Excerpt from 'F-Bomb Affirmations' the book

‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ I push my way through the crowd of groupies cluttering the courtyard by the backstage door. There is some jostling as they hesitate to give up their precious spots where they have been waiting for who knows how long.

They turn to look at me with disdain at first, and then upon seeing what I am carrying, disdain grudgingly turns to understanding and envy.

Fuck, this is awkward.

I start to feel nauseous, I can’t believe I am doing this. Maybe I should turn back.

Who the fuck do I think I am? I don’t belong here.

Every cell in my body wants to run, but I resist the strong urge to turn around and instead keep putting one foot in front of the other and moving through the group towards the front.

Come on Natalie. Breathe. Use your tools.

I’m having a mental block and it takes me a moment to run through my usual coping tactics.

Okay, an affirmation.

I keep moving forward.

I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’ve got this.

Nausea still rises. But I keep breathing. Then it dawns on me that now would be a great time to test my new theory about affirmations.

Okay. I’ve fucking got this. I’ve fucking got this. I’ve fucking got this.

Focusing on the power that the extra word gives the affirmation I feel the stormy ocean that is my belly calm, and I get a surge of energy and confidence. I soon reach the front few rows of fans and I now can see the security dude guarding the door. He is massive and looks like he crushes butterflies for fun.

Shit. Perhaps I should go back? What the fuck am I doing?

But I can only imagine what the faces of the groupies would look like if I turned around. I’m such a people pleaser, and the mere thought of their ‘unimpressed at my failure’ faces drives me on.

No. I’ve fucking got this. I’ve fucking got this. I’ve fucking got this.

I push through the last of them. The ones at the front are the most hard core fans, they have probably been here since early this morning. I expect them to resist. But they part for me as if in respect that I have made it this far.

Butterfly crusher sees me and raises an eyebrow.

Okay, game on. Come on. I can fucking do this.

“Hi, um, I’m here for Justin Timberlake.” The lie feels clunky in my mouth.

Butterfly crusher says nothing, and so I turn my body slightly so he can see what I am carrying.

“Oh right.” He looks relieved. He has probably dealt with a few too many obsessed groupies in his time. “For massage, sure, come on in”.

A rush of endorphins flood my body as I realise that’s the first gatekeeper down.

Hell yes, I’ve fucking got this.

He pushes open the doors for me and after manoeuvring myself and my table through them I find myself at the end of a very long corridor with multiple doors going off it. I am in the familiar warren which is backstage.

Ah shite, where to now?

I turn back to the closing doors and seeing my questioning face Butterfly catches a door and holds it open ‘It’s Joey you’ll be wanting, the Tour Manager, he is at the end on the left, name on his door’.

‘Thank you!’ I smile in relief.

Yep, I’ve fucking got this.

I walk with confidence in my step into the depths of backstage.

I can hear what is possibly a sound check going on in the belly of the building. There is a buzz of pre-show adrenaline in the air. People dressed predominantly in black jeans with oversized black tees and sporting hair well overdue a haircut nod at me and say hello in voices which belong in an American sitcom. I smile and return the greeting, feeling a bit like I am in an American sitcom myself.

The last door on the left has an askew laminated sign attached to it reading ‘Joey’, I try not to look to closely at the cartoon naked man that someone has drawn in the corner.

The door is ajar, but I knock anyway.

‘Yep, come in!’ The sitcom voice calls from within. I gently push open the door and behind a makeshift desk sits, another ‘black t-shirt clad and needing a haircut’ man.

‘Hey Joey, I’m checking in to see if any of the crew, band, or artists are needing massage tonight.’

Please don’t let this be all in vain.

‘Oh yeah, cool, sure. Let me find you a space to set up in. That would be great’

Boom, second gatekeeper down! Hell yeah, I’ve fucking got this.

Joey finds me a small random room not in use and I set up and put some of my own laminated signs out, directing people to me.

I wish I could tell you that I did in fact get my hands on Justin Timberlake that night, but instead it was mainly crew and his band. Big American roadies who asked me for deep pressure and then took that back when they felt my strength, making jokes about how they didn’t think they would be beaten up by a woman today. And small toned dancers, their over-worked bodies hungry for the therapeutic touch.

I left that evening with my pockets full of cash, but more importantly, with my confidence flying. I had done something so out of my comfort zone. And I had nailed it.

Back when I lived in London I massaged musicians backstage and celebrities in their penthouses weekly, through the company I contracted to. Here in Australia I didn’t have the backing of the company, and I missed the work and the money. When I heard Justin Timberlake was playing Brisbane I wondered who of my colleagues would have been assigned to him in London. Then I thought why not me, here, in Australia? Could I just turn up and wing it?

This thought reflected the shift which had been happening within me recently. Since I had become a mother I had found my fierce. The Lioness within me had awakened, the Mama Bear, the protector.

This fierceness was echoed in my journaling, my thoughts, in the workings of my inner world, and now it was being made manifest in my outer world. I was doing things I didn’t think myself capable of.

And I started colouring all parts of my life with this shift. This mama was claiming her space in the world. This mama was making shit happen.

Specifically my affirmations. I had started dropping an F-bomb into my affirmations.

And fuck, did it work!

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