10th October.

World Mental Health Day.

It absolutely blows me away the amount of articles, posts, status’ and pictures I see shared with the hashtag #worldmentalhealthday on this day and there seems to be more and more each year.

Talking about our mental health is so important, and it is incredibly humbling to see the stigma of it slowly starting to crumble.

Mental health/illness affects every single one of us, at some point in our life, I genuinely believe that. Maybe your mental health is something that you are aware of every day, maybe a sudden change in your life has been a catalyst for feeling a certain way, whatever the reason. whether it’s feelings of anxiety, stress, depression, loneliness, anger, hopelessness, (all of which, may I add, are completely human emotions) or anything else, we never need to apologise or feel ashamed for feeling the way we do.

My mental health is something that is a big part of my life and if I really think about it it has been for as long as I can remember. There have been periods in my life when I haven’t been able to function in the world in the ways that other people seem to easily be able to do. Times when I have wanted to just disappear. Times when my mind has been so cruel to me I have felt like I couldn’t cope with it any longer.

And for the most part I have dealt with those times alone, ashamed to share that part of myself with the world, afraid to be anything less than the mask of happiness everyone around me has come to know.

That’s not to say that part of me doesn’t exist, the happy me, she does. I find joy in the most unusual places, I love music and nature and art and words, I love seeing other people’s happiness and kindness and love. I like to be nice to people. I love hearing other people laugh. And I laugh, a lot. And I love, a lot.

But playing that part of me, all of the time, for everyone to see, for all those years was exhausting. And it’s false, it’s fake. It is who I am but not who I am all of the time.

I hurt, a lot. But I’ve come to realise that that isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It’s not something I can control but it is something that I’ve learnt to accept. And although there are still days it feels too difficult for me to cope with, I’m not ashamed anymore, because I’m still existing, despite it being hard. I’m not ashamed that sometimes it feels like my mind hates me, because I can still spread love regardless.

I have learnt to share those feelings with the people closest to me and I know that they won’t beat me because I’m not trying to beat it by myself. And you shouldn’t either.

The parts of us we try to hide may well be the parts of us we should be most proud of, would you have the strength you have if you’d not been fighting your own mind for so long? Would you care about people so much if you didn’t feel everything so deeply? The parts of you you’ve been ashamed of could be the reason you change the world.

Open yourself up, share what’s going on, ask for help when you need it, you never know who you might be helping by doing so.

Keep on talking about it. Keep on smashing the stigma.


four years today.

This is a very difficult post for me to write. And it may seem strange that this is how I begin this new blog, however I want this to be a space to be honest, even when honesty is brutal, or painful, or makes people uncomfortable. Because these are all part and parcel of what it is to be human.

There is no filter. Real life is imperfect. This is not a space to come for air-brushing.

I’m not sweeping feelings under the carpet here. 

Today marks the anniversary of the worst day of my life. Four years today I was rushed into emergency surgery to remove a live ectopic pregnancy. 

It was a day that both seems clear enough to recall every detail, yet still feels like a bad dream. I remember in the weeks and months that followed wishing I could talk to anybody or connect with someone who could understand how I felt, knowing those feelings were valid would have helped me and that is the purpose of this post. 


Four years today

Four years today.

I woke up an expectant mother.

I went to bed an empty vessel.

Four years today.

The pain unlike anything I’d ever known.

The pain of a life, of a future, mine and theirs, fading.

Four years today.

The joy of seeing a tiny heart, still beating, still fighting on the monochrome screen.


Then the words, “In The Wrong Place”, ringing in my ears.

The pain in my chest.

Silent screams in my throat.

Too weak to make a sound.

Uniforms with sad smiles and kind words.

Four years today.

I signed the form, they took my blood.

Kind smiles and sad words.

Saving my life, but not the life that never had a chance.

Four years today.

They held my hand and told me to sleep.

But I knew that sleep meant it was all over.

Dreams would not come, they’d only be taken away.


They took away the broken part of me.

And my baby.

Tiny heart still beating. Still fighting.

Four years today.

I woke up. Empty.

The knowledge that you’re lucky to be alive, but wishing you were dead.

Agony. Numbness.

My heart left shattered.

Broken pieces, too weak to gather them up.

Four years today.

The guilt of not being enough. The shame of being broken.

Four years today.

I fell asleep weeping, grieving. Holding my stomach, in the hope you were still there.

I still do.

Four years today.

And I only just feel ready to write this.




sharing the load.

After a long break I have decided to return to the world of blogging.

My head and my heart is so full at the moment that I felt it was a good place for me to unload some of what goes on in there, in the hope of connecting with some like-minded people and maybe some not so like-minded, and sharing ideas and thoughts.

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton