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Coming Back to Me

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There’s a particular kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep. It comes from pretending. From swallowing words you don’t mean, smiling when your stomach is doing cartwheels, and nodding along to things your soul already filed under “nope.” And honestly? I’m over it. I want my life to feel like mine again. So I am taking action because it’s a fundamental human right to. My plan? A few simple steps. Step 1. I am lifting my vibration. Yes, candles are lovely. Yes, crystals are shiny, but they make me feel like a magpie with spiritual ambitions. But vibration isn’t about aesthetics — it’s about what I am carrying. My vibe lifts when: I stop dragging guilt like an IKEA bag with a broken handle. I stop living in conversations that only exist in my head. I stop shrinking because someone else is loud. High vibration isn’t “I never get sad.” High vibration is: “I get sad, I feel it, I learn, and I don’t build a permanent house there.” Step 2. Positive thinking that w...
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The chord

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I really thought we were Thelma and Louise. Laverne and Shirley. The good cop and the bad cop. Two women, and a decade of firsts after a lot of pain. We did the first holidays — the first Christmases, the first New Years. We stood by each other through the deaths of our fathers. We sat in silence at your father’s funeral. I said goodbye to my dad through yours. We survived job pressures, kids pushing boundaries. I taught your child to swim. You took mine to her first disco when I was stuck at work. We laughed. We argued. You helped me when I was sick. I helped you when you were sad. I truly believed this was for life. But you found a reason to break away first. Accused me of excluding your child when I never did — a projection of what you had already done to mine. Because the truth is, your betrayal was great. My child lost an opportunity because you weren’t honest, because you had your own plans. I have since cut the chord. I visualized it snapping, disintegrating. I mourn what could ...
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I found it. My love. My hope. My ikigai.

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 It’s where I wake up in a dream-like haze, sunlight spilling through the windows. Curtains are not needed -  this view holds me in its quiet arms.  It’s where the sounds at night cradle me into the deepest sleep I’ve had in years — as if the world decided to hush itself just for me. Swimming here feels like a contradiction in motion: floating yet grounded, free yet connected.  It’s as if the water knows my name, as if it understands I came here with heavy thoughts and leaves me lighter. Now that I’m back to reality, I catch myself thinking of this place.  Not just about returning — but about making it mine.  Building a life wrapped in its calm, letting its peace soak into everything I do. This is it. My happy place. The one that wh ispers: Come back. Stay. Just be.
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How to Carry Disappointment Without Passing It On

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There’s a particular kind of ache no one warns you about in parenting—the ache of quiet disappointment. Not because your child isn’t good enough, but because you see their potential, their gifts, their strengths… and they don’t. Or worse, they can’t be bothered to try. My daughter is smart. Naturally bright, curious, funny. Charismatic, some said. Get her tested, others advised. Push her, a few insisted. Let her be a child—she’ll always be smart, said many. I did a bit of everything. I gently encouraged her. I gave her every opportunity I could afford. And she did… nothing. I saw her gifts early on. I believed in her. I still do. But I also saw what she wouldn’t admit: she didn’t want to try. Like so many parents, I saved where I could, sacrificed in ways no one could see, and supported her softly. I tried not to overwhelm. No pressure—just faith. The quiet, steady kind. I gave her room to grow—space I never had. And she knew. She knew what I gave up. She knew the belief behind eve...
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Pushing the Boulder

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Every day, I push a boulder up a hill. It’s shaped like my daughter — brilliant, sensitive, misunderstood. But I’m not pushing her. I’m pushing the weight of judgment, bureaucracy, and the constant need to prove she belongs. She was bullied again. The more it happens, the more she retreats, becoming “weird” in their eyes. And now the school says she should go to a special school. Bullshit. They don’t want to support her — they want to pass her on. We’ve changed schools before. A kind but clueless principal shut the door. I had high hopes for this one, but here we are. I’m heartbroken and angry. At the same time, I’m searching for a therapist who sees her, not just as a case file or a checklist. This is someone’s life — not a 9 to 5. Your words and your choices shape her happiness. I’m not asking for the answer I want. I’m asking you to look at my daughter and see the brilliance she carries. The fire, the sparkle, the potential. Neurodivergent kids need a break, not a shove....
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Introducing Milo

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The gender drought has officially broken.  No, I am not dating. But the Mummyfried household moved in a male - and we're all hopelessly in love. Each in our own way. He's demanding, exhausting, loves unconditionally, eats constantly, sleeps constantly, and poops wherever he pleases. We have welcomed a puppy into the fold. Mr. Milo. And yes, I feel like a toddler in a candy store: thrilled but clueless. This furry little tornado spins through the house on FULL CYCLE. Despite the cute ads, online puppy training courses have been ignored. Instead, I'm trawling the internet for free puppy tips while imagining the vet rolling his eyes with every phone call. But here's my truth bomb: I'm not paying someone to teach me how to train my dog when I can wing it. How hard can it be? (Cue ominous music.) Miss Tween-soon-to-be-Teen—adores Milo. She's all heart-eyes and giggles. Until it's time to pick up his "presents." That's where the romance fades. My pho...
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2025: The Year of...

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I met a girl some years ago who told me she hated February. She thought it was a wasteful month—too few weekends, silly changes every four years, and the older you get, the more complex its grip seems to tighten. It’s the month of Aquarius moving into Pisces—water, water, drowning everything away. The month specifically allocated to romantic love—a ridiculous, cruel notion when relationships fail, people are desperate for love (or sex), and during a water month, most are going through a love drought.  Every February I think of this girl and agree with her sentiment.  February is a wasteful month. And yet, my first love, my firstborn, was born in February, so I am forced to recognize it. It's the month you need to start functioning again because the New Year hangover is over, and January's festive glow has worn off—reality sets in. And so has my need to blog. 2025 rolled in with all the grace of stepping into a giant pile of dog shit. Slippery, stinky, ugly—with the end result ...
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