. If you're in the mood to get vulnerable and share your writing, send it through.

Back in The Academy of Imperfection FOR THE THIRD TIME, Ben is here to talk to Hugh, Ryan and Josh about purpose, play and love.

As Ben explains, ‘play’ and ‘love’ mean something different to everyone, however, they are both ridiculously important and explicitly linked. If love is the intention, then play is the action.

“At my worst, I am enough”. (7:42 - 9:06)

_{This is Josh’s courage mantra, which you can hear more on here in our previous episode with Ben.}

Create a ‘Just Admit It’ list. (25:07 - 27:43)

_{To admit the things you can’t accept. For some, this may look like “I’m scared of failure”, or “I don’t feel worthy unless I win”. Listing these admissions may help you to identify which beliefs are holding you back, and you may need to reframe to restore trust and confidence in yourself.}

For your next performance moment, dedicate it to someone who matters to you. (1:18:42 - 1:19:30)

_{This can make a nerve-wracking experience feel intentional, safe, and maybe even a little bit spiritual (don’t tell Josh, he still doesn’t believe in ghosts).}

Or send them your unique signup link: {{rp_refer_url}}

Since becoming a mum, I’ve found myself struggling with the reality of death in a way I never had before.

It’s not a philosophical concept anymore, or something that sits in the distant future. It feels immediate, personal, and unavoidable.

When my parents moved towns, something shifted for me. Each visit now feels like I’m seeing time pass across their faces in real time. I notice the small things; how they move a little slower, how certain conversations repeat, how the years are starting to show. And suddenly I’m aware that our time together isn’t infinite. That one day there will be a visit that doesn’t happen again. Accepting that my mum and dad will one day not be here feels almost impossible to sit with.

And at the same time, becoming a mother myself has added another layer to that fear. After three years of fertility treatment, my daughter arriving felt like a miracle that was hard won. She’s only eight months old, and yet I find myself already grieving a future moment that hasn’t happened yet; the reality that one day she will live in a world without me.

The thought that she will experience the same kind of loss that I will inevitably feel when I lose my own parents. I know how deeply those losses shape people. They mark you. They change the way you move through the world. And I struggle to accept that I can’t shield her from that. That loving her means also accepting that one day she will have to navigate life without me in it.

My years in emergency services have complicated that acceptance even more. Eight years of answering 000 calls exposes you to parts of life that most people are fortunate enough not to see so closely. I’ve heard the chaos of freak accidents, the cruelty of illnesses that don’t discriminate, the unfairness of good people experiencing unimaginable things.

You hear how fragile everything really is. I’ve heard last breaths and first cries. I’ve given instructions for CPR to new mums on new babies, who have woken to them not breathing. I’ve given CPR instructions to teenagers who have found their terminally ill parents, and in the fear of the moment, don’t want to abide by the DNR that was in place to avoid this very trauma for their children. I’ve taken calls from the same dementia patient 13 times in a day because they kept forgetting they had already called for their amputated leg…that happened 30 years ago.

Before becoming a mum, those calls still affected me, but they lived mostly in the realm of imagination. Now, when I hear about a baby, or a child, or a family in crisis, I can’t help but see my daughter’s face there. The stories I once processed professionally now cut straight through to something deeply personal.

And it’s strange, because those experiences could easily push me toward trying to control everything, to wrap my daughter in a protective bubble and guard her from every possible danger the world holds. But I also know that doing that would rob her of the very thing that makes life meaningful: the freedom to experience it fully. The joy, the risk, the curiosity, the growth that comes from living outside the boundaries of absolute safety.

So I find myself constantly walking this tightrope between two instincts. One that wants to hold her close and protect every second of her life. And another that knows the greatest gift I can give her is the space to live her own life bravely.

I think that’s where the struggle to accept death really sits for me now. It has made life feel incredibly precious, but also incredibly fragile. It makes me want to be fully present; to soak up every laugh, every sleepy cuddle, every ordinary moment. But it also makes me hyperaware of how easily things can change.

I’m learning that the work isn’t in eliminating that fear, but in learning to live alongside it. To let the awareness of mortality deepen my appreciation for the life unfolding in front of me, rather than letting it steal the joy from it. Because if this one life is all we get, then perhaps the bravest thing we can do is love deeply anyway, even knowing that loss is part of the deal.

Bryani

Thank you so much for sharing your reflection with us, and with all of you! Always vulnerable responsibly.

This check-list-of-sorts, inspired by our episode with Matt Preston, features the practical conversations which can help you focus on grieving after the loss of a loved one, rather than administrative chaos.

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