Changing to a minimalist life taught me more than one lesson.

A close up shot of two small black side tables with household items such as saucepans, a coffee maker, a juicer, and iron, some baking ware. All this is on a front porch, ready to give away.
Photo by the author: Lindy Ralph

Ruthlessly, my partner and I flung old stools and moth-eaten floor rugs into the large skip plonked in our driveway.

When I say my partner and me, I mean me. I was the ruthless one. He was the reluctant participant dragged along in my wake.

It was June 2020, in the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic, when we decided to move to the city (read about that here). My son had already left home and we were bored, needed jobs and were keen to start our third act.

Let’s give it all away!

We combined households a couple of years before and having moved…

I want to embrace body positivity and fat acceptance, but I know I would be healthier if I lost weight.

In the foreground is the top half of a fat woman in her thirties who is standing in front of a large in-ground swimming pool. She is wearing a black retro style swimming costume and dangly, bold, aqua colored earrings. Her head is slightly tilted back and she has a gentle smile. In the background people are swimming and sitting on colorful inflatables. The sun is setting and there is a row of beige pool loungers.
Photo by AllGo - An App For Plus Size People on Unsplash

I wasn’t a fat child but I thought I was.

I wasn’t a fat teen, but I thought I was.

I thought I was fat until I was fat.

In January 2021 I was waiting to have a procedure that requires sedation. The nurse had left me stuffed into a puffy black recliner in the hallway. My kinda-thin specialist rushed out from the operating theatre, approaching with smug enthusiasm in her spick and span blue scrubs.

You’re so lucky the anaesthetist didn’t cancel you. The table we’re using today can only hold a certain weight. …

Hint: it involves my Medium profile.

Image of the author by the author, taken from

I achieved a lifetime dream of having my work published in the mainstream media. They even put my face all over it — eep!

I've previously written about going to university to study writing in my fifties. I’m eighteen months into my professional writing and editing degree and I know my writing has improved out of sight in the past six months.

In my uni break a couple of months ago I committed to building a profile on Medium and I have learned a lot about how it works from other authors and editors. I have also been watching videos…

The frustrations of being locked down for over 200 days.

Photo by Claudia Wolff on Unsplash

This morning I got unreasonably angry with a voice on the phone that sounded like they were in a deep tunnel filled with water.

After a minute of telling them I couldn’t hear a word they were saying, I demanded they transfer me to someone else. I wanted to hang up but didn’t want to waste another ten minutes on hold. I hung up anyway then screamed the ‘F’ word so loud my partner came to see if I was okay.

Now I’m crying.

Today is peak Covid for me. In fact, today marks 200 days of Melbourne being…

Words by By Bridget Judd, taken from ABC Australia, 24 July 2021, 10.55 am

There are hidden dramas taking place everywhere.

The good and the bad.

Photo by Adrian Balasoiu on Unsplash

I didn’t know I even had ADHD until a year ago after I had been studying creative writing for eighteen months. I noticed that I found essay writing more challenging than other students. Now that I am diagnosed and understand the traits of an ADHD brain, I feel less of a dummy. Medication helps with motivation and focus.

A common misconception is that we have a complete lack of attention and focus. In my experience that is not true, I can’t sustain focus on things that bore me (and I get bored very easily). …

A memoir.

black and white close up of an elderly hand, ring on the wedding finger. There is the lower half of a very small child with their hand on top of the elder.
Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

We stood around the bed as Gramps was dying. Children, parents, cousins, aunties and uncles, three generations of us frozen in time. Holding our Breath. Sucking the air out of the room.

I stroked his hand, blue veins showing through transparent skin. His pulse was strong. He was minutes from the end.

In New Guinea, those hands gripped the rifle as Gramps held back the enemy. Young and terrified in the chaos of the jungle. Heat and filth and dirt. He thought his unit was behind him.

They weren’t.

Once strong, his hands steered the bicycle thousands of miles from…

Lindy Ralph

Middle aged Australian writer from Melbourne. Mother of a kind young man, partner, friend and foodie. she/her

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