Im 37 an not much left in me, i just need a space to vent! No sympathy needed, but I do hope it reaches another mum whose been through the dark forest. I dont need advice im a veteran at this. But sometimes you just got to get it off your chest.
This is only some of my story.
Not all of it.
Not the thousands of ordinary hard days, the sleepless nights, the tears in bathrooms, the guilt, the fear, the anger, the laughter, the moments of joy that somehow still exist amongst the chaos.
Just some of the things that happened along the way.
I grew up with ALOT of childhood trauma. Then
At 17, I was in a serious accident.
At 19, I became a mother.
At 23, I gave birth to twins, and within three days, one of my babies was in intensive care.
I had just had a C-section. I was recovering from major surgery, caring for one newborn at home, and spending every waking moment travelling to and from the hospital to see my other baby.
Nobody prepares you for that.
Nobody prepares you for having to leave one child to be with another.
Nobody talks about the guilt that starts then and never really leaves. No one told me trying to breastfeed 1 twin, pump for another at the same would be that hard. My milk dried up due to stress and exhaustion.
My second twin never reached his milestones. We started to worry aged 1, in between the chaos of 6 to 9 bottle feeds a night and nappies whilst my husband had to return to work. No one came and helped. I also had a 5 year old to look after.
Then came the tests
At three years old, we were told he had severe learning difficulties, global developmental delay, autism and sensory issues.
And then began the fight.
The endless fight.
The fight to be heard.
The fight to be believed.
The fight to get support that should never have been a battle in the first place.
He was forced into mainstream school aged 5 even though it was clearly wrong for him. I spent my days going into school to change nappies and manage situations that everyone knew were unmanageable.
Three months later, he finally got into a special school.
But that wasn't the end.
The violent meltdowns came.
The exhaustion came.
The isolation came.
Years and years of surviving one crisis after another.
Somewhere along the way, I nearly died from an asthma attack. I didn't even know I had asthma. My body was exhausted.
I had a twisted hernia needing surgery.
Then my SEN son needed surgery.
Then he needed another surgery.
When he was seven, we nearly lost him to a seizure.
More tests
At eight years old, he became desperately ill again.
And just when I thought I couldn't hold any more, my eldest son was diagnosed with autism too.
I broke.
I had a nervous breakdown.
Eventually, I was diagnosed with ADHD myself, again no help just crack on.
The violent meltdowns continued.
The sleepless nights continued.
The constant state of alert never stopped. Raising 3 kids is hard!
For thirteen years, we have had virtually no help.
No overnight care.
No family stepping in.
No friends taking over so we could rest.
No village.
People say, "It takes a village to raise a child."
What happens when you don't have one?
My son is thirteen years old and has slept away from home five times in his entire life.
Five nights.
Five nights in thirteen years.
People tell me I'm strong.
The truth is, I didn't have another option.
Somehow, in the middle of all of this, I completed a degree.
I don't even know how.
Then my mum was diagnosed with dementia 💔
To add fuel to the fire
Before I graduated, my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
We were told he had a few years left.
My eldest needed surgery.
My eldest broke his arm.
My second twin was diagnosed with dyslexia.
And every single day, I carried the guilt that mothers know so well.
The guilt that one child needs so much that another child inevitably gets less.
The guilt that my eldest deserved more of me.
More time.
More attention.
More normality.
More memories that weren't shaped around hospitals, appointments and survival.
Over the past nine years, we have lost twelve family members.
Twelve people.
Twelve goodbyes.
Twelve holes left behind.
I still provide twenty-four-hour care.
I still can't work full-time.
My marriage has survived things that many marriages don't survive, but it has not been easy. 23 years and we are still here.
At one point, I had three children in three different schools.
Every day felt like a military operation just to get everyone where they needed to be.
People see one part of your life and think they understand you.
They don't.
They don't see the years spent in hospital waiting rooms.
They don't see the endless forms.
The meetings.
The battles.
The tears after everyone else has gone to sleep.
They don't see the grief of the life you imagined alongside the fierce love you have for the life you actually have.
Because both things can exist at the same time.
I adore my children.
I would walk through fire for every single one of them.
But loving your children and being exhausted by the weight of caring are not opposites.
Over the past seven years, we have lost twelve family members.
Twelve people.
Twelve goodbyes.
Twelve holes left behind.
And life hasn't stopped demanding things from us.
I still provide twenty-four-hour care.
Not just for my son, but now for three people in different ways.
The caring never ends.
The mental load never ends.
The responsibility never ends.
I can't work full-time, so I work part-time in my field and help run my husbands business from home.
Twice a week, I work late into the evening for my own company after everything else is done.
The truth is, it barely covers our expenses.
We aren't getting ahead.
We're surviving.
My husband works sixty-hour weeks just to keep a roof over our heads and keep his staff employed and earning for their families
We do everything people tell you to do.
We work hard.
We stay together.
We sacrifice.
We put our children first.
We keep going.
And yet somehow, it feels like we're always further behind than everyone else.
We never seem to get anywhere with saving money or living the life we want for our kids.
We feel stuck in a place we don't want to be, unable to move forward no matter how hard we push.
Our dreams aren't extravagant.
We don't want luxury.
We just want to own our own home one day and provide help for our son.
A home that belongs to us.
A home that means our children will always have somewhere safe and secure when we're gone.
A home that says, "Whatever happens, you'll always have this."
That is the dream.
And even that sometimes feels impossible.
Despite everything, there are still things that make me proud.
Twin 1 is our funny, loving and patient child.
twin 2 - we were told he may never walk or talk, but he can! He has alot of needs but hes here.
Our eldest child is exceptionally bright.
This year, he is going to an amazing university.
Of course, we have to find a way to finance that too.
And we will.
Because that's what parents do.
We find a way.
We always find a way.
People see one part of your life and think they understand you.
They don't.
They don't see the years spent in hospital waiting rooms.
The endless forms.
The meetings.
The battles.
The tears after everyone else has gone to sleep.
They don't see the grief for the life you imagined alongside the fierce love for the life you actually have.
Because both things exist together.
I adore my children.
I would walk through fire for every one of them.
But loving your children and being exhausted by the weight of caring are not opposites.
They exist side by side.
I am proud of the degree I earned.
I am proud that my children know they are loved.
I am proud that I kept going.
But if I am honest, I am tired.
Bone tired.
Soul tired.
The kind of tired that settles into your bones after decades of carrying more than one person should ever have to carry.
And sometimes I wonder—
How is this sustainable?
How do people keep doing this?
How do families like ours survive without breaking under the weight of it all?
Because it feels as though we have done everything right.
We have worked.
We have sacrificed.
We have fought.
We have loved.
We have stayed.
And somehow, we still seem to end up worse off than most.
There have been too many lows to write about.
Too many moments that would take another lifetime to explain.
This is not my whole story.
It is only a few chapters.
But if you've ever wondered why some people look exhausted even when they're smiling, this is why.
Some of us have lived a thousand lives before the age of forty.
And some days, we are still trying to understand how we survived them at all.