by Jessica Rowe
Ingredients
2 × 185 g cans of tinned tuna, drained
2 cups of long-grain rice (I use a large bag of trusty microwave rice)
250 g cherry tomatoes, cut in half
½ red capsicum, cut into strips
1 continental cucumber, halved and cut into cubes
50 g small black pitted olives
4 hard-boiled eggs, cut in half
10 basil leaves, torn
Salad dressing
2 tsp Dijon mustard
½ garlic clove, finely chopped (I crush mine)
1½ tbsp red-wine vinegar
120 ml extra-virgin olive oil
salt flakes and freshly ground black pepper
Method
Flake the tuna into a large bowl. Add the cooked rice and the remaining ingredients.
For the dressing, place the mustard, garlic and vinegar in a small bowl and whisk to combine. Next slowly whisk in the oil, then season with salt and pepper to taste.
Pour the dressing over the salad, making sure it coats all the ingredients.
Success rate
Two out of four family members absolutely love this. However, the girls spend far too long picking out everything they don’t like from the salad. It’s simpler to just give them tuna and rice and then make this salad for Peter and myself.
5
Courage
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
GEORGE ELIOT
Carefully, I tiptoed around the coils of brown rope holding up the gold brocade curtains. It was pitch-black and my eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. No one else was around but I didn’t have much time before the stage manager found me and told me to go back to my dressing-room. Earlier that day, the cast had been given a briefing on the ‘dos and don’ts’ of the theatre. So I knew I wasn’t meant to be wandering around this backstage area on my own. But this was too good an opportunity to ignore since usually I was in the audience, sitting in the red antique velvet seats gazing up at the performers.
Tiny specks of dust danced across the stage, catching the light reflecting off the ornate baroque walls of the theatre. The smell of popcorn still lingered, making my tummy grumble especially loudly because I had been too nervous to eat much that day. Tears began forming in my eyes, it was so beautiful looking out onto the dress circle. Each day I had worried about why I was doing this. I had asked myself, ‘Would people laugh at me but not in a good way?’ ‘Would I forget my lines?’ ‘Would I muck up my dance steps?’ ‘Would my daughters suffer since I hadn’t spent much time with them during this mad month?’ ‘Had I wasted my father’s time, since he’d been staying with us to babysit the girls while I worked late into the night?’
However, when I stood grounded to the stage, all of those noisy words of self-doubt disappeared. This glorious, golden moment of stillness and wonder and the butterflies in my stomach were worth all the weeks of rehearsal, fear and lack of sleep.
‘Jess, is that you up there?’ asked Bonnie, the director and producer of the show.
She had appeared out of the dark, at the sound desk at the back of the theatre. There were just a few hours until showtime and she wanted to finalise the lighting cues.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Bonnie. It’s just so beautiful up here,’ I said.
‘My darling, you just enjoy it. Thank you for saying yes …’
At last I was relieved that I’d said yes to accepting the role of the empress in the pantomime Aladdin. Bonnie Lythgoe, the British actor, dancer and theatre producer and director had brought her love of pantomime to Australia because she was passionate about introducing a whole new generation of children to the theatre. This was the second time she’d directed and produced a pantomime in Sydney and she had patiently combined a cast of professional performers alongside people like me! My emperor was my friend and long-time television and radio host Jonathan Coleman. The pair of us would settle our nerves during dress rehearsals with Lindt chocolate and inane chatter.
Jono took to writing his lines with black texta on the palm of his hand. The problem was that the words would smudge as his palms sweated with nerves and the pair of us ended up repeating our lines over and over again to one another. During rehearsals, while we waited in the wings preparing to walk onto the stage, I’d remind Jono of what scene we were about to perform. Then in our downtime, I’d disappear to the bathroom for a nervous poo! Thank goodness Bonnie had given me my own dressing-room.
On our first night I strode out onto the stage in my floor-length red gown, wearing a dazzling paste crown on my head, and roared out to the audience. Those nerves soon disappeared to be replaced by adrenaline and then relief when I heard them laughing at my first joke. It was such a blast pretending to be a conniving, domineering woman for a few hours a night. When my daughters first saw me on the stage they couldn’t believe that this shouting, scary woman was their mummy. My mother had suggested that I apply some of my character’s no-nonsense approach to my real life. We both knew that would never work because if I ever tried to shout at home, my girls simply laughed at me. And their dad wasn’t far behind me in not being taken seriously by our daughters when he got cross with them. At heart, we’re both softies.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Although I wasn’t getting better at ‘discipline’, I had been getting better and braver at saying yes to unexpected career opportunities. What had helped me take these leaps had been my role as a panellist on Studio Ten, which had helped me to find my voice again and to stand up and speak out about the many social and political issues that we debated on the program. Every day I wore my heart on my sleeve when we argued about an issue and I could never be half-hearted about anything we discussed, regardless of the subject matter.
Too much of my early years had been wasted on worrying about what other people thought, and now I was determined to keep putting myself out there. For me, being brave was about remaining true to myself and showing up despite still feeling afraid of the consequences. But it’s never straightforward, as sometimes you imagine it would be simpler to lead a small, quiet life. Being brave means ignoring that bowel-churning fear, that never totally disappears, and instead listening to your heart. Often it’s easier to be logical and rational but it’s far more rewarding and meaningful to tap into our instinct and to listen carefully to what it is guiding you to do.
Recently though, I was almost sabotaged by that fear before a presentation that I was doing for Facebook in Asia. I was going to talk at a conference in Singapore in front of hundreds of their staff from the region and Sheryl Sandberg would also be attending it. The night before my speech I had a chance to walk onto the stage and run through my slides with the organisers. During the rehearsal I realised the goose bumps on my skin weren’t just from the arctic air-conditioning that was blasting through the giant function room. I was nervous and I also realised that I was terrified by the enormity of the opportunity that was now sitting heavily on my shoulders. There was that all-too-familiar voice popping back into my head: ‘What do you know?’ ‘Who are you to be talking to these incredible women?’ ‘You’re not enough’ ‘You can’t do this.’ I tried to push those fears away but I kept second-guessing myself once I left the stage.
While I looked out from my hotel room high over the Singapore skyline, I still couldn’t quieten those negative thoughts. Once I drew my eyes away from the pink lights and back into my spotless room, I needed to again go calmly through my speech for the next day. Scattered across my giant king-sized bed were my notes, a variation of the presentation that I had given hundreds of times over the years. It was part of my story: a story about the impact mental illness can have on your life, the importance of asking for help and about how embracing imperfection can help you lead a bolder and braver life.
But I had started to second-guess myself. How relevant was my story to women from Korea, Japan and India? Tomorrow I would be sharing the stage with a woman who’d escaped from North Korea and devoted her life
to empowering women and children. Who was I to tell the women in the audience, many who had overcome far greater obstacles than me, my story? Despite having this luxury king-sized bed to myself, I didn’t sleep well that night as I kept rewriting my speech in my mind, over and over again.
Early the next morning my mobile rang, as my daughters wanted to wish me luck before they headed off to school. Peter got on the line to say goodbye and he could hear the strain in my voice. Before we said our farewells he reassured me that he’d call back soon.
When I answered the phone an hour later, I heard Peter’s loud, clear voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Pussycat, I’ve got the girls to school, I’ve fed the cats, and Christina has just texted me to say she can’t come today. Anyway, tell me, are you ready for today?’
‘Sort of …’ I said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I didn’t really have a good sleep. I was thinking about my speech all night. I’m going to change it,’ I answered tentatively.
‘But what do you mean you’re changing it? It’s your story, Jessica. Just tell them your story!’
‘What if it’s not enough?’
‘It is. You’ve got this. Talk to them like I’ve heard you give this talk so many times.’
After we’d said goodbye I allowed my husband’s words to sink in, relieved that he’d come to my rescue, as he’d done so many other times. And I knew deep down what I needed to do. Our stories are what connect us—we may not remember facts or figures but what we do remember is how someone’s story makes us feel. All any of us wants is to feel understood.
Just a few hours after my husband’s pep-talk phone call, I danced onto the stage to the lyrics of Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake it Off’. I asked all the women in the audience to join me in shaking their wrists as well, and told them to shake off the pressure to be perfect. As I shook my wrists again and again and wiggled my bottom, slightly out of time to the music, I shook off that pressure I had put onto myself. Although my fear was still lingering in the background, I put my heart on the line and drew on my courage to tell my story. There were laughter, smiles, tears and some nodding of heads as I gave my speech. Afterwards, many women came up and shared their stories with me too. It didn’t matter where we came from or what our cultural norms were, we all had something to share with each other on that particular day.
Later that evening, I headed to the bar perched on top of my hotel and I ordered my first Singapore Sling. The balcony was crammed with fellow tourists also trying to capture their picture-perfect moment but there was a minimum US$200 spend if you wanted a window seat, so I made do with a stool squashed at the end of the busy bar. When no one was looking, I managed to drag my stainless-steel stool right over to the edge of the Perspex balcony. Slowly sipping my slushy-like flavoured cocktail, all I could now hear was that positive voice inside me, cheering me for getting through the day. There was nothing more I could have done. Peter was right, it was enough. I was enough.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
At other times in my life, I’ve also given it my all but it hasn’t always worked! An experience that comes to mind was my disastrous year co-hosting the Today show for the Nine Network. I’ve written in detail in my memoir Is This My Beautiful Life? about this period, so I’m not going to revisit the politics, the cruelty and the vileness of some individuals. Here is the abridged version: I was employed to do a job but thanks to forces within the Nine Network combined with sections of the print media, I was sacked from my job while I was on maternity leave. I’m still at a loss to understand what my crime had been to have been treated in such an appalling way.
On only my second day as co-host, I remember hiding in my dressing-room before the show to read newspaper headlines likening my appearance to a velociraptor. Remember those skinny, mean-looking dinosaurs that were the villains in Jurassic Park? The columnist said I had ‘razor-sharp, short blonde hair’, and described my chemistry with co-host Karl Stefanovic as ‘thrusting a hand towards her co-host like an over-friendly raptor’. The article concluded with the line: ‘It had been three hours but it felt like three years.’ Those words hurt even though I had expected to be criticised when I signed up for the job. Not everybody was going to like me and I’d wasted too many years seeking their approval. Who were these people? Well, they were some of my peers in the media, members of the public and media bosses.
Constructive criticism wasn’t a problem because despite reading the news for ten years, I knew I had to fine-tune my broadcasting skills that I needed for interviewing and ad-libbing for three hours of live television each morning. But what wasn’t helpful during this period of intense learning was the nasty criticism that dominated much of the media coverage about me. My intelligence, appearance, weight and loud laughter were frequently called into question. One commentator summed me up this way: ‘Rowe has the long limbs and angular face of a model; she is childless and loud.’ No one knew at the time that Peter and I were going through IVF and were desperate to have a family. When the criticism reached a crescendo, I was in the early stages of pregnancy with my Allegra. She was my sweet secret and she kept me going because her very existence taught me about fighting for survival. She blossomed from just ‘one good egg’ during our third IVF procedure, into a three-day-old cell and then into a healthy, somersaulting baby that was pushing at the sides of my tummy, eager to enter the world.
But I’m not going to devote any more time trying to make sense of that year. I refuse to be a victim of circumstance; instead, I’m a glorious, glittery survivor. All of us have challenges that can make or break us and now, more than ever, I’m a believer in sticking those cracked pieces back together to rise into something far more beautiful. Initially, it looks like failure and for a long time, I felt like a failure. But we don’t learn about our strength, our resilience and our power when life is easy. Author Brené Brown sums it up perfectly: ‘There is no greater threat to the critics, cynics and fearmongers than a woman who is willing to fall because she has learnt how to rise.’
Brené’s words inspire me to keep showing up and to keep striving through the tough, sometimes soul-destroying times in our lives. My counsellor first introduced me to Brené’s work a number of years ago when I was trying to make sense of the destruction of my career. If you’re looking for meaningful motivation, I encourage you to also check out her TED talks and books.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
For me, life is about being thankful for the forces of love and strength that I received from good people who helped me to rise back up. I learnt about the power of love, the love and ferocious loyalty of my husband who was willing to burn down his own career in defence of mine. We had both been working at the same network and his moral code couldn’t reconcile how an organisation where he’d spent most of his professional life would deliberately seek to destroy his wife. For once in our partnership, I had become the more sensible one and convinced him that we still needed to pay the mortgage so it was counterproductive for us to both be unemployed. Besides, I wouldn’t allow him to throw away his boyhood dream of being a news broadcaster.
I had experienced firsthand the destructiveness of words in print, but I also drew courage and strength from the written words of decent men and women. These journalists, politicians, feminists, athletes and entertainers whom I’d admired from afar leapt to my defence with letters, emails and phone calls of support. And I also experienced the kindness of strangers who also wrote to me, emailed me and stopped me in the street for a hug and some words of solidarity.
And most importantly, it was the ferocious, fierce love that I had for my unborn baby that helped me to rise up too. My baby girl was still safe inside of me, stretching her mermaid limbs in translucent amniotic fluid. And I needed her to know how much you had to fight for what mattered in your life. Her father and I had fought hard to make sure she would have her place in the world and my first lesson for her, even though I was unaware of it at the time, was that you had to kee
p ‘showing up’. She learnt via my lifeblood that to live a large, brave life, you needed to take risks. Even if it might on the surface appear to end badly.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Another example of being professionally bold (or possibly stupid) was my decision to do Dancing with the Stars for Channel Seven. My confidence had been shattered after I had been sacked from the Today show but I was still desperate to have another shot at a job in the media, having invested much of my life into building my journalism career. Ignoring the sage advice of my husband who accurately reminded me that I couldn’t dance, I somehow managed to convince myself that this offer to be on a dancing show would be my only chance of a comeback on television.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the floor Jessica Rowe and her partner Serghei Bolgarschii.’
Serghei grabbed my hand as we walked in darkness to our places on the dance floor. Wearing a cat suit and black sequinned pussycat ears, I sat on the bottom of the stairs and carefully arranged my feather boa tail behind me to avoid any tripping hazards once we started our foxtrot dance routine to the song ‘Love Cats’ by The Cure. The piano began to play and I stretched out my black-gloved hand to Serghei.
This routine was the highlight of my short stint on the show and I still have the feathered catsuit costume squashed into my daughter’s wardrobe. One day I’ll wear it again! During rehearsals for the show, I had revelled in the opportunity to get out of the house and apply my discipline to learning complicated dance routines. However, all of my hard work became unstuck when it was time to perform in the live shows since I would get extreme stage fright whenever we had to dance in front of anyone else. Slightly problematic when that was the premise of the program! Each Sunday evening, before we had to dance live in front of a studio audience and television cameras, I stood clutching Serghei’s hand, feeling sick to my stomach. What on earth was I doing here? I tried to calm myself by drawing on the advice of showbiz queen Patti Newton, my dressing-room buddy who told me, ‘You just have to let go’. It’s funny how closely her advice mirrored what I did on the Facebook stage a decade later in Singapore when I told the audience to ‘Let go of those expectations and shake it off like Taylor Swift.’
