Author: Phyllis Foundis

Writer’s block, who me? No. 

I don’t block.

Okay, maybe once in my very early 20s I experienced the very foreign – and thankfully, fleeting – sensation of not having anything to write about.

I remember being gripped by panic, thinking, will I ever write anything again? But the block lasted about as long as it took for me to write that last sentence.

Why? My Muse and I are, tight.

Actually, the other day someone gave me a cure-all that can bust any block, large or small, wide open delivering a veritable cascade of inspiration. It’s that online, rapid-fire, faceless, plagiarising, pilfering pal called, AI!

Say hello to your ready-made, would-ya-like-fries-with-that block-buster! Now why didn’t I think of that?! Oh yeah, that’s right – because AI is a soul-less excuse for original idea generation that has NO PLACE IN THE CREATIVE ARTS.

Now. Where was I? Oh yeah, my generous Muse.

In this last week alone, she has been working overtime bestowing insights, ideas and revelations stoked by the fires of family life, misbehaving hormones, a wise-cracking, coke-sniffing Yogi, observations from a luxe retreat littered with influencers, (yeah, littered) and even a Netflix series of all things!

Whew. Truly an embarassment of riches. I guess you can consider this missive a trailer of sorts for future Phylosophies.

Just for today my friend, I needed a break from scribin’ and stuff.

Right here, right now, I wanted to write about nothing – which, I guess, is still something… of a Phylosophy, for you.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

The following words might seem…

…femme-scented, on the surface. But this is also about how definitions can mean the difference between defeat and defiance.

Like a lot of my female peers, I am in hormonal flux.

This is a delightful time of heat surges, mood merry-go-rounds and even some ear buzzings which feel like my brain is trying to pick up an obscure radio station in Latvia.

Throw some formication into the ‘meno mix’ and you’ve got all the ingredients for what I call, The Hormone Apocalypse. Yes, formication, that sensation you feel when you’re convinced tarantulas are browsing up and down your skin. (After many jump scares, I’ve learnt to look first, panic later.)

But back to the Apocalypse. It’s easy to shake, be rattled and recoil at this.

Catastrophes, damage, destruction, oh my! But the Greek word apokálypsis means a revelation, to uncover, disclose, reveal, oh yes! ​

This dynamite definition​ feels so right because alongside the nuts symptoms I’ve also felt a ‘take-no-prisoners’ fearlessness I’ve craved forever. My decades of people-pleasing and caring what the entire solar system thinks of me is disintegrating to reveal, The Real Me.

So, if you’re wrangling with your own Hormone Apocalypse, take heart.

You are walking into a deeply powerful chapter in the story of YOU. And it can be a bold ass STRUT… if you let it.

“Aging is an extraordinary process whereby you become the person you always should have been.”

That’s David Bowie’s sage philosophy and My Phylosophy too.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

In this age of loud (and necessary)…

…feminism, I ask you to get quiet and open your eyes because… walking among us are the faux feminists.

Oh sure, they’ll regale you with endless tales of silly men and their ineptitude, they’ll even ra-ra about absolutely, positively having your back, but when it comes down to it, they’ll revert to husband house rules or worse, play dumb.

In recent months, my world has tilted slightly on its axis a.k.a hitting the pointy end of parenting teens. I’ve cried harder than I did when my father died. It’s been very tough and I’ve never felt so powerless, or alone because…

I’ve been abandoned by the Sisterhood? No. The Motherhood.

This is the group of women I’ve desperately needed when the words, “Have I failed?” threatened to unravel me.

If your once adorable offspring has morphed into an inexplicable manchild or womanchild overnight and now you’re clamouring for the manual that will help you navigate this mindf*ck phase – I need you.

I’m not dismissing the incredible child-free folks who have offered their shoulders for spontaneous sobs. But. The mothers who I thought would reach out have taken one stance.

Heads. Buried. Sand. You know who you are.

And the phenomenal mothers who showed up with love and lattes, you know who you are too.

Am I being too hard? Too needy? Maybe. But this is my Phylosophy and I’ll vent if I want to. Feel free to do the same.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

In a week where Oscar winners…

…flung their gum to girlfriends, here’s my nuts International Women’s Day tale.

It began with a message from a former colleague.

“I have an invitation for you I’d like to talk about.”

He was planning an IWD event and wanted me to facilitate an all-female panel discussion. After encouraging me to lower my rate (his big corporate outfit clearly cash-strapped), I was tentatively booked.

That was late January.

Mid-February dawned and the crickets descended. No emails. Calls. Texts. So I messaged, voicemailed. But, no reply. I made a million excuses for the man whose LinkedIn profile heaves with ‘strategic insight’ rhetoric.

So why ignore me? Amnesia? Stupidity? Or just small balls? As a Boy Mama, I am not about crucifying the straight white male – only dumb humans bereft of EQ and courtesy.

A browse on LinkedIn revealed a post he’d made two weeks ago, promoting the event – with another panel facilitator. I’m certain the room was filled with chicks oblivious to the impotent machinations of a disingenuous man behind the scenes. This fires up my fury but I’m grateful for the emotions that seethe and retreat inside me. They give me a level of unf*ckability that makes the people-pleaser in me shudder.

Embrace your ire, ladies, don’t hide it. There’s profound power in you this International Womens Day – and everyday.

As for the man who essentially stole my gig without explanation, I say thank you. Your cowardice became satisfying fodder for this Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Losing my labyrinth virginity was…  

…meant to be seamless. That’s spirituality, right? No mess. So, when Tourist Sneakers stood on my path, I was miffed. And territorial.

The Park Guide stepped in,

“This happens. There’s only one path in and out. Just step aside and carry on your way.”

So, the woman walked around me and a few twists and turns later when someone else blocked ‘my’ path, we side stepped each other, smiled and moved on.

Eventually my fellow ‘lab walkers’ had left the path leaving me alone with the labyrinth.

I arrived at the centre, and promptly sat in a lotus pose on hot concrete. Serenity was a little tricky. But I tried to squeeze some zen outta the moment by counting backwards from 100 to feel the … force? Or the pain in my butt. I couldn’t decide.

A couple days later, I posted the lost wallet to its owner. And on Valentine’s Day, she sent me… A little book of haiku poetry wrapped in butterfly gift paper. And when I opened the tiny book at a random page, I saw –

Those falling blossoms all return to the branch when I watch butterflies.

The Divine is some kinda spectacular.

I realised what the words ‘end of life directives’ meant for me…

Maybe it’s kissing one way of living goodbye and embracing the beginning of another that requires, bold, fresh moves in spite of life’s mess and … because of them.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

‘End of life Directives.’

I stared at the haunting words written in half-hearted cursive.

Capital E. Capital D. Apparently ‘life’ didn’t need the emphasis?

You don’t expect death to cross your path on the way to a labyrinth – do you? I glanced at the wallet owner’s birthdate. Yep, I hadn’t misread it. We share a birthday.

Shrugging disaster thinking away, I pocketed the wallet and walked on. A few metres later, there it was…

A giant flat engraving in stone. Kinda unremarkable for a spiritual tool but I was ready to tread every twist and turn, wide open for…?

Five people were already walking; silver-haired chicks in tourist sneakers and creased linen. A dude in a designer t-shirt.

The volunteer guide approached, smiling.

“Have you walked the labyrinth before?” No.

“Well, you can’t get lost if you stay on path.”

I devoured these words, delicious. And he continued,

“I need to bow you in,”

After our heads met briefly (the reverence delightful), I stepped into the labyrinth.

Walking slowly, peace wrapped me up with every step, heel, toe, heel and then… hello… little butterfly? What? Swapped petals for concrete? Why?

I studied her bright, orange wings. Her cameo appearance pushed me deeper inside. I walked faster, with more purpose. Even comfort.

Everything that came before, lost love, trust and deadly directives disappeared.

I exhaled, looked up and almost bumped into ‘tourist sneakers’.

She blushed, “I don’t know how this happened!”

I don’t care. Get off my path.

To be continued…

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

My first brush with a labyrinth…

…came when I saw Jim Henson’s 1986 movie starring David Bowie and his magical balls.

But I digress.

After facing off a few fire-breathing dragons so far this year, I figured it was time for an emotional reset. So I decided to walk the labyrinth in Centennial Park.

Little did I know the ensuing magic would rival anything Bowie, Henson and his muppets could ever conjure up.

Unlike a maze, a labyrinth only has one path. There are no dead ends. No traps. It’s an ancient meditation tool for contemplation and spiritual transformation. So, it ain’t just a walk in the park.

Armed with a notepad, pen and water, I set off on my journey – sans phone. But five minutes in and my monkey mind had swung into action.

I’m going to be late. Distance too great. Too many dogs, toddlers, prams, power-walking gossips, joggers, scooters – blocking my path. Turn back. Don’t bother. No point. Too hot.

Five minds full of crap later and I found myself on (Charles) Dickens Avenue – the writer’s path, 50m from the Labyrinth.

Going barefoot, my toes sank gratefully into the dew-drenched grass. Up ahead a couple helped their little girl, Page, balance on a log.

Staying focused on my path, I looked down and spotted a small black wallet. I flicked it open and saw the words, End of life directives scrawled on thick brown card.

I pulled out the driver’s license – her birthdate, mine.

To be continued…

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Writing is in my DNA.

I can’t not write. On napkins, in journals, with a blunt pencil or my beloved 19-year-old Montblanc fountain pen.

And devouring trillions of lovingly-crafted sentences goes hand in hand with my compulsion. I adore Maya Angelou, Carrie Fisher, Tina Fey, Mitch Albom, John Donne and Mary Oliver. Mostly, non-fiction. Mostly, stunning memoirs. But biographies? I can take ‘em or leave ‘em. I don’t want opinions or remotely sourced insights.

Maya is a deeply magical memoirist. She wrote seven volumes of autobiography, climbing back through her history to life as a little girl growing up in the segregated south with her grandmother and uncle.

Legend has it that Maya would take a stack of yellow notepads to a hotel room and spend lost weekends writing her memories down, one by one. Her powers of recollection remarkable. Her courage supernatural.

She didn’t just spill the tea, she splashed it around! Mess was necessary.

My memoirs write themselves in my head on a daily basis. Sometimes on fast forward. Always in luxurious detail. The only thing holding me back?

Good old fashioned, hairy fear.

‘What will people think of me if I write it all down?’

But aging is a quiet and untamed liberating phenomenon.

And I relish the thought of taking no prisoners on the page. Of writing words that will free me and possibly (hopefully) piss people off.

I saw an interview with a writer once who said,

“If my family didn’t want me to write about them, they should’ve behaved.”

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Does your life feel like a movie?

Mine does.

Most days I hoard dozens of scenes, plot twists, zingy bits of dialogue, perfect exposition, backstory and intrigue. My mantra – you can’t write this stuff – playing on loop in my head.

And I love the lust I feel for story. However.

Lately, as life flings dumb people, Greek drama and big, fat lessons my way, I’m desperate to run. But instead of fleeing the scene, I direct it instead.

How, you may ask, does one control the uncontrollable? Easy.

You see yourself as the star of your life’s movie. Cause baby, you are.

If you were watching a movie of your life right now, if you were watching yourself grinning (and baring) the slings and arrows scene after scene…

What choices would you wish your character would make?

WHAT WOULD YOU BE YELLING AT THE SCREEN FOR YOUR CHARACTER TO DO RIGHT NOW?

I made myself sit in that dark theatre recently when my life threatened to pull me under. When gut-deep sobs grabbed hold, I saw the light in that projected reality, stood up and asked,

“What would I want my heroine to do?”

The answer came fast.

I want her to win.

And with that, I stepped back in the starring role where I call the shots. Where, I don’t just flip the script – I write it.

This perspective is real movie magic because everything that unfolds from that propels the hero in you, forward.

So, lights, camera… action.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Ever dabbled in the self-help space?

Been seduced by those preaching-teaching, do-more, be-more, make-stuff-happen prophets? I have.

Back in the early 90s I was a regular at a book shop in the city that sold esoteric everything. I remember it was on Druitt Street, kinda hidden from the hustle of life’s rush. I’d get lost among the shelves, stuffed full of more extraordinary words than I could ever devour in a lifetime – angel tales to the left of me, tarot guides to the right, essays on Jung and the pharoahs, tiny books called, Illusions and Jonathan Livingstone Seagull jostled for space with Khalil Gibran and the Old Testament…

Fast forward a decade and I’m in Wales, walking over hot coals before weeping in a room with 1,000 strangers (as orchestrated by the maestro of motivation himself, Tony Robbins). But I bowed out when the call came to ‘go to the next level’ and pay $10k for a course on his private Fijian island. 



For most of my adult life I’ve pushed and prodded and held steadfast to the belief that I Must Make Things Happen – a statement that’s often smacked of struggle and a lust for results. Exhausting. 


But the other day I read a simple, sweet little sentence that sent a rush of relief through me. 


The Universe meets you at the depth of your surrender – not at the height of your struggle.

Ya mean, just do… nothing?! My mind stutters. Thoughts akimbo. 



No. Not nothing. Just not everything. 



© Phyllis Foundis 2025