The melody of home.

“When the uniqueness of a place sings to us like a melody, then we will know, at last, what it means to be at home.”

~ Paul Gruchow


I feel so grateful for my home, right now.


Roller-coasters and text book living

We all live with emotional triggers. We all live with the dipping up and down and around this roller-coaster of emotions every day. I believe our entire emotional experience effective of our surroundings a little bit. And maybe health is when our inner landscape is so vast and steady, and our love for ourselves too, that no roller-coaster -our own or someone elses can rock it up.

There are the those people whose every day roller-coasters are pretty average – not too high, not too low, not too bumpy, not too bendy (the kind that if it was at an amusement park you’d think was shit). In other words, not so sensitive. Their emotional triggers are subtle, with only the odd big bump or big bend in their roller-coaster. Then there are the other kind of roller-coasters – the kind that you’d stand in a queue at an amusement park for hours, just to get a go on.


Wahey! PTSD is one of those roller-coasters. That means folks, that we are fucking cool. This kind of inner roller-coaster rarely appears outwards – for me anyway. Sometimes it’s dramatic – like I can be rolling along smoothly and then hit a big bump or bend or wobble because of a big trigger. But most of the time it’s just my emotions subtly changing, my clarity and confidence subtly nose diving… In other words, I’m super sensitive at the moment. My inner triggers are so mighty finely tuned that I often don’t notice it’s happened, when it’s the subtle stuff, and because a lot of the dramatic triggers are healing (EMDR) it is the more emotionally triggers that I notice being a lot more delicately ‘up’.

Today I just noticed a trigger that is so delicate and fine tuned, yet when it kicks in it’s so efficient and taking me on my own nose dive. So it was nice to really see it kick in today and me be able to catch it and get on here and write about it, before I ran away with the story.

One of my triggers is the lack of family and my aloneness. And then all my theories/stories about what that means – for example, “I’m screwed…There’s something wrong with me…I’m a loser…I’m unloveable…I’m not deserving of family or people who love me in my life…friends don’t love me as much as they love other friends.” and then I circle back round to the “somethings wrong with me” theory. blah blah blah. What a load of bullshit.


It’s not a trigger that is often dramatically up anymore – for a long time it was, big styley – instead it sneaks in on special occasions, like Sundays. I spent a couple of hours with good friends in the mega-heat-wave and I remembered that when I hang out with these guys this trigger comes up. It’s partly because they are all in couples and so I ALWAYS feel like I am the One On My Own (which, technically I am) and so there’s something wrong with me (which there isn’t). But I also think it’s because they are, in a sense, like extended family. They’re the longest friends I’ve had here. I don’t see them a super frequent amount anymore but they are all bloody lush and we’ve been through it together and they’ve been there for me in mega ways.

But as we packed up I got all teary. And when I got home I felt so incredibly sad…I think it’s because I just really feel like I need good solid family-like friends and that gap feels like its staring at me at the moment. Especially with the changing around of therapists and the feeling of loss that’s so fucking present right now…and something that I don’t feel I’ve given proper tears or attention to.


No matter how many people or how many conversations I have in my life, I just think this is a gap that is rawly and gapingly open at the moment…it’s kinda like a wound that is just gonna be raw for a while, but that has begun to definitely heal as I have begun to love myself…and I know it won’t properly heal until I soothe it with the creation of My Own Family. (I NEED A BOYFRIEND FIRST.)

It was just funny, in a ha-ha sense but also in a heart warming sense (once I’d clocked on to what was happening), to watch myself drop into all the old dialogue of feeling so desperately alone and like there is something wrong and like I am screwed, because I don’t have a family and everyone else in my life does. That because it is just me in the world, I can’t be lovable and that my friends don’t really love me…and even if they do, friends love isn’t enough…blah blah blah again. It’s just that it hits me when I hang out with these folk. These folk who seem so together, in the unity sense. It just hits me like a fist in the chest and wakes me up again to the fact that I have no family…I really am just me. Shit, how was I going along thinking this was okay? Yes I have friends, but in a text book sense, this isn’t family. But fuck text books. I never liked using them at school so why should I use them now? All this self judgment comes down to the thing of being normal. Whatever the hell that is. It’s the judgment that my way of living isn’t the classic, family in your life, thing. But, there ain’t no bloody text book for living and there ain’t no bloody normal way of having no or all of your family in your life.


And isn’t it kinda always just you? Even if you do have a family, you still have the feeling of being alone…right? That even if you have someone there by your side, in sickness and in health, or as just a nice crush, you still are – to a certain extent – in it on your own? Please say you are. I just prefer knowing that this feeling isn’t so alien, because I have a feeling it isn’t.

Creativity and fear – a romantic marriage or a messy bust-up?

I have this fear, the fear of just letting loose with my creativity. I read about and watch people – documentaries or real life artists who are just going for it and doing their thing. They are following their heart and not budging and embracing their skill, talent, and thing that makes them unique. I dream of doing this but I am so fucking scared.

I worry about money. I worry about failing. I worry that I am not cut out for that kind of gutsy way of doing things. I worry that I will just spend my life worrying. I worry that I won’t have any friends because I’ll be too wrapped up in my own creative world, trying to make ends meet. I worry that I won’t ever quite ‘make it’. I worry that I won’t have anything to say.  I worry that I’m not actually any good.

In a nutshell, I WORRY. And I’m scared. And I reckon that is pretty bloody natural, and any artist, writer, or human being, feels this way at times, or a lot, too. But I’m also torn because in my heart I just know I have the ability to either make friends with the fear and carry on regardless, or kick it in the nuts and carry on, or both. I know this is innately within me and has been all my life, fear and suppression by myself and others just has often gotten in the way. Not always though – not always, at all. It just feels like it now.


I am filled with envy, jealousy, admiration and inspiration when I read or hear of stories of people who have just gone for their dream, sacrificed things, lived in a shed to make ends meet but all in the name of passion…and then they make it. Okay, I’m not jealous of the shed bit but I’m jealous that they can be in love with something that much and have made friends with the fear enough to do that, leaves me in admiration. I’m not saying that’s easy, at all. I’m just saying I reckon there has to be a certain level of fear friendship that goes on to enable individuals to just bury their head in their creative passion, and then enable them to come out the other side beaming.

Maybe the freedom and the freespirited-ness in my writing and my creativity and my confidence to get this shit out there, will come. I hope so. And I think I know so. I just wonder whether I’m able enough? Able enough to just GO FOR IT.

The fear could aid creativity and creative expression. It could be there as something that empowers me, kicks me up the ass to get up and GO and just SAY IT, whatever ‘it’ is. In the moments and days I don’t surrender to it, and carry on regardless, it could bring a fire and a inspiration to me because of this.

I don’t believe we can ever get rid of fear, and I definitely think it can serve us well. But it can also take a fucking hike at times too. Just the thought of attempting to become a writer fills me with dread. The initial thought fills me with excitement but then when I get to the nitty and gritty, I could almost vom at the thought of it all. The potential things that could go wrong, the risks, the potential for complete failure and wasting and all my other potential that would be put on the side to try and make this happen.


But what about the excitement? The thought of being paid to WRITE. The thought of having my voice out there, in the world, being read and seen and heard. That’s the thing I think – I care too much. Well, not too much, but just a LOT. Caring is all gravy but I notice it overwhelms me and I buckle at the knees because I just want to give it my all. See, there’s a positivity behind the fear, it just comes out in twisted self-sabbotaging ways. The fecker.

I hope that the fear settles and I work out what it is hear to teach me. Or I hope that I just learn how to kick it in the nuts and let it inspire and motivate me, rather than demoralise and deflate me. There is, after all, a thousand ways we can live our dream and do the thing we love – being a writer doesn’t necessarily mean doing it full time. Maybe this brings too much fear and doesn’t hit the spot, anyway. Maybe I use my writing in a job or work for a organisation or a project where writing is the main role. Maybe I’ll learn to be free and learn to let go and learn to just not give as much of a shit.

And, maybe I don’t need to decide right now. I dream of being able to just throw myself at the thing I love, but maybe if I give myself credit and notice what I’m doing, I’m doing just that. I’m just doing it gently and I’m doing it without the living in a shed bit.

When things feel messy

I’ve been doing EMDR for about two months, or so. It’s been on the cards for a long time previous but I definitely believe, as with everything else, that therapy happens at the right time. This right time came when I happened upon a woman who doesn’t follow the clinical kinda guidelines vibe that every other EMDR therapist I spoke to, just oozed out. Even though this lady isn’t perfect – not even bloody therapists are perfect, apparently – she feels so much more relaxed and so open to my new found bossy-ness of what works and what doesn’t. In fact, she welcomes it.

Three sessions ago we worked on Morocco. Then today we did a little bit more. I spoke about it as we worked on it the first time but I didn’t this time…I simply just said, “saved the worst til last”. The first time we worked with it I can’t even explain the relief I felt as I walked out of the door and up the road. I got home and just sobbed, as you can read about here. I felt FREEDOM. Freedom in my body that I think I have never felt before, and never realised I didn’t have. I hadn’t realised that that trauma had literally been running my days, every single moment of the day…in every way possible, that trauma was there. Haunting, reminding, warning, and bringing fear in obvious ways and the not-so.

photo 2-2

That shock/relief of this newfound freedom is still very much there, but the honeymoon period dwindled and was replaced with new dimensions of the trauma. Once I shift one block of ‘stuff’, it shifts another load around it but then once the dust has settled from that load of bricks shifted, the bricks beneath this layer surfaces. This layer of bricks then needs to be taken into the following session, which is what I did today. My brain went there, despite the fact it was right at the end of the session and I didn’t even think I wanted/needed to anymore. But jackpot – there it was. The terror, the haunting memories, the abuse, the violation, the intrusion to my soul.

It scares me so much that what happened to me, happened. I was raped, I was attacked, I was in the middle of nowhere, I could have died, my innocence was taken away, my physical body and my soul was intruded. I got home today and I just felt overwhelmed and like I needed to crumble and have a whole other breakdown just for this. I think this trauma is beginning to surface to be healed (OBVIOUSLY), and be spoken about it. But fuck, I haven’t hardly done any of that, and y’know what? I don’t bloody want to. I want to be free of traumas, I want to just deal with the ones that have been really up – not the ones that have been buried for all this time. They can stay buried.

But they can’t…that’s the trouble now, but also the blessing therapists would argue. I feel overwhelmed when I even think of how much I have to talk about, but maybe talking isn’t always the way. Maybe writing is my voice. I felt that really clearly in the session and it was yet another inspiration for myself as to why I need and want to go down this typing route.


It terrifies me how calm this trauma is becoming and how it is something that I am slowly knowing I can share, think about in order to release, express, and ultimately, heal. This thing that is actually an incredibly big deal, is something that I have been determined to not look at properly. And actually haven’t been able to because it would have brought me to my knees, emotionally and physically. But it’s different now. I can use the trauma to empower me, and that is incredible. And it just seems to be happening naturally. Something so disgusting, so invasive, so hideous, so terrifying, can actually be something that brings empowerment, connection with my body and others who’ve experienced similar, and a strength and fire that would never have been there before.

This fire brings a protection and a feisty-ness that I am beginning to love. Sometimes the fire and the feist burns so bright and rages so loud I wonder whether I’m going to burn the house down with my vibrant rage inside, but I never do and it never does come out in that way. It comes out with a deep feeling of protection instead. And the odd swear word too.

My metaphorical medal cabinet

What a week. What a freakin’ week. I’ve been rather quiet this end – well, blog-wise, not any other wise. I would go into deets but right now I can’t be arsed. Right now all I want to do is share my latest EMDR session yesterday.

EMDR is the bomb. It really really works, folks.

I got home from my session and I just sobbed, and smiled, and sobbed and smiled some more. I sobbed because I’m happy…it’s changing…the ‘okay’ that everyone always told me would come and would happen is slowly/quickly becoming a reality I am increasingly getting a taste of. And a permanent reality that I can see right there on the safe and cosy horizon.

One of the main reason I sobbed when I got home is because I feel like I deserve a medal for what I did in my session. I worked with morocco. I worked with that trauma. The one that actually has ruled my day and my body but I have kept so hidden and secret out of total fear for what it is and was. So for that, I deserve the holiday that I am going on tomorrow. I sobbed because I feel free…the freedom is here, touching the tips of my fingertips. And as the EMDR continues to work over the next week, this safety will be nestled in my whole hand. This I cannot even begin to explain. I can now let this trauma go. It can be something that has happened to me, just like other things that have happened to me. It doesn’t need the control and the charge that is has had until now. When a trauma is so secret and so huge and so fucking scary, and GROSS, I feel it is really easy to just not look at it (OBVIOUSLY). It is easier and safer to focus on the softer traumas. The ones that are still hideous but not as mind numbingly terrifying and overwhelmingly full of details, emotions and stuff you need and want to share…but you just don’t know where to start.


Now I feel like I could talk about it. Another thing I deserve a medal for – my metaphorical medal cabinet is getting chockablock (on a side note, I think we all need a metaphorical medal cabinet. Maybe I’ll start to note my medals down, that’d be nice, wouldn’t it? I think you should all do that too.) – is that I stopped myself forcing myself to share the details with her. In EMDR your eyes are going back and forth whilst you think of the trauma or the feelings that are ‘up’ in relation to it…or simply wherever your mind goes. And I had the urge to talk about the details but I didn’t want to do it with her, but I did, but I didn’t…I went round like that and then I just let myself go and she reassured that I didn’t have to talk about it. This shit still works even if you don’t speak. Even if the therapist doesn’t even know what they are working with! But, for me, talking is something I love and need to do. Some people ain’t such a sucker for words… I. Am.

I can now talk about the dirtiness, the GROSS-ness, the terror that I almost died, the fucking craziness that it even happened. I can TALK about it with those I love and feel safe with. This…this is undescribably huge. And weirdly exciting because it means healing is coming.

This medal for reaching this point that actually I can talk about this and protecting myself whilst I do so, is so huge and a gold & chunky motherfucker. (See above. I drew this in my journal shortly after getting home from the session.)

photo 3-18

We worked with my fear of my bursting and overflowing levels of creativity. At the moment I get so overwhelmed with how much creative energy is running around my system. Words are just flooding to my fingertips, wanting to burst their way onto the page. But so often I don’t do anything with it, or I only do a little bit, because I feel scared because there is just SO much! I get overwhelmed, exhausted and then fall asleep or spin around the room in anxiety because I haven’t done anything with the creativity. She reassured that it’s because so much of my energy has been going on being stuck with this trauma, stuck in the past, stuck in hypervigilance and protecting me…this stuckness is now becoming free and so it is only a matter of time that I realise it is safe and I learn to just continue on and release it, to type on the page even if I feel like I could never do the million words justice – to just keep typing, keep expressing and let the overwhelm soften away.

We worked with the shit that went down this week. Only slightly but just enough to feel like it was acknowledged. We worked with the scenario that if my mother showed up on my doorstep and how I would feel. (This is what happened – my mother found out where I lived and sent me vouchers through a company. Freaked. Me. Out. But also, weirdly, because of EMDR, there has been a distance between me and the terror and the connection with her…this is phenomenal.)

Today, the following morning after the session, I feel like SHIT. I feel like I’ve had a severe bout of chronic fatigue. I am in so so much pain. Last night I cried myself to sleep with the pain that was running a gentle riot all around my body. And it’s back again today. I don’t really know what to do. I am supposed to go away for my birthday, which is tomorrow, but I now wonder whether it is the right thing to do because I currently feel like an arthritic ridden 75 year old. That ain’t no fun. All I’m going to do is curl up in a ball and tear up a little bit and meditate/doze…and ponder whether I get on that train.

This pain definitely has something to do with the fact that I flew head first, superman style, off my bike yesterday two minutes before my EMDR session…it was so embarrassing and so painful! But, I did also feel like a superhero (Superwwoman?) because I do not know HOW I didn’t get more injured…like, really. I FLEW head first as my bike buckled beneath me (my handbag had been dangling from the handlebars and it got caught in the brake and jammed. Note to girls – DON’T RIDE YOUR BIKE WITH YOUR FLIPPIN’ HAND BAG.

So, I know that this big ass shock will be contributing to this pain, because fuck everything hurts. But I also have a feeling that it is to do with the physical release that this last session brought. I can feel it so so physically. The freedom…the taste of freedom in my body that I didn’t even realise wasn’t there. This freedom that I didn’t even know something like Morocco takes away from you. I’ve been living the last two years in unbelievable closedness and disconnection, and now that freedom and connection to my inner safety is suddenly here, it just kinda makes sense that my body would take a bit of a whack. This pain feels like it’s the shift and the transition. But fuck, it hurts like a bitch.

Soften a bit, please pain. But freedom, you can definitely stay. And I have a feeling you really will.

Acknowledge the pain

When will this pain end? I don’t understand. I don’t understand how pain can be so intense and not completely break you. When will all the wounds be healed, all the scars undone? I don’t know how this could ever be.  When the pain eats me, chews my bones and spits me out, exhausted and confused, my whole body aches with a worry, a fear, a wondering, whether this will ever soften…ever cease to be?

The truth is I don’t know. And the other truth is, I know it doesn’t ever stop. I’ve heard it gets easier, and that is something I believe. But it never stops. And that is something I believe too.

But when the world feels such a painful place, the weight of daily responsibilities feel overwhelming, like I’m nailed at the stake of responsibility that is crumbling beneath me, I wonder how long I can cope. My feet feel like the ground beneath them is fake. All an image of capability, when yet what actually lies beneath them is a vast pit of a discombobulated mess. I feel like I’m living a lie of managing, when all I need to do is fall apart and crumble, and never get up.

I feel torn between a desire to keep going and keep trying to live part of this normal life, and a desire to completely fall apart. Because the latter has never happened. Yet when I look back on the days this past year has brought, there is nothing about them that doesn’t define Breakdown or Mess. It has been one long year of that. I just have always had this edge of me that has been okay.  And perhaps I always will have this edge. I just need to trust this…And one day I will.

There is that fragile edge, that part of me that feels overwhelmed and still in shock though. Still in pain from the responsibilities weighed on as a child, that daily life becomes a challenge when this part is in prominent play. This is the part that needs nurturance, reassurance, comfort, and love. Perhaps I will always have this edge too…I have a feeling it will. And therefore, maybe I’ll begin to trust this can be heard and lived through, not all encompassed by, too.

This last part I talk of, is one that we all have – the Inner Child, our Little Girl…the part of us that needs the acknowledgement and listening. What makes this part of us sing, sob and soften? Mine, I know, needs to just CRY. Be held. Be reassured, honoured and allowed to express through its tears.

Life might feel overwhelming. It might feel as though my entire life of sorrow and grief, letdown and trauma, is up in my face, blinding me, but still beneath that is strength and joy that comes with feeling this pain too. It might feel as though all I need to do, all I can do, is lie in a heap for a year or two, but actually what happens when I do? When I lie in a heap and sob or shake, twenty minutes later, I get up. Tender, but refreshed, rejuvenated and alive. More alive than twenty minutes before.

I am learning that overwhelming pain is only overwhelming because it truly needs to be felt. It needs to be heard, it needs to be nurtured, released, listened to, let out. It overwhelms when it’s not acknowledged. And the pain of this repression is SO much more than the pain of the acknowledgement.


photo 1-13

That bit that’s missing

Mothers come in all shapes and sizes, with every personality possible.

We have all been blessed with one, whether they have been there for us or not, whether they have nurtured and loved, or neglected and abused, honoured and respected, or manipulated and disrespected, they have been there. Even if just to create us and bring us into the world.

The past week, as Christmas has been upon us and my lack of contact with my mother has been feeling ever-present, I have been aware of the pain of quite how alone I feel. And quite how painful that loneliness feels. But alongside this feeling comes the reassurance that in actual fact, no matter how much our mother is part of our lives, or how much they are not, we all have our own tie-ups or gaps of emptiness in our lives from our mum. I believe anyway. There is no perfect mother-daughter relationship out there. When you come from a traumatic and twisted relationship with your mother, it is easy to feel as though things are more painful for you compared to others, and the gaps of emptiness are in fact voids of oblivion that cannot see how could ever change. This might be true. But what I also know to definitely be true is that we ALL have our own issues and our own ways in which our mothers don’t meet us, and never have. In this past year of emotional chaos growth, I have begun to really value and take refuge in finding ways to work out that we are all the same. We are not alone in this crazy world of emotions and life. In our weird and wacky and unique ways, there is an element of us that is a running theme throughout all beings. I find it takes away, or at least softens, that isolation and desperation the feelings or experiences can trigger. And trigger quite spectacularly too. Whether these hurts with our mother have been healed, or whether they are still running rampant, the fact is that each and every one of us has had, or does have, beef with our parents.

To normalise this – to see that everyone has it to a certain extent, for me, makes this process a heck of a lot easier. Sure, it doesn’t take the trauma away. It doesn’t take all the years of neglect, intense three-pronged abuse and let-downs away, but it does make you see that you are not alone. It helps you see that an element of this is ‘normal’ life. I flippin’ hate that word, but by normal I mean we all have it. We all have ‘stuff’ with our mothers. Whether it doesn’t surface properly until we are 40 and in the midst of bringing up our own children, and our childhood begins to hit us hard in the face; or whether we begin to divulge it when we hit 18 and get-hell-out-of-home only to go and sit in a therapy chair and watch our life we thought was normal, unfold before us as QUITE THE OPPOSITE; or whether it hits the pretty common route of surfacing in our twenties as we make our way with finding our own identity and looking back on all the shit that went down as kids. And then coming out the other side, at each of these scenarios (and all the others I haven’t described), is a more balanced and understanding perspective of where your mother was coming from, and you have come from. Or so I’ve been told. At 25, who am I to talk?!

Going through the motions and emotions of hate, anger, frustration, let-down, neglect and a deep sadness for what was or what could have been, to then come out with a sense of peace and acceptance, or at least understanding, of them/ourselves/etc, is to me a healthy, and pretty bloody normal, process. At least I think so. We can’t just go from one extreme to the other. We need to live through the motions of feeling the pain of what was, and all the rest inbetween, to then come to a point where we can love what is.

Just last week my therapist said that, in all the years of her work, my mother wins the worst-mother-award. This coming from a therapist with years of experience, added impact to this statement. Despite all the shit that’s been, this broke my heart to hear. All I responded with was, “really?” Despite how atrocious she has been. Despite the serious and twisted manipulation. Despite the hate that was spat at me consistently and constantly from an early age, I still love her. So so much. And I always will. Sure, it feels more like the kind of love you might have for a child, due to the reversed roles in our relationship, but this love is very much there and always will be. At the moment I often hate her with a blinding rage too, but I see this as a great sign of health. As any therapist would tell you.I see that I am very much in the midst of that journey of emotions I describe above – slap bang in the middle of the uncovering, processing, and then healing, all that’s been. And this kind of anger has been buried for years, when it surfaces is one giant leap in healing. Provided it is released in a mindful way. Like 100 lengths in a swimming pool (I wish). Or an angry stomp up a hill (that’s is more like it). And so I seem to be spending my days

What this post is trying to get at, is the fact that we are all in the same boat. No matter how different our story, no matter how deep and isolating the pain feels, we all share the same thing – we all have these hurts and big gaps of empty, when it comes to our mothers/parents. Some are much bigger than others, but they are all in relation to what has been in our life. I really believe this. And it is something so easily forgotten, and rightly so. But know that it is true. As someone who has lived through severe trauma with my mother, I often feel desensitised to others descriptions of turmoils with their mum, quietly wondering what it would be like to ‘just have something like that’ going on with mine. But this soon passes and I realise that it really is all in relation. Just like we can never get that person to truly know, even know in a small way, what it is like to experience what we have experienced, they cannot ever get us to fully understand what it is like to experience what they experience. One thing we do share, is that at some point in our life, for some people it is/was hourly and for others it is/was yearly, our mothers have hurt us, have let us down, and have caused complete havoc in our lives. Again, one persons havoc is different to anothers, but whatever it is, and whichever scenario it is for you, just know that despite the fact we can never live a day through someone else’s eyes or get someone to live a day through ours, we can hold comfort in the fact that we are not alone in feeling all these feelings towards our mothers. They just vary in intensity or severity.

Within this bundle of emotions and memories stored that bring sorrow and pain about our mothers, there is also joy in there too. Because you cannot have one without the other. That is just how life works – you get both. Always. No matter how far away that joy feels, or how deep it is buried, it will be some there, I promise. Sometimes you just have to go hunting. No matter how much pain life brings, so much joy comes with it too. Maybe it wasn’t directly from our mothers. Maybe it was. But whatever it was or whenever it was, there will be joy running alongside these memories of let-downs or memories of trauma from our childhood. So when you’re thinking of the things that make you sad, make sure you try to think of that joy you experienced too. Even if it was with your friends or something totally unrelated to your mum, the fact is that during those days or moments you spent in pain or hurt with your mother, there will have been something in those days that brought sunshine and grins to your heart. And this is something to be grateful for. Because that is just how life works.

And lastly, this is why we have each other. Because, in my eyes, friends are what help fill those gaps of emptiness from our parents. We all have these gaps, be them big or small, where our parents are not there for us how we would love them to be, or at all. But that is what friends are for. Not to be parents, but to simply be there. To share the pain of the grief of what is missing parental wise. To share the joy in your life when you don’t have a parent to turn to, to share it with. To be there alongside you in the rough and the smooth, and to know you for you. No matter how good or rough our relationship is with our folks, we all need friends in life. To me, friends are family and so I often feel as though I need my friends more than they need me, but this is okay. Because they will need me in different ways, as each of our needs are so unique. It is just getting to know our needs and getting to trust them too.

Share and talk with those around you and know that however different your story is to theirs, there will always be somewhere you can meet. And it doesn’t tend to be that far away.