Sometimes finding yourself isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about finally having the freedom to be who you are.
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything here.
Not because I’ve had nothing to say. Christ, no. My brain has approximately 47 tabs open at any given moment, at least three are playing music, and I’ve absolutely no idea where the noise is coming from.
But somewhere between motherhood, appointments, paperwork, fighting battles and generally trying to keep my shit together, I seem to have lost my writing voice.
Or perhaps I just haven’t known where to begin.
Because the truth is, I’m not the same woman I was two years ago.
And I don’t think I ever will be again.
And actually, I’m beginning to realise that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
When family becomes strangers
One of the biggest changes in my life over the past couple of years has been becoming estranged from members of my family.
And here’s something that might surprise people.
I don’t miss them.
There. I said it.
There’s often an assumption that family estrangement must involve desperately missing people, longing for reconciliation or wishing things could go back to how they were.
But that’s not my experience.
I don’t sit around wishing we were still speaking. I don’t spend my days wondering what they’re doing or hoping the phone will ring.
What I have spent time doing is trying to understand how relationships that were supposed to be built on love could leave me questioning myself so much.
Because that’s the part that stays with you.
Not necessarily the absence of the people, but the impact of having them in your life.
I’ve questioned my own judgement, my reactions and even my memories. I’ve wondered why I spent so much time trying to explain myself to people who didn’t seem interested in understanding me.
And I’ve had to unlearn the idea that standing up for myself somehow makes me difficult.
For a long time, I felt as though I was constantly on trial. As though I needed to defend my feelings, justify my decisions and prove that I wasn’t the person other people had decided I was.
It’s exhausting.
But here’s what I’ve realised,
I can be at peace with someone’s absence and still be healing from their presence.
Those two things aren’t contradictory.
I don’t need to hate anyone. I don’t need revenge. And I certainly don’t need to spend the rest of my life trying to convince people to see things from my perspective.
They can have their version of events.
I can get on with living my life.
And perhaps the most surprising part of all this is discovering that removing certain relationships hasn’t left an enormous hole in my life.
It’s created space.
The strangest thing about walking away was how much lighter I felt.
I think I’d expected something different. Perhaps guilt, sadness or an overwhelming sense of loss.
But mostly, I felt relief.
Relief that I no longer had to explain myself. Relief that I didn’t have to anticipate the next disagreement, the next judgement or the next situation that would leave me questioning myself.
And for once, I didn’t feel the need to fix anything.
I hadn’t lost my family and then found my peace. I’d found my peace by accepting that those relationships no longer belonged in my life.
And I don’t feel guilty for saying that.
I’m not writing this because I want sympathy, or because I’m secretly hoping somebody will read it and suddenly understand.
I’m writing it because sometimes walking away isn’t the tragedy people assume it is.
Sometimes it’s the beginning of finally feeling free.
The love I never had to question
And then there’s my dad.
My lovely dad.
I lost him to Alzheimer’s, and although time has passed, there are still moments when the reality of him not being here catches me completely off guard.
Grief is strange like that.
You can be going about your day, perfectly fine, and then a song comes on, a memory appears from nowhere, and suddenly you’re right back there.
My dad and I shared a love of music, football, laughter and taking the piss out of each other.
And his dancing.
Oh, his dancing.
The sort of gloriously embarrassing dad dancing that makes you roll your eyes while secretly loving every second.
Those are the things I hold on to.
Not just the sadness of losing him, but the joy of having him.
And perhaps that’s one of the biggest things I’ve learned about love.
Real love doesn’t require you to constantly prove you’re worthy of it.
It doesn’t demand that you shrink yourself, silence your feelings or become somebody else to earn your place.
I wish I could tell him about the things I’m planning now.
About my degree. About finding my creativity again. About the woman I’m slowly becoming.
I wonder what he’d say.
I can almost imagine the conversation, the jokes and the inevitable laughter.
And while I can’t have those conversations with him anymore, I still carry so much of him with me.
In the music I love.
In my sense of humour.
In the parts of myself that refuse to disappear, even when life gets difficult.
Some people can leave your life and you feel lighter.
Others can leave this world and you carry their love forever.
Losing him changed me. But loving him shaped me.
And that’s something I never want to lose.
Finding my voice after years of questioning it
Confidence is a funny thing.
People often imagine it as being loud, outspoken and completely unbothered by what anyone thinks.
But sometimes confidence is much quieter than that.
Sometimes it’s making a decision without asking five people whether it’s the right one.
Sometimes it’s saying no without writing a three-page explanation.
Sometimes it’s allowing yourself to enjoy something without wondering whether somebody else thinks it’s silly.
And sometimes it’s simply recognising that you are not the person somebody else has decided you are.
I’m still working on that last one.
There are moments when I catch myself mentally preparing a defence for things that don’t actually require defending.
My choices. My feelings. My boundaries.
Even my happiness.
As though I need to justify taking up space in my own life.
But I’m learning to stop.
Slowly.
Messily.
With the occasional spectacular overthinking session thrown in for good measure.
Because apparently my brain doesn’t believe in doing anything the easy way.
Somewhere along the way, I disappeared a little
Being a mum is one of the biggest parts of my life, and I wouldn’t change that.
But being a mum, a wife, a carer, an advocate and the unofficial administrator of approximately seventeen thousand forms doesn’t leave much room for simply being me.
There are always appointments to arrange, emails to chase, decisions to fight for and somebody needing something.
And when you spend so much time looking after everyone else, it’s surprisingly easy to stop asking yourself what you actually want.
Not what needs doing.
Not what would make everyone else’s lives easier.
What do I want?
For a long time, I don’t think I knew how to answer that.
And perhaps that’s why rediscovering my creativity has started to feel like something much bigger than a hobby.
The woman with the art supplies is making a comeback
I’ve started finding little pieces of myself again.
The woman who loves music so deeply she feels it in her bones. The woman who gets ridiculously excited about paints, charcoal, notebooks and anything remotely creative.
The woman who can spend an entire evening researching a new hobby instead of actually doing it.
Thank you, ADHD. Very helpful.
And now, at 47, I’m preparing to start a Creative Arts degree.
A BLOODY DEGREE!
Something that’s entirely mine.
Not because somebody needs me to do it. Not because there’s another battle to fight.
Because I want to.
And that feels surprisingly significant.
For years, I’ve found it easier to fight for other people than to believe in myself.
I can advocate fiercely for the people I love. I can challenge decisions, chase answers and refuse to give up when something matters.
But believing that I’m capable of something wonderful?
That’s been a little harder.
Perhaps because when your confidence has been chipped away over time, dreaming big can feel almost rebellious.
Who do I think I am, starting a degree at 47?
Well, actually, why the bloody hell shouldn’t I?
I’m allowed to learn new things.
I’m allowed to be ambitious.
I’m allowed to discover talents I haven’t explored yet.
And I’m allowed to be proud of myself without waiting for somebody else’s approval.
Healing isn’t all moonlight and crystals
Don’t get me wrong. I would absolutely love it if healing involved sitting under a full moon, surrounded by crystals, emerging three days later as an emotionally balanced goddess.
Unfortunately, my experience has involved considerably more crying, overthinking, swearing and occasionally wondering what the actual fuck is going on.
Some days I feel strong.
Other days I feel like I’m barely holding everything together.
Sometimes I feel angry about things I can’t change.
And sometimes I catch myself laughing, genuinely laughing, and realise that joy has quietly started finding its way back in.
I’m discovering that healing doesn’t mean forgetting what happened.
It doesn’t mean pretending things didn’t hurt.
And it certainly doesn’t mean becoming someone who never gets upset again.
For me, it’s about learning that my feelings matter. That my needs aren’t an inconvenience. That I can be a loving, compassionate person without allowing myself to be hurt repeatedly.
And that I can build a beautiful life without everyone I once expected to share it with.
Making room for the woman I’m becoming
I don’t want to go back to being the woman I was two years ago.
She was doing her best. She was surviving things she didn’t yet understand. She was trying desperately to keep everyone happy, often at her own expense.
I have compassion for her.
But I don’t want to live her life again.
The woman I’m becoming is still sensitive. Still emotional. Still occasionally a complete bloody disaster when it comes to organisation.
She still buys notebooks with enormous enthusiasm and then becomes terrified of ruining the first page.
But she’s learning.
Learning to trust herself. Learning that other people’s opinions don’t have to become her truth. Learning to make room for the things that bring her joy.
And perhaps most importantly, learning that she’s allowed to take up space.
I don’t know exactly where this next chapter will take me.
There’ll undoubtedly be more chaos, more unexpected challenges and probably an alarming number of unfinished creative projects.
But there’ll also be art. Writing. Learning. Laughter. Love.
And hopefully a little more of me.
So if you’ve ever found yourself looking around at your life and wondering where you disappeared to, perhaps you’ll understand.
Maybe we don’t have to find the people we used to be.
Maybe we get to become the people we were always meant to be.
And maybe that’s something worth getting excited about.
Welcome back to Sensory Soul.
I’m still here.
A little older. A little wiser. A lot less willing to make myself smaller.
And finally beginning to understand that my life belongs to me.
I’m not starting over. I’m starting from here. 🖤
