Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
A day in Cardiff for appointments, coffee, and small joys - Lego dragons, plushies, and people-watching - followed by the quieter truth that comes after. A reminder that good days are real, home matters, and sometimes the recovery lasts longer than the outing itself.
A day in Cardiff with my son: blood tests, NHS rage, plushies, coffee, and the reminder that recovery — though exhausting — is worth it. We celebrated with bath bombs and bears, laughed at cathedral flats, and found light in the dark, together.
My son is one month on T. He’s becoming more himself every day, despite a world that tried to make that impossible. We’ve done this alone — through misgendering, medical neglect, and transphobia — but he’s still thriving. Not because of support, but in spite of its absence. He’s extraordinary.
Good Friday: cluster headache edition. I fought through pain, ED brain, and Supreme Court crap to buy necklaces and dress a bear in protest gear. Was it all good? No. Did I make it fun anyway? Somehow. Biscoff the Bear is now a political figure. I am simply unraveling.
I can’t believe you’re 20. Two whole decades of you in my life, shaping me just as much as I’ve raised you. Watching you grow into your most authentic self has been the greatest privilege. No matter where life takes you, you’ll always have me, quantum entangled, forever
Absurd Universe 