A reflection on love, feeling alone and learning to mother differently.
Last night, amongst the chaos of a busy market, a stranger listened—really listened. I told him very little, only shared fragments. Told him I was raising my daughter on my own and that we’d moved here for a fresh start. He didn’t press, he simply looked at me with the interest that’s rare and unguarded. He even spoke to her—softly, kindly—and in doing so, gave me one quiet gift: the feeling of being seen. It was the first real adult conversation I’ve had here since arriving.
And then:
“Mama. Mummy. Mummy. Mama, I’m bored.”
Her voice sliced through the moment—not playful, but agitated, determined to pull me back. She hit me. Tugged. Demanded. I tried to plead for a breath: “Please… just give me a little mummy time. I’m always there for you.” I was nearly begging, because sometimes I do beg. Not for peace, exactly—but for understanding. A sliver of empathy from someone so small, and so wildly in need of me.
She’s been lashing out lately. Breaking things. Climbing, crashing, rolling—testing every edge. She moves like her body can’t hold what she feels. And I get it. I see myself in it. Sometimes that recognition feels like a wound.
There are days I’m the calm in her storm. And there are days I am the storm.
I shout, snap and cry but I always apologise. I try to explain emotions to help her make sense of how she feels. So she knows her emotions are safe—even the ugly ones. Especially the ugly ones. But then I see her mimicking my fire when I wish she’d mirror my softness. That hypocrisy stings.
There was a day at school recently. She pushed another child. Trashed the classroom. And then told the teacher: “My daddy doesn’t love me.”
That last part landed like a stone.
The school told us to stay home the next day. But that night, I met her where she was. I didn’t shame her or scold her into silence, letting her speak. I told her how deeply she is loved. That none of this is her fault. That she didn’t cause our family to fracture. That she is not the reason her father has remained distant.
And I’m proud of that moment—not because I was perfect, but because I stayed. I broke the cycle.
My mother didn’t stay. She walked out. My father never showed up. The house I was raised in rarely made space for repair. There was no softness. No apology. I raised myself in rooms that echoed with absence and isolation. Now I’m trying to offer my daughter what I never had: presence, even in the mess.
But it’s hard. Some days, I feel like a child myself—reaching for mothering I never received. There are parts of me I’ve only recently begun to understand. These include the emotional swings and the restlessness. I can go from fire to fog and back again. I’ve been told I carry things. These include deep-rooted patterns, nervous system scars, and ways my brain dances that don’t always match the world’s rhythm. But nothing with a name yet. And I’m not rushing it. That will come, in time, in its own telling.
What I do know is this: my daughter is wired like me. Fierce, sensitive, full of feeling. And when she spins out, I often do too. We set each other off. It is not out of malice. It is because we are both still learning how to live inside such big feelings. It’s like trying to hold water in cupped hands—some always spills out.
Still, we keep trying.
She reminds me daily that I am loved and needed. And she also reminds me how tired I am. How thinly I am stretched. There is no co-parent to pass the baton to, no extended family to step in. It’s only us. And in that, there is beauty—but also ache.
And maybe that’s why I came here. Not for ease—but for space. To slow down, not in the romantic sense, but in the necessary one. To create the pause I was never given growing up. The version of me that raised herself in silence needed room to breathe. She never saw love modelled with softness. And my daughter… she needs a version of me that isn’t constantly just surviving.
This time, I didn’t want distraction anymore. I didn’t want to run. As soon as I felt the layers of myself beginning to unravel—really unravel—I knew I couldn’t stay. The routines, the safety, the endless doing… they were keeping me from the becoming.
I left because I needed stillness. I was chasing something. No job title or tidy daily planner gave me inner peace. I sought flowing, free abundance. So what if it’s messy, slow, unstructured? I’ve set the wheels in motion to face it all on my timeline. No 9 a.m. meetings, or apologising for puffy eyes after a night of release. No need to keep it together anymore! The mask had slipped and I needed it down after years of *mastering* the act.
That version of safety—the house, the job, the carefully managed day—it had started to bury me. And this time, something deeper stirred. I felt compelled, not just to change, but to finally step into the life I’ve always been circling. With pure intention. With creativity. Without a backup plan.
I don’t need to look for a safety net anymore.
I am the safety net.
