Blog

Over the next few weeks...

…you’ll see me talkin’ up a storm on a special kinda soup that’s close to my heart and at the centre of my DNA.

Here’s an extract from said, ‘storm’ and my soon-to-be-published op-ed… 

“I scoff at the term, Sandwich Generation*.

When I think of sandwiches, I imagine high tea at the Ritz with sliced cucumbers and tiny cupcakes. I understand the reason behind this descriptor but I gotta say, combining the care of an elderly parent with teenage-boy-rearing never feels like a sandwich, it’s a soup; an often unpalatable, chunky, messy soup.

I juggle work, a radio-hosting role, freelance speaking, writing and film gigs plus the co-parenting of my beautiful 15 and 18-year-old sons. And since my beloved father passed in 2011, I’ve also taken up the mantle of being my 94-year-old mother’s primary caregiver.

A typical hour in my day goes something like this… FaceTime calls from Mum complaining about an ache or relative, reminders for me to eat, check up on her meds delivery, make a haircut appointment, helping my 15-year-old with a 1,800 word essay due yesterday, Googling how to parent 18-year-olds in challenging relationships, texting my boys’ father (insert urgent adulting to-do here)… rushing to get off Mum’s call for a Teams meeting with colleagues dealing with dumb clients and deadlines.
Ya, still with me?!”

I shared this today because my ‘Soup’ has been a tad (a lot) overwhelming lately which rendered my writer’s voice (temporarily) mute. 

Until next week…

* Middle-aged adults who care for both ageing parents and their own children.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

I love my lotions and potions...

…so I’m on a couple of databases that hawk said salves. Last week one sent this:

“… we understand that Mothers’ Day can be difficult… If you’d rather we didn’t send you emails containing Mother’s Day-related content, please click, ‘opt-out’.”

And society continues to wrap up folks in cotton wool for fear of… oh yeah, that’s right, feeling.

I’m not lampooning anyone’s grief. But this feels like enabling a stance that keeps people stumbling through life scattering eggshells like brittle petals in their wake.

There’s not a human alive who isn’t nursing a wound. I think about my late father everyday but will I opt-out of an email to assuage my pain? I process my grief my way and faceless brands don’t need to tiptoe around me while I’m doing it.

You may know the serum I use, but you don’t know me. So, quit the crap. You sell stuff not emotional support.

It’s yet another example of handing our power to something outside of ourselves.

Please spare our feelings Big Brand. Clearly, we’re incapable of looking away when we see triggering ads or emails.

At what point do we take responsibility? To walk our own path, confident that we can carry on even when the inevitable log trips us up. It’s like going on a hike with someone running up ahead clearing our way for a smoother journey.

That’s not real life. It’s a movie set.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

“When someone shows you...

…who they are believe them, the first time.”

I adore this quote by the mighty Maya Angelou. It’s her signature ‘how-to’ on choosing healthy connections that have your best interests at heart.

The operative word being, heart.

I’ve been a hopeful romantic since the beginning of time – give or take a few lives. My belief in ‘happily ever after’ is steel-clad but, stupid humans have occasionally stained this. Still, I’m hopeful.

I’ve fallen for the ‘potential’ in paramours – not the reality. How gorgeous, sexy, witty, flirty, you are! And then… inconsistency, ghosting, apathy… throw in some gaslighting, manipulation and narcissism and I’ve got myself a lesson – not love. Unfortunately, sometimes I’ve had to repeat the class!

The truth is, we’re horrible liars. But it’s not our words or actions that communicate who we truly are to the world – since these can be embellished and performed consistently but… patterns?

If people show you who they are once, twice, thrice – it’s a pattern that can’t be faked.

As well as knowing why the caged bird sang, Maya understood human nature so her quote is explosive in its power to transform the way you love and let people in.

It’s not about instinct or following your gut. There’s no detective work required.

Believe in what a person reveals to you the first time simply because…

“… they know themselves better than you do.”

It’s Maya’s philosophy and mine too. I just need to follow it more.

What about you?

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Don’t know what emotional alchemy...

…fires up with ageing that makes you seek meaning (and comfort) in nature. 

I’ve never been a camp-under-the-stars kinda gal. Sure, the sparkles overhead would be glorious. But, the bugs? The mud? The things that go screech, grunt and hoot in the night? Not for me. 

And yet, Mother Nature, even when flanked by concrete, can beguile me to distraction. 

My window at work boasts sweeping views of a carpark and a lone tree I’ve named Jazz Hands because, on breezy days its little leaves perform for me. But it’s less soft shoe shuffle and more earnest flutter, in time and in unison.

Sometimes, when they catch the light, I imagine the leaves as little green sequins, shimmering this way and that –– the most unlikely meditative vista in town. 

But what on earth can a city tree near a grimy carpark teach me?

This week, bursts of unforgiving torrential rain drenched my view. While people sprinted for cover, my Jazz Hands tree was unmoved. Only its leaves, nature’s sequins, flickered up a storm as the rain pelted down. Their shimmer stubborn, relentless –– because the show must go on, right?  

It’s true. I’m a seeker for meaning. And probably a sucker too. But to me, the leaves were not drowning, just waving –– shining on, in spite of the storm. 

A twee reflection, sure. But, so what? We all need reminders of our souls’ wattage when the clouds roll in.  

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

I’m talking, tattling. Dishing the dirt. 

Spilling tea and beans. Yes, messy – but necessary.

Many millennia ago, gossip was simply fireside storytelling – for warmth, connection, for show. My Hellenic Ancestor, Homer, kickstarted the trend. This dude’s Illiad is history’s biggest, fattest tea spill about the bitching that ripped through Greece post-Trojan war; love, sibling rivalry, control, pissed off parents – a typical Friday night in my childhood.

I grew up among gossip; a cloying, annoying oft-repeated round of she said, he saids. Add the nausea of regurgitating old gripes and …

Little did I know this was building my story muscle.

Gossip inspired my first recorded ‘talk show’ – Phyllis’ Opinions to Family Problems (sic). I was 12 and my grandmother, my (reluctant) guest.

Decades later a famous screenwriting teacher shared this priceless gem with me,

“Gossips make great storytellers.” Was this permission or, validation?

George Harrison scolded, “Gossip is the devil’s radio.”

Truman Capote fired back, “All literature is gossip.”

But US columnist Liz Smith, (aka The Grand Dame of Dish) dropped the mic,

“Gossip is just news running ahead of itself in a red, satin dress.”

Like stories, gossip isn’t going away. So, get good at it. Choose vital facts, over vitriol. Tell the truth, not tales. The purest form isn’t about belittling behind backs. It’s your ancient instinct to connect, share, entertain, love and be loved.

Am I an advocate for gossip? Sure, if it does good and feels good.

And forget about the red, satin dress – mine’s, silk.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Who’s your guru? 

Who are you outsourcing the getting of your wisdom to? And, crucially, why?

I was at a yoga retreat recently and on day two we were told a Yogi was gracing us with her ‘unfiltered presence’. And then there she was….

A silver-haired crone with a hook nose, broken leg and a demeanour that snap crackled with humour, nous and zero f**ks.

“You are what you worship.”

“Being yourself is the most liberating thing you can be.”

Then she gleefully regaled us with technicolour tales from her rock star yogi life… luscious affairs with younger men, the natural altered states 4,000 hours of meditation can bring and that one time a bendy friend popped a line of coke under her nose while she was doing a headstand.

Her cavalier attitude to perfection, intoxicating. Her truth bombs, sublime.

“Our only duty is to become transparent.”

The influencer types around me nodded in earnest, absorbing the gospel. But the night before they were sharing their unresolved traumas (while their websites hawked $1,000 coaching sessions on mastering your power).

Wanna really harness your fire? Ignore the gurus. They’re unlikely to give you their warts n’ all wisdom like this Yogi,

“Life is your guru.” She said before describing her prolapsed bladder and the plug she used to keep it in. The chick beside me asked her what the plug was made of, and the Yogi didn’t miss a beat,

“I’ve got no idea. But it’s not made of wheatgrass.”

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Adolescence is the latest TV show… 

…that’s scorched column inches everywhere.

Technically, the series is flawless… from a soundtrack that includes the haunting reimagining of Sting’s, Fragile to the way each episode unfolds as a single continuous shot, dragging you into the family’s nightmare – without respite. And the performances? Well, now you’re a voyeur with a front row seat to all the terror.

From a parent’s perspective, it’s bile churning stuff. All the superlatives are deserved… ‘outstanding, exceptional, groundbreaking’. And for the detractors who criticise the slow pace – please, stop. Not all stories need to pelt you with guts and action to pin you to an armchair.

I’m clearly waxing lyrical here, so what’s my problem?

One word, nuance. Or the lack thereof.

Yes, Adolescence does a stunning job of demonising the boy and his ‘toxic masculinity’, but the victim’s toxic femininity was glossed over in a fleeting line or two. Why? Are we assuming she was completely blameless? Is victim consciousness rearing her ugly head again?

No, she didn’t deserve her fate. But neither did he.

I’m glad some of the series’ editorial has contained phrases like,

“…the topics raised in the show are not just a conversation for men and boys.”

I don’t know. Why can’t we reframe the narrative that seems to consistently batter males into submission like they are the only villains of the piece?

Call me a dreamer. I just think that equality is the tonic, toxic needs.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

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