For almost forty years, my life was shaped by trauma — the kind that settles into your bones and teaches you to survive instead of live. But survival is not the end of the story. Not mine, and not my children’s.
This blog begins in the year before I turn forty, the year I finally decided to change the ending.
I made a choice: To right what I could, release what I couldn’t, and rebuild what was broken. To stop shrinking from my own life and start shaping it.
To heal — deeply, honestly, and fully — not just for me, but for my three children who have walked through every storm beside me.
They are my reasons to rise.
My three small suns in a sky that has seen too many clouds.
Travelling once felt like a luxury that didn’t belong to me.
As a young single mum, it was something I quietly tucked away under “maybe one day.” I had big dreams of seeing the world, but the reality was very different. We rarely made it out of our town—let alone out of the state. Life was about survival, stability, and doing whatever I could to give my kids what they needed.
But that dream never really left me.
I always held onto this vision—of my children experiencing more than I did. Of them seeing the world, feeling it, remembering it. I wanted them to be young enough to share those moments with me, but old enough to carry the memories… to look back one day and remember the stamps in their passports and the life we built together.
And then one day last year, on a complete whim—with no overthinking, no planning spiral—I just did it.
I booked the trip.
What followed was something I once thought was out of reach. We spent 10 incredible nights on a Carnival cruise through the South Pacific, travelling to Vanuatu and New Caledonia. We snorkelled in crystal-clear water, hiked through beautiful landscapes, laughed, explored, and created memories I know will stay with us forever.
There was something really powerful about being there. Not just because of where we were – but because of what it represented.
A full-circle moment.
From feeling like the world was too far away… to standing in it with my children beside me.
To be able to give my kids a life I once only dreamed of isn’t something I take lightly. It’s the goal. And slowly, piece by piece – we’re getting there.
With more travel plans to come in the future – I am forever blessed that finally, I am at a point in my life – where I can make it happen!
2. Teach my children about charities that mean something to me and our family!
I was 16 years old when I was kicked out of home. After years of trauma, abuse, and experiences that are still hard to put into words, I suddenly found myself without a place to go. No safety net. No family to fall back on. Just… gone.
Trauma stole my youth – instead of being a child, I was learning to survive.
I moved between homeless shelters, and sleeping on friends couches – while trying to finish high school. Those years were some of the darkest of my life.
There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes with being that young and completely on your own. No guidance, no emotional support, no one to help you make sense of what you’ve been through – only the constant pressure of figuring out how to get through the next day.
And somehow, I did. Without support, without direction, I picked myself up and did what I needed to do to survive. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t easy. But it was necessary.
What followed through this fight to survive, were then years I now understand more clearly – years spent in abusive relationships. When chaos is familiar, it doesn’t always feel like something to run from. It can feel like something you unconsciously return to.
Until one day, something shifted. I became a parent. And with that came a line I was no longer willing to let anyone cross.
I made the decision to leave – not just for me, but to protect my children. To give them something I never had: safety. And once more, I did it alone.
I moved. I rebuilt. I created stability where there had been none. I worked through my healing in the only ways I knew how at the time. Not because I didn’t need help – but because I didn’t know where to find it.
I didn’t know what support existed. I didn’t have the education or awareness to understand what I had been through, or what I deserved access to. So I just kept going, doing the best I could with what I had.
Now, as a parent, my role is clear. I am my children’s safe place.
But more than that, I want them to grow up knowing something I didn’t: that support exists, and they are allowed to access it. That they don’t have to do everything alone. That asking for help is not weakness – it’s strength.
Recently, I came across Share the Dignity through social media. And it stopped me. Because this is something I could have used – more than once – throughout my life.
This organisation provides essential items to women, children, and teenagers affected by domestic violence. Things many people take for granted – basic hygiene products, clean essentials – for someone arriving at a refuge, often with nothing but the clothes on their back. That first night in safety matters. And having even the smallest sense of dignity in that moment matters too.
So I used it as an opportunity. An opportunity to teach my children not just about hardship – but about compassion. About giving back. About recognising that even small acts can make a real difference in someone else’s life.
Together, we went shopping, and put together a bag of essential items and donated it at Bunnings Warehouse, who were collecting donations in November.
It was simple. But it was meaningful.
Because in that moment, I wasn’t just giving back – I was gently healing a part of myself that once went without. Slowly, quietly, and in ways that feel safe… I am learning that healing doesn’t always come from looking back.
Sometimes, it comes from what we choose to do next. To acknowledge your past, but to stand tall and look to your future – and support those less fortunate.
In mid-2025, after 2 years in therapy, I was diagnosed with ADHD, Autism, and CPTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress) and cumulative childhood trauma. A mixed bag of tricks, really. Labels that, on one hand, offered clarity… and on the other, opened a door I wasn’t entirely prepared to walk through.
One of the hardest parts of receiving these diagnoses wasn’t the names themselves, it was what came next. Or more accurately, what didn’t.
Without a known family history, and without anyone who could collaborate with psychiatrists to build a clearer picture of my developmental past, medication for ADHD wasn’t an option available to me. Instead, I was prescribed medication for anxiety and depression, conditions that had quietly wrapped themselves around everything else for years.
And then there’s the reality of being an almost 40-year-old, perimenopausal woman. Because when those diagnoses landed, so did everything else.
The floodgates didn’t just open, they collapsed. Suddenly, I wasn’t just living my life, I was reprocessing it. Every reaction, every coping mechanism, every moment that once felt like a personal flaw began to make a different kind of sense. My nervous system, my trauma responses, the way my brain worked – it all had context now.
But insight without support can feel like standing at the edge of something vast, with no clear way forward.
I found myself holding this new understanding, but without the tools, structure, or guidance to know how to turn it into healing. No clear roadmap. Just awareness. Raw and overwhelming.
So I did the only thing that felt remotely within reach.
I sat down… and I made a list.
A list of 40 things I wanted to achieve by the time I turned 40. Not because I needed more pressure, but because I needed direction. Something to hold onto. Something that felt like movement, even if it was small.
At the top of that list was the big, heavy stuff: trauma, my nervous system, the way my body responds to stress and safety. The lifelong patterns I knew I couldn’t ignore anymore.
But I also knew I couldn’t start there. So I chose something simple. Finish a craft project.
It sounds almost insignificant, especially when placed next to words like trauma and healing. But if you live with ADHD, you’ll understand – unfinished tasks don’t just sit quietly in the background. They linger. They loop. They occupy space in your mind in a way that feels disproportionate but very real.
Each unfinished project becomes a small echo of “not quite,” a quiet reminder of things left undone. I wanted to change that.
I wanted to know what it felt like to complete something. To close the loop. To free up that mental space, even just a little, in the hope that it might create momentum for the bigger, harder things waiting further down the list.
The project I chose was something I genuinely wanted to try – crocheting. Or at least, the idea of it. The rhythm, the creativity, the sense of calm it promised.
But the truth? I didn’t finish. I couldn’t quite master it. My attention drifted, my frustration crept in, and somewhere along the way, it became another unfinished thing. And yet… I’m still here, talking about it.
Because maybe the point isn’t perfection, or even completion – not yet anyway. Maybe the point is the willingness to try. To notice the patterns. To gently challenge them, even when the outcome isn’t what I hoped for.
This list of 40 things—it was never really about ticking boxes. It’s about learning how to work with my brain, instead of constantly feeling like I’m working against it. It’s about soothing my nervous system, not forcing it. It’s about finding small, manageable ways to build trust with myself again.
So maybe the crochet project isn’t finished. But something else has begun – I started documenting my “40 things to do” via my Instagram page, and this became my new project! To keep me motivated – I took photos, documented the process – and of course added a cool accompanying track to celebrate the music of 86′. This items track was: Lionel Richie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling”
Stay tuned – for more 40 things to do before turning 40!
After almost forty years of trauma, I am starting to learn what it means to rise.
The year before I turn forty, something inside me shifted. A quiet voice — one I’d ignored for decades — whispered that it was time to right the wrongs, to mend what had been broken, and to build the life I always wanted. Not just for me, but for my three children. They have been my constants, my witnesses, my reasons. My three lights in every darkness.
So I wrote a list. A list of the things I wanted to achieve before I step into my fourth decade. Some dreams were gentle, almost shy. Others were bold enough to scare me. But every single one was rooted in a simple intention: to choose myself, perhaps for the first time. To heal — really heal — from a lifetime of wounds that I’ve carried in silence.
I want to enter forty with love in my heart, hope in my bones, and space in my life for joy. I want my children to look at me and see not just a mother who survived, but a woman who chose to rise. I want them to know that despite everything — every trauma we endured together, every storm we walked through — we are still a family stitched together by love, not brokenness. And that love, not trauma, has made every one of our victories possible.
My hope is for healing. True healing. The kind that doesn’t just patch the surface but reaches deep and finally unclenches the past.
This is the start. I’m writing it all down — whether it’s ever read by others or not. If no one else sees these words, they will still be for me. A record of the beginning. A place to put the pain, the progress, and the prayers. My trauma journal, my truth, my turning.
And this is only the beginning.
So here I am: choosing to rise, choosing to hope, choosing to lead with my heart and believe in a future filled with more love than loss.
The Trio & Me 