The Lady in the Back Row

Had a sleep in this morning……actual luxury.

No alarm, no rushing.

My daughter was discharged yesterday, so we’re back in the “wait for the next admission” loop.

Yes, the house needs cleaning.

Yes, the garden is quietly judging me.

But I’m calling it, this is a partial self-care weekend.

Pedicure? Highly likely.

Random drive? Also likely.

Ending up somewhere new with no plan?

Even better.

Cleaning can wait until tomorrow.

Because not everything has to be sorted all at once.

Sometimes you just need a change of scenery, a bit of fresh air, and a reset where you can.

And that’s enough today.

Happy Saturday ✨

There’s a definite shift in the air now.

The mornings are colder, the kind that make you hesitate before getting out of bed, and the days aren’t carrying that same heat they were just weeks ago.

You can feel the season turning, even if it’s subtle.

Good Friday is only two weeks away, and with it comes the school holidays.

I’ve already decided I’m taking the full two weeks off.

No juggling, no trying to be everywhere at once, no stretching myself thin.

Just time to breathe, to be present, and to let things settle a little.

Fridays have always been my favourite workday.

There’s something about them, quiet sense of wrapping things up, of knowing there’s a pause just ahead.

Today feels like that, but more than usual.

Like I’m already stepping into that break, even if it’s still a couple of weeks away.

Sometimes you don’t realise how much you need a stop until you can see one coming.

Today I sat down to write and realised I had nothing left in me and maybe that says everything.

Not sad exactly. Not overwhelmed in the loud, crashing way.

Just… quiet.

It’s a strange feeling when life around me is still so full.

My daughter is in hospital again. The house still needs doing.

The little dog is still crying. Everything is still moving, still asking something from me.

But inside, it’s like things have slowed right down.

And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Maybe this “blank” feeling isn’t emptiness at all.

Maybe it’s a pause.

A small space where my mind and body are trying to catch up with everything that’s been happening.

Because there’s been a lot.

More than most people see.

More than I probably let myself admit most days.

So instead of fighting the quiet, I’m trying to sit in it.

No pressure to be strong.

No pressure to have the right words.

No need to make sense of everything all at once.

Just… here.

And even in this softer, quieter space, something is still there.

I’m still showing up. Still caring. Still getting through the day, one piece at a time.

That has to count for something.

Maybe “blank” isn’t a sign that there’s nothing left.

Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve carried a lot and I’m giving myself a moment to breathe before I keep going.

And I will keep going.

Just not all at once.

As a carer, you don’t get the luxury of falling apart.

Everything depends on you, the routines, the kids, the animals, the hospital runs, the quiet things no one sees.

You keep it all moving, even when you’re tired beyond words.

And then something shifts.

A sentence. A test result.

“Abnormal cells.”

“See a specialist.”

Just like that, the ground underneath you doesn’t feel as solid.

Maybe it’s nothing.

Hopefully it’s nothing.

But your mind doesn’t stay in hopefully.

It goes straight to the children.

It goes to time.

I found myself thinking not in days or weeks, but in years.

Six years.

I need six more years.

Six years until he is eighteen.

Old enough to stand steady.

Old enough to look out for his sister.

Old enough to carry a piece of what I carry now.

That’s the thought that sits quietly, heavily.

Not fear for myself, not really.

But fear of leaving them before they’re ready.

Before I’ve done enough.

Before I’ve shown them everything they need to know to be okay in this world.

When you are the safety net, the idea of not being there feels unbearable.

So you keep going.

Work.

Kids.

Animals.

Hospital.

And somewhere in between it all, you carry this silent hope:

That this is nothing.

That there is more time.

That six years won’t be something you have to wish for…

but something you simply live.

One ordinary day at a time.

Rainy days feel like a kind of cleansing.

The sky opens and washes everything down, the streets, the trees, the dust that settles quietly on life.

But life doesn’t pause for the rain.

There’s still work.

Still kids to get where they need to be.

Still animals needing care and attention.

Still the hospital, the place that has become all too familiar.

The rain falls steadily while the day repeats its rhythm.

Work, kids, animals, hospital.

Work, kids, animals, hospital.

Some days feel exactly like that, a quiet cycle of responsibilities that keep moving whether your heart is tired or not.

Yet the rain reminds me that cleansing doesn’t always come in big moments.

Sometimes it’s slow and steady, drop by drop, washing over the hard parts of life.

And tomorrow the rhythm will begin again.

Work, kids, animals, hospital.

But maybe , just maybe, a little lighter after the rain.

I’m staying at my daughter’s house while she’s back in hospital again.

The ninth admission in nineteen months.

Life feels like it’s permanently packed into a hospital bag these days, waiting rooms, phone calls, and the constant feeling of holding everything together with thin thread.

At the house there’s also the little dog. She’s eighteen now, deaf, blind, and confused.

She cries most of the day and most of the night. Not because she’s naughty, but because she doesn’t understand where she is anymore.

You can’t leave her outside because the neighbours would hear the crying.

Inside, she’s no longer toilet trained.

It’s one of those situations where compassion and reality collide.

An old dog who has reached the end of her road, and a family trying to manage yet another hospital stay.

Some days feel like everything difficult arrives at once.

This is just one of those days.

Sometimes life doesn’t allow the big plans.

Lately my money has gone into upgrading things around the house, and with illness in the background it’s impossible to plan a holiday.

You can’t book flights or look too far ahead when you don’t know what the weeks will bring.

So instead, I bought myself something small but beautiful.

Not because I needed it, but because sometimes you still have to mark a moment for yourself.

A quiet reminder that even when life is uncertain, you’re still allowed something nice.

Today was a slow day.

Washing, a quick shop, feeding the animals across two houses, cooking, and a hospital visit.

The ordinary things that quietly fill a day.

Life doesn’t always rush forward; sometimes it asks us to move slower, breathe a little deeper, and simply get through what’s in front of us.

When you have a sick child, life becomes a rollercoaster.

There are moments of hope, followed by fear, and then hope again.

In between, you’re trying to hold together work, family, hospital visits, and your own mind.

Mental illness is insidious.

It creeps in quietly and touches every part of life.

And in the middle of it all, you learn that resilience often looks like simply getting through the next day.

We already know this.

What we consume affects us.

News. Scrolling. Noise. Positivity. Negativity.

It all lands somewhere in the mind.

It’s not a revelation.

But when illness or mental health struggles enter life, the noise of the world can feel heavy.

That’s when the small things start to matter more, kindness, quiet, connection.

And hope.

Because even in the middle of difficult days, hope is still something we can choose to hold onto. ✨❤️

Yesterday I found a large white feather in my yard.

Today, my auto generated picture for “HOPE,” gave me a White Feather.

Now I have two white feathers, they feel like a quiet reminder: even when life is heavy, hope can show up in the simplest, most unexpected ways.