I thought starving would erase my anger, but it only buried it alive. When WeeGee died, my anger was grief with its teeth out. Recovery means I can’t run anymore. I have to sit with Angry Rhio, feed her anyway, and let her break me open.
Tag: love
Oui, Je Regrette Tout – Yes, I Regret Everything
Recovery feels like regret stacked on regret: my knees burn, my wallet bleeds, my coping is gone. I grieve everything at once. Yet in the smallest moments - wearing shorts, playing games, hearing my son say he missed me - I know regret says “go back,” but I’m still moving forward.
Little Lights in the Dark – Pigeons, Bows and Silver Linings
Recovery has been chaos — crying, swelling, and thigh muscles outgrowing knee sleeves. But between the spirals, I found soft moments: plush pigeons, macramé bows, iced coffee with my son. Small, silly joys that felt like little lights in the dark. Somehow, they’ve been enough to keep me going.
Becoming My Son: One Month on T and a Lifetime of Bravery.
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.
Yesterday Made Recovery Feel Worth It.
Some days in recovery feel pointless, exhausting, and harder than starving ever did. But then a good day sneaks in - iced coffee, Lego, laughter with my son - and reminds me why I keep going. Yesterday didn’t fix everything, but it made another flat day in recovery bearable.
Self Care Is Not Working Again: Catching My Reflection in Black Mirror
I bought the Starbucks. I blogged. I showed up. I did the things that are supposed to help. But sometimes self-care feels like shouting into a black mirror - a screen that only reflects your own tired face back at you. And still, people ask if you’ve tried yoga.
The Night We Grieved Everything All At Once
Recovery isn’t soft lighting and healing crystals. It’s grief. It’s crying in Asda over leggings that no longer fit. It’s showing up for meals you don’t want. It’s rage, numbness, hunger, and hope tangled together. I’m not healed - but I’m trying. And that trying is what healing really looks like.
My Son’s Crunchy Foot and the Multiverse of NHS Waiting Rooms
We planned a soft day, but the universe sent us to minor injuries instead. My son’s foot was crunchy (yes, really), and this post captures everything from NHS chaos to waiting room characters, a Crunchie bar craving, and the strange way a detour turned into a whole story.
The Softest Surprise For Bartholomew Bears Birthday (Gifted)
Bartholomew Bear Junior arrived during a rough week, and brought more comfort than I expected. A tiny bear with big softness, sent when I needed it most. I’m so grateful to Jellycat for the kindness - and to Biscoff, who’s learning how to be a big brother, crumbs and all.
Recovery Day 35 – Reaching the Messy Middle
This is the messy middle — not crisis, not triumph. Just limbo. A breath held. A rope bridge swaying in wind I can’t control. I’m scared, not failing. I’m resting. Gathering strength. One day I’ll step forward. But today, I make camp. I make tea. And I don’t go back.
Absurd Universe 