“You Threw Me Out of the Car” – A Reflection on a Hard Parenting Moment

At a workshop recently, I mentioned how my youngest daughter loves to remind me of all the things I got wrong over the years—before I knew what I know now. And tonight, while we were sitting at the dinner table, she brought it up again—that story she always tells. The one she loves to repeat. And honestly, it’s just too good not to share. Because now I see it differently. Now I can reflect on what happened, how it still triggers me sometimes, and how I have to consciously bring myself back to compassion—for her, and for myself.

So here’s the story she tells. The one she’ll never let me forget.

Years ago, my daughter was about to return to high school after the summer holidays—going into either second or third year. The day before school started, she had a GP appointment for some minor ailment she’d been complaining about. I, of course, had been minimising it: “Oh for God’s sake, it’s not that bad.” Just like I always did back then.

She didn’t want to go alone—she was in that in-between stage, not quite a child, not quite an adult—so I moved heaven and earth to get her there. I’d been up early, rearranged everything, and taken her to the doctor. And she was furious. Her face like thunder. She was rude, snappy, unkind. I kept warning her. “Straighten your face,” I said. “You don’t speak to me like that.”

All the old parenting scripts.

After the appointment, her mood hadn’t changed. Still scowling. Still snapping at me. Still making me feel like the dirt under her shoe. And finally, I snapped. I pulled the car over, yelled at her to get out, and I drove off.

She was maybe 13, 14, 15 at most. I left her a 10–15-minute walk from home. It wasn’t a nice walk. It was mostly uphill. And when I got home, I panicked. I called my husband in tears, asking him to phone her and make sure she was okay. I tracked her on my phone, convinced something terrible would happen.

And yet—I still felt I had to “teach her a lesson”.

So I went into her room, took away all her makeup——leaving only a few things behind. When she got home, safe and sound, I acted tough, as though I didn’t care. I yelled. I told her she wasn’t getting her makeup back. Her expression was deadpan, emotionless, and that only made me angrier.

I threw more consequences at her. I said, “I’m not getting up early to drive you to school anymore. You can get the bus.”

Now, this was a 25-minute drive. And we lived nowhere near a bus stop. She had to walk to the main road. It had been on our minds for a while that maybe she should start taking the bus—but looking back, I know I said it in anger, not in wisdom.

So, the next day, off she went. She came home with a raw open blister the size of a 50p coin. Her brand-new school shoes had shredded her heels. And yes, the next day, I drove her to school.

Now, years later, she brings this story up again and again. Especially now that I’ve started to understand things through the trauma-informed lens.

There’s so much in this story that makes me want to hide my face.

She said to me tonight: “Mum, I can’t believe you told me to get out of the car. I hadn’t even done anything wrong.”

And she’s right. She was a stressed, overwhelmed teenager, nervous about school, anxious about going to the GP. And I couldn’t see that. I was taking everything personally, making it about me, and not noticing the child in front of me struggling.

She reminded me tonight how she used to ask if she could go jogging down that road—the very road I left her on—and I’d said no, it wasn’t safe. But in that moment, in my anger, I left her there alone.

She told me about that bus again—the one that went through all the dodgy areas. “Did you ever take that bus, Mum?” she asked. “Did Dad?” The answer, of course, is no. But we let her take it, at 13.

She remembers the people “shooting up at the back of the bus”. I like to think she’s being dramatic—but either way, she was scared. She was alone. And she’s still angry.

And the blister. She still talks about the blister. “That thing didn’t heal for months!”

And again—she’s absolutely right.

And then, she hits me with: “And Mum—you took away my makeup. On the first day of high school. A teenage girl! You took away my makeup.” And honestly, she’s right again. If someone took my makeup now, I’d feel vulnerable. And that was my response to her stress.

But here’s the truth: it won’t help if I beat myself up. I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing. That’s the parenting I came from—control, fear, obedience. I didn’t know there was another way.

And still—when she tells the story—I can feel my defences rise. I want to say, “But you were being a horror, you were being cheeky, you were rude!” And I have to bite my tongue. Because she wasn’t bad. She was overwhelmed. Her brain was offline. And so was mine.

I asked her, “Did it work? Did you never speak to me like that again?”

She laughed.

Because no—it didn’t work.

She didn’t learn anything from the punishment. She learned when I started to listen. When I began holding space. When I started to see her. We’re still learning. Still growing. Still getting it wrong sometimes.

But wow—was she right.

Even my husband got defensive when we talked about it. But I stopped him: “No. She’s right. She was scared. She was overwhelmed. And we were responding with fear and control.”

That day, I was so stressed and overwhelmed myself, I chucked her out of the car in a place I wouldn’t even let her run. How disconnected must I have been? And when I got home, I was terrified. That’s how offline I was. But I didn’t repair. I didn’t say sorry. I didn’t drive back.

If I could do it again, I’d stop. I’d breathe. I’d apologise. And we would talk. We would repair. And we would heal, together.

I still carry the weight of that day. And I still catch myself, now and then, wanting to defend my actions. But healing doesn’t come from defensiveness—it comes from honesty. It comes from seeing our children not as disrespectful or defiant, but as dysregulated and overwhelmed. And it comes from seeing ourselves that way, too.

I can’t go back and change what I did. But I can keep showing up now. I can let her tell me now how it felt and keep apologising. I can keep learning.

And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

The Dishwasher Diaries-Small Wins, Big Shifts

This blog post is a transcript of a FB video I posted on the Trauma Informed Parenting support group on 8th of April 2023 and subsequent updates on this post.

So on my way out the door today, overwhelmed with all the housework and all the things that always seem to fall to me, I was struggling to find a way to ask for help that doesn’t sound like I’m putting pressure on people. I find that when I try to ask for help, it can sound very blaming—it sounds like everyone is under attack, and it’s hard to navigate that.

So, as I was heading out the door with my No. 1 (Autistic) daughter to her sports club, I suggested to my No. 2 daughter that she could maybe do the dishwasher for me. I instantly realised I hadn’t said it the right way, so I said, “I’m really sorry, that didn’t come out the right way. Let me rephrase that.” Then I said, “It would really help me out and give me less to do if you could do the dishwasher.”

I was kind of half-laughing, knowing she probably wouldn’t do it.

No. 1 daughter, who we suspect is Pathological Demand Avoidant, instantly said, “I’ll do it for you when we come back from basketball.” That’s what happens when I don’t give her a direct instruction and instead give it to someone else—she then wants to do it.

Her sister jumped in and said, “Well, how about I do the top of the dishwasher and you do the bottom?” They had a little discussion about how to divide it, and as we talked, it became clear that my No. 2 daughter doesn’t like doing the cutlery—that’s the part she really hates. (Turns out, after more reflection with her, that this is due to sensory issues, the sound of the cutlery scraping together is torture for her)

I said to her, “So that’s why you hate the dishwasher—because you don’t like doing the cutlery?” And she said, “Yeah.” I was surprised and said, “Well, I don’t mind doing the cutlery. If, from now on, you can just do the rest of the dishwasher and leave the cutlery for me, just set it up on the kitchen—I’ll come home happily and do the cutlery.”

Then she said, “But it’s okay, Mum, because we’re going to do it together—one half each.” But we’ve now agreed that on other occasions, she’s happy to do the dishwasher and I’m happy to do the cutlery.

But how have we been having this conversation (more like an argument) for years and never discovered that it’s only the cutlery that’s the problem?

That’s the power of changing the way you say things—entering these conversations from a different lens. Instead of seeing it as my child not wanting to do it or choosing not to, I now see that there is always something else underneath.

It’s these small wins, every day, that still take my breath away. I didn’t know this for so many years and had been living in such a different way. The difference this new perspective makes is that we can change how we approach these conversations and have better outcomes.

⸻

13th April 2023

Success!! Came home to dishwasher done—minus cutlery 👍🏻👍🏻

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14th September 2023

Just had to offer this update on Dishwasher-gate.

Since this post in April, my daughters have occasionally both been doing the dishwasher with some gentle prompting—usually involving me asking (without pressure) if they get a chance, could they perhaps help me out and do it? They were even both doing the cutlery!

But tonight, we came home from taking Daughter No. 1 to swimming training. We’d left the dishwasher and all the dishes in the sink as we were rushing out, thinking, ‘I’ll just leave it till tomorrow.’

I didn’t even ask Daughter No. 2, as she’d had a stressful day at work and had already recently done it.

After being home for a while, she said,

“Did you look in the sink?”

She’d only gone and done the lot—cutlery and dirty dishes all put away. I didn’t even have to ask. Just wow. Pure joy. A big fuss was made of her.

It may be a small win, but it feels momentous to me. ❤️

⸻

8th April 2024

Just had to post a quick update on Dishwasher-gate.

We came home after a night away, and my daughter had emptied the dishwasher and taken out the bins—without being asked. 🫨

Today she happily did the weekly shop for me while I was at work.

Hang in there, guys. There is hope. ❤️

Car Journeys, Stress Spirals, and the Beauty of Repair

On a 400-mile car journey today, all four of us were in the car. Things were going well—music, singing, chat and laughter. Lots of oxytocin flowing. Happy families.

Until we stopped at the services and were hit by a wave of overstimulation: locked toilets, confusion, and crowds. Cue my 22-year-old expressing her stress—rather publicly—in my direction. I became extremely triggered and instantly felt shamed, embarrassed, disrespected, stupid, and under attack. All within a split second.

I did manage not to respond in the moment. Instead, I went deep into shut down, mumbling something short to my husband.

We all got back in the car. The tension was palpable. My brain was spiralling:

“She’s an adult—she can’t talk to me like that.”

“How do I teach her? I need to fix this.”

We drove in silence. Rage and disconnect was palpable. My husband occasionally tried to lighten the mood with jolly comments, driven by his own need to fix the situation. That just triggered me more, which—thankfully—he sensed and stopped doing.

“Breathe, Suzanne. Breathe.”

So I breathed. I placed my thumb on my wrist and pumped ten times. Then did the same on the other side. I reminded myself: she’s stressed—it’s not an attack.

I listed all the things I was feeling and wondered where they were coming from in my past. I recognised the pattern—my mum often spoke to me this way as a child. The shame. The helplessness. It wasn’t just today’s moment I was feeling—it was layered .

More breathing.

Unsure how to start a conversation, I took out my phone to text her—even though she was sitting right behind me.

Before I could even type a word, my autistic, eagle-eyed daughter beside her piped up from the back seat:

“Mum, you don’t need to text her—she’s sitting behind you, you numpty.”

Busted.

But it was the perfect icebreaker. We all laughed.

That laugh opened the door to a real conversation. We talked about the nonsense of it all, about how stress bounces from one person to another. That she had become stressed and passed it to me. And that’s okay—I’m her mum. But maybe there are better ways to offload.

Even though my autistic daughter had been the most regulated through it all, it was clear she’d been massively affected by it, on high alert—watching every move.

The journey continued, and calm was restored.

Moments like these remind me that rupture and repair are part of family life. We don’t always get it right in the moment—but regulation, reflection, and a little laughter can take us a long way back to connection

Car Journeys, Stress Spirals, and the Beauty of Repair

On a 400-mile car journey today, all four of us were in the car. Things were going well—music, singing, chat and laughter. Lots of oxytocin flowing. Happy families.

Until we stopped at the services and were hit by a wave of overstimulation: locked toilets, confusion, and crowds. Cue my 22-year-old expressing her stress—rather publicly—in my direction. I became extremely triggered and instantly felt shamed, embarrassed, disrespected, stupid, and under attack. All within a split second.

I did manage not to respond in the moment. Instead, I went deep into shut down, mumbling something short to my husband.

We all got back in the car. The tension was palpable. My brain was spiralling:

“She’s an adult—she can’t talk to me like that.”

“How do I teach her? I need to fix this.”

We drove in silence. Rage and disconnect was palpable. My husband occasionally tried to lighten the mood with jolly comments, driven by his own need to fix the situation. That just triggered me more, which—thankfully—he sensed and stopped doing.

“Breathe, Suzanne. Breathe.”

So I breathed. I placed my thumb on my wrist and pumped ten times. Then did the same on the other side. I reminded myself: she’s stressed—it’s not an attack.

I listed all the things I was feeling and wondered where they were coming from in my past. I recognised the pattern—my mum often spoke to me this way as a child. The shame. The helplessness. It wasn’t just today’s moment I was feeling—it was layered .

More breathing.

Unsure how to start a conversation, I took out my phone to text her—even though she was sitting right behind me.

Before I could even type a word, my autistic, eagle-eyed daughter beside her piped up from the back seat:

“Mum, you don’t need to text her—she’s sitting behind you, you numpty.”

Busted.

But it was the perfect icebreaker. We all laughed.

That laugh opened the door to a real conversation. We talked about the nonsense of it all, about how stress bounces from one person to another. That she had become stressed and passed it to me. And that’s okay—I’m her mum. But maybe there are better ways to offload.

Even though my autistic daughter had been the most regulated through it all, it was clear she’d been massively affected by it, on high alert—watching every move.

The journey continued, and calm was restored.

Moments like these remind me that rupture and repair are part of family life. We don’t always get it right in the moment—but regulation, reflection, and a little laughter can take us a long way back to connection

Flying, Fear, and the Power of Preparation

I don’t love flying. I’ve struggled with it since my prefrontal cortex came online at around the age of 28. It first struck me when I was sat on a plane with my firstborn as an infant. Our vulnerability was suddenly overwhelming. I realised I was in the sky on a hunk of metal, in the hands of a complete stranger, with the most precious thing of life in my arms. It suddenly seemed insane.

But I love holidays. So I force myself to go.

When we finally saved enough to go as a family to the much-longed-for Disney Florida, the fear of the long-haul flight was ruining the anticipation of the trip. I heard from a friend about a fear of flying course run by British Airways and decided it was worth a try.

It was a great day. They explained how flying actually works—the mechanics and the science. We got to ask all our burning questions, and yes, I was that person, down the front, hand in the air over and over, question after question.

In the afternoon, we were guided through a meditation and given mantras to say. Back then, I didn’t rate that kind of touchy-feely nonsense, but I went along with it, even though I was extremely sceptical. Then we all got on an aeroplane. We were walked through the airport, through departure, through security—just as we would if we were going abroad.

The pilots who had run the course supported and accompanied us all the way. They sat on the plane with us. They talked us through take-off, and we flew around over the UK for about 40 minutes. They encouraged us to get up out of our seats, move around, and then we landed. We were reminded of our breathing and mantras all the way through. They kept answering our questions and assuring us that all was normal. They explained all the sounds and movements and what they meant, so we understood what to expect. It was fab. It has helped massively.

I’m on a flight as I write this. I still struggle with take-off a bit, but with all the tools I’ve collected over the years, I can get through it—tapping, breathing, and sensory tools. I’ve even used meditation tracks. But as I sit here reflecting on the course I did over 12 years ago, and the journey I’m now on with Trauma-Informed Parenting, I see the similarities.

What they actually did on that course was genius.

First, they acknowledged our fears and validated them. Then they answered all our questions. This was delivered by experienced pilots who mingled during breaks and lunch, connecting and chatting with us. They gave us mantras to quiet that runaway train thinking. We were taught to breathe slowly while squeezing our buttocks on the in-breath and relaxing them on the out-breath, over and over. The mantra was:

“This is uncomfortable, but it is not dangerous.”

They gave us all the facts and statistics on how safe flying actually is to help us understand. And because we knew what to expect, we were no longer in fear. When they walked us through the airport routine, they were helping us prepare and know what to expect—using their calm and connection to help us feel safe.

Just like we, as parents, want to be doing with our children every day.

I use that slide—the one about putting your own oxygen mask on first—in every workshop, to point out that calm breathing has been around a long time and that the adult needs to calm their panic brain first to be of any use to the child. I check for that slide on every flight to see if it’s still there. I find an odd sense of comfort and validation when I see it.

So if you ever see me on a flight during take-off with my eyes closed, you can’t see it, but just know—I’m squeezing those glutes, repeating that mantra, and breathing to get through it.

Just like Bryan Post’s mantra for when our children are in behaviour, and we breathe first and say to ourselves:

“I’m OK. My child is just having a hard time right now.”

Fear doesn’t disappear by magic. But with the right tools, the right support, and a little bit of practice, it becomes something we move through. Whether you’re 35,000 feet in the air or knee-deep in parenting challenges, preparation, practice and connection are the key.

Escalation and Emotional Containment in Action

I messed up again today.

We have had a tough few weeks in our family. Bereavement, change, disappointment and sadness. Add into this that yesterday, my mum totalled her car, and today we moved my dad into care. Lots of hard emotions all around.

We were heading out for a family meal with extended family, opting for our safe, familiar place to eat. On the way there, we had to cross a busy road where there were no traffic lights. Some had already crossed, some hadn’t. I made a momentary judgement and ran across, it seemed safe, although tight. I made it across the road fine but quickly heard my younger daughter shouting.

My eldest autistic daughter, who had been waiting to cross with my mum and brother, had tried to follow me. My mum had her arm in hers and had gone with her. On seeing this from the other side of the road, her sister panicked. They were fine and had shuffled back to the pavement to wait to cross. But as my youngests brain went into high alert, she went into control mode shouting and telling her sister what to do, furious with me for running across and creating this chain reaction.

Within seconds, her dad started shouting even louder at her to stop acting this way, and I then shouted at him to calm down. They all crossed safely, and we walked on to dinner me and her falling back to try and salvage some kind of calm so as not to ruin the evening. We only had a two-minute walk to get there. Some words were shared, probably not great ones, most likely more blaming and defensive than I wanted. My brain was flooded with cortisol, and all I wanted to do was fix the problem.

Luckily, we were seated in a quiet corner of the restaurant at a table everyone was happy with. I opted to sit next to her, as this would allow me to be close to her and try to create some emotional containment. By this time, my brain was coming back online, and I managed to say quietly to her that I shouldn’t have run across the road and that if I could go back in time, of course I wouldn’t do it. She gave a shrug and a nod, and her body visibly relaxed. We both instantly felt better, as did everyone else. The evening went well, and we had a lovely time.

Tomorrow, we will chat about this. I will own my mistake here, my husband will own his trigger, and that he shouldn’t have escalated. We will acknowledge that she finds eating out really difficult, the transitions and her sensitivity to noise make it very hard. She had already been struggling before we left. Her attitude had made this very clear, which had already been triggering us somewhat.

We will remind ourselves that restaurants are a huge trigger for her because of all her sister’s many public meltdowns as a child. She is extremely protective of her sister. When she goes into fear, she goes into control. We all do. She tried to control us, her dad then tried to control her, and I jumped in to control them. It happens in the blink of an eye.

Even after all these years of learning to regulate, it can still happen. But we are so aware of it now. Yes, we still have work to do, we always will. I hope that we learn something from it each time to help us for the next time.

But as we reflect and learn, we will offer ourselves tons of self-compassion, as we, as a family, are experiencing a huge amount of stress right now.

As often is the case nowadays, my autistic daughter was the most regulated of us all.

Old blueprints triggered in grief

Yesterday was a hard day. We laid a dear, dear friend to rest. A beautiful friend with a million different memories, all entwined within my family and my childrens upbringing. It was hard for us all. Being at the funeral finally made it feel real, as Ive been somewhat numb this past week.

I found it impossible to comfort my children and hold space for them. I was barely holding on myself. They were all watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to fall apart, which finally happened when I saw her coffin in the church. The dam broke, but I had one of them on either side and was so conscious that my upset would affect them. Trying to hold it together. One of them became nippy with me a couple of times. I’m not proud that I nipped back. Even more ashamed that someone might have noticed. I should know better. I was able to recognise, even in my grief, that she was struggling, and this is her blueprint she got it from me. She is in fear, and so am I. I was at least able, in that moment, to simply let it go.

Later in the evening, in the haze of disbelief and sadness, as I sat with red, puffy, nipping eyes, sighing, staring into space, exhausted she came and gave me a hug. She said that she was sorry, that a few times today she had responded in ways that weren’t helpful. I told her it was ok, that we were both really upset, and that we had fallen back into old stress behaviours. In hindsight, perhaps we shouldn’t have sat next to each other in that specific moment because we do tend to trigger each other. She agreed.

My husband has also struggled today, as he can’t fix this. He can’t take my pain away, and that’s a hard one for him. But he is able to communicate that, which is a huge shift in itself.

As I move through this grief, I’m planning to be kind to myself. I’m prepared for the mistakes I’m going to make because, of course, I won’t have the emotional capacity I might normally have.

I count myself very lucky that I haven’t had a lot of experience with grief in my life. Those close to me have, but I’ve always been that bit removed watching with a mix of horror and curiosity. Feeling useless, without the skills to help, because I had no experience of this and therefore no understanding. Dreading the time when I inevitably do go through this.

Is there a right thing to say or do? I think not. Just being there without fixing, without advising. That awkward silence is a place we dread; we can feel so useless in our inability to soothe. But that silence says it all.

It says, I see you. I feel this with you. You are not alone.

And maybe, in the end, that’s the only thing that really matters.

Chocolate Addiction to self awareness- A Journey to Freedom

For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought I was fat. Looking back at old photos of myself as a child, I can see that I was a perfectly healthy size and weight. I always loved chocolate—I couldn’t get enough of it. Being sent to the shop for my mum and being told to “get yourself something for going” was always a joy.

My mum was slim, built very differently from me. I take after my dad’s side of the family—short and stocky. I’m sure there’s some Viking DNA there! I grew up watching my mum diet and complain about her weight. Comparing my “short and stumpy” build to her slimness, I felt inadequate. If she wasn’t good enough in her own eyes, how could I be in comparison?

I’m not blaming her. She grew up in a world where a woman was often valued by the man she married, and being slim and beautiful was her currency. That message was inevitably passed down.

As a teenager, my love for chocolate and cakes only increased. Combine that with the freedom of having lunch money and access to shops, and it became a dangerous combination. Very little “real food” was bought—just a soup from City Bakeries and the rest spent on cakes and sweets. The pounds soon piled on, and along came the self-loathing. Sugar became a way to numb teenage angst and the pain of comparing myself to girls with long legs, tanned skin, and slim figures. Overlooked by crushes, I often felt invisible, like so many teenagers do.

I went on my first diet at 15, not long after I started working. After breaking down in tears when nothing fit me, my mum, meaning well, offered her advice. Diet milkshakes—chocolate flavour, of course—as meal replacements. It didn’t take long for me to start having them alongside Mars bars. More loathing followed, and I tried to make myself vomit after eating. I truly thought bulimia was the answer, but I just couldn’t do it—it was too much like hard work. More shame.

Years of yo-yo dieting followed. Boyfriends would comment; one even said I’d be really good-looking if I was slimmer. At 19, I found some success after taking up swimming regularly with friends. One day I

Noticed that the weight had disappeared. It was like a dream. People started to notice. Friends marvelled, and my mum was ecstatic—she was never prouder of me than when I was slim. I could wear clothes I’d only dreamed of, and it felt amazing.

Around this time, I met Steven and fell head over heels in love. The only problem? Steven loved food as much as I did. We were living our best lives—eating out, having late-night snacks, partying, and drinking. The pounds crept back on, but Steven didn’t care—he loved me no matter what size I was.

Lovely, yes, but I didn’t love myself. The cycle of weight loss and gain followed me through parenthood, my twenties, and my thirties. I tried every diet—counting points, sins, carbs, calories. Cabbage diets, Atkins, you name it. Some worked, some didn’t. Steven joined in too, sharing the same struggle.

In my mid-40s, my weight reached its highest. The extreme chocolate intake was affecting my health—headaches, bad skin, lethargy, and migraines. Some days I could t get out of bed, it was like a chocolate hangover, but I couldn’t stop, no matter how much I promised myself. The shame and self-loathing were intense. Why was I doing this?

I was aware that my two young daughters were watching me. So I secretly gorged on family-sized bags of Minstrels and multiple bars of chocolate at a time, sneaking the kids’ sweets when they were in bed. The more stressed I became, the more chocolate I needed. I couldn’t see a way out.

One day, while scrolling through Facebook, an algorithm, clearly well aware of my addiction, showed me a video of a lady called Brooke Castillo from The Life Coach School. She talked about weight loss in a way I’d never heard before, offering free podcasts. Intrigued, I listened.

The first podcast was about urges and how we don’t need to respond to them. They won’t kill us—they’re just uncomfortable emotions and will pass. Brooke talked about learning to feel hard emotions instead of buffering with food. This was a new concept to me.

I stopped eating chocolate and started eating three meals a day. I learned to recognise when I was full and to wait until I was actually hungry to eat. The more I practised, the easier it became. I realised that my constant food thoughts were distractions from stress. With less focus on food, diet and loathing my mind had space for other things.

In my mid-40s, I felt better than I ever had before. Not just because I was at a healthy weight, but because I was mentally healthy too. I was more confident than ever.

So when I discovered Bryan Post’s work, it wasn’t the first time I’d encountered ideas about emotional regulation. I was already open to learning about how emotions impact behaviour.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not “cured.” Stress and fear can still pull me back into old habits, but I bounce back much quicker now. I no longer diet or count calories. I eat when I’m hungry and enjoy treats occasionally, but I try to only do this when planned, not out of cravings or urges.

I often wonder if I’d have had the confidence to run my first workshop if I hadn’t felt so good about myself at the time. Would I have stood up in front of people feeling overweight and self-conscious? Probably not. Which leads back to the realisation that if I hadn’t had this struggle I would nt be where I am now.

To this day I recommend Brooks podcasts. Her work is extremely powerful.

https://podcast.app/the-life-coach-school-podcast-p5570/?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=share

Lessons Beyond the Classroom: Overcoming Struggles and Finding a Path

“Suzanne, wait behind. I want to speak to you.”

That dread in my stomach—no doubt I was getting another lecture or telling off. I braced myself. She came to me and started to apologise. I was gobsmacked.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought that doing this would make you hate me and make you so mad at me that you’d want to prove me that you could do it, but I now see that it was wrong.”

I was confused… What was I hearing? I must be imagining this. I looked at her with confusion. She continued to tell me a story about her own son at school and how he had struggled. His teacher had made his life a misery, and he had used his anger at the teacher to show them that he could succeed. My teacher told me she had hoped this approach would have the same effect on me but now understood that she was wrong.

I don’t remember if I spoke or said anything—I just listened in disbelief. Was this adult actually coming to me, a child, and apologising? My memory after this is hazy. I remember feeling relief, like something magical was happening.

When I left the class, Pamela and a few others were all waiting to hear what horror had befallen me. I don’t think they would have believed me when I told them she had said she was sorry. What I do remember is that I never, ever worked as hard for any teacher again as I did for Mrs Turnbull after that day.

Most of the teachers were in despair of me. They felt this way with my brother too, he was three years above me. I assume this came from their belief that we could try harder or achieve more. One teacher in particular, who had taught him years earlier, asked me on my first day in her class—in front of everyone—if he was my brother. When I proudly said yes, she replied, “Oh, well I won’t expect much from you either then.”

There were few exceptions. Back in the 1980s, things in schools were very different. Punishments, isolation, and shaming were commonly used tools. But Mrs Turnbull would regularly shame me over my spelling. She would read out my work to the class as I had written it—with all the spelling errors and the Bs and Ds mixed up. She would keep reading, and the class would roar with laughter, everyone hysterical—except Pam. I don’t remember ever seeing her find it funny.

Tears would stream down my face, embarrassed and ashamed. I had worked hard on that piece, and not only was it not good enough, it was ridiculous enough to be comedy. My red face burned. My head bowed to hide my tears. The sound of laughter echoed in my ears with every sentence she read. It felt like it would never stop.

This happened often until, one day during wet playtime, she told me to wait behind. The apology was certainly not what I had been expecting. After that day, she engaged me in planting and growing seeds. I remember her praising me and telling me how well I was doing. I got the only good school report I ever had that year.

Her name and face stay with me to this day, and that conversation after class had made a huge impact. I use this story often when I talk in schools and workshops to highlight the power of owning our mistakes—even when those mistakes come from a place of good intention. I don’t focus on what she did wrong, I focus on her being to own it.

It was quite groundbreaking in those days to have a teacher acknowledge that I couldn’t help it—that I wasn’t choosing to struggle. There was very little understanding of ADHD, dyslexia, or neurodiversity. The planting activity was so creative and different from putting a book in front of me that I couldn’t understand or had no interest in.

I mostly sat staring out of the window all day, dreaming. Every report card I ever received said I lacked motivation and could try harder. Was it really my responsibility as a child to motivate myself? I was told I talked too much. I was put out of many classrooms, sat alone in isolation, and still didn’t do any work. Nobody seemed to learn that their methods weren’t helping me.

I was sent to ‘remedial class’ for years, which was for children who needed extra support. I didn’t mind; they were fun and more engaging than the big class lessons. But I remember at one point, the remedial teacher stopped me while I was happily running back to class after break.

“There’s no point in you coming back if you’re not going to do the work. You’re not learning, so there’s just no point.”

I was taken aback. I didn’t expect this teacher’s anger and disappointment. I had liked her and was confused. I shrugged it off. I didn’t really understand why she’d said this. When I went home, I told my mum I didn’t need to go to remedial class anymore. She was delighted—until parents’ night, when the teacher told her why.

My mum came home and, in mock horror, joked about this with me. Luckily, my parents hadn’t been great achievers at school either, and they didn’t seem upset by my or my brother’s lack of academic ability. It seemed to be a given that we wouldn’t be high achievers in that way. This was a blessing for sure. I have been grateful in my life to not have had that pressure from family around exams and school.

I left school with a few O levels to my name: Art and Maths (just). It didn’t hold me back. I grew up watching my parents work hard and earn money. That work ethic I witnessed is deeply ingrained in my blueprints for life. They were self employed, so branching out on my own wasn’t something that I was afraid of. Both my brother and myself and Steven had all ended up following this pattern and each become self employed. A mindset that enabled us to have the courage to start the charity.

I became a hairdresser like so many others like me. But I loved it. I thrived. I learned how to talk to people and build relationships. I was having a wonderful time. Clients kept coming back to me. I don’t think I was really that good a dresser, but I could build good connections. I loved to talk, I was interested in people, and they came and told me their stories—and they wanted to hear mine.

They gave me big tips. People would stuff money in my pocket every day. The wages were rubbish, but the tips made up for that. As the years passed, I worked my way up from Junior to Stylist, and at the age of 22, I was offered the Manager’s role.

Life was good. I met Steven at work. He worked next door in the Plumbers, and we got engaged around this time. I can remember loving life—out with friends every weekend, money in my pocket, and experiencing being part of a couple for the first time.

When I met people from school, and they asked me how I was doing, they were often shocked. They were still trying to figure it all out—studying, in and out of jobs they hated, many of them still hanging about the local shop as they had in school. It felt good to be the one to have it together for once. My confidence in myself was building.

My brother did a lot better after he left school too. He, like me, had struggled. He drew stormtroopers in his school books instead of writing. He was obsessed with Star Wars, and all his art centred around this. His teachers didn’t know what to do with him.

My parents were so afraid for his future that they banned him from talking about Star Wars and removed all his Star Wars figures when he got caught smoking in high school. It didn’t deter him.

Years later, he became a graphic designer working in London at Pinewood Film Studios, designing Star Wars sticker books and annuals, among other things. He would go on to visit Skywalker Ranch and meet Mark Hamill, living his childhood dream of trying on the stormtrooper mask that Han Solo wore in the film. He loves his work and is now self employed

My parents would later laugh at this success and wonder how far he might have gone had they, in fact, encouraged him. Don’t get me wrong—they always encouraged his artistic talent, just not the focus of it.

But there’s a theme here. A daughter who talked too much, silenced and isolated, now talks for a living. A son’s passion, stifled, ended up being his career.

I don’t blame my parents. I understand only too well as a parent myself that fear grips us for our children’s future. They didn’t know. They couldn’t have imagined these careers for us. They were outside the realm of normal jobs. We couldn’t even have imagined them for ourselves.

My brother used to say to my mum in their heated arguments as he got older—she would beg him to draw something, anything else—“I’m going to do this one day, I just know I am.”

But how could she have known?

Even for myself, I used to talk and narrate my life. I used to talk in my room to imaginary audiences about my experiences. How could we have known that there would be a world where I could make a living talking about my journey for four hours at a time, and that anyone in their right mind would want to listen?

Here’s your text with UK spelling and corrections applied:

I have a hunger for learning now. I get so engrossed in my work that I lose track of time and forget to take breaks or eat. I’ve learned what works for me when it comes to learning. Audiobooks, while driving or doing housework, are brilliant. Podcasts or webinars also work well. I go through them at my own pace or engage through deep conversations with others on a similar journey. I love to learn.

Even in my early hairdressing years, I would read the magazines in the back shop—Cosmopolitan , Hello, etc. I learned so much about geography and history because I was intrigued by the glossy photos of the stately homes and the glamorous clothes. I read about the princes and princesses and the history of Monaco and Spain. I also read articles on relationships and understanding human behaviour. I would often start conversations with friends by saying, “I read this really interesting article in a magazine the other day.”

The teachers had told me I was ‘a lost cause’ and that ‘I would amount to nothing’. I believed them. But now I see that I am not stupid; in fact, I’m quite intelligent. School was the wrong environment for me, especially when I was stressed and shut down because of other pressures in my life. But when I discovered more engaging ways to learn, my brain opened up and expanded.

To anyone who’s ever been made to feel like they don’t belong in the world of learning, know this: the problem isn’t you; it’s the method. Keep exploring, keep experimenting, and never stop believing in your ability to thrive.

Learning is for everyone, it’s never too late to learn and there’s no limit to where it can take you.

From Shadows to Strength: A Journey Through Bullying and Healing

I was really surprised to learn that being bullied as a child was considered an Adverse Childhood Experience. I was bullied many times by different people throughout my childhood. I believed it was just a part of life. No adults in my life ever stepped in to stop it, so why would I think otherwise?

In primary school, due to an ongoing health issue beyond my control, children started treating me as though I had a disease they could catch. It began innocently enough when it was my turn to catch a tummy bug that was going around. A friend had said that if we touched the ground and said, “Bugs-proof all my life,” others wouldn’t catch it. But this stuck. Throughout my primary years, I constantly heard it. If a child had to partner with me or sit next to me, they would perform this “ritual” to protect themselves from my supposed germs.

The boys were worse than the girls, particularly a small group of them. Three boys from my class, along with a younger cousin of theirs—whom I didn’t even know—turned this into a sport they seemed to enjoy greatly. During break times, they chased me and cornered me. The four of them would surround me, chanting the phrase repeatedly, looking at me like I was a freak and calling me names.

I often wonder now why I always gave them this sport and ran. What would they have done if I’d just stood my ground? This happened most days, and no one ever stepped in to stop it.

But worse than this group was a lone boy who bullied me in a much harsher way. He was small, slight, and an extremely angry little thing. What he lacked in size, he made up for in seething rage. All the other boys were afraid of him. Looking back, something was clearly very wrong in his home.

He hated me with a passion. I was often sat next to him during music lessons, and as everyone sang, he would tell me under his breath how much he hated me. He would reel off all the ways he planned to hurt me after school. I would cry. When I tried to tell the teacher, she would shoo me away, uninterested.

These were not idle threats. He would wait for me behind bushes, jump out, and kick me in the stomach. This was even witnessed by the lollipop lady, who did and said nothing.

On the odd occasion when I hit back, I would get into trouble. A big fuss was made for other children who were bullied at our school, even a little. But to this day, I cannot understand why no one seemed to care when it was me.

I told my parents. I once asked my dad why they didn’t do anything to stop it. He told me he had spoken to the school, but if they wouldn’t act, there was nothing more that could be done. Again, the message to me was clear: accept it.

Many of the teachers didn’t like me. I struggled to concentrate and talked too much. I was often sat at a table by myself or outside the class. The way the teachers treated me, I’m sure, confirmed to the kids that it was acceptable to treat me this way also.

When we moved to high school, things were mostly better. The bullies moved on and seemed to leave me alone. But every now and then, a group of older girls—often dealing with their own insecurities—would pick on me. I probably made it worse because I was loud and excitable with my friends. I wouldn’t, couldn’t, stay small and quiet, even if I’d wanted to.

Of course, I’m no angel. I’ve been the bully myself—teasing taken too far with a slightly younger child. Feeling in control. The bullied becomes the bully. It’s not something I’m proud of, and those moments haunt me with guilt and regret. But even then, adults stepped in, and I was called to the head teacher’s office. It was short lived and ended very abruptly. I was left ashamed and confused. Wasn’t this just part of life? Why was it okay for this to happen to me but not to others?

Even as a young adult, I’ve had bosses who were bullies. I chose to become self-employed to avoid dealing with them.

I wonder, do those children—now adults—feel guilt? Like me, do they find themselves reflecting on the past? Are they parents now? Were their children bullied, if so do they feel guilt? I suspect not.

One of my old bullies is now a friend on Facebook. I don’t know why I added him or keep him there. He’s now a nurse with a lovely family. By all accounts, he seems like a nice guy. Perhaps I’m waiting for an apology that will never come. Or maybe I want to show him he didn’t break me. Does he even care? Probably not.

What’s confusing to me is that it hasn’t affected me more. I credit that to my best friend. Her unwavering connection through it all helped me immensely. Of course, it has left scars. Outwardly, I can seem confident, but the slightest negative feedback, rejection, or blame can trigger me back into feeling bullied again. I retreat, shut down—running away, cornered once more, afraid.

But I’ve discovered, through my own IFS work and trauma coaching, that I have a strong dissociative part that has protected me. This part has helped me survive, and I’m grateful for it.

As I reflect on these experiences, I realise they shaped me in profound ways. They taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of speaking up when something isn’t right. While the scars remain, they are a reminder of my strength and the journey I’ve undertaken to heal.

I often think about what I would say to my younger self if I could. I’d tell her that it’s not her fault, that she’s not alone, and that one day she’ll use these experiences to help others. I’d tell her to keep going, that brighter days are ahead, and that she will grow into someone who can hold space for others who feel unseen, unheard, or cornered.

Bullying leaves marks, but it doesn’t have to define us. Healing is possible, and we can choose to rewrite the narrative, turning pain into purpose.

For anyone reading this who has experienced similar struggles—know that you are not alone. You are worthy of kindness, understanding, and respect. And no matter how broken things may feel, you have the strength to heal and rise again.

Thank you for allowing me to share my story. It’s been part of my healing, and I hope it can be part of yours too.

Pamela: My Forever Safe Place

Pamela has been a massive part of my life. Since that first day at school at the age of four, she has been my steady rock. We have played, laughed, wondered, conspired and cried together. She was with me through the bullying in primary school; we have shared heartbreaks through high school, the crazy alcohol-fuelled clubbing years, weddings, births, and even grief together. All of my memories include her bouncy blonde-haired presence. As children, we fell out often, and as teens, many petty jealousies caused rifts. But we always came back stronger. There is nothing I would not do for this amazing woman.

We have so many memories through the years: fighting in the mud outside school in primary, both crushing on the same boys as teenagers, huddling together in a McDonald’s toilet while she took a positive pregnancy test at the age of 19, being bridesmaids for each other, toddler groups, and girls’ nights out. Through the good, the bad, and the ugly times, I feel so very lucky to have this friendship. I often wonder what I ever did to deserve it.

We are very different in many ways. She has always been cute and blonde compared to my awkward brown messiness. She was popular while I was bullied. She was clever when I was told I was a lost cause. All the boys were attracted to her while I was desperate to be seen. She would be more sensible where I was compulsive. But these differences didn’t matter. Growing up, her home was my favourite place to be. I spent as much time there as possible, talking myself into sleepovers with midnight feasts and inviting myself along to family gatherings. I’m sure her family despaired. In the early years, her older sister and I did not get along. I was so jealous that she got to be with Pamela more than me, and we argued often. I was her little sister’s annoying friend. Pam was even banned one summer by her parents from seeing me. But it was pointless. As soon as we saw each other again, we were thick as thieves. Her family had no option but to accept it. As we got older, we were regulars in each other’s homes.

It’s only latterly, as I reflect and become curious about my own history, that I see she was my safe place. It’s her constant connection that helped me get through. I always had someone to go to, someone who would listen and understand. I do wonder sometimes how that must have been for her. Some of the things she witnessed and heard me talk about can’t have been easy. She was just a kid herself. I only hope that I was at times able to offer that same support to her.

We have never run out of things to say or talk about. In school, we weren’t allowed to sit together, separated every year for talking too much. We would take an age to walk home from school every day, always chatting and getting up to mischief. I would go to Pam’s house for crisps and sweets, grudgingly heading home only to pick up the phone and call her when I got there to talk and giggle some more. Many people would wonder what we could possibly still have to say.

The daily bullying could be relentless, and the things the bullies called me and said about me were impossible not to believe. The signals were clear, especially when no adults stepped in to stop it, and even sometimes confirmed it themselves. I wasn’t good enough. I deserved it. Something about me was substandard. But Pamela didn’t see me this way. She didn’t distance herself in case my unpopularity affected her. She stood unwaveringly by my side. She accepted me—my true, authentic, loud, annoying, excitable self. The more time I spent with her, the more it drowned out the bullies. I had to assume this drove them crazy because I wouldn’t cow down to them. I wouldn’t be quiet and timid. I didn’t fight back; I accepted it. But somehow, it didn’t break me. As long as I had this friendship, I could bounce back every time.

So when many years later, while learning about the power of connection, it made complete sense. I had experienced this. We can recover from a harsh and painful world if we have that one safe place to keep returning to.

As I get older I realise that not everyone is so lucky. I am acutely aware of just how rare and precious this kind of friendship is. Pamela has been more than a friend; she’s been my anchor, my confidante, and my second family. Through every twist and turn of life, she’s been there, holding space for me, offering kindness and understanding when I needed it most.

As we’ve grown older, our lives have become busier. Careers, partners, and families demand so much of our time, but we always find our way back to each other. Even if weeks or months pass, we can pick up right where we left off, as if no time has gone by at all. That’s the beauty of a friendship like ours—it’s timeless and unwavering. I always have a better week if Iv seen her or spent time with her

I hope we still have many adventures ahead of us. There will be more milestones, more tears, more laughter, and more memories to cherish. Pamela will always be part of my story, just as I hope I’ll always be part of hers.

To Pamela: thank you for being you. For standing by me, for accepting me exactly as I am, and for showing me the power of connection and love. You are my forever friend, my safe place, and my greatest blessing.

Here’s to many more years of laughter, love, and mischief.❤️

Finding Comfort in the Water: Our Swimming Story

My eldest had never been good at anything. Everything was hard for her, even the simplest of things. Her sister, on the other hand, excelled. It was a hard comparison, which often worried me.

Swimming had been a constant in our lives. I had loved swimming myself as a child, often spending all day in the water with friends at our local pool. On holidays, I spent all day in the water, and no holiday was complete without a pair of flippers, a snorkel, and a mask set. I took the girls often when they were young. On those long days where we didn’t know what to do, wet Sundays, or long Christmas holidays, it was always a win. S could never sit still for long or amuse herself, and the eternal fighting and squabbling would start. But they both loved splashing around in the water. I could sit down in the pool and have a much-needed rest at last while watching them. They loved to play around me, pretending to be hairdressers and washing my hair, or carrying me around in the water where I was weightless. Many happy hours were spent with them in swimming pools. They could even get a shower and wash their hair, which saved the screaming and fighting at bedtime. With the distraction of watching everyone in the pool, it was somehow manageable. Sunday afternoon swimming became a regular thing as it also meant they were all showered and clean for school the next day. Getting them out of the pool and into the shower was a challenge enough, but getting the three of us dressed afterwards was a whole other level of stress. They would both be exhausted and grumpy by this time. Threats and treats were thrown around, and food and snacks helped a little. I’m sure those around thought that I was torturing them. Screaming, yelling, and banging came from the cubicle. Even a few loud slaps at times that would have sounded like I had hit them—when it was actually S hitting me. We often left in tears, steam coming out of my ears, and with empty threats to never return to another pool again.

We tried many different swimming lessons. G did well and picked it up. S struggled. It made us aware that one side of her body was weaker than the other. She couldn’t get her left arm to swing around the way she could the right. She couldn’t get her face into the water. She had to remove her implant in the pool, so couldn’t hear anything and could only go on what she picked up from lip reading or watching others. Many different teachers tried to teach her. She progressed slightly but never quite got there. In between, I persisted in trying to get her to learn myself. She was getting older now and, on holiday, still wearing armbands. This wasn’t socially acceptable. Steven and I could deal with our embarrassment, but her sister was mortified. For safety, we really wanted her to be able to swim. So I persevered, trying to teach her. Slowly, she improved. We got her to a point where she could swim under the water but not above. She still couldn’t swim beyond her depth.

It was when she started at a special needs high school that this all changed. They had a pool and a wonderful PE teacher who was working with her. She recommended that we contact a special needs swimming club in our area. I had no idea it existed. Along we went, unclear about what we were actually going to, but we soon realised that this wasn’t just lessons—it was a swimming club. A boy from her school was there too. He seemed delighted to see her, and it was obvious they knew each other well.

She started to go every week, and slowly they worked with her to learn how to breathe while swimming. Little by little, she got more confident until eventually, she could do it. She progressed to swimming with the club three times a week. She swam for miles, length after length. She learned different strokes and started taking part in swimming galas. At these galas, she started winning medals. She was achieving, she was good at this. Her left side got stronger, but she was also part of a team.

I cannot tell you the difference this made to our lives. She found her place in the world, but in that place, we had also found solace in the other parents. They got it. They understood. For many years, this was our routine: swimming three times a week, swimming galas at the weekends, long days sitting at hot, uncomfortable pool sides, cheering her on. She, of course, couldn’t hear us as she didn’t have her implant on—until new technology advanced enough to create a waterproof version of this. How exciting! Now she could hear the water. She was surprised at the sound her arms made as they slapped the water and at the cheering crowd as she swam. She could hear instructions and talk to her teammates.

Swimming three times a week had brought some calm to our lives. The energy she used up helped, but the controlled breathing, deep pressure, and sensory stimulation all helped too. If she missed a week’s training, we could see the difference in her behaviours. She had built friendships and felt like she belonged—she was blossoming.

The boy from school was now her boyfriend. It was all very innocent and sweet. I had never dared to imagine this for her. Life was already improving when we got the news that she had been selected to swim for Scotland West in the Special Olympics. This was something that we heard the older swimmers talk about, and it was a big deal. She would be travelling to Sheffield, staying with her team, and swimming each day for a week, competing for Scotland West.

For a year, training increased, funds were raised, and hotels were booked. Around 20 of our friends and family were travelling down to see her compete. The excitement built. I was worried about how she might cope. How we might cope. But she had the time of her life, bringing home a gold medal for her 50-metre backstroke and a silver medal for her team medley. Seeing her win that gold, with all of our nearest and dearest cheering her on, was indescribable. Pure joy. Especially when, in her own delight, her fist pumped the water as she realised she had actually pulled it off.

She continues to train regularly to this day. When she misses it, she struggles. She is more on edge and has too much energy to burn. Lockdown was torture for her. She couldn’t get in the water for a year. An inflatable hot tub in the garden was the best we could do, until a friend of a friend allowed us access to their nearby empty holiday home with an indoor swimming pool built on the back. This was awesome. It was like releasing a stranded animal out of captivity. She was back in her natural habitat: streamlined, gliding up and down the pool. Submerged underwater and moving her body in and out, breaking the surface and then back down again, tumbling under the water and pushing off the wall into another stretched-out stroke. It was as much a relief for us to see as for her to experience.

Her sister became a volunteer in the club, assisting in training and at galas, then eventually trained as a swimming teacher. It was a great job for her in her late teens and fantastic experience for her career as a school teacher. I even trained as a swimming teacher myself, a job I did briefly between fostering and running the charity.

The water has been so therapeutic for us. It has so many healing qualities: its sound, its feel, the way it moves, and how it looks. Its repetitive rhythm. As I get older, I find myself drawn to vast expanses of water more and more, craving it. I could sit and look at the water for hours—it helps bring me calm and grounds me.

Looking back, I realise how much swimming has given our family—not just a skill or a sport, but a sense of belonging, resilience, and pride. For my daughter, it wasn’t just about learning to swim; it was about overcoming challenges, building confidence, and finding her place in the world. Water has a way of healing, of washing away fears and struggles, and leaving behind strength and calm. It gave my daughter so much that I never expected and provided us all with a sanctuary. Today, when I see her glide through the water with confidence and joy, I see more than just a swimmer. I see a fighter, a champion, and a young woman who has found her flow in life.

Swimming has taught us so much more than strokes and technique—it’s shown us the beauty of persistence, the strength in community, and the joy of achieving the seemingly impossible. It’s a journey I’ll forever cherish, one that continues to shape not just her life, but all of ours.

A Fight for Diagnosis: Our Journey to Understanding

We knew our daughter had learning difficulties early on. She had been late to sit and walk; she never really crawled but instead rolled, almost swimming across the floor. Her speech was delayed due to her hearing loss, but she also had meltdowns and sleep issues. She was clumsy and struggled with motor skills. No one ever gave us a clear diagnosis beyond “special needs.” Words like dyspraxia and limited understanding were thrown about. It got harder as she grew older. Her speech developed, but she struggled in many other ways. Steven and I would often talk about it long into the night. Maybe one day someone would come up with an answer or discover something that made sense, but we didn’t really believe they ever would. We were filled with fear for her future. What was to become of her? How was this ever going to end well?

It wasn’t until the transition into high school that we began to think she might be autistic. I had never considered it before. My friend Pamela had tentatively suggested it to me years earlier, but I couldn’t go there. I didn’t want it to be true. I had been quite offended by the suggestion at the time. But the meltdowns had increased with this big change in her life, and she had developed tics. A nervous cough appeared every day before school, and she would vomit on the way there. The anxiety started on a Sunday night. A fear of seeing people faint or fall emerged, and we seemed to encounter it everywhere, oddly. We tried the GP and educational psychology, but they couldn’t offer any help. By chance, we found an organisation called SENCE through a Google search. They told us about CAMHS. All these years and all these professionals, and no one had ever mentioned them to us. We needed a GP referral, so back we went. The GP, who had never suggested this himself, wasn’t going to agree to the referral. It was only when I broke down in tears, exhausted and fearful for my child, that he reluctantly sent the referral.

We waited a months, but eventually, we got an appointment, and an assessment began. Many forms and questions had to be answered, and as I filled them out, I realised I didn’t always know the answers. Did she look people in the eye? She looked me in the eye, but I wasn’t sure. Did she have special interests? I didn’t think so; I couldn’t get her to sit still long enough to have one. I didn’t want my child to be autistic. I really only wanted an occupational therapy appointment to get a sensory diet. I had read about this and was keen to get it. At this time, it was 2010, and before the assessment, the CAMHS diagnostician had told me that currently Occupational Therapy was not working with any children who had an autism diagnosis. This seemed to be a funding issue. So we needed this assessment to say she was not autistic to get the sensory diet. It was madness. This was only happening in our area for a short time in history; no one else I’ve ever met remembers this. But of course, it would have unconsciously affected my answers in the assessment. Unsurprisingly, the result was that she was not autistic. I was delighted. It was exactly what I had hoped for. But then, why was she having these issues?

The two CAMHS workers involved couldn’t agree. I sat there as they argued—one thought she was autistic, the other suggested it might be trauma. Trauma! What were they saying? Suggestions about my parenting, leaving her to “cry it out,” or even threatening her with the police when she had been violent towards me. So much shame and blame. I had been doing my best, not knowing what else to do. As a foster carer, this felt doubly shameful. I had seen the impact of trauma. It was a dark day indeed. But at least we were finally referred to Occupational Therapy. The sensory diet was helpful, with exercises designed specifically to help ground her. We used these often. I was grateful to CAMHS at l for this is nothing else.

As time went on, I began to notice all the things I had claimed she didn’t do on the assessment forms. She didn’t look people in the eye. She did speak in a funny voice at times. She did hum and stim. I just hadn’t noticed. But the real moment of clarity came when she finally learned how to draw a star, something she had struggled to do. I went up to her room; she had been up there for hours, which was unlike her. She never sat still or focused on one task for long. She was at her desk, drawing stars. Pages upon pages of stars covered the floor. It was equally wonderful and terrifying. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a special interest; it was that, due to her learning delay, she hadn’t developed the capacity for one until then. The more her motor skills developed, the more she drew. She coloured, scribbled, did paint-by-numbers, and later, as her understanding of words and spelling grew, she started word searches and crosswords. Then came maths books—addition, subtraction, times tables. She loved it when we wrote her long sums. Off she went with her calculator. All these signs were so obvious now. She repeated lists and numbers, and practised conversations with herself. A common phrase in our home became a sarcastic “No, she isn’t autistic at all!” whenever she did something obviously autistic.

Every professional we worked with would ask if we had considered having her assessed. It was so frustrating. I called CAMHS to tell them this, but they assured me I was mistaken. They were adamant that, as she had used imagination in her play at their sessions, she couldn’t be autistic.

A year later, I heard about something called Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA). It sounded very similar to the challenges we’d been dealing with. It was a rare type of autism, largely undiagnosed. I ordered a book called My Daughter Is Not Naughty, which described everything we’d experienced. The constant battles over simple things, her fixations on specific people and objects, her meltdowns. The big things and the small things. This was unbelievable. This was it. Everything made sense. I waited, hoping CAMHS would learn about this and contact me to say they now understood, but that call never came. I rang them, and they again told me that as she didn’t have an autism diagnosis, she couldn’t have PDA. I was gobsmacked. I didn’t want my child labelled as autistic, but it was obvious she was. I couldn’t get professionals to meet her needs without a diagnosis. There’s a lot of debate around diagnoses, but sometimes they’re needed. Without one, we parents aren’t taken seriously. I don’t think any parent wants to be in this position, so if they believe this is the case, they should be listened to. No, it doesn’t change anything, but it can provide clarity and understanding. I decided to try the PDA techniques from the book, and they made a big difference. If I didn’t give a direct demand, she was more willing to do things. Reverse psychology worked every time: “Don’t you dare put your pyjamas on; I’ll be so annoyed if you do!” would send her off squeaking with delight, and she’d return changed for bed as I mock-groaned, “Oh no, I didn’t want you to do that!” Her sister also learned this, becoming skilled in managing and gently steering her PDA behaviours.

But things could still be hard, especially when routines changed in our lives. I now understood that her meltdowns weren’t a choice. This shift helped me, but it didn’t stop the meltdowns; it just helped me take them less personally.

The years marched on, and she was becoming a young adult. Services needed to be in place for her transition out of school, but without a diagnosis, nothing was forthcoming. I spoke to the school, who agreed to have the school doctor reassess her. It took years to progress, and just as we were about to get this done, we were told she was too old and would have to transfer to the adult team. By this time, there were so many signs. She would mimic me as I spoke, copying my words and mannerisms. In social situations, she was awkward, and in an attempt to join conversations, she would say random things that made no sense. She couldn’t follow conversations. I knew she was PDA autistic. I decided to give up this futile fight for a diagnosis. It had worn me down. I refused to spend any more of my energy on it. I didn’t need it. We knew the truth.

She was managing college as best she could on her special needs course and attended a special needs swimming club. Swimming really helped her regulate. The repetitive movement, breathing, and deep pressure of the water, three times a week. She had friends and even a boyfriend. She was part of a club and winning medals. There was finally something she was good at. We were in the best place we had ever been with her when we were offered genetic testing. We did it mostly to see if her issues were genetic and something her sister might need to consider when having her own family. It was extremely unlikely she herself would ever have children, but her sister very likely would. We didn’t expect what we learned. They explained she had an extremely rare gene deletion called DLG4. At that time, there were only 70 people in the world with this. It was called Shine syndrome, and part of it involved autistic spectrum disorder. This was incredibly validating. Finally, at the age of 22, we understood. This was not genetic; her hearing loss is genetic, but not the other issues. This is something that happened in gestation—a gene that didn’t develop. No one’s fault. But the more we learned, the more it made sense. With Shine syndrome, children struggle with motor skills, global developmental delay, and skeletal issues. So many of the issues she struggled with that we hadn’t understood.

My heart broke all over again for the times we made her walk when her legs and joints would have been painful. No wonder she always wanted into her sister’s pram; she hadn’t the words to communicate, and we didn’t know. When I think of her as a young, deaf, autistic child, suddenly having sound and vibration thrust into her silent world, it’s so clear why she struggled with it so much—the sensory overwhelm she must have been experiencing would have been imence. If only we had understood this.

We have come such a long way from there. The final step was learning about the trauma-informed approach and realising that all the stress and fear Steven and I had been experiencing was only making everything worse. The children were feeding off our energy. Since making these changes and reducing our stress and fear, she no longer has meltdowns. Her demand-avoidant behaviours are short-lived and are now a red flag, telling us she’s stressed about something she can’t fully communicate. We can work to help her by validating this, helping her figure out what it is and release the stress. Meltdowns are a thing of the past. Of all four of us, she is often the most regulated, highly aware of our stress.

Knowledge has truly been everything for us. I’m often sad that it took so long to get here, but I also truly believe we went through it so that we could be where we are now—to this place where we can share that ray of hope with other parents struggling with similar big behaviours. I just wish someone could have done this for us back then.

Our Fostering Journey; Love Loss and New Beginnings

Friends of ours had become foster carers. We watched in awe. It was something we had considered. The radio and TV adverts had pulled at our heartstrings, and I had been so surprised when Steven had come home one day and suggested we consider it. But it seemed like something other people did, and having so many challenges of our own, I assumed we wouldn’t be allowed to do it. We had wanted more children but had opted out of this, as the chance history would repeat itself was too high. But watching someone so close to us in this role and seeing how the process worked had made it seem more possible. So we tentatively contacted our local council about fostering.

It didn’t take long for them to get back to us. There was an initial meeting where they gave us basic information about fees, expenses, and expectations. We could ask all the questions we had around sleeping arrangements, choosing ages that might suit us, parental contact, etc. So far, it didn’t scare us off, so we were invited to a two-day prep group for new prospective carers. We went through the training, unaware that we were being watched and reported on. But whatever we were being assessed on, we must have passed, as soon our assessment started.

This was a long process. No stone was left unturned. Many meetings in our home, asking lots of questions about our families, our histories, and our personal background. They spoke to us together and apart. They spoke to our children, our parents, and our friends. We had to have full medical checks, police checks, credit checks. We had to provide insurance documents, mortgage statements, birth certificates—you name it, it was all covered. Everything except the colour of our underwear. But it was understandable; if we were to be given vulnerable children to care for, then every step had to be taken to be sure we were safe.

Our own struggles with our own child didn’t seem to be an issue. If anything, our experience was a strength. It took about a year in total to go through the process; the last hurdle was to go to a panel. This was daunting. A room full of panel members would interview us and decide if we would be approved. It was exciting but terrifying. When we left, my legs were like jelly. But the news came in that we had been approved to care short-term (now called interim care) for one child between the ages of 0–7. It was recommended that we only have children younger than our own.

There were no children that matched with us at this point, so we just had to wait. Our girls were so excited. We were too. Our rose-tinted glasses were firmly in place. They were older now, 11 and 13. They got on a lot better now, although there could still be many fights and meltdowns. They tended to get along better when there was a friend over, so the hope was that this wouldn’t be a win-win.

Months passed with no news. We got the bedroom ready and collected different sizes of clothes and toys here and there. When the call eventually came, we were ecstatic. Our first foster child was a two-year-old little boy. He was adorable. We were all instantly smitten. He only stayed a few weeks before returning to his birth family, but what an eventful few weeks, with a rollercoaster of emotions. He was, of course, frightened to be in this new house with these strange people. But it didn’t take him long to get to know us and build connections with little in-jokes, silly songs, and sayings that we still talk about fondly now. He used swear words that would make your hair curl and could go into moods that seemed to come out of nowhere.

It was a short stay and a great first experience for us, with a lovely outcome seeing him return to his dad. I will never forget his joy and excitement when we told him he was going home, and we waved him off in the social worker’s car. I’m sure he has no recollection of those few weeks with us, but they are imprinted in our family as a core memory.

We had many different experiences in our seven years of fostering—from a premature baby born drug-addicted, a newborn relinquished at birth, to children whose parents were struggling with addiction or mental health. Some were able to return home, some went on to aunts and uncles. We supported a few adoptions. This could be joyous but also tinged with huge loss and sadness, for the birth family and for us. But seeing the child connect to their new family over the transition period felt like a huge honour to be part of. Some children came for a day, some stayed for years. Some left and came back again. Nothing can prepare a foster carer for the reality of the role—the extreme behaviours or the overwhelming fear the child can often be in. The heartbreaking stories and horrific allegations they can sometimes disclose. My own girls could struggle with all of this. They were understandably jealous of our attachment to these children at times but also became so attached themselves.

Every one had, and always will have, a space in our hearts—forever a piece in our family’s history. They were never ours to keep, just ours to nurture for however long they would stay. The hardest part was saying goodbye. It surprised me how much I would crave that child after they left. Even if a similar child took their place in our home, the need for their smell and their unique personality lingered. We have been lucky to maintain some kind of contact with most of the children we have cared for and know a little about how they are getting on. I think of them often and still have all their photos on my walls. I hope that as adults they may seek us out. A few have found us on social media. Our door will always be open.

Walking away from foster care wasn’t easy. As challenging as it was, it was also massively rewarding and slightly addictive. The buzz of excitement when that call came in with news of a new child needing our care. Seeing them start to feel safe and getting to know their little personalities. Witnessing their transformation as they begin to feel secure—there is nothing like it. But it can be so restrictive: not being able to plan anything, never knowing what the child’s plan might be. Holidays are tricky; nights out impossible. Babysitters could be an issue, with many children too afraid to be left with anyone else. The lack of sleep and, oh boy, the washing. The never-ending washing.

The final straw came for us when social work started shaming carers who were overweight. Steven had always struggled with his weight. But now, at the yearly review, the medical advisors were telling overweight carers to go on a weight-loss programme and expected Steven to report back to be checked on for weight loss. There was huge uproar about this amongst the foster carers. Some social workers had handled it better than others. Sadly, it wasn’t handled well by ours, creating a lot of shame and embarrassment all round. No job is worth that. We loved fostering, but I couldn’t expect Steven to be put through this every year.

So this was the beginning of the end for us. The girls were finishing school, our parents were getting older—it was time to move nearer to them to support them. So, with a heavy heart, the plan to retire from fostering was put into place. We already knew when our last wee guy came that he would be the last one. I hadn’t realised that what he would teach me would set me on my next journey.

From Vision to Vital Funding: Sustaining a Charity

When we became a registered charity, I was under the misconception that funding would fall into our lap. I thought the government would give us funding and all we had to do was apply. I had no idea how hard it was going to be. We had originally started charging for tickets, but it became clear that people needed this information, and I was passionate that if we were to get this out there, it had to be accessible to all. I soon realised we had many more changes to make. To apply, we needed a bank account in two or more names. We couldn’t have any board members that were related. We had to present accounts. We had more work to do.

During lockdown, we had been given £2,000 by the CORRA FOUNDATION; all charities were given this to help support them at that time. This was exciting—we could finally cover our costs, which were minimal as workshops were all online. Setting up a bank account wasn’t easy, as lockdown was only just lifting, and getting an appointment was impossible. But finally, we managed to get one set up. Steven and Julie stepped off the board so that we didn’t have any Trustees who were married. We applied to a few different small grants. It seemed that most funders liked to see three years of accounts. But as a start-up, we didn’t have this. It also seemed that we needed to have funding to get funding. It felt impossible.

Being dyslexic made this even harder—rewriting and correcting everything I wrote, over and over. Each application asked for something new that I had never heard of. Words like ‘evidence of impact’ and ‘outcomes’. I didn’t know what these meant. They wanted to see policies that we didn’t have in place yet. On I went, applying and learning all the way. I soon realised I was wasting my time with the larger grants. Emails kept coming back, telling us we had been unsuccessful. It was soul-destroying. After each rejection, I would have to give myself time to lick my wounds, threaten to give up, and ultimately always recover and come back fighting, ready to try again.

We had more success with smaller grants—local community grants. £1,000 here and £2,000 there, offering six workshops in one area and four in another. Some councils, I found, were more open to the Trauma-Informed Approach than others. We secured funds in Stirling, West Dunbartonshire, North Lanarkshire, and East Dunbartonshire. A law firm in Glasgow awarded us £2,000 to deliver workshops in Glasgow. Things were starting to happen.

What I didn’t realise was that with funding comes responsibility. Each successful bid brought its own stress. It’s one thing to say we can deliver six workshops in an area; it’s another to find the audience to deliver to. Again, some areas are more open to this. I sent emails and messages to any charity and organisation in these areas, telling them of our work. But they had never heard of us. They were sceptical. It took time to find organisations that would use our service. Homestart was brilliant. They would book a workshop for their staff and volunteers first, and then after attending, they tended to get excited and book more for their service users. Women’s Aid did the same. We reached out to local councils and social workers, but they were resistant. Schools were too. They would ask what certification we had, and we didn’t have any that was recognised. I was certified in Bryan Post’s stress model, but the workshops were based around my lived experience, so they weren’t interested. Councils seemed afraid of us. What we were saying was in direct contradiction to the Triple P and Incredible Years programmes that they had been offering parents. In one area, four schools booked us for their staff—we were so excited—but the council shut it down. Their party line was that they didn’t want to confuse parents by offering contradictory information.

We kept on. Applying, emailing, messaging. Sharing posts on social media. I even got myself banned from a few Facebook groups for this. Slowly, more funds came in. Slightly bigger funds. We managed to get enough funding to cover the cost of having the workshops CPD certified. This made a huge difference. Suddenly, school staff and social workers were taking us seriously. We were gathering feedback all the time, and with the help of our wonderful coach Adrian Murtaugh of Just Smart Thinking, who offered his time once a week to help me, things began to take shape. We had policies and evidence. I was getting more successful at writing applications, but they took me so long—it was a full-time job. I learned that you had to just keep applying and applying. Most were rejected, but the odd one would be successful. When they were, it was like winning the lottery.

Soon, we had some new Trustees. Sharon, who was at one of our original workshops and had offered to help, was roped in. She had experience in charities and applying for funding. She was amazing, helping me and going over the applications with me. Barbara, a lawyer; Kevin, a supporter of our work through Adoption UK; Lindsay, a nursery teacher from that first workshop; Teshhany, one of our parents; Geraldine, a foster carer I had previously worked with; and Gillian, the amazing social worker who had originally got me interested in ACEs, even joined. Having a wealth of experience on the board made a big difference. But sadly, with these new Trustees came the retirement of some of our original members. Pamela stepped down first. She felt her role in helping me get things off the ground had passed, and now it was time for new blood to take over. I didn’t want her to leave—I was so grateful to have her be part of this; I always will be—but she insisted. With a heavy heart, I accepted her resignation. Stuart and Barbara, our Chairperson and Treasurer, also stepped down. This was a new era. I am forever grateful to them all.

The more funds came in, the more we could grow. We decided to use some of our funds to bring in a part-time fundraiser. This was a huge decision for us. It could go either way. There was a lot of fear that it could be a waste of funds. There was no guarantee. But we had to try, and Katie was brought into the TIP team. When I first spoke to Katie, she motivated me massively, and I could see a way forward. The vision became so clear. Having someone else take over the funding allowed me to focus on delivering more workshops and growing the organisation. It didn’t take long before small funds started to come in. Then bigger ones. Within a year, she had secured some three-year funds and the full year’s required income. TIP could now offer the workshops across Scotland fully funded. We were able to bring in a trauma coach to support attendees at the large monthly online events and a part-time admin to ease my workload.

People were starting to notice us and contact me for advice on how we had done it, which prompted me to start this blog. Of course, my fear sets in when I start to share this information—the fear of losing our funding to other organisations, the fear of scarcity. There is an instinct to keep it all for myself. I have to work hard not to be controlled by that fear and instead choose to come from a mindset of abundance, in the hope that what I share with others will come back full circle.

A siblings journey- Embracing the Chaos of Two

I don’t know what kind of mischief had come over us, with all the drama we were going through with S’s hearing and meltdowns. It had taken us two years trying to conceive the first time,  but something in me was telling me to go for it. I wonder now, was it a desperate need to take back control of our lives? Was it fate? Or insanity? The chances were so slim, or so we thought. Within a few weeks all those tell-tale signs were there. On a wet Sunday afternoon in January 2000, I sat there staring at three blue lines from three tests. Shock, excitement, disbelief. What had we done??!! S was only 16 months old. Gulp.

But I was filled with something unfamiliar that I hadn’t felt in such a long time. Joy. Hope. Happiness. Yes, it was terrifying, but it was also wonderful. A new baby. People were going to think we were crazy. We had so much going on, and we were still struggling to come to terms with S’s hearing loss. But as we broke the news to family and friends, they were also joyous for us. They didn’t seem to think we were insane, or at least they didn’t show it if they did.

The professionals dealing with us weren’t so delighted. We were met with stony faces and grim news. We were informed that with us having one Deaf child, there was a 1 in 5 chance that this child would also be Deaf. For some reason, that didn’t worry me. That was a 4 in 5 chance that they wouldn’t be. We had been to see the Cochlear Implant team and were told my being pregnant might make us less appropriate candidates for S being chosen for the implant, as I would be too busy with a new baby to give her the required time and attention she would need. I assured them this wouldn’t be the case. I could see there was going to be more fighting ahead of us.

The pregnancy marched on. During this time, we fought to get S her cochlear implant and went through the operation (see blog -Silent struggles ). The due date was close and coincided with S’s switch-on date. At this point, I just wanted to get on with it. I felt like a beached whale – second pregnancies aren’t as fun as first pregnancies, especially when you have a toddler to run after. At my antenatal appointment they had agreed surprisingly to induce me to fit in with S’s switch on date  S was dropped off with my parents and we headed off to the hospital.  When we got there the midwife told us that it was busy night and suggested we go out for something to eat and return in a few hours. It was unreal for us to be out on our own after everything that was going on, knowing that in a few hours we would have another baby, just sitting having a meal in a restaurant, casual as you like, strangest date night ever. After a long night and day G came noisily into the world.  The midwife said she had never seen anything like it  before. She wasnt crying, she was talking, she was gargling, wriggling her head   as she left the birth canal.  It was a strange sensation.   

G was a pure joy, a real bright spark in what had been a dark time. Before I was allowed home, she had to get the echo test to see if there were any concerns about her hearing. But I had already noticed the difference. I could see her turning to voices or jumping and starting at sounds. I hadn’t known the first time round, I’d had no comparison. They wired her up and put electrodes around her head as she slept, and they piped sound into her ears to test the echo that is sent back. I held my breath. The words the technician told me next were like music to my ears: “Everything seems normal.” As I came out of the room, my mum was waiting at the other end of the corridor with S. She could tell by the look on my face what had just happened, as I grinned widely and nodded  “She is OK.” Her eyes filled with tears. What a relief.

S was not impressed with her new sister at all. In fact, she wasn’t impressed with me. She was so clingy with my mum, and it wrenched at my heart. The few days she had spent away from me had already created such a disconnect. I was emotional as it was, having just given birth, but this was brutal. She didn’t want to hug me, she didn’t want to see the baby, even though the baby had brought her gifts, and I’d been careful not to be holding the baby when she arrived to visit, I’d read all about how upsetting it could be . I’d done all the right things, but it didn’t matter. It felt like she didn’t love me anymore. I was desperate to just get home.

So home we came, all four of us for the first time. Many friends and family came to visit and meet the baby. S was fine when we had visitors – she would go off and play with all the other children that came and went, but every time someone would leave, she tried to give them her sister to take with them. She didn’t seem to understand that this baby was ours. She didn’t like this new creature in our home at all. She wouldn’t sit near her for a photo and would have huge meltdowns every time I fed her. I lived in hope that this would pass. I could hold the baby to feed her and opted to have her in front of me in her baby chair   I got really good at feeding her while also chasing S round and playing at the same time, no wonder she was so colicky.

We had to get used to having a new baby as well as managing S’s many meltdowns and prepare for the switch-on. I told myself that everything would be different once she could hear us. My mum and dad came over to watch G the day of the switch-on. Normally, it would have taken me many few weeks to even consider leaving my baby, and even though I knew my mum would take good care of her, it felt wrong. She was so tiny, but we had no choice. The switch-on was too important and needed our full attention.

Meanwhile, we were still trying to adjust to being four. G was a great wee baby, but it’s hard – the lack of sleep, the night-time feeding, and the colic. I was stressed out of my mind. I remember at night, in the dark, winding her with such vigour that sparks were coming off her little handmade knitted cardigan. I was hanging by a thread. It was all too much. But little did we know, things were about to get worse. G came down with a bad cold. She was so tiny, and her coughing and wheezing were worse than anything we had seen before. I took her to the doctor and was sent to the hospital. She was kept in; S was dropped off at my parents’. We sat all day with G as they monitored her oxygen levels. It was the first time I had felt I could catch my breath. We had a nice day that day, sitting waiting, not really thinking this was a big deal. They mentioned her staying in overnight, and my initial response was relief – we might get a night’s sleep. But when they explained what was really going on, that thought soon disappeared. G had a virus called RSV. I had heard of it before, as a friend’s child had had it the year before, and it had been brutal. This wasn’t going to be a walk in the park – I wasn’t going to be getting a night’s sleep any time soon.

They took us up to a ward right on the top floor. There was a box in yellow tape on the floor around each bed. This was our quarantine area. In our square was a cot/bed and a chair. We were not to leave our square without fully disinfecting and removing all protective clothing; we had to wear the protective wear at all times. G had an oxygen tube put into her nose, and she was also fed by tube as she couldn’t swallow and breathe due to the virus. They couldn’t tell us how long we would be there. But we could see she was getting sicker as time went on.

In the evening, it became clear that only one of us could stay. Each child had one parent. They all sat beside the beds in their yellow squared boxes. A few babies had no parent – they would cry and cry, the nurses were too busy to attend to them. When we attempted to go to them, we were told this was not allowed as we might contaminate each other with a different strain of the RSV virus. It was heart-breaking. I was overwhelmed with guilt that I had momentarily thought I might get home for a sleep. How could I have ever considered leaving my baby in this way, alone, sick, and crying in an unfamiliar place? There was no way I was going anywhere.

Steven went home that night and got S and brought her home. I stayed and tried to sleep in the hospital chair; it wasn’t even a nice soft reclinable chair, just a regular one. I think it was the most uncomfortable night of my life, worse than those nights in hospital with S after her operation—that seemed like luxury in comparison. I found myself very emotional and tearful. The nurses regularly did their rounds and had to check G’s temperature, which would unsettle her. She’d wake up and start crying again, often just after I had settled her. I could feel the tears as the nurse looked at me as if I was overreacting. I felt full of shame and muttered that there had been a lot going on, and things were just a bit much right now. I couldn’t quite believe this was all happening—how much more could we take? I felt so sorry for myself, thinking of Steven in our cosy bed, fast asleep.

But when Steven returned the next day looking like hell, he told me S had not settled all night. Every time he went in to get her, she would meltdown, probably because she was looking for me and didn’t understand what was going on. He had dropped her off at my parents and headed to the hospital for another day of us standing and sitting in our little yellow square. G was slightly improved, but her oxygen levels were still too low for us to go home. We opted to swap for the next night. Steven felt he could fashion the chair into something relatively comfortable. I was very sceptical but wasn’t going to argue, so I headed home to face the meltdowns, unsure which of us had the worse deal. It felt like I was on autopilot, one foot in front of the other, though I’ve no idea how. Thankfully, S settled well that night. She was either so shattered or relieved to have me back home, but for the first time in months, I slept through the night—it was bliss. I felt so guilty for poor Steven in that horrible hospital chair.

It turned out he had managed to get some sleep too, and G was fit to come home. She could breathe on her own now, and we could finally see her little face without all the tubes. We couldn’t get away from that yellow box quickly enough. I remember the relief driving home—we were utterly done in. It felt like we had just been through a war, and I don’t think we could have taken one more thing.

A few days later, the health visitor came for her routine visit. She weighed G, did the usual checks, and gave me a questionnaire for new mums. It had some odd questions: ‘Have you ever felt you might hurt yourself?’ ‘Did you ever feel like running away?’ I answered them all honestly. When I finished, she looked taken aback and told me that I had scored very highly and should see the doctor that same afternoon. At the doctor’s surgery, he asked me why I was there. All I could say was that I had scored highly on the health visitor’s test, but as he asked how I was, the floodgates opened. I became a sobbing, snotty mess. He handed me tissues and told me I was at high risk of depression because of everything we’d been through with S  and having two children so close together. It helped to know that. I didn’t feel like such a failure if others in the same situation were struggling too. He prescribed me antidepressants and sent me on my way. It wasn’t easy to accept that I needed them, but Steven, Pamela, and my mum kept telling me I wasn’t myself and that they would help.

I was confused. So, I was high risk for this? Was I the problem? But these things we were dealing with were real—the constant meltdowns were real. The girls were hard work. Was it them, or was it me?

I took the medication and instantly felt relief. I mean, instantly. Even just filling the prescription and having the tablets in my hand felt better—was this a placebo? That day, outside the chemist, I met an old neighbour who asked about the girls, as people do. I smiled and chatted as if everything was fine, but out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my GP walking past. I felt like such a fraud—I’d been sobbing the day before, and here I was, looking like I didn’t have a care in the world. This was even more confusing.

Within days, Steven was returning from work to a happy home—no more kids in meltdown, I was no longer a crying wreck, the dinner was made, and the house was tidy. I was a different person. In fact, I felt so much better I started to wonder if I even needed the tablets. Everything was good. Every day before had been like marching through treacle, going through the motions, but feeling like ‘what’s the point? Tomorrow will be just as bad, and I can’t see any way forward’. But now, it was so nice to feel like myself again. I could breath; for a second, I wasn’t drowning.

My mum was over, helping me with the kids as she often did. We were in the kitchen, G asleep in the living room in her chair. Mum was giving S a Tunnock’s Tea Cake, her eyes dancing at the look of chocolaty mallow deliciousness. My mum gestured to her to put her implant on if she wanted the treat—bribery and corruption all the way. S let my mum place the implant on her head, and Mum, teasing even more, said to her, “Say ‘Ta’,” ever hopeful that this might be the time she’d speak one of the words we were desperate to hear. S looked at her… but nothing. Her eyes didn’t move from the Tea Cake, held just out of her reach. Mum tried again, “Say ‘Taaa’?”

From out of the room, we suddenly heard a very clear little voice say, “Taaa.” Mum and I looked at each other in confusion and disbelief. Who on earth could have said that? S was given the Tea Cake as we went into the living room, and there was G, all of four/five months old, wide awake in her seat, grinning wildly. Surely not! G had been hearing everything we were teaching her sister. She had been present at every speech therapy session. Her words and comprehension came on in leaps and bounds. I had no frame of reference, of course, with her sister not speaking yet, but I had never seen a child so young with such speech.

Time passed, and the girls grew. G began speaking very early, and her understanding and communication were incredible. The more she spoke, the more her sister copied her. I’m convinced that G’s speech developed so well because of all the speech therapy she was exposed to from birth. Every sound we practised with S, we repeated to the dog and to little baby G in her car seat, just to get S to do it again and again. All the “cow says moo” and “sheep says baa” over and over. It was amazing to see how, unknowingly, we’d been building those pathways in G’s brain. My mum often said she felt G was here to teach her sister how to speak.

But as G got older, S didn’t like this new child in her world. She avoided being near her, and they were constantly arguing and fighting. The double buggy was a disaster. G’s legs kept finding their way over to her sister’s side, which put S in meltdown mode—shaking her head furiously and shoving the offending legs away. The same thing happened in shopping trolleys, making food shopping tricky. S would shove her sister out of the way, and G started biting back, leaving teeth marks on her big sister. Looking back, I can’t blame her—it was pure survival. S wouldn’t share anything with her sister, so we ended up with two of everything. We had big toy baskets with a photo on each one to keep their toys separate and avoid the inevitable squabbles. G was so keen to play with her sister, but S wasn’t having it.

The words “No,” “naughty,” and “baba” soon became S’s firm favourites. It didn’t take long for her to start putting them together: “No, naughty baba” or “bad baba” became common phrases as she turned as far away as she could from her sister, shaking her head furiously and waving her finger. This usually happened when snatching something she didn’t want to share. G, such a sweet little thing, hardly ever complained. It was constantly hard work. How do you discipline a child who doesn’t have vocabulary? S was often in full meltdown, and it got to the point where we hardly went anywhere because it usually ended in tears—mine included.

At this point, I felt totally isolated. I remember watching parents collect their children from the school across the road. They were all talking and happy, and I would see them in the morning and again at the end of the day. I felt such resentment towards them—they had lives, they were out in the world, coping, while it felt like I was standing still.

S had taken an extremely long time to crawl, sit, and walk. Her motor skills were hugely delayed. She could walk now, but after a short distance, she’d refuse and go into meltdown. It’s extremely difficult to manage with a toddler in a buggy and another child lying on the ground in full meltdown, refusing to move. We got a buggy board in the hope that we could move to just one single buggy—these had just been introduced and seemed like the answer to our prayers. Little G in the seat, and S on the board. But S soon got tired of standing and would launch herself off it in protest. G was toddling by this time, and as soon as she came out of the buggy, her sister was in it like a shot. Thankfully, G was happy to stand on the buggy board, even though it was meant to be the other way around. I received many strange looks with this tiny tot on the board and the older child in the buggy. S was never as happy as when she got into that seat. I was so grateful that G was so easy and always did what I asked without any complaints   

At this time, I had no idea that one day I would learn to see this very differently. That it would break my heart to realise that she had learned this as a coping skill, as a way to survive in our chaotic family. But I hadn’t known.  I was doing the absolute best that I could at the time.

Silent Struggles-A families fight for sound.

My best friend had her second baby five weeks after my first daughter. We had grown up together, been each others bridesmaids, been pregnant together, and now we would be mums together. But her baby was blossoming. Her child was starting to make noises, talking, and moving across the floor. Mine wasn’t. I was shocked to see how much more advanced her baby was. My baby was a happy wee soul, and I hadn’t had any worries until now. Every time I saw them, the divide grew bigger. Every time she proudly showed a new word or trick he could do, it felt like a blow. It was hard to feel this way; I wanted to be happy for her, but my stomach lurched, and fear set in. Something was wrong.

I asked the health visitor and was told not to worry—it was all perfectly normal. The months went on, and she still wasn’t sitting when all the children her age were. She wasn’t making much sound, just high-pitched squeals. She wasn’t responding to noise; occasionally, she would turn to loud bang, or at least I thought she had, but at other times, she didn’t. We spent so much time sneaking up behind her, clapping or shouting her name in the hope of getting a reaction—mostly, she didn’t respond. By the time her 18-month check came around, I was desperate. The doctor confirmed what we already suspected; she didn’t pass the hearing test, and a referral to audiology was made. I felt a mixture of emotions—relief that a professional had taken it seriously, but also fear and denial.

After many appointments, she was to go under anaesthetic so they could properly test her hearing. Our questions would finally be answered. It was what we wanted but also what we were most afraid of. Afterwards the doctor came out and used words like “definitely no sound getting in,” “hearing moulds,” and “hearing aids.” It didn’t seem clear to us as we left that day, unsure of what he meant. As we passed the audiology desk, a lady we had met earlier stopped us. She already knew the news and used the word “deaf.” She even mentioned applying for Disability Living Allowance. It was surreal, but oddly I was thankful she used the actual words, it helped us process the news. We drove home in silence, a silence only to familiar to our child.

When we got home, we told friends and family. Saying those words out loud was brutal. “She is deaf,” I would say, answering all the well-meaning questions on automatic pilot. “No, I don’t know what happens now.” “Yes, we are okay.” Some friends called with warm wishes, while others stayed away. I understood—what could they say? Nothing would help. Those days felt like we were walking through treacle. Our little girl was still the same, but now, every time I sang to her or spoke to her, I knew she wasn’t hearing me, and that was heartbreaking. I started to see the word differently through her silent world. My parents were really worried this would mean she would be sent away as this is what used to happen years ago but I assured them that wouldn’t happen. My mind often wandered to a girl who was deaf at my school. She had hearing aids and seemed to have done okay. I found myself being curious about what had happened to her and where she was now .

We pinned all our hopes on the hearing aids. It took weeks to get the hearing moulds back which wasn’t ideal as her ears would grow and they likely wouldn’t fit well . When the day finally came, we were so hopeful. The audiologist came in with the hearing aids, tiny brown contraptions that hurt my heart to see, but I hoped they would work. Oblivious to what was going on, she pulled them straight out. We tried again and again, but she hated them. There was no sign she was hearing anything, and it quickly became clear the hearing aids weren’t staying in. The disappointment was crushing. At home, I kept trying to put them in, but she always pulled them out, and each time, it became more upsetting for us all going through this day after day. Fighting her, holding her while she screamed, squashing these hearing aids into her ears for her to grab them and throw them on the floor. I was completely overwhelmed. Until one afternoon Steven appeared home early, he walked in on us both screaming and crying, something in his gut had told him he was needed. He held me as I sobbed. From that moment on we decided to stop forcing the hearing aids. She wasn’t benefiting from them, and it wasn’t helping any of us. The relief was immense, but so was the sadness. Where did that leave us? How would she ever communicate? I’d heard about cochlear implants but didn’t know much. We resolved to find out more.

The next step was for her to have an audiogram. To be candidate she would need to have a hearing loss that was severe to profound. It was odd to be hopeful she had little no hearing. But the test showed her to be profoundly deaf. It explained why the hearing aids hadn’t worked. We could stop feeling guilty about not using them. There was new hope. We waited for a referral to Crosshouse Hospital and started learning basic sign language with help from our deaf teacher, Anne. She was a godsend, visiting weekly and bringing light to those dark days.

We made the decision to go ahead with the implant after many appointments and assurances from us that my now pregnant state and imminent new arrival wouldn’t be an issue. Once we convinced them we were absolutely up for the task, they agreed to put us on the list, and a decision would be made over the coming months. S was one of the youngest to have been considered, but the news was that the younger the implant could be done, the better the chances of her developing natural speach. There was a huge waiting list. I decided on a charm offensive and phoned the office every single week for months, as friendly as I could be, asking when we might hear, making the biggest nuisance of myself that I could.

Finally, after months of hoping and waiting, we got the news that she had been selected. It was celebrations and elation all around. She was to have the operation the day after her 2nd birthday. It was terrifying but exciting, and everything we wanted. But the fear of her going under a long anesthetic, having part of her skull chiseled out for the implant, and the risk of facial paralysis was not lost on us. At this point, I was eight months pregnant, with a huge belly. The day before the operation was chaos. We were having a party at the house with friends and family for S’s 2nd birthday, which was a welcome distraction. I felt like death. In the photos from that day, I look like death. But there was an odd feeling in the air of change and hope as I watched S bossing people around in her silent way, pointing and telling us where to sit and what to do, wondering what this next phase would hold for us. It felt good to have all our loved ones around us at this time especially.

Those days in the hospital were long and all a bit of a blur. My parents were with us, and Steven was staying with them in a flat on the hospital grounds. I was staying with S in her hospital room on a camp bed. On the day of the operation, after I had gone with her in my scrubs and held her as they gave her the sedative, she drifted off to sleep, and they took her to the theatre. The four of us set up a vigil outside the elevator doors. It felt endless. The operation took over four hours, and every time those doors opened, we all jumped out of our seats, waiting, pacing, hoping. Finally, the nurse came through those doors, and S’s crying was music to my ears, her curly hair tufting out of the top of the bandages. I was so happy to see both sides of her face screwed up in tears, no paralysis. She was groggy and in pain, but it was done.

It was going to be a long night. Every time I got her settled, the nurses came in to check on her, and she woke again. When she did sleep, I couldn’t sleep. The folding bed was so uncomfortable, and my very pregnant body wasn’t managing it well. I was emotional and overwhelmed; all the feelings I had been holding back were flooding me in the relief. I was feeling so sorry for myself, and the thought of Steven and my Mum and Dad together in the flat celebrating just made it worse. The rain was pounding the windows as the storm raged outside. I heard a phone ring in the nurse’s station. I could tell it was Steven calling to check in, and the nurse assuring him that we were both fine and asleep. But I wasn’t fine. I wanted to scream. There were no mobile phones to text back then, so I sat in my overwhelm, taking big gulps of air as I sobbed silently, not wanting to wake my sleeping child. I felt so alone, and it all felt too much, too big.

A few minutes later, I heard someone come running into the ward, which was odd so late at night, and some mumbled voices. In came a soaking wet, out-of-breath Steven. He had just had a feeling that he should come. My folks had told him not to be silly, the nurse had said everything was fine, but he just knew. My hero yet again. He lay behind me on that tiny camp bed and engulfed me in his big strong arms, and I’ve never felt comfort like it, the two of us squashed in together as I drifted off to sleep. The four of us in that little room—us on the bed, S in the cot, and G unborn, curled up inside of me. Who knew what lay ahead, but for now, we were all safe.

The implant wasn’t switched on for six weeks. It felt like endless waiting once again.

Visitors and well-wishers came and went which was lovely and eventually it was her bed time. I lay her down but as was often the case she didn’t settle, I kept laying her down and waiting for her to eventually quieten down but she was more upset that usual, it was dark and I couldn’t see well, something wasn’t right, she was crying and crying and moving her head franticly from side to side. I turned on the lights in the hallway and was met with what felt like a horror scene. She had moved her head so much that she had taken the big bandage that was on top her head clean off. We were met with what looked like the results of a car accident. I was filled with terror, screaming for Steven to help and that something is really wrong, her half shaved head, her little white scalp with big black stitches from top to bottom, all the way  down behind her ear to bellow her ear lobe.  Half of her beautiful curly brown hair missing.  Crusty scabs were forming around the stitches and her tinny hands were clawing at them, a few with fresh blood were opening up. I was convinced in that moment that she was going rip the implant right out.  Steven just went to pieces, I hadn’t ever seen him this way before, he was always the stronger calmer one but this was just too much. He was pacing in and out of the room, no idea what to do. Seeing his baby in this state must have triggered something, but we had no choice. Picking her up I put her in his arms and told him to sit down, she was squirming and screaming, “Hold her still” I ordered, as I tried to put the bandage back on, but as much as he tried she kept squirming and getting her arms free, those chubby little fingers and tiny razor like nails clawing at the stiches. I could hear the Alfred Hitchcock music playing the in my ears. Im screaming at him to hold her tighter, “We just have to to do this”. “Oh my god, oh Jesus, I’m trying, I’m trying.” He replied. But it was pointless; I still couldn’t get the bandage on. Both of us were in bitts, each as terrified as the other. We sat the loose useless bandage on her little stitched together head and held it there while we tried to come up with a plan. We opted to get her in the car and get to the nearest hospital, Cross house hospital where she had had the procedure was 2 hours away so that wasn’t and option. We ran out and bundled her in the car seat, me in the back with her holding her hands so that she couldn’t get at the wound and her screaming.  We were told later that the young kids out playing that had seen us in the  Street had told everyone that the top of her head had come off and that we were rushing her to hospital, it was funny afterwards but in the moment that was how it had felt to us too. we got into the car straight to the hospital but  they didn’t know what to do with it either, a young Doctor who had never even seen a cochlear implant tried to bandage it, S was  screaming and yelling, as I’m holding her she’s tossing and turning her head, he managed a loose bandage of sorts and as I left he and I both knew that  it was instantly going to come off. Me and Steven stood outside the hospital at a loss, what could we do? I needed my Mum. I instantly felt better just beeing there, S seemed to calm down too.  Me and my Mum slowly started to unravel the mess of loose bandages, there was miles of the stuff, Steven couldn’t watch, he had to go out of the room.  S was very calm suddenly, she let us remove them all and she sat there on my knee almost in a trance, I got a brush and she allowed me to gently brush the half head of matted  bloody hair all knotted up from being in the bandage for days, she was so relaxed. We got a chance to really look at it. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, yes it was big and ugly and hard to see but at closer inspection it was healing, it was clean and no stitches had actually been burst. I shouted on Steven to come and see but he didn’t want to look. She sat there as calm as could be in my arms as  my mum calmly bandaged her head, much better than it had been before and we found a hat that tied under her chin. We put a hat like this on head for six weeks, day and night, in bed in the bath constantly. it only came off when the bandages needed changed which we routinely did, me and my mum, calmly once a week. letting the air get at it and cleaning and brushing her hair, rebadging and adding a clean hat.

The weeks passed as her curls began to grow back in We had big expectations of what this switch on would be like. This was before we had the internet filled with all of these cute tear-jerking videos of kids hearing for the first time, but you better believe that’s what we were expecting. So off we went, our Deaf teacher had come along as she was keen to see what a switch on was like, she had never experienced it, we loved  her and were happy to have her with us witnessing this miracle that was about to happen. We set of full of anticipation and excitement, this was it, this was the day it was all going to change.

At the hospital they ushered into the audiology room, after the usual pleasantries and interest in the birth of the baby and how S was getting on, we got on with it. Her outer part of the implant was at this point attached to a big thick long cable that connected to the PC, the placed it on her ear and switched on the sound, we held our breath, nothing happened, we started talking and saying her name, she looked unimpressed and pulled it straight off her head. My stomach hit the floor. We tried again and again, every time she wriggled and squirmed and pulled it straight off. She hated the cable and didn’t want it touching her, I tried to hold her so she could grab at it but it was pointless, she was in meltdown and I felt like I was haemorrhaging, I had only days before given birth and here I am wrestling on the floor with a hysterical 2 year old while everyone watched, I was sure the blood was seeping out of me (it wasn’t actually) but I didn’t care, we kept trying, Steven too, distracting her, bribing her, forcing her. But it was no use. Eventually we were sent away with the implant and a box of many small pieces and bitts and lots of instructions, none of which I had taken in, I hoped steven had, he hadn’t either. Anne was with us, I was sure at this point she would rather have been anywhere else, she tried to cajole us with kind words and comfort of it just takes time etc. But me and Steven couldn’t even really look at each other, the reality was to horrible to face. Into the car we got, S still in her silent world and us all driving in silence ourselves lost in our own fears and thoughts. When we got home my parents were waiting to hear all about it but it didn’t take long for them to understand things had not gone as hoped. Anne made her goodbyes and am sure was so glad to get away. Years later she told me that she would never forget the sight of us that day, “those 2 desperate parents “she had called us looking back with humour and the gift of hindsight.

Over the next few days nothing really changed. She wouldn’t wear the implant, all it seemed to do was upset her and she would pull it off.  We were both heartbroken, all our hopes had been on this working. Where did this leave us? We were trying to be positive.  I kept thinking, maybe when she’s older, she might not want now but it will always be in there, ready waiting, if she ever changes her mind. I went into fix it mode, there had to be something we could do. As she couldn’t stand the earpiece behind her ear, we opted to stick this part to the coil with double sided sticky tape.  In the hope that we could encourage her to wear it this way. We made sure that she was always wearing tops with hoods, this way the implant could sit in there still wired to the body worn processor and whenever she was distracted we could try to pop it on to the magnet in her skull just under her hair, My Mum fashioned a little mini back pack that fit snuggly around the processor made from old bra straps and this was worn under her clothes, she seemed ok with this. It was supposed to be worn on a bum bag around her waist, but she had made her feelings about this very clear as she went into meltdown every time we tried this. Off we would  go to the park, every time she was busy one of us would sidle up behind her and pop the coil on, holding our breath, trying to distract her and keep her focus, each time it would stay on for a few minutes and then she would realise it was there and off it would come, dangle there on this little wire, we got used to popping it back in the hood till the next opportunity arose. We would bribe her with sweets or play games to create these windows of opportunities.  Every moment it was on was a small win. Slowly slowly, more and more, the time it stayed in place before being grabbed a thrown off got longer. It just became the norm; I began to feel it would always be this way. One day Steven came home from a visit to the park and casually announced that she hadn’t taken it off the whole time they had been out. I couldn’t believe it. What progress. She started wearing it more when we were out but still not so much at home. All the while there were still no signs of hearing or speach, we often wondered was this device even working.

We had started to keep a list of all the sounds that she was making, not words but she has started to make what the speech therapists said were preverbal noises. We were not convinced. Too afraid at this stage to get our hope up anymore. I will never forget the first moments I realised that the implant was working. She was sitting on the kitchen window sill; she loved playing with baby wipes. I was videoing her sounds as she played and to get her attention I instinctively said her name as I always did. She turned and looked at me. The world stood still. I held my breath. Had that really just happened? Dare I believe? Dare I hope? For 2 years we had shouted on her and jumped about behind her making noises trying to get her to turn to us, so many times we thought she had, only to learn that she had actually seen our reflection in the TV or felt the vibration of our feet behind her. So, I waited until she was distracted by the wipes again and standing very still, I said her name again. Again she turned to look at me. I gasped, hand over my face in disbelief, my heart pounding, I wanted to hug her and kiss and throw her around, but I was afraid to do anything in case I jinxed it. We continued doing this over and over, I cannot tell you how many times I had to see this with my own eyes for it to be real. Pure joy is the only word for how it felt. Elation. I phoned Steven to tell him, I was so excited, but he, just like me was unsure. “Hmm, really? We have thought this so many times before, was it not maybe just a coincidence?” I understood his fear. “No, I’m telling you, she has done it over and over all afternoon consistently, I’ve even got it on video”. He came of the call pretending to believe me, not wanting to dampen my excitement but I knew he didn’t believe it. I couldn’t wait for him to come home.

When he came in I could see his apprehension, afraid to ask. I tried to hide my excitement, I knew he had to see it for himself, and I too was afraid it might not happen again, maybe it was a coincidence. I was making dinner and watching from the kitchen window as he went out with her into the garden to play, she ran off for the ball and I saw him tentatively call her name, I was willing her to respond and she did, she stopped and turned and looked at him. He threw the ball again and the same thing happened. The slowest biggest smile started across his face, I was beaming, tears in my eyes, he looked up and saw me watching, could this really be happening. It certainly seemed like it might be.

I can’t really remember where it came from, I think it was a gift, but someone gave us a fluffy cuddly dog toy.  I was holding S on my hip and the dog in my hand as if it was looking at us. This wasn’t a conscious thing, just a random moment of play. I made to doggy nod as it said “woof woof”, She looked at the dog, she looked at me, she pursed her little pink lips and made an “oo oo” noise. Wow. I did it again, the dog nodded in time to the “woof woof” and again she looked to me, she looked to the dog, and again she said “oo oo”. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. She was absolutely trying to say “woof woof and she understood that this sound was connected to this dog.  I was the first time I seen her brain connect with a sound and respond to the south and make a noise. I did it over and over again. Throwing her about in jubilation. But still the doubts were there, was this really what I thought it was, dare I believe?  I thought I would push it a little further and put the dog away in the toy box in the other room.  I came back to her and looking her square in the face said to her, while gesturing confusion “ Where is the woof woof?”. I held my breath. She stopped what she was doing and went into the toy room, there was lots of banging about and out she came dragging the doggy behind.  This was such a euphoric moment in my life, but I was on my own with 2 small children who had no idea what was going on. I got on the phone to Steven, this time he seemed to allow himself to get excited. I couldn’t wait till he come to show him. And when he did, she did it again perfectly. This was huge turning point for us. The implant was working, and her brain was starting to process sound. This was to become our party piece at every loved one’s home we visited for some time, every time the dog being hidden in more elaborate places where is the woof woof?” off she would go and find it, even when we said it without her being able to see our faces and lip-reading. My Mum bought herself a similar dog toy and when she looked after kids, she “woof woofed” all around the house with it.

S making this sound will forever be one of the most joyous moments of my life up there with the birth of my children, watching G graduate and seeing S win Special Olympics medals. To see her make that connection, for her to know that Woof meant something showed me that my child had some understanding and had the capacity to learn. Yes, it was going to be a long road but there was possibility. There was a glimmer of light at the end of this long, long tunnel.

She did go on over time to learn more words and sounds and string those together more and more each day. Words became sentences. Sentences became stories. Wearing her implant everyday, her hearing capacity is now amazing. She talks constantly and her hearing loss is the least of her issues.

Read the next blog-A siblings journey

Starting a Charity : The Birth of Trauma Informed Parenting

“Let’s set up a charity.” I’m not sure if it was supposed to be a joke when Steven said these words, but it didn’t seem like the worst idea. “I’m sure you will be able to get funding,” he said. How do you even start a charity? Did it cost money? Did you have to have experience in charities? Lots of other people had done it. How hard could it be? Off I went down a wormhole, looking for information. There was so much to learn, so many people to talk to, but where to start? Steven knew a few people through his networking group and got me the names of some organizations. Firstport was really helpful. They helped me understand that it wasn’t as simple as just starting a charity. There were many different kinds of charities and social enterprises, and it depended on the work of the organization to determine what might suit best.

I had many meetings with many people. Our local voluntary action group gave me tons of information—too much for my brain to process. At this point, all I knew was that I needed at least three trustees, and I had to write a constitution. They gave me a template document to use and told me to apply to OSCR for charity status. At this point, I decided to set up a Facebook group and called it *Trauma Informed Parenting*. The plan was that it would give the organization a presence, and we could document the journey of becoming a charity while sharing the occasional helpful post.

Three trustees. Where to start? Who would even be interested? I put out a post on the group and my own social media. No one responded. I asked a few people I thought might be keen. They politely declined. I thought that if Steven and I could be trustees, then we would only need one more. It needed to be someone I knew, liked, and trusted. One person who fit that perfectly and had some amazing skills to boot was my childhood friend Pamela—my rock, my bestie. But was this too much to ask of her? Would it stretch our friendship too far? When I messaged her to ask, I gave her so many ways to say no. The message would have started with “Feel free to say no,” and I’m sure there were a few “Absolutely no pressure” and “I will totally understand if you don’t want to” thrown in. But her prompt reply consolidated my already undying love. She had written words like “I would be honored” and “delighted to support you.” I was euphoric. Boy, had I lucked out having her in my corner. Her belief in me felt like a huge endorsement.

So we had three. I went on to OSCR, the Scottish charity regulator, and in July 2019, just 10 months after attending the ACE Aware Nation event, I sent in an application to set up a charity called *Trauma Informed Parenting*.

But it was no small task. It turned out that if I wanted to become an employee of the charity eventually, I couldn’t be a trustee. I wasn’t happy. This was my baby. I didn’t want to give up control of it, but there was no way around it. I had to find another trustee to step in. Back to the drawing board. I roped in another of my good friends, Julie. She and her husband had been foster carers before us. It was seeing them go through the process that had given us the confidence to do it. She was a perfect fit, although she didn’t think she was and couldn’t see how much wonderful experience she could bring to the role. More as a favor to me, she kindly agreed. At a night out with my neighbors, over a few drinks, Barbara, who was an accountant, made the mistake of offering her services to help if I needed them. She didn’t need to ask twice. I was thrilled.

In the meantime, I had decided to offer a free workshop in Glasgow. I needed to see if there was even an appetite for this. We knew of a lovely office space we could hire that was central and not too expensive. In August 2019, I offered our first official *Trauma Informed Parenting* workshop. I shared it on as many Facebook group pages as I could find. Posts about what I was doing and signing people up to the event. I was surprised at the interest. Twenty people signed up to come. Ten came on the day. The feedback blew me away. We continued to host one each month. September’s workshop was just as busy, and so was October’s. I’m still in contact with many of the people who attended those early events. Some have become trustees. The content changed and grew as we took the feedback on board. We were asked to deliver workshops for a few organizations. All of this was for free, and in fact, at my own expense, but the hope was that eventually, if people heard about the workshops, we might be able to sell tickets or secure funding.

Pamela arranged a meeting with us both and her wonderfully eccentric Auntie Grace, who had lots of experience in charities. She gave me a wealth of information and equally terrified me with all the questions I would need to answer. The info and grilling she gave me that day unknowingly provided me with the education required to continue on this journey. I am forever grateful for this turning point that meeting provided.

We were corresponding with OSCR, answering all of the many questions about the organization we were building. We had opted to become a SCIO charity. We had to decide on what our charitable purpose should be, . This process of back-and-forth with OSCR took months and months. But finally we agreed that Trauma Informed Parentings purposes would be: (j) The advancement of human rights conflict resolution and reconciliation -to promote repair and connection in relationships and reduce the fight and flight response in previously reactive children. To teach parents to de-escalate potentially explosive interactions. (n)The relief of those in need-to support placements in crisis and prevent families breaking down. To support parents to better support children suffering from trauma. To build a safe and loving environment for traumatized children to learn to heal. It took so long. so many emails back and forth with OSCR, question after question, I had to provide so much evidence, at times I wondered if it was even worth it and came close to giving up. But on January 29th, 2020, Pamela sent me a message congratulating me. I didn’t know what for, but we had both received an email with our charity number, telling us *Trauma Informed Parenting* was officially a charity.

By February 2020, we were offering a monthly workshop, and a few people were buying tickets—foster carers, parents, nursery staff, support workers. These groups were small, sometimes only 3 or 4 people, but they grew. By March, we had groups of 10, and a fostering agency had booked three workshops across Scotland. Things were getting exciting.

But by the time we delivered the March workshops, something a bit scary was hitting the news. People were canceling their tickets and not turning up. The fostering agency called to say that in the current situation, they didn’t feel it was safe to hold these events. Of course, I understood, but I couldn’t believe what was happening. All of the momentum we had built was lost.

The world was going into lockdown.

Continue reading the next blog-Growing through a pandemic

Choose Love in moments of tension

While on holiday this week in Tenerife, we were waiting at a taxi rank. It was a hot day and late in the afternoon. The line was long, and no taxis were in sight. When one did finally come along, an elderly man with two walking sticks stepped forward. At the same time, so did a younger man. An argument started. The elderly man claimed he was there first, while the younger man and his wife argued that they had actually been waiting when the elderly man came along and sat in the shelter at the front of the queue. The argument continued, and the taxi driver drove off without taking any passengers, leaving both men, and everyone in the line, irritated.

I could feel my own stress rise. My autistic daughter can become very upset by this kind of thing, and I wondered if we should walk away and come back later. The tit-for-tat argument went on, with the older man stating that people had no respect for the elderly nowadays, and the young man pointing out that he had a young baby with him that was a priority. He shouted, “What is your problem, anyway?” Each man had been escalated the situation further.

I was at the stage of getting ready to leave when I heard the older man shout, “I’m hot and I’m tired, and I just want to get home.” This was so interesting to me. This was vulnerability. The younger man, slightly less aggressive now, said, “Well, so are we, especially my baby.” There was a moment of silence. We all waited for the taxis. The older man spoke up again, but this time he apologized to the younger man. “I’m sorry, I was out of order,” he said. The younger man, still irritated, nodded and held his hand up grudgingly, as if to say it’s okay. There were a few apologies muttered as the taxis arrived, and all was well. Everyone was tired, hot, and grumpy. Windows of tolerance were exceeded, and in situations like these, sometimes humans have bad days.

Repairs can be made in some of the hardest moments when one of us can just own our own stress and be a little vulnerable. It’s contagious. The more we learn about the trauma lens and start to see the fear, the more we see it everywhere, in every micro-moment and interaction.

In the worlds of Bryan Post- In any given situation , we can ‘Choose Love.’

Read about our journey with our Deaf child-Silent Struggles

Finding my voice-Delivering my first workshop.

Roughly 6 months after attending the ACE Aware Nation event and learning about Bryan Post's stress model, I started to feel the need to tell people about this new way. People had to know. I kept imagining what a different world we could have if others had this knowledge—social workers, teachers, parents, carers, police. If they all understood that children were not choosing these behaviors, and that everyone is in a state of fear and survival, everything would change. Systems would change. Generational patterns of dysfunction could change. It was blowing my mind wide open. I felt the energy of this revelation pumping in my veins. I was being driven by something deep within, something new and unfamiliar. I felt this was my purpose. Every moment in my life now made sense. Every hard, upsetting thing I had ever endured—all of the childhood trauma and the years of being a stressed and overwhelmed, frantic parent—had happened for a reason. To bring me to this very place at this exact time.

At our next foster care support group, I asked if anyone was interested in me doing a talk about this new trauma-informed approach I had learned. I suggested we also have a showing of The Resilience film. This film, made by the fantastic Nadine Burke Harris, who I heard speak at the ACEs event, explained the impact of Adverse Childhood Experiences and was being shown across Scotland to many people working with children. I had already managed to see it at a local school. Many wanted to see it but couldn’t find anywhere showing it. It was an extremely powerful film. The other carers seemed interested, and the social workers agreed. The lead social worker put me in touch with our Educational Psychologist, who had the film and the rights to offer a screening.

I had a short PowerPoint of sorts that I had been working on, using some of the Post Institute slides sent to me while training in the model. Feeling like an absolute imposter, I met with the Educational Psychologist in her office. I explained my story and my idea, and she asked to see my slides. She said she would get back to me. I felt incredibly vulnerable, like a 5-year-old in the head teacher's office. I left with heavy feet, thinking surely she would laugh her head off at my PowerPoint and suggestions. But a few days later, she emailed me with possible dates, and a plan was formed.

To be honest, I resented social work for making me work with her. This was my baby. I didn’t need the side dish of intimidation. But if we wanted to show The Resilience film, she needed to be involved.

As the day drew nearer, I prepared. Friends who were carers signed up—some that had seen the difference in my wee guy and were curious, some who just wanted to support me and had no idea what to expect, and some who were forced to come by their workers and were disgruntled about it. Many had years more experience in foster care than me, and many I hugely respected. Around 15 people were booked in. We would show The Resilience film in the first hour, have a discussion led by the Educational Psychologist, and then I had 1 hour to deliver my part of the session.

I was pumped. I was excited. I was terrified. The night before, what I had signed up for hit me. What was I thinking??!! Where on earth did I get the idea that I had anything to say?? Pure terror set in. Steven could see this and gave me a wide berth, checking on me occasionally but knowing well enough that I was not fit for human company. I couldn’t even talk because the fear in my throat was so thick. I went to bed early and tried to find oblivion in unconsciousness. Thankfully, my brain shut down, and somehow I managed to sleep.

The next morning, I was a mess—grumpy, jittery, overwhelmed. I must be mad. Who did I think I was? Why did I say I would do this? But I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Breathing, breathing, breathing. I listened to one of Bryan’s recordings on the way there, which helped validate everything I was about to do.

Stepping into that room, I was met with so many familiar faces. I think this made it worse because I knew too well how set in their old-fashioned parenting ways some of them were. Those that had been told to come by their workers were obvious. Their body language said it all—folded arms, stern faces. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The showing of the *Resilience* film went well, and the discussion afterward was good. Next, it was my turn. My legs were like jelly. My voice was cracking. “Come on, Suzanne, pull yourself together.” But once I started, it was okay. I got through the presentation. I told them about the brain, stress, and fear. I explained what we had experienced when we made this change. There was some discussion, and the Psychologist stepped in a few times. I didn’t necessarily agree with what she said and was hugely proud of myself when I found the courage to respectfully say so.

The feedback was very positive. Some told me we needed more of this information out in the world. I was just relieved it was over. But it was also exhilarating. As we packed up, the Psychologist told me she felt it had gone well and that this was information she often tried to give parents, but they would feel like it was a personal attack. She said that coming from me, using my own experiences, may appeal more and make the information more palatable.

I had hoped she would want to do more sessions with me or offer advice on how to use this knowledge, but she offered none. She said her goodbyes and went off to the social worker's office, I’m assuming to discuss the days events. I wasn’t invited to join. I left feeling pretty deflated. Where did we go from here?

In the days that followed, I emailed many different organizations, telling them of my experience and that I was retiring as a foster carer and looking to use what I had learned. They seemed confused by my offer.

It was on a Sunday morning, still in our pajamas over breakfast, that Steven came up with his idea. We were yet again talking over what to do with this information. I needed to find a job and didn’t want to walk away from fostering with all this new knowledge and not use it in some way. I had been a hairdresser for years and was now also training to become a swimming instructor, but my real passion was in sharing this information. No one seemed to take me seriously, though.

“Let’s start a charity,” he said.

Read more in the next blog-Starting a charity