Good Friday was good.
But also — it wasn’t.
Both things existed at once.

I showed up for my son. I made him smile. We wandered around shops, shared a coffee, and I even had fun buying him little things that felt like joy. I meant every part of that. But it was also a battle. Behind every step was exhaustion, pain, and a head full of static from the cluster headaches, the eating disorder noise and the UK Supreme Court ruling.

I wish it hadn’t taken so much to be myself that day. I wish I didn’t have to claw through so much just to reach the soft parts of me.

This post sits in that in-between space. The place where joy and grief overlap. Where I gave what I had — and then some.
Also, there are several pictures of bears.

Of course there are.

“Good” Friday?

On Good Friday, my son and I had planned to go to town, grab a coffee, and spend some time together for Easter. Unfortunately, Thursday night had other ideas. It brought a VERY BAD Cluster Headache episode of EXTREME pain attacks (capital letters warranted), and I woke up after about two hours of interrupted sleep with a particularly rough bout of ED-related digestive distress. That’s the definitely unglamorous side of anorexia you never hear about online — but, unfortunately, you’ll always get the unfiltered version from me.

I felt awful. And yet, I had promised my son this day out. I was already feeling fed up that it’s always one uncontrollable thing after another ruining plans — holidays, birthdays, normal moments. This time, I wasn’t having it. I was not going to let another thing take away a good day with him. No matter the exhaustion. No matter the pain.

My son needed this day just as much — maybe more. We’re both still reeling from the UK Supreme Court ruling that trans women are no longer legally recognised as women. My son is trans. I don’t speak for him here, but as a mother? He’s twenty years old and I still worry about his safety like he’s five and walking out into a world I can’t protect him from. This ruling didn’t just break something legal — it justified the very real fear I carry every day. I’m scared. I’m angry. I want him to live in a world that isn’t this cruel. And I don’t know what to do

There is so much grief I’m carrying for the fact I can’t do anything. I can’t fix this world, or make it any better, but he needed cheering up. So I pulled together EVERY last thread of strength — through pain, anger, grief, underfuelling, exhaustion, and that relentless digestive distress — and we went.

Bears in the City

We looked around the shops, wandered a bit, and I bought my son an emerald necklace, because he is the personification of living in truth and love. I bought myself a tiger eye moon too, which supposedly helps with mental clarity — though, in all honesty, I’d probably need one the size of the actual moon to get any sort of emotional stability in this Black Mirror-style timeline we’re stuck in.

His face, when I said I’d buy the necklace for him, lit up completely, my sun, my son. I’d already got him Easter gifts, but I just wanted to make his day. I can’t make the world safer for him — but I can buy him a beautiful emerald necklace and make him smile for a moment.

We also went thrifting, which brought its own little treasures: a Greggs t-shirt I absolutely had to have for sausage roll obsession reasons, a perfect bear mug, and a plush duck my son fell instantly in love with. We also picked up a new suitcase for food hauls — our old one lost a wheel on the last trip, making it extremely on-brand for us: always one wheel short of a suitcase.

Starbies With Charlie

After our adventure, we went to Starbucks to decompress from the horror that is public behaviour during Christian holidays (seriously why are people the most inconsiderate during holidays?). He got a lime refresher, I got my always-same Americano, and we shared our drinks with our plushies. I brought Charlie, who wore a tiny bear jumper and a bear macramé bag I made for him (complete with matching bow, obviously). My son brought Ferg the frog.

By this point I was absolutely exhausted, and daytime cluster headaches, triggered from the activity of walking here, were threatening to join the party. I wondered how I even managed to get here. I looked over and saw my son, smiling, sipping his drink, admiring his new necklace, and I knew — this is how I got here. This is how I kept going. Because he really needed this day.

Before heading home, we stopped by Marks & Spencer to get fancy food for the evening and Easter weekend. I really want to eat a hot cross bun. Before my relapse, Easter was always chock full of hot cross buns — and this year, I’d only eaten one, and it was a cheese one. I didn’t want to let Clippy take yet another holiday from me. So I bought a pack of apple and cinnamon hot cross buns because they sounded amazing. I also picked up chicken shawarmas for myself and fish and chips for my son.

Once we got home, we relaxed for the rest of the evening. I had wanted to top the day off with the hot cross bun — because it felt like reclaiming something — but I just didn’t have the fight left to battle one more thing. I was exhausted in every possible way: physically, emotionally, mentally. My son, though, kept thanking me. He knew how much I was going through. But honestly? I’d do it all over again for him. Every time.

Rhio After Hours.

Later that night, after my son went to bed — still smiling, still thanking me — I sat in the quiet and just… fell apart quite a bit.

Because the truth is, it was so much work. I don’t think people understand how much it takes just to have a “nice day” when you’re living inside a body that keeps attacking itself, when your brain is loud with an eating disorder, when every single step takes negotiation and force. It wasn’t just pain management. It wasn’t just pushing through a cluster headache episode. It was clinging — desperately — to the part of me that still wants to be soft. Still wants to make holidays beautiful. Still wants to make macrame for her bears. Still wants to spend precious time with her son.

And I am that person. I am the one who gives little gifts and thinks about what suits a plushie frog or a bear’s vibe. That’s who I want to be. That’s who I really am.

But my life doesn’t often make space for her. My life is the part where I fight and push and break a little, just to keep going.

And I’m tired. I’m so, so tired of fighting to be myself — and it’s so upsetting, so infuriating, that the UK Supreme Court has now made it even harder for my son to be himself, too. He has to fight just to exist. His entire future is being debated and decided by people who have no idea who he even is.

People talk about the 80/20 rule — that you can control the kind of day you have — but I had very little control over mine. And honestly, my eating disorder relapse is pretty linked to this constant lack of control. I didn’t choose to have extremely painful cluster headaches last night. I didn’t choose to be sleep-deprived. I didn’t have a say in Supreme Court rulings — and neither did my son.

I did choose to spend time with him, because I love him for EXACTLY who he is.
But it was a battle. It took everything in me.

And no one ever considers how much work it takes to simply show up when you’re dealing with so many things. No one empathises with the grief that comes with everything being a battle. They just tell you to try harder. That you’re the one in control.

People just see me at Starbucks. Making bows for my bear.
So I must be fine. But I’m not fine.
Not at all.

But I have so much love for my son — and that love makes me do things I’m not sure many people in this exact situation could have managed today, and I am so glad I did. It was a Good Friday, but it also wasn’t a Good Friday.

**There will be another softer Easter post with all of our cute gifts. We are planning a very quiet Easter to process and regather our strength. Although I don’t know how much strength I can regather after 2 hours of sleep.**

The song for the post is dedicated to my wonderful son, “I’ll make the world safe and sound for you” – Dear Theodosia
I’m grieving because I can’t.