I held my son to my chest, and I felt my heart swell with love. It’s almost overwhelming sometimes; the way I feel such a pang of deep sadness intertwined into that pure, unconditional love. It’s especially strong when I stand at my bedroom window, as the light of the day fades (or has faded) away and I look out at the city lights. There’s some strong feeling that takes my breath away that I have tried to articulate time and time again, but have failed each time.

This time of year has always been my favourite. It’s cold, it’s dark a lot and I find it comforting. It’s not necessarily nice being outside when you’re freezing, but I love warming back up, getting cosy. Christmas lights and hot chocolate make me infinitely happier. But this dark time of the year reminds me of dark times in my past, of haunting memories, and it seems as though the ghosts of that trauma seem to hang in the air.

And when I look out at the city lights, it’s like I can feel an older version of myself when I look out and I can feel her hurt and sadness. I suppose, psychologically speaking, the feel of the air and the night which is so different to any other time of year, is a reminder. A trigger, if you will.

But I remember that she is a younger version of myself, and she was absolutely heartbroken to find herself so destroyed, but she found the courage to fight. She had this dream of being a mother and it was all she wanted. She knew one day, if she kept going, if she worked on getting better and healing her heart and mind, she might one day have her baby in her arms.

Flashback to the 21st November 2017, when she was in labour. She looked out at the night sky, knowing that she’d fought very hard and finally, finally her dream was about to come true. And no, it hadn’t happened in the circumstances that she wanted it to. But she felt euphoria, she felt the world shift. She was a little afraid but she believed that her baby boy would make it. Why? A psychic reading done the year before had proven invaluable when her Nana told her she was sending her, her baby back, and that he would make it. There was a feeling in the air that night too. Like there were still shadows and it made her feel deep sadness too. Luckily, by the time her son was in her arms and her head had stopped spinning, the dawn had arrived and she watched the sunrise. The world was new. Her heart felt healed. She was so, so happy.

But she had not healed.

I have not healed yet.

I have healed to an extent, but trauma is still being carried deep in the pit of my gut. I still feel that haunting, of memories, that should be gone but they won’t be forgotten. How can they be forgotten when there are so many things that I associate with them? From things such as the fresh, cold night air to the way some stranger might walk, from a song she might hear whilst shopping to people in her life that serve as reminders. That’s how trauma works. You don’t have to be thinking about it, it comes to you.

So maybe I’ve figured out why I feel such joy and such sadness when I hold my child and look out of my bedroom window. It’s such a beautiful view, but it’s more than a ‘bittersweet’ feeling. That word doesn’t do it justice.

Never in my life have I claimed to be perfect, or innocent. But I know that there’s a fire about me. And I’m sure people still think I’m a pushover, and there’s people who think much worse of me, but…

Through all the grief, anger and trauma, there is still courage , compassion, and hope.

So, those shadows may stay but… So will the resilience. And the memories may never fade… But the determination to create a life I love won’t.

Tonight, I held Reuben to my chest and we were looking out of the window when the skies were deep purple, and the city lights flickered, and I told him…

“These days are special. These lonely days of just you and me, they have taught me I am strong”.

I gave him a kiss and told him “I love you” and I was crying a bit when I did.

I was told that because of my mental health, that I wouldn’t be a good mother. But that person was wrong. I have struggled with my mental health this year, especially when therapy was opening up badly stitches wounds, but I have never let it affect the way that I parent. I’ve even felt like I couldn’t cope being alive anymore, but I’ve held on and asked for help, because I just would not leave my baby behind. Mental pain can physically hurt, and I have suffered… But I’m starting to understand why things are the way that they are.

This may have been a little unconventional for a blog post, but I feel that it’s something I need to talk about.

I’ve figured out why I feel so much joy and so much pain when I look out at the city lights and night & now I can accept it.

Thank you for reading,

With love, Rebecca ♡


This Time Last Year

I remember the way I felt this time last year. The way the air felt, the white noise of something mechanical humming at night (I still can’t figure out what it is), the way the lights across the city seemed crisper… It all reminds me, like the most wonderfully enchanting memory. There is no doubt in my mind that I’m remembering with rose-tinted glasses. But I know for a fact, also, that I remember that the person I was before Reuben was born felt a kind of excitement, naivety and apprehension that I’m scared I will never feel again.

The selfie I took before heading to the hospital to be induced.

I remember feeling dreadfully uncomfortable, completely DONE with being pregnant and massive. And moreover, I was done being told how massive I was. As if I couldn’t tell!? I was sick of the sickness, the acid reflux, the endless peeing, the pain I was feeling around my ribs, the ridiculous amounts of discharge and the sweating. You know, I was still trying my best to cherish my pregnancy but I think I spent more time trying to film baby kicks than I did actually appreciating the moments (something I will remember if I’m lucky enough to have a second). I would rest my hands on my bump, take endless photos, but by 37 weeks I was done. So when I was offered an induction days before my due date, I leapt at the chance.

I’d seen a lot of inductions on One Born Every Minute and I’d read the leaflet but nothing could have prepared me for the days that followed. I felt like I’d been in hospital for a week before I was actually induced – in a different hospital – on my due date.

But my mind seems to have fixated on the little details of the hospital I was supposed to give birth in, when I was waiting to be taken to delivery suite to have my waters broken. In all honesty, it was quite lovely but I was so impatient and being in a hospital bay all day waiting around was driving me a bit nuts. I wasn’t very well prepared, I hadn’t brought much to entertain myself – which is probably why I remember the space around me in vivid detail. From the way the light hit the blue flooring during the day, to the way the overhead lamp created a calming ambience at night. I remember bouncing on that big purple gym ball for hours hoping labour would come on spontaneously but I now realise, it was doing very little for me, and it was probably making me all the more impatient.

I was offered a transfer to the other hospital where I had a bed on delivery suite waiting for me on my due date, a few hours after my mucus plug went, and I jumped at the chance. I now wonder if my experience might have been different if I’d have stayed at the hospital that I wanted to give birth in. But nevermind, what good are what ifs? No good at all.

So there I was, in the delivery suite of this other hospital, taking a quick video of the room for my Instagram. I was telling people I’d no longer be replying. Although I did later on, at some point, I can’t remember when. And I had no idea what was coming as far as the syntocin drip was concerned.

I love that before they broke my waters and put me on that drip, I was blissfully unaware saying “whatever happens I’ll deal with it, as long as baby is okay”. I mean, that wasn’t a bad mindset to have but… Yeah… the girl on the ball in her nightie who just had her waters broken, and the girl on the bed who just got given the epidural were a couple of hours apart, and I can assure you the girl on the bed felt like she’s been through a kind of hell that she knew had changed her forever. The rest of it was a breeze though, if that’s any consolation – it was to me!

I gave birth to Reuben just over 12 hours after they’d broken my waters, and it was incredible. I felt the love instantly – it was euphoric! I felt the rush of love which I’d heard people say is indescribable and I was so relieved. I was so, so happy. When I had been waiting to push, I remember thinking “this is it, my dream is about to come true, I’m gonna meet my baby!” and that was an unforgettable moment too.

So is it any wonder that I feel this way now that Reuben’s 1st birthday is a day away? It’s so bittersweet. I feel happy and sad at the same time. I feel my heart aching so badly when I think back to it. I know this is common in mothers but I never really hear or read anyone talking about it.

Maybe it’s because I feel cheated out of enjoying those newborn days, maybe it’s because I had a vision of how I wanted things to be during pregnancy and it wasn’t like that. It’s not like my expectations were high but when you’re poor and feeling unsupported through both pregnancy and your newly made mother days, it’s very hard to feel like I got anything right at all back then… I don’t know. I guess I am overly critical but when I think back, I have regrets and I find myself saying “here’s what I’d do differently”.

Anyway, it’s hard to believe Reuben’s been on this earth for a year now. He’s turned into my little best friend & he makes me smile all the time. Even though we have been poorly recently, there’s still been smiles. And I’m far from perfect but I know I’m a good Mama.

I’m feeling very nostalgic and wistful about this time last year but don’t worry, I’m also concentrating on making this year’s memories count! Reuben’s presents are ready for Thursday, the flat is looking nicer than it ever has done (apart from the kitchen right now) & I’ve even put the Christmas tree up!

I love motherhood, it puts a kind of joy and resilience in my soul that nothing else can. I mean, there’s obviously sadness and mum guilt in there too BUT! Let’s focus on the good!

Thank you for reading,

With love, Rebecca ♡


I’ve been reflecting a lot lately.

I’ve been trying not tear myself down for my mistakes as much as I have been trying to congratulate myself for overcoming other things. I’ve been looking back on purpose, but not to depress myself. Instead I have been doing it to uplift myself, and to encourage myself to take the next step in my journey.

There’s a certain era in my life that I keep going back to, not just in conscious thought but in my dreams too. It seems like there’s something unfinished, like I didn’t get closure somewhere and I’m trying to seek it out. But mainly, when I’m feeling nostalgic about that time in my life, I realise it’s a feeling I miss.

In my first flat, at the age of 16, I would often find myself thinking “I can’t believe it’s mine!” as I came home or when I was enjoying my own company. This barely happened by the time I left that place, moving in with an ex-partner (I’m still kicking myself for giving up so much stuff!) because I hated it by the time I left. But! There were so many times in that era of my life that make me feel wistful when I look back.

But was it really that great?

Because, I know exactly what was going on in my life in the three years I lived there and it wasn’t pretty. It was painful. And sure there were good times and the new-found feeling of independence was the sweetest thing, but was I as happy as my memory is trying to convince me?

The simple answer is no. The slightly longer answer is occasionally.

When I really think about it, what I miss is how I loved my independence when it was new and my naivety. Those were the days when my Nana was still alive and I had a circle of friends in actual real life (which probably the saddest sentence I’ve wrote to date). When I was not yet aware of my internalised misogyny or my PTSD which was bubbling under the surface, undiagnosed and repressed. I had dreams and goals, yes, they motivated me through my darkest days but… I was yet to get a very rude awakening.

So I’d say late 2011 to 2014 was my era of naivety and hope. Sure, the later end of that scale is on the darker end of the gradient but it was a time in my life that I vaguely remember and am nostalgic about.

I was ungrateful too. I had my flaws. I still do, I’d be an absolute arse if I said I don’t. It’s just, back then, they were of a different nature: Hormone-fuelled and manipulated, naive in a time when there were stars in my eyes.

I suppose it happens to us all.

We don’t love or believe like we used to when it was new. So I guess what I really miss is the Rebecca who still trusted people, who still had friends and who could actually love. She was often stupid but good at heart. She was troubled but she tried be kind.

I’m not sure I am anything like her. I am untrusting, and often lonely, but loneliness isn’t as bad as finding myself in another soul-crushing relationship where my attempts to love are… Well, eroded by another dysfunctional human being. I am, by no means, perfect. I can be toxic, too. I’ve made mistakes. But I try to own up to that, I try to apologise and make amends for it. But I have changed. I’m sort of dithering between who I want to be, who I am and what I think I should be. Always confused about how I should be in any given social situation.

And maybe I should just be me.

Therapy outlined a lot, but I realised finding out who I am without trauma, is not just about discovery, it’s about creation.

A Memory Shared: Murphy


Meet Murphy, my 13 week old kitten. I originally thought I’d bought a female kitten and I’d named her Ophelia (I was really into Pan’s Labyrinth back then) until a trip to the vets confirmed my suspicions that Ophelia was a male. His name was Cosmos until I settled on the name Murphy.

He was a cheeky little thing. And for a while, he’d meow all night and got up to mischief but I was absolutely besotted. For a 16 year old (or maybe I was 17 by the time I got him, I’m not sure now) with her own flat, he was ideal entertainment. Sometimes he was getting into trouble, sometimes he wanted to snooze by me. But he was always a fantastic companion.

Sadly, one day in 2015, my cat went missing and I didn’t notice for around a week because he’d often go out for a few days at a time, but when I realised he’d disappeared, it was an awful time.

He was microchipped, he had a collar one (hopefully! he knew how to get out of them) and I thought I’d hear about him but to this day, I don’t know a thing about where he went. I have speculated in the past, but the truth is, I just don’t know.

He was so lovely. I nicknamed him ‘Murphy the Merciless’ because of how menacing he could be. He was always on a mission, with so much sass!

I hope one day, I will have another Murphy in my life. I don’t think he’s a cat that would be easy to replace. And for me he represents a very poignant time of my life.

I remember a lot of times feeling very comforted by his presence and there’s a whole bunch of pictures I have lost of him. One of my favourites is when we’d curl up in front of the halogen heater together during long insomniac nights whilst the TV played endless dreadful episodes of ‘Family Guy’ (which I loathe). Or the noises I’d make if I gave him a slice of sandwich meat and followed him to where he ate. But best of all, it was nice after a long day to have my little lucky black cat to play with and to cuddle and to bat away from my dinner.

So, I guess, I’ll finish off by saying I hope some lovely family took him in. It’s sad because I moved out of that flat a couple months after he went missing, which means if he came back, I wouldn’t have been there. But, let me imagine that he’s happily snoozing in whatever home he went to next. Love you Murphster!