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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

A chocolate ad from the 80s…

…dusted off a memory for me this week and suddenly I was 11 all over again.

The action revolved around a chick in a long, flowing white dress and floppy, wide-brimmed hat. She seemed to float along, oblivious to the dude sipping his wine, watching her. So captivated was he by the chocolate in her wicker basket, he quickly put on his own hat and followed her…

And the lyrics melt over the melody…

No other chocolate looks like Flake looks.
No other chocolate tastes like Flake tastes.

Full of Cadbury Dairy Milk,
Feel it crumble and melt in your mouth.

Cue a slowed down, close-up of the woman’s thin, glossy lips just as the dude pops his head through the bushes.

No other chocolate does it to you, like Flake does…

That vintage jingle popped into my head faster than you can say, cocoa stalker. We’re talking word-perfect recognition. But, why?

Back in ’81 I may have enjoyed a little flaky chocolate (my tastebuds were not yet wise to the bittersweet pleasures of 70% dark bars.), so why did singing those confected lyrics feel like I was reciting Byron?

…because it was like travelling to an innocent pocket of time. A tune, a lyric, a cringey commercial – you never know what’s going to light up a dusty pathway in your brain and strike a bigger chord than a crumbly chocolate ad from the 80s ever will.

But that’s just a philosophy, my Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

The Greek Philosopher, Epictetus…

…once said, “We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak.”

But I love talking. Even when a teen stutter strangled my words, mid-sentence. Even if it meant smooching Ireland’s slimy Blarney Stone to power up my ‘gab’.

And yet, in the last few weeks I took my wise ancestor’s words to heart. I went against my have-a-chat heritage and listened…

…to my mother as she moaned about her roast chicken really being a rooster, “…it tasted funny.” And to loved ones who spun lies and broke promises, pleading,​

“Hear me out, hear me out!”

But this ain’t a gossip column, it’s a wake up call – sponsored by my ears.

For those of you who believe in your body’s intelligence and its ability to kick into protection mode when you’re pushed, this missive is for you.

On Monday night I found myself in a dizzy spell from hell with a buzzing ear thanks to an infection that sent me reeling and… hurling into the first bowl that was pushed into my hands – ironically, a salad spinner.

A midnight trip to emergency revealed a case of labyrinthitis. Say what?

A dose of antibiotics later and this morning I woke up with clearer ears than I’ve had in weeks. Though I’m still healing, it feels like I’m hearing anew.

New sounds. New thoughts. And a new resolution to listen. To me. More.

Hopefully this Phylosophy won’t fall on deaf ears.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025