During one of the hardest weeks of my life, my son handed me a purple Liberty bag with a Jellycat bear inside. This is the story of Enfys — a rainbow in bear form — and how she reminded me I’m loved, even when I can’t feel it.
Tag: writing
Collapsing the Wave Function – Choosing Recovery For Real This Time
This isn't a choice, it's a vow. I'm not doing this because it's easy or aesthetic - I'm doing it because I refuse to stay lost. Anorexia recovery is hell. It always was. But I'm done putting my toe in the water. I'm swearing to fight for myself. No illusions. Lets jump in head first.
Recovery With the Nostalgia of Tea and Biscuits at My Nan’s House.
I’m trying to recover from my anorexia relapse. For this week’s challenge, I’m increasing my intake with tea and biscuits—using the only safe food memories I have from childhood to help me. Alongside the nostalgia and my favourite custard creams, Biscoff the bear is here with his usual fluffy emotional support.
From Cortisol Mornings to Cotton Cord Evenings – Biscoff Is No Longer Naked!
Today was meant to be restful, but my brain woke me up yelling “BOOTS!” like it was a threat. I got my meds, made my bear a bowtie, and ignored all signs of needing to lie down. A cortisol-fuelled quest, featuring pigeons, macramé, and one very overdressed bear.
More Little Lights in the Dark – My Son, Starbucks, and Self Care Sunday.
This week was hard — full of cluster headaches, grief, and emotional crashes. But in the middle of all that were tiny moments that helped me stay: coffee with my son, a moonstone necklace, a bear in a towel, and a bath that looked like the universe. Little lights in the dark.
The Night We Ate – My Son Softens The Hard Edges of My Day.
Friday was a hard day (well, it became two). I’m in early recovery from an anorexia relapse. There were CHAOS GREMLIN Biscoff binges and zero sleep—but also moments of clarity, love, bears, bath bombs, and reminders of why I’m still trying.
Picking Up A Pencil Again After 3 Years.
Three years ago, I gave up drawing because of pain that felt like a heart attack. Now, in the middle of a relapse—and a storm—I picked up a pencil again. This post is about art, disability, grief, and the terrifying hope that maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to let go again.
The Aftermath of Taking the D
Took 25,000 IU of vitamin D and my body said “no thanks” by collapsing, rash included. Spent Mother’s Day shrimped on the sofa, ragey and weak. Still ate food. Still cried. Still blogging. Recovery arc: glitchy. Perfectionism can piss off—I’ve got knees that fold and a blog backlog now.
The One Where I Take the Biggest D Known To Man.
I took the biggest D known to man—25,000 IU of swamp-flavoured regret—and somehow, today felt better. Between the compression leggings, noise-cancelling headphones, and bravery it took to put cheese in beans, I found a moment of calm. Not cured, just coping—with a little penguin, some wax melts, and hope.
The Day That Turned Out Better Than Expected – FINALLY.
I set out expecting stress, but somehow, today turned out… okay. The meds got sorted, the errands got done, and Iceland had the AUDACITY to be pricier than M&S. I came home exhausted, but with a warm flat, a good loaf of bread, and a little relief. Finally.
Absurd Universe 