I stand at the bottom looking up. The path looms ahead, rolling into the distance along a slight incline, practically a hill here in Norfolk. I think about the footsteps I have taken along this route over the last two months, how my wellie boot clad feet have squelched through the mud as I’ve made my ascent from the bottom to higher ground. Sometimes my gait has been an amble, sometimes, and more frequently, a sprint as my young and sprightly four legged companion has eagerly pulled me along. Sometimes, often, I have needed the encouragement to keep going, keep on putting one foot in front of the other.
And then, almost at the end of the path, are the woods. A fairy forest I tell my daughter when she sees it for the first time. She looks at me with an expression that is half scepticism and half hope – hope that what I tell her is true. Certainly it looks like a place that should provide a home to sprites with its branches bent into arches, its wooded nooks and crannnies, perfect hidey holes for enchanted creatures. And indeed, in this space, I have seen magic happen. Because it’s out here that I have started to feel the weight that I carry start to ease. When I didn’t think it would, ever. Magic.
Grieving and healing. Grieving and slowly, cautiously healing with every step I have taken. And cried. I have cried and cried. I haven’t even tried to stem the tears when they’ve come, and to be honest, I’m not sure that I could have done; it would have been like trying to stop a raging river with a pebble. What will I say, I’ve asked myself, if people see me sobbing? And I think that I don’t care, what people think doesn’t matter anymore. If it ever did. If anyone asks I will just tell them the truth. That I am so very sad. Because my mum died.
But of course, no-one notices. Instead, we say, ‘good morning’ and talk about my companion, the misleadingly cute puppy by my side. And in spite of my anxieties about encountering other humans, I realise that it’s nice. To speak, to be normal, to feel tethered to reality, to step outside – just for a moment – of the extremely unreal and unwelcome circumstances I find myself in. Just for a moment I can pretend that life is as it was, that I am a functioning adult and all is well. Just for a moment I can forget.
And to my entirely pleasant surprise it has gotten easier, as the sands of time have shifted. My eyes are drier, my smile less forced, my sense of bewilderment abated. More than that though, out here on my grieving and healing, grieving and healing walks I’ve come to realise that Mum hasn’t left my life.
“I’ve lost my mum,” I tell people. But as the days have trickled away I’ve started to understand that just because I can’t see her when my eyes are open, just because I no longer can feel the physical sensation of her hug – which I will miss forever – she isn’t lost to me. Because she can so easily be found.
She’s there in the silence, her voice echoing in my head, more often than not in response to a question I’ve asked.
She’s there in my mind, where I can reach in and pull out a memory with ease, as if I’m leasing a movie from an old fashioned video rental shop – only, these films replaying in my head are better than any I’ve ever seen on screen.
She’s there in the wellies that I don, which with every single wearing I am reminded that she bought for me, and which I will keep putting on until the soles are coming away from my feet.
She’s there in the music which plays in my ears, providing me with a soundtrack to my travels, words of a song taking me back to her. Sometimes I wonder if Spotify can read my mind as it randomly picks out a tune that beautifully provides an echo to how I am feeling.
And she’s there in the beauty that surrounds me, out here, where I often feel most connected to her. Like on a day when the sun struggles in the winter sky before finally making its escape from behind the clouds, the tentative warmth of its rays on my face feeling like a gift from another place.
She’s everywhere I look, my mum. Of course she is. Because how could someone who was so central to my world disappear.
And so I know. Love doesn’t die. People don’t leave us, not really. Mum’s presence, the impact she made remains in the things I do, the things I say, and for those of us who came after her, in the faces we see in the mirror.
I’m at the top now looking down. Back at the path I’ve travelled. I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain but I know I’ve still got far to go. And I will never quite reach the summit where the sadness totally goes away. But that’s ok. Because on all the steps I take forward now, and for the rest of my days, I will be taking Mum with me. Love lasts forever.
I know you’re scared.
I am too.
But these are things
I know to be true:
We are braver
than we think
we’ll come back
from this brink;
We are stronger
than we believe
more power within us
than we conceive;
We are resilient
as we bend
for the challenges
we must contend;
We are kindness
seen in action
to lend a hand
a natural reaction;
And we are love
in word and in deed
‘for the greater good’
is what we need.
This will pass
it won’t last forever
but we’ve really got to
work together;
Wash your hands
keep your distance
that is how we’ll
make a difference.
And this is why
I know it’s true
That this raging storm
we will get through ❤
The truth is, I thought that motherhood would curb my ambition.
A little over four years ago, I nobly determined that my focus instead would be on empowering the dreams of my imminently arriving daughter. I had had my time, I mused; after all, I’d had 39 years to devote to my goals.
My thinking no doubt influenced by growing up at a time when there was a still a sense of motherhood vs career, where there was a choice to be made – you couldn’t have both. Not unless you were a ‘superwoman’, as was often the term used to refer to women who pursued career aspirations with family responsibilities.
And yet, I am a woman of my age. We eagerly planned to take advantage of shared parental leave, with my husband taking responsibility for the lion’s share of the childcare whilst I went back to work.
But here’s the rub: whilst I was absolutely committed to balancing work with my soon to arrive daughter, I didn’t envisage balancing it with a career: with growing, with aspiring, with rising. I thought that I would stay stagnant, that I had no more ambitions to achieve.
How wrong was I.
Becoming a mother was the most daunting, amazing, scary, yet fulfilling thing that I have ever done, a role I was not trained for or experienced in. But as I watched my daughter blossom I asked myself: ‘I wonder what else I can do?’ Because quite frankly if I could do that, if I could successfully care for this precious child, I could do anything.
And that question was the catalyst for a future which led to me setting up my own business when my daughter was 18 months old, even though my supportive and empowering boss had given me the flexibility that I had wanted. Because, whilst working for myself would give me even more flexibility, allowing me to pick and choose when I spent time with my daughter, I wanted more than that. I decided to set up my own business because I realised it was something I aspired to do, because motherhood had made me brave enough to do so – and because I actually believed that I could do it. This was a belief which I had never once entertained before.
So here we are now, two and a half years on and all my daughter will ever have known is mummy working for herself, doing what she wants to do. I fervently hope that she sees me pursuing my goals and it is a positive influence for her as she determines and follows her own dreams: she can do whatever and be whomever she desires.
And there are so many, many mothers who are also following their goals, so many inspiring women I have met along the way. Mothers whose abilities and skills have been absolutely enhanced rather than diminished by becoming parents. Who are recognising their own value and pursuing their ambitions, achieving as they follow their paths with grit and determination. They are everyday superwomen.
Men too. Fathers who have been changed by parenthood, who have added skills to their repertoire through taking care of children, who have brought those abilities to bear across their lives. My own husband is an example of someone whom I have watched admiringly extend his capabilities through caring for his child.
And there are some great companies out there who have recognised that working parents – and importantly, mothers – are an asset within the workplace, that they bring fantastic skills; companies who are making tangible, proactive and inclusive efforts to empower career aspirations.
But there are still workplaces where mothers – and fathers – are not empowered or recognised for what they can bring. Where opportunities are limiting, and where the conversation seems to linger predominantly on working hours – when the parent can work rather than what they can bring to the party. These companies are missing a trick – and ultimately potentially missing out on a wealth of talent which can add huge value to their business.
Employers often underestimate the abilities and goals of parents – and particularly mothers – in their employ.
But perhaps, even more so, we underestimate ourselves. Becoming parents allows us to develop and grow our capabilities, and certainly should not mean the end of our desire to achieve more. Quite the opposite in fact: it could be the catalyst for our ambitions – and for empowering the belief that anything is possible.
How her parents
watch in awe
as her confidence
grows more and more.
She eagerly seeks
independence,
‘I’ll do it myself’
her preference.
And her bravery
is quite inspiring,
for new adventures
she’s always aspiring.
Her determined streak
means she doesn’t quit,
defeat, she’s isn’t
wont to admit
(especially about
her chosen attire,
rainbow dresses
are so desired).
Her disposition
is sweetly sunny,
and really she is
rather funny.
Beside her is
a joyous place,
her love envelops
in an embrace.
Caring, she shows
consideration,
and a kindness worthy
of admiration.
Her happiness radiates
out from within
as attested by
her beautiful grin….
Our darling girl who
we entirely adore,
utterly magnificent
as you turn four.
There has been much talk recently about the subject of loneliness amongst mothers, particularly new mothers. It is an important subject and one which is rightfully getting air time. After the initial fuss – the excitement, the visitors, the interest – tails off, reality kicks in. Partners – if there is one – go back to work and the mother embarks on a new normality with her baby. Often, especially in those early weeks, this will be spent in the home trying to make sense of this new world order, trying to interpret those screams, trying to understand baby’s needs, and trying not to feel completely out of one’s depth. It is a scary time, and a lonely one too.
I certainly recall feeling isolated at times during those early months. This was for two reasons. Firstly because of my own – incorrect – perceptions. I believed I wasn’t that good at the job, that everyone else was a better mother than me, that I was an impostor into the role. This was despite the evidence to the contrary – my daughter was thriving, she was happy, healthy and flourishing. Yet I was still hung up on an inferiority complex which made me feel isolated – because, surely every other mum knew exactly what she was doing at all times, right?
The other reason for my sense of isolation was that my husband and I did things slightly differently. After a few months, I returned to work and my other half took Shared Parental Leave. For us, it was the right choice and we both benefitted from building our own bonds with our beautiful daughter. There was though an element of isolation in what we did for each of us. This was due to some of the responses we got from others, and I also had a sense of not quite fitting in: I felt like I was half in the work world, half in the parenting world and at times, I felt isolated.
But what helped me were the kind words of friends who were also mums. When they told me ‘you’re doing a great job’ or ‘your baby’s such a happy baby because of you’ my spirits soared. And with each positive comment, my confidence started to build and those self-imposed perceptions started to crumble until eventually I started to see things differently. I was doing fine. I was a good mother. What I learnt from that experience was the importance of a gentle, thoughtful word for a mother – it can empower, support and inspire self-belief. I purposefully want to encourage other mums with my words.
The other thing that helped, unexpectedly, was feedback I received online. I started to share my thoughts and experiences in a series of posts and some of the supportive opinions shared made me realise: I wasn’t the only one feeling this way. Lots of parents struggle with a sense of being torn between our varying roles and responsibilities – and, however we parent, we are all doing our absolute best.
Isolation and loneliness can really challenge mothers, and indeed, fathers, particularly at a time when they may already be feeling vulnerable and emotional. We can all help to overcome this by supporting each other so we as parents know: I’m not on my own.
I had disappeared. And I didn’t know where I might be found.
‘I just want to feel like me again,’ I said, tearfully, two weeks into motherhood. Perhaps a wander out alone might help? But the half hour spent loitering without purpose at the shops just left me feeling anxious. As I meandered the aisles, I felt bereft, as if part of me was missing. Who was this impostor purporting to be me? The woman I had known before would never have felt a lump form in her throat over such an innocuous task as choosing a shower gel.
‘Starting to look like me again,’ I said as aesthetically I took control with straighteners and eyeliner and mascara. But even the successful donning – albeit with effort – of a once favoured pair of jeans, rediscovered after nine months without wear, didn’t bring me back. The person I saw in the mirror, staring intently as if searching for recognition, was a stranger.
‘An evening out will do me good. Like old times.’ But old times had never been like this. My eyes fixed to the screen of my phone, wondering if it was too soon to call again, before flickering briefly away to my watch, silently willing the dinner to be served quickly and bring about a swift conclusion to the evening. And the wine, which used to make me giggly and chatty and merry and glad, just made me feel tired, and more than a little despondent.
‘It will be nice to get back to normal.’ Yet this felt anything but. The once familiar seat, the desk still piled with notes scribbled in my handwriting, the keyboard upon which my hands used to dance easily, felt alien. How can just a few months create such a distance?
I didn’t feel like me anymore.
And then I realised: this was me now.
The person I had been before had gone and she was never coming back. How could she? Where once I had carried my heart around in me, now it existed outside, encapsulated in my precious daughter. And nothing would ever be the same again, not now I had the consciousness of my child with me at all times. I would always be checking my phone, thinking about her, worrying about her, missing her and carrying her with me. Which meant that never again would I feel as I once had. Whatever I was doing, be it working, socialising, or simply going about the mundane chores of my daily life. This search for me was fruitless as that ‘me’ didn’t exist anymore.
This is me. And as soon as I recognised this fact, I could stop looking and relax, accepting myself for who I was now without worry or fear or regret. I didn’t mourn the loss of the person who had gone before, the person who had disappeared forever in the moment my daughter was born, though I was glad that she had existed. This now, this person, was who I was always meant to be; mother, above all else, at the core of who I am. All the other things that used to define me – work, play, likes, dislikes – were still there, just less important.
I’m not searching anymore for that woman. I don’t need to.
And so it turns out that the smouldering embers of 2016 still have power to burn. That even in these dwindling days, there is still time to heap more sadness upon a brow-beaten people. The death of a beloved musical icon, a tragedy amplified by the fact that it occurred on Christmas Day – what should be the happiest day of the year – is rendered even more poignant by the subsequent tales of his generosity and humanity. What a legacy to leave.
This, and the other recent celebrity deaths, appear to pile misery upon misery. This year, no doubt, has witnessed the loss of a number of people who touched the lives of many others. They made an impact, be it through music or film or service for others, or just by the sheer force of their personality, and their loss has been felt keenly with fitting posthumous tributes; one hopes that they knew of the esteem within which they were held during their – sometimes short – lifetimes.
But it’s not just the deaths, as tragic as they have been. In 2016, our screens have been filled with scenes of human suffering, almost too horrific to fathom. Then there has been the hate, the vitriol, spoken and written, which has underlined deep divisions within society. And politically, wherever you sat, campaigns and debates often got ugly. Indeed, the EU Referendum felt like a deeply unpleasant experience, setting families and friends on opposing sides, creating rifts and anger.
So no wonder that people are talking about 2016 as the worst year ever. It’s no surprise that people are looking over the horizon to 2017, and the potential for a brighter tomorrow. There is a sense that the world will exhale a collective breath of relief as midnight comes around on 1st January.
All understandable; this year has been strange. Odd. Scary. Sad. I suspect in the future, my daughter will be taught about the events of this year in school. But to me it feels wrong to reduce a whole twelve months to just a few words, just a ‘terrible’ year. Because to summarise 366 days in this way negates all of the good, all of the happy that there has been.
And it has been there. The tales of heroism, like the Brownlee brothers embodying what it means to be family. Or the outpouring of love and support, in the form of more than 250,000 Christmas cards, for a little boy with terminal cancer. Or the fundraising for Stand Up To Cancer or Children in Need, people putting their hand in their pocket to help others.
It’s been there in our own lives too. In the big things, like getting a gorgeous new nephew to love. And it’s been there too in the small things, the everyday things. The reassuring grip of a baby’s hand around the finger. A thoughtful text sent on a long day. A compliment about an outfit, the one you weren’t sure about but now you’re so glad that you wore.
Yes, this year has been replete with sadness, tragedy, hurt and pain. But there has also been love and joy and fun and laughter.We need to look for the light because it’s there. And so, as the year draws to a close, take from it the memories that made you smile, the feelings that lifted your soul; those are the things to treasure.
How will I know?
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