Goodnight My Darling

We meet you tomorrow my darling.

You must feel terrified and confused and angry and lonely. So lonely.

We’re here. We’re thinking of you. Wishing we could scoop you up tonight and tuck you in and kiss you goodnight. But it’s another Mother’s job tonight.

We’re going to be rubbish tomorrow, but my god we’re going to try our best for you, my darling.

People keep telling me that you are lucky to have us, but I think it is us that are the lucky ones. Because of your trauma, you have fallen into our care. There certainly is nothing lucky about that. 

We are the lucky ones because we get to love you. 

It’s a strange thing, falling in love with pieces of paper. I don’t know your face or your name. But I feel responsible and protective somehow.

A mothers love, I guess.

Even if you never call me Mum, you are going to make me a Mother tomorrow, and for that I can never thank you enough.

Until tomorrow my darling.

Things will be different tomorrow. I promise.


Me and my councellor

I’ve been seeing a councellor for three weeks now.

I wasn’t loosing it, I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t bitter or having twisted thoughts, I wasn’t crying all of the time, I wasn’t tired or depressed, I wasn’t suicidal or struggling with my marriage or at work.

But I don’t want any of the above to happen if i don’t have the toolset to help me cope with that.

I don’t want to be bitter.

I want to face grief head on.


It’s good too.

I like speaking about Dad. Remembering and enjoying telling a stranger about how amazing he was. Sometimes it all sounds to good to be true, like I am making it up. This makes me appreciate how truly lucky I am to have him.

Don’t get me wrong, its not all silly anecdotes and fond memories. Some feelings are raw and hurt very much. I need to learn to express and work through these feelings too. They are just not as easy to come through, when I am so used to looking for the positives all of the time.

I’m just saying, I’m pleased I am having councilling.

I am not ashamed of it.

I think it is a fantastic and free resource available to everyone and anyone and I couldn’t recommend it highly enough.

Every week I feel more and more accepting of my new reality.

Farleigh Hospice really do life changing work, with all that walk through their doors.


When you loose someone close to you, you are reminded that we are not going to live forever.

This reality check gives you two options:

  1. be sad about the idea of dying
  2. live everyday you have left to the fullest

I don’t know about you, but number two sounds far more tempting!

Im going wild this year. I’m leaving my well paid and steady teaching career, I’m shaving my head, I’m painting my skin, I am starting a business, I am travelling the world, I am becoming a parent… all in 12 months.

Have no regrets.

Life is too short.

My aim is to inspire you to do the same, okay you don’t all have to shave your heads, but my challenge to you is to live life to the fullest. Everyday. Not just on Saturday.

Say yes not maybe

run don’t walk

forgive quickly

and love everyone


because life is short and living life is wonderful.





Feelings on Father’s Day

How am I doing this year?
I’ve been thinking about Dad extra amounts this week. More has reminded me of him. I’ve felt quieter and more subdued. I’ve been nervous about how today would be. 

This morning I’m trying to keep busy, but also keep in mind the knowledge that I can still celebrate Fathers Day. I have a wonderful Dad, that in twenty six years with me, gave me a wonderful childhood, advice and so much love. 

Looking forward, this time next year, we will be celebrating Father’s Day in a different way. We will be parents, caring for our gorgeous little boy or girl. A child far less fortunate than myself, in regards to parenting. Jim will step into that role. He will be wonderful. He is so much like my own Dad. 

Please don’t feel sorry for me, or any other grieving children today. Just promise me you will spend time with your own Dad’s while you still have the chance.

Feeling it

I haven’t felt any true emotion for months.

I’ve been numb.

Very little sadness, guilt, fear, happiness, anger, love, contentment.

I’ve made brash decisions that I wouldn’t usually make because I have lost whatever emotion it is that stops you.

But just now, tonight, as I lay awake in these quiet lonely secret moments, I feel a black poison inside of me.

It’s bubbling in my chest, previously caged by my ribs, now boiling over. Leaking into my veins, spilling into my organs, spreading to my finger tips.

I’m not angry at you.

I’m not angry at cancer.

I am angry that people I love are left behind.

I am angry that my loved ones are feeling this so deeply and profoundly.

I am angry that you will miss out on ever so much.

I       am       angry.

It’s a horrible and overwhelming emotion that I very rarely get to feel.

I have never been truly angry, not like this.

Sometimes I look or sound angry, but I’m not. It’s just a translucent misting on the surface.

Not like this.

This is a thick tar, clogging up other feelings,

 suffocating them.

I hope the joyful bubbles in life will be able to dilute this feeling. 

One day. 

But right now. It’s new and it’s scary. 

I am the ultimate optimist.

I am ‘little Miss Sunshine’

But not tonight.

And that’s okay,

I know.

I cried in Lidl.

It’s my assembly today.

I need to buy smarties to hand out to mask the fact I’m bloody shitting it and my hands are shaking and my throat is dry. Chocolate is a great distraction.

I go to Lidl.

I pick up the mini smarties.

I queue.

I queue.

I queue.

The till beside me opens.

“Would you like to come over?”

Bodies rush passed me. 

Trolleys brush the backs of my legs.

They were behind me.

They have more than me.

I ask

“I only have one thing. Do you mind if I…”

(After all I was in front of them)

The answer is no. 

I smile.

I say “okay”

I take my mini smarties back to the original queue.

I wait.

I feel a tear run down my cheek.

Why am I crying?

The man in front sees me.

He offers me his place in front. He has a kind face.

I cry more. I can’t stop.

I pay for my mini smarties with tears running off of my cheeks.

I smile at the concerned man.

I smile at the concerned cashier.

I leave.

Just like that.
I wasn’t crying because of the lady with the trolley. It wasn’t her fault.

I was crying because it’s all too much.

All of it.

just too much.
I did my assembly.

It worked, the smarties, my voice, my hands. 

Then I left.

Just like that.

My old kit bag.

I carry around all of the emotions all of the time. 

I choose to wear my happy feelings. 

I dance and skip and sing. I wear a smile on my face and wrinkles by my eyes. My feet are bouncy and my arms are open. 

These are the feelings I have that I want people to see, the ones I don’t mind being judged on.

 They are true and real and honest.
But they are not all I have, not all I carry around with me. 

You see, I have this bag. It is packed full of other emotions. Ones I have but don’t want anyone to see. 

Troubles. Worries. Sadness. Anger. Bitterness. Confusion. Hate.

These are also true and real and honest. 

They are with me everywhere I go. 

Sometimes a bead of sadness creeps out of my bag and makes my eyes sting, I rarely let it stay long enough for it to slide down my cheek before I pack it away again. In my bag. 

I am aware of my bag all of the time. I think I need to open it up more often, but I don’t really have a place I feel safe enough to. 

Apart from here. This is a safe place. I can be honest here. 

If I was being honest, I would admit that I feel sad most of the time- I just try not to show it. 

I miss my Dad. 

I miss him. 

I miss him so much. 

Life is different.

I’m not sure I like it.

It’s really hard to just carry on like nothing’s happened. 

Something has happened.

Life hasn’t stopped, life doesn’t stop. It just keeps on going. 

But something big and massive has happened.

It’s changed me.

Most things are different now. 


Pack it up. Fold it away. Zip it up.

In my bag.

And Smile,