The Unfolding

Big shifts come from the strangest places.

(Trigger warning: just a little note - this one goes into grief, loss, and a recent hospital stay. Read gently if yo

u need to.)

I was always told that in moments of overwhelm, you should pause.

Take a breath. Just… stop. But I’ve never been very good at that.

I have a habit of filling every gap. Every quiet corner - almost like I’m afraid of what might be waiting for me in the stillness, soI keep moving. Keep doing. Keep going.

Until last week… when I didn’t have a choice.

I truly believe that if you don’t pause when you need to, the universe will do it for you and that is exactly what happened. I don’t often share much of my private life. There are little glimpses here and there, but the world I hold with my nearest and dearest feels sacred to me and something I’ve always wanted to keep close.

But recently, I’ve felt a pull to share more. Not everything… just more truth.

And that’s what this is.

The past 12 months have brought more pain than I could have ever imagined.

In April last year, my partner lost his beautiful mum, Margaret. Her passing was unexpected and it sent shockwaves through all of our lives. For a long time, it was hard to find any light at all.

Just as we began to move, slowly, towards some kind of healing…we were hit again.

In December, we lost our nephew Ethan, a young, vibrant soul, full of light… gone in an instant. The kind of loss that doesn’t make sense. The kind that leaves you sitting in disbelief, wondering how life can carry on around you as if nothing has changed… when everything has in the most horrific way.

Christmas Day was unlike anything we’d ever experienced. We were there with family, trying to create some sense of normality, whilst holding so much pain.

I watched my sister-in-law move through that day with a strength I can’t even put into words. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever witnessed… and also one of the most humbling.

We somehow made it through winter.

Ethan’s funeral came and went, and it felt like the lid had been lifted off a pressure cooker.

There was space to breathe again. It still hurt… but there was air.

We carried on, day by day, learning to live with what had changed.

Grief became something we wore… like a heavy cloak - always there and sometimes heavier than others.

On 23rd March, my Grandad passed away. I didn’t have space for any more grief, my body just… pushed it away. Instead, I focused on my Nan, making sure she had everything she needed. Organising support. Keeping things moving.

And outside of that… I filled every moment I could.

Work. Plans. Walks. Camping - anything to avoid the quiet. Because the truth is… I didn’t feel strong enough to sit with it.

I told people I was fine, that I was okay but I wasn't.

“It’s part of life.” “It is what it is.” “We just keep going.”

And I did.I kept going, even though I knew I was tired and even though something inside me was begging for rest.

But I’m stubborn so I ignored it. And then… everything stopped.

We went camping, only our second time with the kids.

By the third day, I started to feel unwell. A sore throat, aching, tired… the usual signs of a virus.

But by that evening, something wasn’t right.

I couldn’t get warm - layer after layer, wrapped up in a sleeping bag, while everyone else was fine.

My hands and feet were ice cold and by 10pm, it was clear I was very unwell with a nasty fever.

James made the call to get us home. We left everything behind, packed the kids into the car. Eloise was crying because she didn’t want to leave, Rowan quiet, trying to understand what was happening. James trying to get us home safely and hold us all. And me… burning up feeling quite scared.

Once the kids were home and safe, and our incredible friends stepped in to be with them, James rushed me to hospital. I was taken straight through with suspected sepsis. My temperature was 40 and I was in a mess.

Everything moved quickly after that.

Antibiotics.Tests.Observation.

The next day was the worst. I couldn’t lift my head, I couldn’t eat or talk, I couldn’t even get out of bed.

And for a moment… I genuinely thought I might be done.

That might sound dramatic, but in that moment, it felt very real. I was scared.

After further tests (including ruling out meningitis, thankfully), I was treated for both bacterial and viral infections. Slowly, things began to shift and after a few days I could sit up, eat and moan at James again - I was on the mend!

I’ve never experienced anything like it.

Other than having my children, I’ve never been admitted to hospital and it shook me.

But it also gave me something I didn’t realise I needed - stillness.

For a whole week, I was made to stop with no distractions, no plans, no pushing through.

Just space. And in that space… everything became clearer.

There had been so much noise before and suddenly, I could hear myself again.

I could think and I could feel. Even writing this now feels like part of that process.

I used to think I needed a reason to write - a purpose, a point.

But I’ve realised… sometimes there isn’t a “why”.

Just a want.

And from that place, something has shifted. I’m changing how I work.

More boundaries. Less over-giving and more intention.

I’m choosing to prioritise myself and my family every single time.

Because when the day comes that I take my last breath…I want to know that I invested in what actually truly matters.

Family. My children. My partner. Friends. Connection. Experiences. Using my senses. Learning. Creating. Feeling.

I used to think that empowering other people through my business was my soul’s calling and it is… in part, but it’s not all of it.

My real calling is much simpler than that.

To exist. To just notice and find love and beauty in everything that already surrounds me.

And maybe…that’s enough.