Re-emergence.

I’d planned this blog to be a little window into my neuro-spicy life — the anecdotes, the highs, the lows, the dreams, the projects, the renos.

Instead, it became something else.

It became the place my grief leaked out.
Somewhere to pour the things I couldn’t say out loud after losing my mum.
I thought this space would be light, chaotic, funny… but grief moved in first.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe someone out there — someone scrolling through blogs at 2am trying to feel less alone — will find these words and breathe a little easier.
And then I stopped posting. I'd been quiet in my grief, and in my life for so long.

15 months after losing my mum — suddenly, unfairly — I’m still here.

Still breathing.
Still living in this weird after-version of my life.
Still waiting for a phone call I know will never come.

One minute she was fine.
The next she was gone.
And I became the daughter-who-doesn’t-have-a-mother anymore.

I became the guardian of my sister, and she had to integrate into our lives

And then life didn’t just stop there oh no!, It gave me grief, my sister and — It threw my sister’s ASD diagnosis like a bonus round prize.
On top of my two ASD kids. On top of me, already fraying at the edges. My Husband moving to DIDO work

It was like the universe said,
“Here’s a neuro-spicy sampler box! You get an extra one free because your life wasn’t complicated enough!” and you get to do it alone.

Thanks, universe. Love this for me.

And in the middle of that hurricane, I was still doing the school runs, the lunches, the meltdowns, the sensory wars, the stimming symphonies… you know. Just everyday life in a household full of beautiful, chaotic brains firing in every direction except the one I expect.

But the grief  it doesn’t politely wait its turn.
It doesn’t say, “Oh, you’re busy with three ASD family members? I’ll circle back next week.” "How's Tuesday Next Week?"
Nah. It slams in, sets up camp in your chest, and whispers its bullshit into your ear all day.

And with my mental health wobbling like a three-legged IKEA table, I still tried to work. I still tried to show up. A co-worker at my work decided to personally attack me — not physically, mind you, Undermining me, Snarking at me, just enough emotional paper cuts to make someone already shredded start to bleed.

Usually that kind of petty crap wouldn’t touch me.
But I was fragile.
And grief had hollowed me out.
And I couldn’t take one more thing.

Somewhere between the grief, the chaos, and the endless school reminders, a truth floated to the surface:

I was drowning in a job that no longer fit the life I was living.

So I did the unthinkable.
The wild.
The brave.
The slightly terrifying.

I quit.

Not dramatically. No table-flips or Beyoncé-walkouts. Just a quiet, grounded decision:
“My mental health matters. My family matters. I matter.”

I walked away from the job. The stress. The person who probably still thinks they “won.”
Let them have the victory. I’m busy saving my actual life.

Stepping away from work didn’t magically fix everything.

But what it did give me was space—
Space to breathe.
Space to heal.
Space to feel joy again without guilt.
Space to remeet myself after a year of heavy. 

My washing machine still eats socks. My brain still runs 47 tabs at once. My children still reject any dinner that contains “green vibes.”
Because here’s the truth no one tells you:

When you lose your mother, your world doesn’t just break — you break.
And you don’t get put back together the same way.

I was 39.
My mum was 58 
She was supposed to grow old, fix her teeth, find peace, meet great-grandkids, stop living for everyone else, finally choose herself.
She didn’t.
And that fucking sucks.

Grief isn’t neat. It’s not a Hallmark movie. It’s a bloody trip.

I left my job because my mental health mattered.

I embraced my neuro-spicy circus because it’s mine — loud, colourful, frustrating, and deeply, painfully beautiful.
I’m learning how to live without the woman who made me, even though I still feel like I’m sleepwalking some days.

And I’m finding little cracks of light again.

Somewhere between the meltdowns, the suspiciously sticky countertops, the ASD appointments, the grief spirals, the random memories that feel like punches, and the decision to save my sanity…

…I’m coming back to myself.

Not the old me.
She lived her last day Sunday August 11th 2024.

But here I am.
Emerging.

Slowly. Messily. Not gracefully — more like a baby giraffe learning to walk. 

The new me.
The one who survived hell.
The one who carries her mum in the strangest ways.
The one who’s figuring life out, minute by minute, day by day.

I’m still here.
Still going.
Still emerging —
even if I have no clue what I’m emerging into.

I’m emerging—messy, tender, hopeful, and absolutely winging it. But emerging all the same.

And honestly?
That’s enough for now.