Some returns feel like defeat. Flying back from Thailand felt like giving up—on the adventure, on myself, on the version of motherhood I was chasing with clenched fists and hopeful eyes. I’d spiralled. Rage, overwhelm, and the ache of regret had pulled me under. I could barely regulate, let alone parent. But somewhere in the chaos, my nervous system whispered: choose safety. So I did. I chose the road ahead.
That choice—quiet, shaky, uncertain—led me here. A van on a field and on the road. My daughter pedalling toward sheep, wind in her hair, freedom blooming from her fingertips. I sit outside now, prepping tea, listening to nothing but breeze and birdsong. There’s structure in this chaos—holiday clubs, park visits, van tidying, gym sessions, helping with my Airbnb nearby. But it’s soft. Spacious. Kind.
At first, I thought I’d failed. The job I left. The trip I couldn’t finish. The breakdown I couldn’t suppress. But slowly, I’ve begun to understand: We didn’t fail—we realigned. I chose nourishment over numbness. I swapped grinding for grounding.
The van has been my container. It holds both of us—my daughter’s laughter and my quiet recalibration. I used to fill voids with spending, movement, consumption. Now I sit with the void and find it full of life. I watch her ride whilst I rest and breathe.
The road ahead excites me, it offers freedom and flexibility while the van offers stability and structure.
I still don’t write much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because the story is being lived. Deep presence has replaced compulsive documentation. Words are forming—gently, slowly, like moss.
Tomorrow, the road trip begins: Cheddar Gorge, Dartmoor, then onto the Cornish farm. We’ll meet someone I’ve only known virtually, explore new landscapes, feel into new connections. It’s less about escape, more about expansion.
Motherhood isn’t a fixed identity. Some days, I want out. Other days, I find myself marvelling: maybe I was made for this. Maybe getting back to basics was never the fallback plan—it was the truth waiting to be chosen.
I’m still healing. Still curious. Still learning how to parent from a place of wholeness. But for now, the van door is open. The field is quiet. And I’m here.
