My conversations with God........

Before I begin my rant, I want to start with gratitude.

Thank you.

My circumstances this year have improved so much from last year. I am no longer struggling for the basics, and I don’t take that lightly. And yet—despite the stability, despite the provision—I still find myself frustrated.

God, I don’t understand so much.

I’m trying my best to make sense of it all, but the process isn’t easy. Still, I have no doubt that You love me. I’m learning, slowly, to love and trust You too—and that part is beautiful. I am deeply grateful for the opportunity, even when the journey itself feels wild.

So often I don’t know if I’m coming or going, or whether I’m truly on the right path. I rely on my “tummy test” more than ever now, and I feel calm more often about most things. But there is still uncertainty—about outcomes, about timing, about what’s next. I admit that uncertainty feels gentler than anxiety, and perhaps that is growth.

I’ve noticed something else too.

I am no longer willing to overlook what I once let slide. Rudeness and disrespect are louder now. Manipulation and emotional abuse no longer whisper—I hear them clearly. And more importantly, I no longer accept them. I demand more. I deserve more. That realisation is unsettling, especially when it shifts the coasters of my life.

I don’t understand everything—but I am wise. I am sure of this. I am even more certain of my expertise. I am not the Donna I once was, and settling into this new version of myself requires adjustment, patience, and grace.

I came here to complain.

I came here to cry.

Instead, I find that I am growing.

And growth, I realise, is what I desire most.

I ask for emotional intelligence. I ask for wisdom—to release those who no longer belong close to me. And above all, I ask that You do not leave me. Finding You has been everything I needed, and somehow even more than I imagined.

I have often said that I was not loved for 37 years. Perhaps that was true through my own broken lens. Perhaps it was incomplete. I see now that I am loved—and loveable—with a rich and complex experience of love and life behind me.

I struggle with reciprocity.

But I am learning to need it less.

And I am learning to give more to little Donna-Ray.

I have tried to love my children in ways I was never cared for, and I hope I have not failed them. It is both terrifying and extraordinary—to parent while healing. Still, I trust that presence, honesty, and love matter more than perfection.

This journey is scary.

And it is amazing.

I wish I knew more. But I trust that in time—if I continue to do the work—it will all come together.

I am grateful for the opportunity to be alive.

To learn.

To seek.

To explore this beautiful world.

I do not ignore my privilege—it is immense. And I know that to whom much is given, much is required. I have been given so much: beauty, intellect, depth, sensuality, emotional intelligence, meaningful work.

For all of it, God, I am profoundly grateful.

Thank you. 🙏🏾

A modern day crime......sexiness!

The hardest part about being a beautiful woman is not the beauty itself, but the way the world responds to it.

For many of us, it begins quietly and early — a sideways comment, a look held for too long, a growing awareness that the body you are becoming is suddenly being watched, judged, and discussed. Sometimes this scrutiny begins within your own family. Curves appear, maturity follows, and instead of guidance or protection, shame too often takes its place.

As adolescence unfolds, the commentary multiplies. Friends, classmates, strangers — everyone seems to have an opinion. Remarks, subtle insinuations, and unspoken expectations accumulate, and without realising it, you begin to carry them within you. They shape how you see yourself long before you are old enough to question them.

Life, of course, is not linear. Sometimes choices are made before we are fully ready, or circumstances unfold in ways we never planned. Too often, instead of being met with compassion, women are met with labels. Our stories are reduced to assumptions; our character is questioned before it is understood.

What usually follows is a long, quiet journey back to self. Learning to be gentle with your body. Learning to see it as yours again. Learning that confidence and sensuality are not flaws, but natural expressions of comfort, ownership, and self-acceptance.

Yet even then, the world does not always know how to respond to a woman who is both self-possessed and sensual. Confidence is mistaken for availability. Ease in one’s own skin is misinterpreted. Over time, this becomes exhausting — until eventually, it becomes clarifying.

With age comes discernment. You learn that peace is not always found in explaining yourself, but in choosing distance. In protecting your energy. In surrounding yourself only with those who see you fully and treat you with care.

I embrace my sexiness now not as rebellion, and not as armour, but as truth. It is not something I wear for validation. It is simply part of who I am.

Being sexy does not diminish my values. It does not define my worth. And it certainly does not place a price on me.

I am a woman with a good heart, doing her best to honour her responsibilities, care for her family, and grow into herself with integrity. I work hard. I love deeply. And I no longer apologise for taking up space exactly as I am.

This is not defiance.

It is self-respect.

Year End Message by Delani Makhalima

My friend shared his words with me and I couldn't keep them to myself....I hope this message resonates with you diamonds as it did with me 💜💜💜

We talk about vulnerability in relationships a lot. We call it courage. We call it intimacy. We call it growth.

Yet few truly understand what vulnerability requires or what it exposes.

Let me be clear: vulnerability is not weakness. It is not oversharing. It is not self-abandonment.

Vulnerability is the courage to speak your truth from a grounded place, to reveal your heart and mind - even when doing so carries risk, even with someone you trust.

Here’s the truth many miss: vulnerability doesn’t just deepen connection.

It tests the emotional capacity of the person receiving it.

When vulnerability is met with judgment or criticism, the test is active and the future of the relationship is quietly defined.

Many of us have opened ourselves to someone we love, shared a fear, a doubt, a tender part of ourselves… only to hear:

“You’re insecure.” “You’re too much.”

“You’re this, you're that.”

Those words can land in two ways: As an invitation to understanding - seeing the triggers, the history, the humanity in another.

Or as a dismissal - disguised as insight, but in truth a refusal to hold, witness, or care.

Being a mature partner and person means recognizing that insecurity is not identity. It is a signal:

A signal that something has been triggered.

A signal that care, sensitivity, reassurance, or attunement may be needed.

An unhealthy response turns that signal into a label - a label that shrinks you, diminishes your truth, and closes the door to connection.

Sharing is not easy. We don’t reveal our inner worlds to just anyone.

We choose carefully who we trust with our past wounds, our fears, our triggers.

We hope they will hold what we reveal, preserve it, protect it - not use it against us.

When a partner weaponizes our vulnerabilities, just because we allowed them to see us - even subtly, it’s not just disappointing.

It’s unsettling.

It erodes emotional safety.

Once trust is broken, honesty becomes heavy to share.

Intimacy starts to feel transactional.

Every word from then carries risk: risk of judgment, measurement, weaponization.

In mature, healthy relationships, vulnerability is met with care, not critique.

Insecurities are explored together - not returned as labels, blunt statements of flaws, or markers of incapacity.

Honesty should strengthen the bond. And it can sound hurtful at times. But care, yes needs to worth together with honesty. 

Care works with the insecurities, nurtures them, helps them grow not punish them. That’s love. That’s partnership. That’s what it truly means to care.

When vulnerability is mishandled. Openness feels unsafe.

Truth becomes filtered.

Words are rationed.

Emotional presence is replaced with politeness.

Not because love died - but because safety did.

Over time, a quiet, permanent shift occurs.

It is not anger.

It is not resentment.

It is withdrawal - the self stepping back, choosing silence over exposure.

The most dangerous moment in intimacy is not conflict. It is the moment one partner decides it is safer to stay silent about who they are than to be fully seen. Once honesty becomes ammunition, it stops being offered.

Note: I said destructive, not constructive. Vulnerability can be met with discomfort but there’s a difference between care and critique:

- Constructive guidance says: “Here’s a way to improve. Here’s something to consider.”

- Destructive labeling says: “You are this or that.” Nothing else, nothing more. 

When we fail to nurture the vulnerability of those around us, withdrawal inevitably follows. Emotional withdrawal is not cruelty. It is self-preservation.

If you choose to be vulnerable, remember:

Share openly. But do not allow others to reduce you to your insecurities.

Again, this is not defensiveness - it is self-respect. Zithande #LoveYourself

The measure of a relationship is how imperfection is handled.

Handle each other’s flaws delicately. 

Pause before responding and ask yourself these first 

- Does your honesty bring clarity or confusion?

- Does it foster safety or spark judgment?

- Does it encourage more openness or fear of revealing their heart again?

Your answers will speak louder than any words ever could.

Love (relationships, friendships, kinship) don’t end when people stop caring.

It ends when they stop feeling emotionally safe enough to be vulnerable.

Vulnerability is a gift, not a burden.

It deserves protection, not punishment.

Anyone who cannot hold it with care will inevitably lose access - not to love itself, but to the intimacy it creates.

Secure connection is quiet, grounded, mutual.

It is where real love matures and stays.

True vulnerability builds safety, security - not silence or selectiveness.

By Delani Makhalima

2025

Somehow, all I want to do today is cry — and I’m not even sure why.

Whether these are tears of joy, pain, sadness, or simple relief at reaching the end of this year, I’m allowing them to exist.

This year has been everything: hard, rewarding, relentless.

There was so much shedding, so much pushing, so much becoming.

I don’t have the energy to jump up and down today — but I am deeply grateful that I made it.

I look ahead with quiet confidence, knowing that the hard lessons were learned, fear was confronted, and necessary seeds were planted. I trust that harvest season is coming.

2025 broke me and rebuilt me in ways I could never have imagined.

For that, I am grateful — grateful for the strength I found, for the courage I stepped into, and for the woman I emerged as.

As I step into the year ahead, my prayer is simple:

for softness, for kindness, and for space to fully embrace my feminine energy — allowing my masculinity to finally rest.

I am profoundly grateful for every person who loved, supported, and held me through this year.

I step forward gently now — no longer proving, no longer forcing — just trusting that what I planted will rise in its own time.

Thanksgiving

My new favourite holiday of the year—quite shocking for a Zimbabwean, I know, considering we don’t traditionally observe it. But the concept speaks to me deeply. It began as a day of giving thanks for the harvests of the preceding year, yet in life, the idea of pausing simply to be grateful feels profoundly necessary. A day to break bread with family and friends, to hold gratitude like a warm flame in our hands. In my little world, this day holds great importance.

For me, it’s a day to share my creativity, my time, my effort, my love. In the kitchen, I come alive. I feel like an orchestra conductor—every chop, stir, spice and scent moving in harmony. Cooking, to me, is composing a symphony, and I stand front-row as the audience tastes joy. I pray before I begin, and once Toni Braxton fills the room, my soul opens, and then the magic starts. My focus becomes razor-sharp. When it all comes together, the results never disappoint.

This year, one of my newly found aunts looked at me and said I have the gift of hospitality. What a powerful decree. It felt like a blessing and a mandate from the bloodline itself—to cook with love, to serve with joy, to let my talent flow freely. And so I did. I have been Van Gogh’ing in the kitchen, splashing colour into pots and laughter into rooms. Not a single complaint—only grateful bellies and smiling hearts. A win-win, I would say.

But I digress.

The heart of my rambling is this: today, let us be thankful.

Thankful for surviving a turbulent year.

Thankful for breath and belonging.

Thankful for family, for friends, for our careers and callings.

Thankful for every small victory, every quiet miracle, every moment that carried us forward.

Let us give thanks, deeply and deliberately. 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

Resilience.....

“She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her way, she adjusted her sails.” — Elizabeth Edwards

The best definition I’ve ever found for resilience is this: the capacity of a person to maintain their core purpose and integrity in the face of dramatically changed circumstances. It’s the ability not just to overcome setbacks, but to move forward — to rise again and again, even when the ground beneath you keeps shifting.

This year, that word — resilience — became the thread that held me together. I’ve often said I’m tired of being resilient, and perhaps that’s true. Yet somehow, all the resilience I’ve built up over the years was summoned in full measure in 2025. Every hard lesson, every scar, every moment I thought I wouldn’t make it — all of it found its purpose this year. And for that, I am grateful. Grateful that I didn’t break in the furnace.

It was, without question, one of the most trying years of my life. Each time I thought I could finally exhale, a new storm appeared on the horizon. I’ve never known fatigue quite like this — the kind that seeps into your bones and tests your will to keep going. I’ve been on overdrive, pushed beyond what I thought possible. And yet, here I am — speaking about the struggle in the past tense. What a blessing that is. With only two months left in the year, I refuse to believe that defeat will make an example of me. Perhaps that’s my stubbornness — but it’s a stubbornness that has kept me standing.

Through it all, I found solace in wisdom, routine, and consistency — the quiet pillars that kept me grounded when everything else felt uncertain. I remember telling a young woman recently that it took me nine years to achieve the body I’ve always wanted. I could see the disappointment flash across her face — the instant-gratification generation hates hearing that kind of truth. But if you have no skin in the game, how can you expect to win? Growth, real growth, takes time.

I’ve come to realize that the marks of the great are their battle scars. If you emerge from battle untouched, be wary — you’ve likely learned nothing and may not survive the next one. I used to see my scars as shameful — proof of mistakes, missteps, and inexperience. Now, I wear them proudly. They are symbols of survival, of grace under fire, of lessons learned the hardest way.

This year, resilience was not just a trait — it was a lifeline. And as I step toward the final stretch of 2025, I do so with gratitude for every wound that healed, every tear that taught, and every moment I almost gave up but didn’t.

Because sometimes, survival itself is the victory.

The year of the Wood Snake

Earlier this year, I was minding my own business when I stumbled across some exciting news—the Chinese calendar predicted it would be a good year for me. And nothing stirs butterflies in your stomach quite like the promise of something good. Naturally, I clung to that hope and ran with it.

Like any eager optimist, I focused only on the bright possibilities, never pausing to consider the full journey I was stepping into—the trials, the shedding, the stripping away of everything familiar. And what a journey it turned out to be. The challenges were unlike anything I’d faced before. More than once, I caught myself wondering if there was any “good” at all in this so-called good year.

Yet, in the turbulence, something shifted. I discovered a quiet strength I didn’t know I had, a confidence that rose in waves, and a clarity in my intuition that felt brand new. My old need for hard evidence gave way to an unshakable inner knowing—as if my instincts had finally found their voice.

The Wood Snake year wasn’t the sweet, effortless season I imagined. It was a year of shedding, bleeding, grieving, and at times losing sight of hope—yet still, somehow, finding the courage to stand tall in the storm.

Now, with just four months left, I find myself hoping the year softens—that it grows lighter, gentler, kinder. And deep down, I believe it will. After all, as Robert Frost wrote: “I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

A New Beginning- 14 years on....

Fourteen years have passed since I first opened the pages of this blog to share my story. Today, I write as a 36-year-old woman who has walked through fire, risen through challenges, and still wakes up every day deeply excited by the adventure of life.

From uncertain beginnings to now serving as an Executive Director and Senior Wealth Manager for the deVere Group in Africa, my path has been anything but linear. It has been layered with resilience, grace, and growth. I embrace my leadership roles with empathy, with love, and with the deep understanding that true leadership is service.

Though I don't write as often as I used to, that changes this year. Writing is still home for me. My voice still matters, and so does the power of telling our stories.

I give where I can—mentoring, donating blood, and simply showing up for those who need light. Because giving is part of who I am, and community is everything.

Motherhood, too, has shaped me. Anthony is now 20, Nicole is 15—and somehow, even with all the years, it still feels like we're just getting started. We made it. We’re still making it.

So here’s to 2025—another chapter, another new beginning. I’m living with intention, with gratitude, and with the belief that the best is always yet to come.