A couple of weeks ago, I planted a packet of sunflower seeds. I imagined these beautiful yellow giants swaying in the breeze all summer carrying in their pretty heads handfuls of edible presents for me to plant and for the birds to enjoy. One day some of them peaked through from the damp soil, squinting into the bright Spring sun, all green and fresh and a glorious example of life. The next day, they were gone. All except half a leaf. Who had eaten them? My investigation went a little something like this:

‘Did you eat my sunflower seedlings?’, I asked the Deer. ‘Oh no’, replied the stag with a shake of his antlers. ‘It was not me. But I do know that my dear wife is partial to a nibble of sweet things. She can’t help it you know. It’s terrible awkward. All the neighbours complain.’ ‘Oh, no, it wasn’t me!’ protested Mrs Deer, her shiny hooves pressed to her velvet cheeks in exaggerated horror. ‘Really, it wasn’t. I admit that I do like a little succulent sprout in the afternoon, but I really can assure you that I am quite innocent in this case. See! There is one here that is half eaten. I know I am quite a delicate and gracious grazer…’ (She was not. In fact if she were human, she would buy her clothes from the ‘Plus-size’ range and dine at the ‘eat all you can’ buffet), ‘…but I think you will agree that even my dainty ivory-coloured teeth…’ (a euphemism for her buck-toothed mouth that never ceased to move for she was either eating or talking about eating, and didn’t come from the best stock in the first place – a sad genetic fact that did not support her claim to be dainty in the oral department) ‘…are not capable of removing half a leaf from this tiny – but may I say rather delicious looking – seedling’.

She was, I hate to admit, quite right. The facts spoke for themselves. The tiny half-eaten leaf did not look like the work of the deer. Blaming it on them would have been nice and easy, making this a simple open and shut case and I could have gotten on with my day and rescued the remaining un-sprouted seedlings by placing them out of the way of Mrs Deer and her ‘dainty’ mouth.

‘If you ask me’, coughed Mrs Deer peevishly, ‘I think this looks like the work of Miss Rabbit. She’s not one to pass up a little nibble of new seedlings, you know. ‘Ah, Miss Rabbit’, I sighed. That tricksy little lady. One moment you have a nice green lettuce plant, the next moment you have a bare patch of soil and a white blur of her cheeky little tail. ‘Yes, this does look like the work of Rabbit. There are, after all, no hoof prints to suggest that you deer have sabotaged my sunflowers’.

‘Ha, of course not, my dear’, scoffed Mrs D, ‘with these delicate hooves? I tread with the lightness of a butterfly. My balance exceeds that of the squirrel. Why, my hooves are as shiny as…as…’ here she stopped for poor vain Mrs Deer couldn’t think of what had shiner hooves than she, even though the beady eyes of Woodpecker and the shell of funny old Mr Beetle outshone her over-polished hooves. The above claims to her ballerina-like poise were sadly unfounded and though I could see that the deer were actually innocent (this time) such exaggerations reduced her credibility during this unofficial trial.

‘Mr Deer, would you be so kind as to keep an eye out for Miss Rabbit on your travels and ask her to pop by when she can?’ I asked as I stroked his toned and glossy back.

Silence.

‘Mr Deer?’

‘Miss B’, he said slowly. ‘I am as you know, completely loyal to my wife, as a good husband should be, but I am not able to support her on this occasion. I would hate to undermine such an – ahem- intelligent and credible creature, but though I am certain she is quite innocent, I do not believe this is the work of Miss Rabbit’.

‘Really?’, said Mrs Deer and I at the same time. ‘Then who…’ but my question was answered before I could even pose it, for right before our eyes came an ant. A single little ant. A tiny teeny little ant. No bigger than a freckle on the face of Mr and Mrs Deer’s new fawn. And upon his teeny tiny little ant back was the remaining half of the sunflower leaf.

I plan to write a blog post someday soon that tells my story. My life isn’t any more noteworthy than any one else’s – I haven’t been kidnapped by pirates, or walked across continents – but I do have a story that routes where I am today.

I haven’t always been transparent about my life. Not that I have lied about anything, but I haven’t really been very open or public when times have been dark. I just didn’t think that it was worth mentioning at the time. Everyone has their own issues.

But over the years I have come to the conclusion that we do need to tell our story, and be transparent about our lives.

One reason is so people can get a real perspective of who you are, what you are experiencing and how your life is. I have had a few people say to me over the years “Oh, you are so lucky”. And yes, I am blessed – we all are in some ways. But what they are envying by saying ‘you are so lucky’ wasn’t something that was handed to me on a plate, and not chewed without choking or burning myself.

I remember one time a friend had said something along the lines of ‘you are so lucky, I can’t imagine you having any problems’. She was at the time lacking self confidence about her physical appearance and perhaps wasn’t in the best place in her life for that moment. I had met her in a coffee shop and I was looking unusually sharp and well dressed. I was on my way after our meet-up to sign over the house I had bought the previous year. It had been a tough few months: I was living in a town I didn’t fit in, my dear sister (also my best friend) had recently moved back to the UK, leaving me almost alone in that foreign town, my darling cat had unexpectedly died, my house had been broken into twice, and I was going through a major shift in my life that left me feeling very alone and misunderstood. That day I had decided to pick myself up, put on a suit and start a new chapter. But she didn’t know that!

By being transparent (and by that I mean open, and not boring people to death with constant moaning without action to remedy your problems) not only can people learn from our experiences, but it also helps them feel less alone. They are not the only ones suffering, or finding life a challenge. And if they admire your life, they may feel inspired to see that you have actually had to work to get where you are at. Not just ‘born lucky”. Which means that they too have potential for great things.

A great example of this was when I read the blog of Selma Melngailis, co-author of Raw Food Real World, and owner of Pure food and Wine restaurant in NYC. Looking at the book, one can be led to believe that gorgeous Selma has a good life, with her equally gorgeous boyfriend/business partner, working with things she loves, surrounded by healthy raw food (and therefore has no problems with sticking to a healthy diet). But Selma’s blog revealed that her life was not quite like that. And indeed people had said to her ‘you have the perfect life’, not knowing of the issues she faced and the challenges she needed to overcome.

I certainly do not rejoice in other people’s suffering (far from it) but it is encouraging to know that we all have challenges to overcome, and that people we perceive as highly successful are still human. They do still have issues to deal with, and despite their success they can still be unsure of themselves and do appreciate to hear positive feedback on the work that they do.