Past
or future.

Even though we live in the present,
we seem determined to exist everywhere but here.

We get stuck in the past,
digging through what happened,
trying to understand why,
trying to piece together lives that ended hundreds, even thousands, of years before ours began.

Or we obsess over the future.

What happens next?
Where are we going?
What will the world become?

Humans have spent the majority of our existence trying to understand what came before us.

Almost like it’s been ingrained into our system.

The first chance we get to explore the world,
to understand it,
we dig.

Literally.

We dig into the earth.
We dig through ruins.
We dig through graves.
We dig through stories.
We dig through history.

Searching for answers.

But has nobody else stopped long enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together?

Maybe we aren’t meant to know everything.

Historians tell us we need to understand the past so we can learn from our mistakes.

Yet we keep making them.

Wars still happen.
People are still persecuted.
Countries are still torn apart by power and greed.
Generations still inherit the consequences of decisions they never made.

So what exactly did we learn?

Scientists tell us that discovery helps us better understand the world around us.

Yet in our desperation to understand it,
we have destroyed so much of it.

Animals captured, tested and killed.

Forests cleared.

Mountains carved apart.

Oceans polluted.

Land drilled into, blasted open and stripped bare.

All because we want to know what’s underneath.

What’s inside.

What it can give us.

And somehow curiosity becomes justification.

Morals are set aside for some imaginary limelight.

Ethics are pushed aside in the pursuit of the unknown.

Curiosity becomes tunnel vision when all we can see is the possibility of unlocking another answer.

But what if the answer is today?

What if the answer is tomorrow?

Look at how much of the past has already disappeared.

The Library of Alexandria became a symbol of knowledge lost to history, its collections disappearing through destruction, decline and time.

Countless Maya texts were destroyed, leaving only fragments of entire systems of knowledge behind.

Libraries, temples, languages and cultures across the world have disappeared through war, colonisation, fire, disaster and deliberate destruction.

Entire histories have been reduced to pieces that we now spend lifetimes trying to reconstruct.

And maybe there’s something painfully ironic about that.

We destroy knowledge.

Then centuries later,
we destroy more of the world trying to find it again.

Accidents happen.

Accidents become catastrophic.

Civilisations disappear.

Buildings fall.

Records burn.

Things are lost.

And perhaps not everything lost needs to be recovered at any cost.

Because look at what we are doing now.

We keep digging up the earth, tearing pieces from it for minerals, metals, fuel and whatever else we believe we need.

We destroy ecosystems searching for resources from the past to build our vision of the future.

And somehow, while trying so desperately to understand the generations that came before us,
we are damaging the world belonging to the generations coming after us.

There’s something backwards about that.

We care so deeply about how people lived thousands of years ago,

yet sometimes seem incapable of considering how people will live a hundred years from now.

We preserve ancient ruins while destroying living ecosystems.

We display extinct animals in museums while pushing others towards extinction.

We study collapsed civilisations while convincing ourselves ours could never collapse.

We learn about their mistakes.

Write books about them.

Teach them in classrooms.

Analyse them.

Debate them.

And then repeat them wearing different clothes.

So maybe the answer isn’t buried somewhere beneath our feet.

Maybe it isn’t hidden in some tomb,
ancient text,
forgotten civilisation
or mystery we haven’t solved yet.

Maybe the greatest lesson the past can give us is knowing when to stop looking backwards.

Maybe the answer is today.

What we protect today.

What we change today.

How we treat each other today.

What we choose to leave untouched today.

Because the future isn’t some distant place waiting for us to arrive.

We’re creating it.

Right now.

With every decision we make.

Maybe instead of destroying today trying to understand yesterday,

we should start protecting today

so there’s still a tomorrow worth discovering.

I pause.

Or perhaps the pause finds me.

Between the sleep regression.

The intimidation.

The anxiety that this steep ascent has thrown at me.

I finally stop long enough to breathe.

The fog hangs between the canyon walls.

But for the first time, I can see beyond it.

Mountain tops.

Ridge lines.

Countless paths stretching into the distance.

Choices.

Opportunities.

Possibilities.

Some close enough to touch.

Others so far away they barely seem real.

It is beautiful.

One of the lessons we are taught throughout life is that everyone faces a mountain.

No one prepares you for how many there are.

Or how many can exist at once.

No one explains how long some canyons stretch.

Or how high some climbs become before the view finally changes.

You are taught that lessons come and go.

But not how deeply they can cut.

Or how overwhelming they can feel while you are living them.

There is no rule book.

No map.

No guide waiting at the trailhead.

And perhaps that is why this realisation catches me off guard.

I have become attached too quickly.

Rose coloured glasses I willingly strapped onto myself.

Too eagerly.

Too quickly.

For words that have only recently begun settling into my heart.

After a treacherous week of sleep deprivation, I finally catch a break.

A festival is being held in an old pioneer town nearby.

So I decide to take my daughter.

A chance to get out.

A chance to breathe.

A chance to enjoy something different.

There is a parade.

Something she has never seen before.

She tries new foods throughout the day.

Her eyes wide with curiosity as she takes everything in.

And Jay joins us.

Correction.

I invite him.

And honestly, it is easy.

Comfortable.

Pleasant.

I am calm.

He does nothing wrong.

Not a single thing.

He brings me coffee.

Offers to push the pram.

Spends time talking to my daughter.

Making her smile.

Making me smile.

By the end of the day my cheeks ache from laughing.

And no, it is not a date.

We are still learning each other.

Still finding our footing.

Still working out what any of this means.

The realisation comes later.

After we go home.

After the festival.

After the conversations continue into the evening.

He is slower replying than usual.

Tells me he is spending time with friends and family.

So I leave him to it.

I do not get angry.

I do not become suspicious.

I do not spiral.

But I notice something.

I notice how often I check my phone.

How often I have checked it all week.

How much time I have spent talking.

Laughing.

Connecting.

And suddenly it hits me.

Not like a storm.

Not like panic.

Just a quiet observation.

I need to take a step back.

Not because he has done anything wrong.

Not because I am scared of him.

But because only a handful of moments have existed between us so far.

Only a few shared experiences.

A few conversations.

A few opportunities to show up.

And while he constantly reminds me that he is there for me, that alone is not enough to fully trust someone.

Yet where is the line?

Where does caution end and fear begin?

Where does healthy pacing become self sabotage?

Because this is not a stranger.

This is someone I grew up with.

Someone whose family knows mine.

Someone who has existed quietly in my world for years.

Someone who can read my expression before I say a word.

Someone who notices the smallest shift in my mood.

The slightest flicker of a muscle.

The tiniest change in energy.

And somehow I can do the same.

So where is the line?

When does familiarity become dangerous?

When does comfort become intoxicating?

When does something become too much?

Or perhaps the better question is this:

How do you tell the difference between being attached too quickly and finally feeling safe enough to stop running?

I am beyond fatigued.
Beyond sore.
Beyond anything that resembles rested.

This ascent has become so steep that it no longer feels like walking.
It feels like rock climbing.

My knees lifting higher with every step.
My hands reaching for support.
My arms assisting where my legs no longer want to cooperate.

At this point, I know better than to look too far ahead.
And I know better than to look down.

So I keep moving.

One step.
Then another.

My daughter is going through a sleep regression.
Growth spurts.
Development.
A little mind and body working overtime.

The last three nights have been relentless.
Multiple wake ups.
Broken sleep.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones and makes simple tasks feel impossible.

I am tired.
Truly tired.

The kind of tired that makes emotions heavier.
Choices harder.
Problems larger than they might otherwise seem.

This long weekend I am supposed to take her to visit her father.

A two hour drive.
A full day.
Another two hour drive home.

And I find myself questioning whether I can do it.

Not because I want to stop him seeing her.
Not because I want to interfere with their bond.

But because exhaustion has consequences too.

Driving while mentally and physically depleted is not something to take lightly.

Especially when I am responsible for the most important person in my world.

Part of me considers cancelling.

But I already know what follows that decision.

The conflict.
The pressure.
The backlash.
The emotional labour required to navigate the aftermath.

And suddenly I am no longer weighing one choice.

I am weighing ten.

Because next week I have day surgery.

The weekend after that, a family member has offered to babysit for an entire day.

An entire day to myself.

Time with friends.
Time to remember who I am outside of motherhood for a few hours.

And somehow every decision feels connected to the next.

Like each foothold on this mountain determines where I can place my foot afterward.

I think back to the two ridge lines.

How distant they looked from below.
How impossible they seemed to reach.

Yet now, standing on this steep ascent, they almost feel closer than they did before.

Not because I am near the top.

Far from it.

But because there seem to be countless smaller choices between every step before the bigger ones arrive.

Choices I never anticipated.
Choices I do not always feel prepared for.

So I stop looking at the ridge lines.
Stop looking for the summit.

And focus on the next step instead.

Because right now,

the next step is hard enough.

I make it out of the cave.

The wind settles enough for a moment that I make a run for it.

Trying to outrun the sandstorm stirred up by the anxious echoes.

Trying to reach clearer ground before it catches me again.

The journey is long.

Exhausting.

And though I cannot say with certainty that I have escaped the worst of it, I convince myself I have.

Because it is far too easy to spiral again.

Especially while adjusting to new medication.

I know the process.

I trust it.

I have done this before.

But I wish I could fast forward through the waiting.

Skip ahead to the point where it settles into my system.

To the point where the fog lifts and I regain a little more control of myself.

If the medication helps.

My ex continues applying pressure through finances.

A different form of intimidation.

A different battlefield.

But thankfully, I am not standing on it alone anymore.

My mum offers to help with the legal costs so I do not have to pull money from my retirement fund.

So I update the lawyers.

Bring them back into the fight.

The work begins again.

Thank the Lord.

For now, I focus on the things that bring me joy.

The things worth climbing toward.

My daughter is not far from turning one.

A whole year.

A milestone that feels impossible and miraculous all at once.

So I send out the save the dates.

And one by one, responses begin arriving.

Friends.

Family.

People wanting to celebrate her.

Wanting to celebrate us.

And honestly, I become giddy.

The good kind.

The kind I have not felt in a long time.

I start making plans too.

A babysitter is booked for an entire day soon.

An entire day.

The thought alone feels luxurious.

So I begin planning adventures with friends.

A trip to the city.

Something fun.

Something that belongs solely to me.

Not survival.

Not responsibility.

Not crisis management.

Just enjoyment.

And through all of it, I keep talking to Jay.

Through every storm.

Every anxious thought.

Every difficult day.

He somehow continues finding ways to brighten them.

Not by fixing everything.

Not by rescuing me.

But by reminding me there is still joy in the world while I navigate it.

As I prepare for the next climb, I take a moment to enjoy the view.

To take in the beauty surrounding me.

The wildflowers.

The warmth.

The moments of joy I have fought so hard to reach.

And that is when I notice something.

There are two paths ahead.

Two ridge lines stretching out before me.

Both requiring a choice.

Anxiety hits instantly.

Dark clouds gather over one path while rays of sunlight break through the storm and illuminate the other.

Neither feels easy.

Neither feels certain.

And suddenly the climb feels daunting again.

Part of me fears one path leads to conversations I am not ready to have.

Conversations with my ex about Jay.

Conversations I never imagined having so soon when Jay and I have not even been on a first date yet.

Another part of me knows I am still healing.

Still rebuilding.

Still learning who I am outside of survival.

Before I allow him fully into my life.

Before I invite him into the world I am creating for my daughter and I.

Because too many times before, I have fallen in love with potential.

Too many times I built futures around promises instead of foundations.

This time feels different.

But different does not mean I stop being careful.

I am still determined to build a life for my daughter and I with my own hands.

A life that stands whether a man joins us or not.

A life that belongs to us first.

The thought is daunting.

The climb ahead feels steep.

But standing still has never taken me anywhere.

So I take a breath.

Adjust my footing.

And prepare for the ascent.

No matter how intimidating it appears from here.

After such beauty has filled my time,
filled spaces in the canyon I never thought possible,
the wind returns.

Only this time, it feels different.

The echoes are haunting me.

Not with bitterness.
Not with grief.
But with fear.

Between the reminder that one day I may need to have a conversation with my ex if things continue with Jay.
Between questioning whether I am emotionally ready to give someone a chance again.
Between the need I still feel to heal before I allow another person close enough to hurt me.

The questions come quickly.
Too quickly.

Is it too soon?
Am I ready?
Shouldn’t I spend longer alone?
Shouldn’t I learn how to be single first?

The wind carries them all.
Throwing them against the canyon walls until they bounce back louder than before.

But then another thought appears.

What if I’m not broken?
What if healing doesn’t mean waiting until every scar disappears?
What if Jay doesn’t break me?

He has watched from the sidelines for over a decade.
Caring.
Waiting.
Supporting.

And somehow he has awakened emotions I never thought possible.

Not because he forced them.
Not because he chased them.
But because they arrived naturally.
Quietly.

And that terrifies me.

Because I have never felt this way before.
Not like this.
Not steady.
Not safe.

The wind picks up again.
Dust filling the air until I can barely see.

So I retreat into a cave.

Hoping for respite.
Hoping for silence.

But the echoes follow me inside.

Words.
Thoughts.
Questions.
Fears.

All bouncing around the walls until my head hurts.
My eyes ache.
And I no longer know which voice belongs to me.

I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know my options.
I don’t know who to talk to.

I am scared.

Scared of making the wrong choice.
Scared of repeating old mistakes.
Scared of jumping from one relationship to another before I have truly found myself again.

And yet,

I cannot ignore what stands in front of me.

I cannot pretend this incredible man appeared from nowhere.
Or that his presence means nothing.
Or that his kindness has not softened places inside me that have been hardened by survival.

The wind howls louder.

My thoughts spiralling.
My anxiety clawing for certainty where none exists.

And then, somewhere beneath all the noise,
a quieter voice finally speaks.

Maybe I do not need to know everything today.

Maybe I do not need to decide the future.

Maybe I do not need answers to every question before taking a single step forward.

Maybe all I need to know is that right now,
he makes me feel safe.

And perhaps that is enough for today.

I make it home after a debilitating forty eight hours in the city.

The entire drive back, Jay keeps me company.

Talking.

Listening.

Keeping me grounded whenever my thoughts start wandering too far ahead.

And honestly, the entire time, all I can think about is how badly I want a cuddle.

To be held.

To stop carrying everything by myself for a little while.

Anxiety circles the thought.

I consider asking him to come over.

Then I think about my daughter.

I already trust him around her.

They met long before feelings resurfaced.

Long before I allowed myself to consider what he might become to me.

That part feels easy.

What doesn’t feel easy is the thought of my ex finding out before I tell him myself.

My anxiety immediately grabs hold of it.

Turning possibilities into problems.

Creating storms where there are none.

So I remind myself of the truth.

There is nothing to tell.

Tonight is platonic.

A night of comfort.

A night to decompress.

A night to breathe after everything that has happened recently.

Still, my mind fights me.

So I imagine the situation differently.

If one of my friends was a single parent.

If they had a lifelong friend come over after a difficult week.

To talk.

To watch a movie.

To offer comfort.

I would think it was a beautiful thing.

A kind thing.

A human thing.

And somehow, that thought settles me enough.

My mind drifts back to the beach.

The canyon still existed there.

The cliffs still surrounded me.

But there was peace too.

The sweetness hidden inside the salty air.

The steady rhythm of waves meeting the shore.

The stillness.

That is what Jay feels like.

Not escape.

Not fantasy.

Not rescue.

Just stillness.

So when he arrives, I stop second guessing myself.

I cannot allow my past to dictate every step of my future.

Eventually I will have to face whatever conversations come.

But I have done nothing wrong.

And my healing does not require permission.

When Jay arrives, he is awkward.

Nervous.

Endearing.

And somehow it feels right immediately.

We laugh.

Reminisce.

Talk about old memories and newer possibilities.

Then we settle in to watch a movie.

A horror film.

A woman exploring a beautiful national park before discovering she is being hunted.

Apex.

Not Wolf Creek.

Somehow that distinction feels important.

I joke that I would never go camping there.

He immediately replies that he would never take me camping there in the first place.

And I laugh.

Then I settle back into him.

Into his presence.

Into the warmth of simply being held.

And that is when I notice something.

My heart skips occasionally.

But there are no butterflies.

No panic.

No intensity.

No emotional freefall.

I am steady.

I am calm.

I am safe.

And somehow that feels more intimate than any rush of excitement I have ever mistaken for love.

As the movie plays, I feel his arm around me.

Feel the quiet certainty in his presence.

The gentleness.

The tenderness.

The warmth.

And for the first time in a very long while, home does not feel like a place.

It feels like a person.

I’m in the city celebrating my mum’s achievements.

Living so far from the city, I was grateful my daughter slept the entire drive.

But the moment we arrived and unpacked, she was awake.

Alert.

Ready for the day.

Meanwhile, I was ready for sleep.

So I forced myself to walk.

Forced myself to move in the hope it would help her settle later.

But after sleeping for four hours in the car, she had no interest in resting.

We returned to the apartment to bathe and get ready for my mum’s event.

I was tired.

Weary.

I’d been awake since 5:30 that morning.

Desperately needing a nap.

Desperately needing a break.

Neither came.

And honestly, I wasn’t disappointed by that.

Motherhood has taught me not to expect much when it comes to rest.

But I wasn’t okay.

I’d recently started new medication.

My anxiety sat high in my chest while I waited for it to settle into my system.

To start working.

I got lost on the way to the function.

My anxiety climbed.

The beginnings of a panic attack followed close behind.

Exhaustion only encouraged it.

My brother eventually found us.

My mum immediately knew something was wrong.

She asked.

So I told her.

And somehow, within moments, I became the problem.

The mood changer.

The burden.

I was told that every time something important happened for my mum, I found a way to bring it down.

Every time.

I tried explaining calmly that I didn’t need solutions.

I just needed kindness.

A little sympathy.

A little understanding.

That my emotions were heightened.

That I was overwhelmed.

But it wasn’t the response I hoped for.

So I made a decision.

I would drive home the following day.

I needed calm.

I needed routine.

I needed peace.

The next morning arrived.

And surprisingly, I felt lighter.

I went for coffee.

Went for breakfast.

Took my daughter for walks to prepare her for the long drive home.

Then I took her to the beach.

A first for her.

A first I wanted to remember.

She watched aeroplanes descend from the sky and prepare for takeoff.

Another first.

And as I sat there watching her discover the world, something strange happened.

For the first time in a very long time, my mind became quiet.

No spiralling.

No overthinking.

No rehearsing conversations that had already happened.

Just the sound of waves rolling onto the shore.

The salty wind tangling my curls.

The warmth of the sun.

The beauty of the moment.

Even Becky sat quietly for once.

Jay drifted into my thoughts briefly.

But not in the usual way.

Not with longing.

Not with anxiety.

Just a simple thought.

It would be nice if he were here.

It would be nice if he could see this too.

Then the thought drifted away like everything else.

And I returned to the waves.

To my daughter.

To the beach.

This strange little beach hidden inside my canyon.

A place of peace.

A place of stillness.

A place where, for a moment, I wasn’t surviving.

I was simply living.

My mum tries convincing me to stay.

Mentioning celebrities I follow.

Dignitaries.

Role models.

People arriving the following night for her celebration.

And honestly—

my first thought is yes.

Of course it is.

The opportunity excites me.

The chance to meet people I admire.

To stay a little longer.

To experience something special.

But I pause.

And my mind drifts back to the beach.

Back to the waves.

Back to the stillness that held me together when my anxiety threatened to pull me apart the night before.

Back to the peace I had fought so hard to find.

And suddenly,

the answer changes.

I still choose to leave.

Not because I don’t want to meet them.

Not because I don’t appreciate the opportunity.

But because I know what I need.

And right now,

I need peace more than excitement.

I need rest more than possibility.

I need familiarity more than adventure.

As much as I would love to stay,

there will be other opportunities.

Other events.

Other people.

Other moments.

But right now,

my mental health deserves to come first.

So I choose home.

I choose routine.

I choose calm.

And as I prepare for the long journey back,

part of me remains on that beach.

Sitting quietly inside the canyon.

Listening to the waves.

Remembering what stillness felt like.

The most recent parts of this journey
have come with many wonders.
Many beautiful sights.

Even despite the echoes,
the unwanted guests,
the lingering bitterness trying to pull me backward again.

Trying to crack the ground beneath my feet
just enough
to drag me back into survival mode
where fear once kept me obedient.

But somehow,
through all of that,
something beautiful continues blooming anyway.

I catch myself staring at my phone now.

Waiting for his messages.

Rereading conversations from the last four days
like there is comfort hidden between every sentence.

Getting to know each other more deeply.
Bonding.
Flirting.
Reminiscing over years already shared between us.

And every time my anxiety rises,
he softens it.

Reassures me.

Pulling smiles from me through a screen
in ways I did not think were still possible.

Warming not only my heart,
but something deeper.

Something quieter.

My soul perhaps.

He says all the right things.
But more importantly,
he seems determined to prove them through actions too.

And eventually,
I give him a chance.

A small opening.

I have to go in for day surgery soon.

My mum will already be home with the baby
and I did not want her driving into town with her as well.

So nervously,
I asked him instead.

And without hesitation,
he told me he was keeping the entire day free for me.

Warmth.

Instant warmth.

And while rereading our messages afterward,
I noticed something strange.

I do not feel the frantic giddiness
I once confused for love.

I do not feel intensity.
Not the chaotic kind anyway.

Everything about this feels safe.

Steady.

Secure.

And honestly,
that almost feels more foreign to me
than heartbreak ever did.

I know four days is not enough time
to fully trust someone.

I know it is not enough time
to let someone in completely.

But there is also history here.

Fourteen years of it.

And that changes things.

We will never really have a first date
in the traditional sense.

There will never be that awkward beginning
where two strangers slowly learn each other from scratch.

Because in many ways,
he already knows parts of me most people never reached.

And somehow,
despite all the years already passed,
he is still determined
to learn me more deeply anyway.

And honestly,

there is something incredibly wholesome about that.

Something healing.

The gentleness of someone looking at your scars
without asking you to hide them first.

I find myself ranting to him
about the recent intimidation
from the father of my child.

Trying to explain the exhaustion of it all.
The pressure.
The unpredictability.
The constant feeling
that one wrong step
could send everything collapsing again.

I tell him it feels like
walking a tightrope above a volcano.

Trying to balance carefully
while fire waits beneath me
for the slightest misstep.

And Jay,

beautiful, steady Jay,

simply tells me
he will bring the ice machine and the platforms.

Such a ridiculous sentence.
Such a small thing to say.
And yet it softened something in me instantly.

Because instead of minimising my fear,
instead of telling me I was overreacting,
instead of trying to control the situation for me,

he instinctively responded with support.

With partnership.

With,
“You do not have to balance above the fire alone anymore.”

And honestly,
the safety I felt in that moment
was beautiful.

Not intense in the chaotic way
I once mistook for love.

Not consuming.
Not addictive.

Just safe.

Steady enough
that my nervous system softened instead of braced itself.

And maybe that is the strangest part of all this.

Realising that tenderness
can feel just as powerful as intensity once did.

Maybe even more powerful.

I am still questioning everything though.

Still anxious.
Still carrying a mind overflowing with “what ifs.”

Because hurt is what I have known most consistently.

Pain.
Betrayal.
Disappointment disguised as love.
Promises that sounded beautiful until reality arrived to contradict them.

So naturally,
part of me keeps waiting for the shift.

Waiting for the mask to slip.
Waiting for the warmth to disappear.
Waiting to discover I imagined safety where there never truly was any.

And honestly,
I hate that heartbreak trains the nervous system to anticipate pain
even inside beautiful moments.

But somehow,

every time my mind spirals,
he finds a way to soothe it gently.

Not by dismissing my fears.
Not by becoming defensive.
Not by making me feel irrational for carrying scars.

But by understanding why they exist in the first place.

And maybe that is what feels so different about him.

He does not treat my healing
like an inconvenience to rush through.

He simply stands beside it patiently.

Like he understands
that trust is not built through grand declarations,
but through consistency repeated softly enough
that eventually the fear grows tired of fighting it.

And honestly,

that tenderness terrifies me almost as much as it heals me.

There’s something strange happening.

Strange in the softest way possible.
In the kind of way that feels unfamiliar
because comfort arrived where I expected chaos instead.

This new man in my life,
let’s call him Jay
before the canyon gets too crowded with ghosts and names,

is genuinely one of the sweetest men
I have ever allowed myself to know properly.

And honestly,
that alone terrifies me a little.

Technically, Jay and I have spoken for months.
A Snapchat streak currently sitting at 155 days.

But the last few days,

something shifted.

Something softened between us.

Comfort started growing quietly
in places inside me
I never thought would feel safe enough
to hold warmth again.

He says all the right things.
But more importantly,
he says he will prove them through actions too.

And strangely enough,
I believe him.

Not blindly.
Not foolishly.

But calmly.

Like some quiet part of me already knows
he means what he says.

Even after the bitterness I carried recently
from my daughter’s father,

Jay remained soft with me.

Comforting.
Patient.
Gentle in ways that did not feel performative.

Offering help
even when there was nothing practical left to do.

I told him honestly
that all I really needed to do was cry.

And instead of trying to silence it,
fix it,
or minimise it,

he simply told me I should.

That releasing heaviness helps.
That carrying it silently
only makes it heavier over time.

And maybe that is what unsettles me most.

The emotional intelligence.
The tenderness.
The way he instinctively reaches toward softness
instead of defensiveness.

So naturally,
I start questioning him instead of myself.

Questioning whether he has chosen the right person.

Wondering why someone so steady
would willingly stand beside someone
still rebuilding from rubble.

Still healing.
Still cautious.

I keep warning him about the damage.
Pointing out every fracture I can find
before he discovers them himself.

Setting expectations early.

Not because I expect him to rise to the occasion,
but because I need him to understand
what loving me right now would actually require.

And honestly,
I think I almost start berating him with it.

Listing the fine print.
The complications.
The emotional baggage.
The fear.

And his only response is:

“You keep pointing out the fine print
yet I’m still here reading the contract.”

Warmth.

Instant warmth spreads across my chest.

Every doubt.
Every “what if.”
Every instinct telling me to run before I can be abandoned again,

quietly smothered
by one sentence.

Of course Becky instantly starts rambling afterward.

Spinning fantasies.
Creating futures.
Pulling apart possibilities faster than I can regulate them.

But honestly,

it already feels like Jay found the parts of me
I kept hidden from everyone else.

Like he did not try forcing the front door open.

He simply noticed the window
I had been sitting beside quietly all along.

And somehow,

he already knew

that was where he would find me.

He’s back to intimidation again.

Back to trying to force me to jump for him
while I am simply trying to live my life.
Trying to enjoy the moments I still can.
Trying to create memories for my daughter and I
that are not rooted in survival for once.

And somehow,
after one changed weekend,
after choosing adventure instead of obligation,
after rescheduling instead of cancelling entirely,

he returns with pressure.

With coercion.

With that familiar energy
that quietly demands I bend myself around his emotions
because he knows I used to.

He knows there was a version of me
that jumped instantly.
A version shaped by fear, guilt, and exhaustion.
A version conditioned to keep the peace
at the expense of herself.

But I am not responding anymore.

I am not taking the bait
just to prove the version of me he still clings to exists.

He can sit with silence for once.

Because honestly,
the resentment that grows now
comes less from the conflict itself
and more from the disappointment of believing
we had finally found peace.

Or at least something close enough to it
that I could finally breathe.

But narcissism rarely releases control quietly.

The moment you stop orbiting around someone else’s needs,
they suddenly feel abandoned by the gravity
they once benefited from.

And honestly,
he does not get to live freely
while still expecting control over every movement I make.

Yes, we agreed to a parenting plan.
Yes, I have tried to remain fair.
Flexible.
Respectful.

But fairness does not mean surrender.

And I am no longer willing
to swallow demands simply because someone else expects obedience disguised as compromise.

Not anymore.

And honestly,

it finally became too much.

So I took a shower to cry.

My daughter was asleep beside me,
lost peacefully in a beautiful little slumber,
and I could not bear the thought
of my sobs waking her.

So I hid inside the running water instead.

And maybe,
in a small way,
I tried to care for myself there too.

I washed my hair.

Did something gentle
instead of purely surviving the moment.

I did not have the energy to shave my legs.

And honestly,
for a second,
that made me feel guilty.

Like womanhood itself somehow requires perfection
even while falling apart quietly behind bathroom doors.

But washing my hair felt like enough.

At least for tonight.

So I stood there
letting the water run over me
while I whispered my feelings into it
like the drain itself could carry them somewhere else for a while.

Somewhere lighter.
Somewhere quieter.

In the hope
that releasing it softly
might stop it from consuming me completely.

Maybe I should have shaved my legs.
Maybe I should have done more.
I do not know.

But I did something for myself at least.

And right now,
that has to be enough.

I hate that he still has this kind of grasp on me.

I hate that my first instinct
is still to jump.

To bite back.
To defend myself immediately
like I am still trapped inside survival mode
instead of standing outside it now.

And honestly,
holding it all back hurts more sometimes.

Swallowing words burns.
Silence aches.

Especially when part of me
still wants to scream loud enough
to finally make him understand
the damage he caused.

But reacting would only feed the cycle again.

And deep down,
I know restraint now
will benefit me more in the future
than temporary emotional release ever could.

Because if he continues harassing me the way he has been,
I will go to the police.
I will file reports.
I will protect my peace
and my daughter’s stability
however I need to.

But one message is not enough.
One moment is not enough.

And honestly,
I do not even know
if the silent treatment truly works
against people who thrive on reaction.

Still,
the silence feels deafening.

Because while he pushes,
I am standing here trying to regulate myself quietly.

Trying to steady my breathing.
Trying to hold myself upright long enough
to remain soft for my daughter
instead of letting bitterness reshape me too.

And maybe that is the hardest part of healing.

Not surviving the storm itself

but learning how to stand tall afterward
without becoming cruel in return.

I feel like I’m being struck in the back
with arrows
over and over again
while still trying to build a life from the rubble.

Not lethal.
Not unless I let them be.

But the pain still stings.

The wounds still ache beneath the surface
even while I continue climbing.

And the scars rise sharply inside me now,
layered and jagged
like the canyon walls I have spent so long trying to escape.

Still,
I keep moving.

Because every step forward,
every arrow endured,
every wound I refuse to let consume me
is for her.

To give my daughter the softness I lost too early.
The purity she deserves to grow inside.
A life where survival does not harden her before the world even gives her the chance to bloom.

I do not know if I have reached the top of the canyon,
a mountain beyond it,
or if I have simply found my way out.

All I know
is that it is beautiful here.

The sun melts slowly across the horizon
while wildflowers sway endlessly in the wind.
Their sweet perfume drifting through the air
like the earth itself is finally exhaling.

And for the first time in a very long time,
I feel warmth inside my heart again.

I feel safe.

A man who has existed quietly in my life
for as long as I can remember
has confessed his feelings for me.

It is not the first time he has.

But this time feels different.

More grounded.
More intentional.

Like he is no longer simply telling me how he feels,
but showing me the man he has grown into.
Showing me what he is capable of becoming.
Showing me the kind of love I deserve.

And honestly,
I love him.

I think part of me always has.

But learning this newer, steadier side of him
only ignites those feelings further.

Still, I need actions now.

I need consistency.
Proof.
Time.

Words are beautiful things,
but I have survived enough heartbreak
to know they cannot build trust alone.

Though admittedly,
he is already incredibly talented
at pulling at heartstrings
I thought I concealed well enough to survive.

He has always cared for me.
Always been there quietly in the background somewhere.

And now that possibility sits between us,
warm and terrifying all at once.

Because curiosity is there.
Safety is there.
Love has always been there in some form too.

Even while saying all the right things,
he somehow pulls me closer carefully.

Holding me gently instead of tightly.

Already wise enough not to make impossible promises.
Not to flood me with false hope.
Simply reminding me that he will be there when I need him.

In his words,
to fold the dishes and mop the ceiling if I need him to.

And somehow,
that tenderness means more to me now
than grand declarations ever could.

Still, this needs to remain a slow burn.

Because I am already catching myself fantasising
about what a life with him could look like.

But I have my daughter to think about first.

I want stability for her before romance.

Our own home.
Her own bedroom.
Her own safe little space.

Animals wandering through the yard.
Plants filling the corners of every room.
Softness built carefully from the ground up.

Then maybe,
once that life exists securely enough,
I could allow myself to truly explore the possibility of him too.

But my gosh,
the wildflowers are beautiful.

So for now,
I simply sit amongst them.

Watching the sunset spill gold across their petals.
Watching them glimmer softly as they sway back and forth
in tango with the wind.

And maybe for the first time in a very long while,
I allow myself to enjoy the view while it lasts.

I’m doing what I can
to enjoy the view
during this part of the climb.

And honestly,
it’s the first time in a while
I’ve truly noticed the wildflowers again.

The storm has finally passed.

The sun stretches gently across the canyon walls.

And the autumn wind carries that sharp little bite
that somehow feels more healing
than harsh.

I’ve always preferred the cold anyway.

Always found comfort
in crisp air
over the suffocating weight
of summer heat.

And for a moment,
everything almost feels softer.

Lighter.

Like the climb is finally offering me
something beautiful in return
for surviving it.

But narcissism has a way
of draining colour from everything eventually.

Even the soft moments.

Even the peace.

There were plans this weekend
to visit his house.

To spend time with his family.

To continue forcing myself
into environments
that leave me emotionally exhausted afterward.

But instead,
I changed the plans.

Chose adventure over obligation.

Chose movement over stagnation.

An opportunity to reconnect.

To meet new people.

To step back into the world
instead of hiding from it.

Not only for my daughter,
but for myself too.

Because honestly,
I deserve that.

And maybe that’s something
I’m finally beginning to understand now.

That healing does not always happen
inside isolation.

That survival sometimes requires community.

Conversation.

Laughter.

Fresh air.

New memories.

Because you can only romanticise isolation
for so long
before it quietly starts becoming loneliness instead.

So I notify him.

Tell him I’ve changed the plans.

Explain that he’s still welcome
to visit beforehand as often as he wants.

I try to make space for him.

Try to make things fair.

Flexible.

But somehow,
he still finds a way
to make himself the victim inside it all.

Telling me it’s difficult for him.

And honestly,
part of me wants to scream at the irony of that.

Because he still gets to live a full life.

He gets to work.

To socialise.

To move through the world
without constantly calculating another person’s needs before his own.

He still gets freedom.

Choice.

Movement.

Meanwhile motherhood reshaped my entire existence overnight.

Every decision I make now
has another heartbeat attached to it.

Another tiny person
whose safety,
comfort,
and future
must be considered before my own.

My life no longer moves in straight lines.

Everything requires rerouting.

Planning.

Sacrifice.

Alternate paths carved carefully around responsibility.

And honestly,
that’s what hurts sometimes.

Not motherhood itself.

I would choose my daughter every single time.

But the imbalance.

The way fathers can still remain partially untouched by the weight
while mothers are expected to carry it so naturally
that nobody even questions the exhaustion anymore.

And somehow,
even with all of that,
he still speaks like he’s the one trapped by circumstance.

While I stand here
quietly rebuilding an entire life from the rubble
with a child balanced on my hip.

So I tell him
I’ll commit to the following weekend instead.

Tell him it’s already in the calendar.

That I’ll do what I can
to make things work fairly.

To create consistency.

To make coparenting easier
for everyone involved.

And somehow,
even then,
he still finds a way
to paint me as the villain inside the story.

Like flexibility is cruelty.

Like compromise is rejection.

Like motherhood should bend endlessly
without ever needing room
to breathe as a person too.

But honestly,
I’m getting better
at letting it roll off me now.

Water off a duck’s back.

I keep walking.

Keep climbing.

Keep moving forward
instead of standing still
trying to defend myself
against narratives
already decided before I even speak.

Because I’m slowly learning
that some people need villains
to avoid facing themselves honestly.

And maybe that’s why
I spend so much time now
searching for understanding.

Reading.

Researching.

Trying to find some kind of textbook
that explains narcissism.

Control.

Projection.

The exhausting need some people have
to reshape reality
until they remain the victim
inside every version of the story.

Not because I want revenge anymore.

Not because I want to fight.

But because understanding something
sometimes makes surviving it easier.

And honestly,
I think part of me still hopes
that if I understand him enough,
I’ll finally stop questioning myself too.

I’m preparing for the next chapter now.

Preparing for the next climb

after finally allowing myself

a moment of respite inside the cave.

Because survival still continues

outside of healing.

I need money.

I need stability.

I need to start building a future

sustainable enough

to protect the softness my daughter deserves

while she grows.

So now,

I’m looking into daycare.

Earlier than I ever wanted to.

Earlier than I imagined.

And honestly,

part of me grieves that.

Because society makes survival difficult enough already.

Especially for single mothers.

Governments provide only fractions

of the support they are capable of giving.

And it’s not only mothers drowning beneath it.

There are countless people

smothered beneath systems

that were never truly designed

to help them breathe properly.

But regardless,

life keeps moving.

Bills still arrive.

Responsibilities still grow.

And my daughter still deserves a future

that feels safer than survival mode.

So I prepare myself

to step back into the world again.

My qualifications are finally complete.

My bachelor’s degree,

the thing I worked years toward,

is finally mine.

And somehow,

instead of relief,

I feel fear.

Because the last time I stepped into that field,

I left traumatised.

Broken down by something

I once believed was my calling.

Something I genuinely loved.

And maybe that’s what hurts most.

When the thing that once fulfilled you

becomes tied to pain instead.

But now,

that same degree

feels like my only real chance

to build the financial stability

my daughter and I need to survive.

So I stand at the edge

of another climb.

Older now.

Softer in some places.

Wiser in others.

Still afraid.

But moving anyway.

My daughter is nearly seven months old now.

The scars are beginning
to grow new flesh.

Healing over well enough
for me to keep moving forward.

Deep enough
that I’ll always remember they existed.

Some wounds close easier than others.

Some stay open
because they still want answers.

Answers I already know
I’ll probably never receive.

And teaching myself
to become comfortable with that thought
is easier said than done.

Some days,
I convince myself
not knowing is easier.

Simpler than the truth.

Simpler than another argument.

Simpler than reopening wounds
that barely survived closing the first time.

Other days,
my mind debates it endlessly.

Even Becky joins in sometimes.

Defending the part of me
that still wants answers.

Like an overprotective best friend
reminding me
we deserved better.

That I deserved better.

But honestly,
it’s not a can
that needs reopening.

It’s a darkness
I’m okay never facing directly.

It’s everyone else
that needs convincing of that.

And in those debates,
I reflect.

Argue with myself
over what should’ve never happened to me.

What was my fault.

What wasn’t.

What I need to look for
in the next person I allow close to me.

Because one day,
there will be someone else.

One day,
a man will want to love me properly.

And slowly,
I feel myself building new walls.

Not walls designed
to isolate myself completely.

But standards.

Expectations.

Boundaries built for protection
instead of intensity.

Because I no longer want chaos
to feel like love.

I no longer want to chase fire
that burns me alive.

I want safety
to find me instead.

And somehow,
the biggest conversations
always circle back
to my pregnancy.

To childbirth.

To postpartum life.

The manipulation around my cravings
because it affected finances.

The microcheating.

The betrayal of my husband
paying other women online
while I carried his child.

The screaming afterward.

The entitlement.

The way I nearly died
and still somehow ended up comforting him emotionally.

My gosh,
I nearly died.

And logically,
I know childbirth
has always been dangerous.

Women have died giving life
for centuries.

Especially long before
modern medicine existed.

Before blood transfusions.

Before emergency surgery.

Before technology gave women
a better chance of surviving motherhood.

But you don’t expect it anymore.

Not really.

Not in this day and age.

You never truly believe
it’ll happen to you.

Until suddenly,
you’re the one bleeding out.

I was given enough blood
to create an entire fully grown human being.

And honestly,
sometimes I still don’t feel like myself afterward.

Like my body remembers
that survival came from somewhere outside of me.

I still remember
being wheeled back into the hospital room
after surgery saved my life.

I begged for my mum
before they put me under.

I needed her more than my husband.

I needed my mum.

And when I came back,
she was sitting there on the couch
waiting for me.

The second she saw me,
she broke down crying.

Completely.

Like something inside her shattered
the moment she realised
how close she came to losing me.

She rushed beside me instantly.

Kissed my forehead.

And her tears fell onto mine.

I was too exhausted
to comfort her.

Too weak
to carry anyone else emotionally anymore.

The next morning,
I asked her if she was okay.

And like mothers often do,
she softened the truth
to protect me from it.

But days later,
when I finally had enough strength
to speak about everything properly,

she admitted
I looked white as a ghost.

As pale as the hospital sheets
they laid across my body
while hoping I survived.

Hoping the blood transfusions
would be enough
to pull me back.

Even now,
after moving back home with my mum,

friends still look at me strangely sometimes.

Like they can’t fully process
that I have a baby.

And honestly,
sometimes I can’t either.

Not because motherhood feels unreal.

But because survival does.

Because there are moments
where it still feels impossible
that I’m here at all.

I’ve said it out loud before.

Told friends,
“I nearly died.”

And only now
do I fully understand
what I was actually saying.

The concern in their eyes.

The way they tried comforting me.

The love they poured into my daughter and I
while quietly trying to reassure themselves
that I was still really here.

And honestly,
one of the strangest parts of healing
has been realising
my male friends
have comforted me more emotionally
than my husband ever did.

Not intimately in a romantic sense.

Not sexually.

But psychologically.

Emotionally.

In the quiet ways that actually matter.

The ways that make someone feel safe
instead of merely claimed.

And watching them around my daughter
has been unexpectedly healing too.

Because I see parts of them surface
that reassure me
good men do exist.

Not for me.

Not romantically.

Not now.

But for the future they’ll eventually step into themselves.

The patience they carry naturally.

The softness.

The instinct to comfort.

To help.

To step in with warmth
instead of obligation.

Holding my daughter for a moment
while I disappear to breathe.

Making her laugh.

Making her smile.

Helping her feel safe enough
to relax into their presence.

And honestly,
sometimes those small moments
heal parts of me
I didn’t even realise were still grieving.

Because they quietly show me
that fatherhood doesn’t have to feel cold.

That masculinity doesn’t have to feel threatening.

That care can exist gently.

Steadily.

Without ego attached to it.

And maybe that’s why
those moments echo so loudly afterward.

Because they remind me
that the kind of love I needed
was never impossible.

Just absent from the wrong places.

Though honestly,
the postpartum echoes
frighten me more than most.

Because it’s no longer
just about protecting myself.

Now,
it’s about protecting my daughter too.

And one day,
when another man eventually enters my life,
if that day comes,

I know I’ll carry these echoes with me.

Not as punishment.

Not as bitterness.

But as warnings.

As instincts sharpened by survival.

Because despite everything,
I still want more children.

I still dream about growing my family.

Whether through another baby of my own,

through adoption,

through fostering a child
who never received the safety or love
they deserved in the first place,

or maybe through all of it combined.

The idea of nurturing more life
still lives inside me strongly.

And honestly,
that surprises me sometimes.

Because after nearly dying,

after betrayal,

after postpartum trauma,

after learning how fragile both love
and the human body can be,

part of me expected motherhood itself
to terrify me afterward.

But it doesn’t.

Not really.

The fear isn’t motherhood.

It’s choosing the wrong person beside me again.

And maybe that’s the shameful part in all of this.

That it took something so catastrophic
to finally change the way I approach men.

To stop romanticising intensity.

To stop confusing emotional chaos
with passion.

To stop abandoning my own instincts
in the hope love would eventually soften someone.

But these echoes,
they aren’t disappearing anytime soon.

And honestly,
maybe they shouldn’t.

So instead of trying to silence them,
I learn to live beside them.

Treat them as reminders.

Quiet warnings echoing through the canyon walls
while I continue healing.

While I continue climbing.

Because I’m slowly understanding now
that survival doesn’t always leave you empty.

Sometimes,
it leaves you wiser.

And maybe that’s the final lesson
these postpartum echoes are trying to teach me
before I step outside the cave again
and continue the journey forward.

I’m doing better.

My self care is improving.

I’m finding little things

that make me smile again.

Small rituals.

Quiet comforts.

I’m even finding time

to read more.

To escape into worlds

that aren’t my own for a little while.

And honestly,

it helps.

He comes around for another visit.

Spends half the day with our daughter.

And for the most part,

it works.

He helps.

I find myself trusting him

a little more with her.

Not completely.

Not enough to fully relax.

But enough

that I’m no longer sitting beside them

watching like a hawk

every second he holds her.

And slowly,

she’s learning to trust him too.

Bit by bit.

Moment by moment.

And strangely,

that lifts a weight off my shoulders.

Not all of it.

But enough for me to breathe easier.

We still aren’t friends.

We still aren’t acquaintances.

There’s too much history for that.

Too much wreckage

still sitting between us.

So I keep the walls up.

Keep the doors bolted.

Not out of cruelty,

but because distance feels necessary

while we learn how to become healthier co parents.

How to exist around each other

without reopening old wounds every time we speak.

But there was one conversation.

One small drip of bitterness

that slipped through the cracks.

Sharp tongued.

Paper thin.

But deep enough to sting.

“I can’t imagine you as an easy baby…”

And instantly,

I feel the cut.

So I sidestep it.

Tell him,

“My mum actually said I was a really well behaved baby.”

And then,

without hesitation,

he fires back:

“Where’d it all go wrong?”

He laughs.

Plays it off like a joke.

But some jokes

only exist to disguise cruelty.

And this one cuts sharply.

Like discovering a paper cut

after pouring hand sanitiser over it.

Small.

But burning enough

to remind me it’s there.

Still,

I brush it off.

Try imagining water

rolling off a duck’s back.

Try refusing to feed the bitterness

lurking inside the cave walls.

So instead,

I throw the question back at him.

“What about you?”

And without missing a beat,

he shrugs.

“I’ve always been an annoying prick…”

And honestly,

at least he was honest.

And after he leaves,

the sting lingers longer

than I want it to.

So I sit out on the front porch,

trying not to let

his sharp tongue

cut as deeply as he intended it to.

Because there was cruelty

in his eyes too.

Not just his words.

The kind that watches closely

to see if it landed.

To see if it hurt.

He caught me talking to the dog earlier.

And honestly,

what kind of animal person

doesn’t talk to their pets?

I talk to the horse too.

I used to talk to the chickens

when I had them.

Animals have always felt safer

than people sometimes.

Softer.

Less calculated.

So I sit there

letting the cold autumn air

bite at my skin

while I rock gently in the chair,

hoping the night sky

might soften the evening for me.

Hoping the stars

might pull my thoughts somewhere lighter.

Somewhere quieter.

But it’s almost like

Mother Nature already knew

what kind of night this would become.

Dark clouds gather overhead.

Heavy.

Rain filled.

Swallowing the stars

before they ever get the chance to appear.

And suddenly,

there’s nowhere left to escape the feeling.

No distraction.

No softness.

Just me,

the cold,

and the lingering sting

of words that were meant to wound quietly.

And maybe that’s the lesson

the cave keeps trying to teach me.

That not every cruelty

deserves a reaction.

Because if I bite back,

he wins.

If I explode,

if I let the bitterness consume me,

then suddenly the focus shifts

from the wound

to my reaction to it.

I become the problem instead.

I prove him right.

And honestly,

I could’ve easily thrown it back at him.

Could’ve told him

things went wrong

when my husband couldn’t handle becoming a father.

Could’ve aimed for the same soft spots

he keeps trying to cut inside me.

But I didn’t.

Because I don’t want my daughter

growing up watching emotional warfare

disguised as conversation.

I don’t want her learning

that love sounds like humiliation.

That intimacy means cruelty.

That people who once loved each other

should wound each other

just because they know where it hurts most.

I witnessed enough of that growing up already.

Enough fighting.

Enough bitterness.

Enough damage passed between adults

while children sat close enough

to absorb the fallout anyway.

And honestly,

I refuse to let that become normal for her too.

And somehow,

I’m still the villain

inside his version of the story.

The woman who betrayed him

simply by becoming a mother.

The bitch who supposedly cut him to pieces

until leaving became necessary

for his own sanity.

And honestly,

it terrifies me

how easily he turns it back onto me.

How quickly blame shifts direction

until I’m standing there

questioning my own reality.

Questioning my own reactions.

Questioning whether my pain

is even valid at all.

Because after long enough,

when someone keeps painting you

as the difficult one,

the cruel one,

the problem,

you start standing dangerously close

to becoming exactly what they accuse you of.

Not because they’re right.

But because pain

eventually begs for somewhere to go.

And some days,

I feel frighteningly close

to finally snapping back.

To finally matching the bitterness

that keeps getting projected onto me.

But maybe that’s another reason

I stay quiet when I can.

Not because I’m weak.

Not because I have nothing to say.

But because I know

what happens to children

when two wounded adults

keep trying to win against each other

instead of protecting the small person

standing between them.

And my daughter deserves better than that.

Even on the days

where I’m barely convincing myself

I deserve better too.

So instead,

I sit with it.

Brush it off the best I can.

Let the storm pass through me

without allowing it

to make a home inside me too.

He’s gone now.

And I do what I can

to soften the evening for myself again.

A shower.

Self care.

A book waiting beside me.

A cold glass of water

to wash the bitterness from my mouth

even though it never fully leaves.

And tomorrow,

there’s adventure waiting.

More family.

More exploring.

More moments outside these cave walls

that have held me for so long.

So I prepare for that instead.

Focus on warmth.

On softness.

On creating something gentler

for myself to return to.

The cave is mine again.

Quiet.

Still.

Safe enough for me

to finally breathe properly.

And yet,

the bitterness lingers.

Not enough to devastate me.

Not enough to drag me under.

It doesn’t even truly upset me anymore.

It’s just disappointing.

That’s the part that settles deepest now.

The disappointment.

Because I spend so much energy

trying to be kind.

Trying to stay humble.

Trying to show respect

for him as the father of my daughter.

Trying to create peace

where bitterness would be easier.

And sometimes,

his words still arrive cold anyway.

Damp.

Sharp.

Mean in ways subtle enough

to deny later if needed.

And honestly,

that quiet kind of cruelty

feels lonelier

than yelling ever could.

The days blur together now
as I do what I can
to help my body heal.

Staying home.
Eating healthier.
Drinking water,
herbal tea,
finding comfort in little rituals
that make slowing down
feel a little less frightening.

I try to enjoy the smaller things.
The quieter moments.
The softness that finally appears
when survival loosens its grip
just enough for me to notice it.

And with my daughter finally sleeping more,
I have something unfamiliar again.

Time.

Time to sit with myself.
Time to think.
Time to get to know the version of me
that exists outside of constant crisis.

And somewhere inside those quiet moments,
I begin noticing something.

My daughter smiles at almost everyone.
She soaks in warmth naturally.
Absorbs kindness.
Laughs with people.
Studies faces with curiosity
instead of hesitation.

She melts into love
when she feels safe enough to receive it.

But around her father,
something changes.

She becomes hesitant.
Uncomfortable.
Unsure of how to respond.

Like she doesn’t fully know
how to settle into his presence.

And honestly,
I don’t know what to do with that.

Part of me wonders
if it’s me.

Scientists,
naturopaths,
mothers with years of experience,
they all say babies absorb emotion.

Feel tension.
Feel fear.
Feel the nervous systems around them.

So maybe she’s reacting
to the way my body changes around him.

The way I tense.
The way I monitor.
The way I never fully relax.

Or maybe,
it’s him.

And I hate how quickly
that possibility opens a door
I’m not ready to walk through yet.

Because once you acknowledge something like that,
you can’t unknow it.

You can’t force yourself
back into ignorance afterward.

And despite everything,
I’m still holding onto hope
that he becomes the father
our daughter deserves.

That he learns softness.
Patience.
Presence.

That he grows into the role
instead of simply occupying the title.

But my instincts bite back.

Sharp.
Relentless.

Like alarm bells ricocheting
off the cave walls around me.

And I keep asking myself,
what am I supposed to do with that?

Because I’m trying.

God,
I’m trying so hard.

I do everything I can
to make their time together feel comfortable.

Safe.
Enjoyable.

I swallow bitterness
that threatens to pour out of me.

Bury reactions.
Bury resentment.
Bury fear.

Because I want what’s best for her.

And if the problem is me,
then I need to regulate myself better.

But if it’s him,
then all I care about
is making sure she feels safe.

I keep praying
it’s more of an internal accusation.

That maybe my nervous system
is projecting too much.

That maybe one day
he’ll prove me wrong.

And honestly,
part of me desperately wants that.

But I can still see the signs
right in front of me.

The hesitation.
The reluctance.
The way she won’t let him hold her
unless I’m close by.

And the second I move within reach,
she reaches for me instantly.

Grabs for me.

Like her body already knows
where safety settles easiest.

And I try.

God, I try.

I reassure her she’s okay.
Tell her she’s safe.
Tell myself the same thing too.

Tell myself
that her father is safe.

But I can’t force comfort
if comfort isn’t what she feels.

And maybe that’s what breaks me most.

Because I feel guilty
even entertaining the possibility
that this could somehow be my fault.

That maybe my fear infected the room first.

That maybe my nervous system
taught hers how to react.

But tonight,
he projected behaviours
that unsettled me too.

Enough that I no longer felt comfortable.

Enough that my own body
stopped relaxing around him entirely.

And suddenly,
the guilt inside me
collides with instinct again.

Because I know now,
this isn’t entirely in my head.

And still,
another part of me grieves.

Because I know what it’s like
growing up with an absent father.

I know the ache it leaves behind.

The confusion.
The anger.
The arguments with my mother.

Blaming her for his absence.

Projecting my pain onto her
because it felt easier
than accepting his choices were his own.

I remember fantasising
about the relationship we could have had
if she hadn’t “kept him away.”

Even when that wasn’t the truth.

And maybe that’s what terrifies me most now.

Not just losing safety.

But watching history threaten
to repeat itself through my daughter.

Because I can’t force connection.

I can’t force comfort.

I can’t rewrite his actions for him.

And I can’t control
how his presence makes her feel.

So instead,
I sit here
watching pieces of my past
reflect possible fragments of her future.

And it feels unbearable.

Like standing at the edge
of another collapse
I can already see coming
without knowing how to stop it.

So I wait.

Wait for the arguments.
Wait for the blame.
Wait for the questions.
Wait for the pain.
Wait for the fall.

Just…

wait for it.

Though this journey
has proven worthwhile,
my health has started declining now.

It’s like my body
has been trapped in survival mode
for so long
that now things are finally slowing down,
now things are finally improving
for my daughter,
my own body is beginning to collapse beneath me.

The bullet wounds.
The battle scars.
The sores stretched across this climb,
they’re infected now.

Or at least,
that’s what it feels like.

Like my body can no longer keep pretending
it’s okay.

So I retreat into a cave.

A small place of warmth.
A place to rest.
A place to finally tend
to what’s been neglected inside me
for far too long.

I’m back in the ER.

Waiting for another doctor.

Because one of the hardest parts
about living in a small town
is that healthcare becomes a luxury.

Medical centres don’t have enough support.
Doctors disappear quickly.

And if you don’t call
at exactly the right moment
for an emergency appointment,
you miss your chance.

Then your only option
becomes the hospital.

And honestly,
they see it far more often
than they probably should.

My daughter is here with me too.

Because I don’t have anyone at home
to help.

No one to step in.
No one to carry things
while I fall apart for a moment.

So instead,
I sit here
trying to comfort my daughter
while quietly trying to comfort myself too.

And she’s tired.

She’s seen enough hospitals herself already.

Enough fluorescent lights.
Enough waiting rooms.
Enough doctors.

She just wants to go home.

And honestly,
so do I.

This is the second time
I’ve been here this month.

Before the city.
And now after it.

The first time,
the doctors didn’t know
what was happening.

Specialists got involved.

Future appointments were booked.

Surgeries planned,
where cameras will be used
to look inside me
and search for answers
my body still refuses to explain clearly.

But now,
the lumps in my lymphatic system
have started growing.

The pain has returned
even after cycles of antibiotics.

And sitting here,
watching my health deteriorate
without fully understanding why,
feels like standing inside another collapse
I can’t stop.

Because the hardest part
isn’t even the pain itself anymore.

It’s the waiting.

The uncertainty.

Not knowing
what’s actually happening inside me.

Not knowing
when I’ll finally get a diagnosis
so I can stop surviving the unknown
and start fighting something tangible instead.

It’s ironic really.

After finally feeling excited
for a weekend away with my mum,
back to her hometown,
back to something grounding,
something wholesome,
my body had other plans.

Like it waited
until hope returned
before finally collapsing properly.

And winter doesn’t help.

The cold bites at my skin.
Pushes deep into my bones.
Settles itself inside my joints
like it belongs there.

I feel it everywhere.

In my muscles.
My chest.
My exhaustion.

Even my thoughts feel cold now.

And honestly,
I need help.

Real help.

Not survival mode.

Not pushing through.

Not pretending rest can wait
until everything else is handled first.

I’m trying to get the help I need.

Trying to listen to my body
before it completely forces me to.

Because I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to surrender
to hospital walls,
needles,
waiting rooms,
or uncertainty again.

But the cave offers respite
whether I like it or not.

And maybe that’s the truth
I’ve been avoiding this entire time.

I’ve pushed myself too far
for too long.

Through climbs and downfalls.

Storms.

Mudslides.

Flooded waters rising around me
while I kept convincing myself
I could still outrun collapse.

But emotional survival
eventually becomes physical too.

And now,
the physical part
has finally bitten down hard enough
that I can no longer ignore it.

So I surrender to it.

To the cave.

To the stillness.

To the reality
that my body is no longer asking me to slow down.

It’s demanding it.

And honestly,
I acknowledge now
that I pushed my health aside
for a long time
while prioritising my daughter.

Every ounce of strength I had
went into making sure she survived,
slept,
healed,
grew,
felt safe.

And despite where I’ve ended up,
I don’t regret it.

Not for a second.

If I went back in time
knowing this was where the road would lead me,
I would still choose her.

Every single time.

I would still carry her.

Still lose sleep.

Still twist my body into painful shapes
just to comfort hers.

Still put her first.

Because that’s what motherhood became for me.

Survival wrapped inside love.

But now,
this time is for me.

Whether I like it or not.

Whether I’m ready or not.

Because if I keep ignoring
the wounds inside my own body,
eventually there won’t be enough of me left
to keep climbing this canyon at all.

And maybe that’s the hardest lesson
this cave is trying to teach me.

That survival cannot only belong
to my daughter anymore.

Some of it
has to belong to me too.

After such a long walk
through ups and downs,
downfalls and brief uplifts,
floating one moment
and nearly drowning the next,
coated in the mud
left behind by storms
that once threatened
to pull me under completely,

I finally have something new
to look forward to.

This weekend,
my mum and I
are travelling back
to her hometown.

More rural.
More remote.

A place carrying stories,
history,
and community
far older than I can fully comprehend.

There’s an anniversary celebration
special to the community’s heart,
and they asked my mum
to help prepare the feast.

And honestly,
I think that’s beautiful.

The kind of beauty
that exists quietly.

Through culture.
Through food.
Through people still gathering together
to honour something bigger than themselves.

She asked
if my daughter and I wanted to come along.

And for once,
saying yes felt easy.

Because it’s something different.

Something wholesome.

Something outside the canyon walls
I’ve trapped myself within for so long.

Of course,
Becky immediately starts planning
like she already knows
there’ll be men there.

Thinking about outfits.
Hair.
Makeup.

Even though I barely touch makeup anymore.

I did when I was younger.

Back when life revolved more around appearance
than survival.

Now I barely have
the time,
energy,
or money for it.

Becky reminds me
I can always steal my mum’s.

I let her ramble.

Let her excitement entertain itself.

Because honestly,
I’m focused on something else entirely.

Whether I connect
with a man,
a woman,
a child,
or an elder,

I’m simply looking forward
to conversation.

To human connection.

To moments that feel genuine.

Moments that might stay with me
long after the weekend ends.

Even if it only lasts a day.

Even if it’s brief.

I want something to hold onto later.

Something to look back on
when the canyon feels heavy again.

Something that reminds me
there is still happiness
waiting to be found
outside of survival.

And for the first time in a while,
the hope building inside me
doesn’t feel forced.

It feels curious.

Gentle.

Real.

With a skip in my step,
and the relentless little hop
that Becky seems to carry naturally,

we start thinking about the future.

About exploring.

About meeting new people.

Learning them slowly.

Swapping stories
that encourage laughter,
soft smiles,
and little moments of connection
that might linger for a while afterward.

Though honestly,
Becky and I
still want different things from it all.

She hopes for a man.

A spark.

Attention.

Possibility wrapped inside attraction.

But me,

I’m craving something simpler.

The comfort of good company.

The joy of conversation
without expectation attached to it.

The experience of showing my daughter
something new.

A different town.

Different people.

Different stories.

Watching others melt
at the purity of her smile
and those deep blue eyes
that look like the ocean
holding sunlight inside it.

And maybe that’s why
this feels different.

Because for once,
the echoes inside this canyon
don’t feel bitter.

They don’t sting.

They don’t drag me backwards.

For once,
they excite me.

For once,
I’m genuinely eager
for the adventure ahead.

I’m drunk.

Laying across the couch

after another debilitating day

of monitoring the father of my child

while trying to make sure

my daughter still feels safe.

A balancing act

on a tightrope

thinner than fishing line.

Except instead of supporting me,

it cuts into the flesh of my feet

with every step I take.

And honestly,

I’m tired.

Tired enough

that my thoughts begin drifting

into dangerous territory.

I start reflecting

on relationships.

On men.

On women.

On why people hurt each other

the way they do.

Why some people nurture softness

while others weaponise it.

And somewhere inside the haze,

I find myself questioning everything.

Wondering where the cycle begins.

Is it parents

failing to raise emotionally healthy sons?

People choosing partners

they hoped would heal with time?

Or does accountability eventually belong

to the person themselves?

I don’t know anymore.

And maybe that uncertainty

is what exhausts me most.

Because people talk about things

like loyalty,

girl code,

morals,

solidarity,

as if humans don’t constantly contradict

the very values they claim to stand for.

Women stand beside one woman

while tearing another apart

for not fitting the criteria

their social circles quietly built.

Men speak about respect

while destroying the women

who trusted them most.

And somewhere inside all of it,

everyone keeps pretending

they aren’t capable

of becoming cruel too.

The alcohol softens my body

but sharpens the echoes.

Makes every contradiction louder.

Makes every disappointment

echo harder against the canyon walls.

And maybe that’s what intoxication really is.

Not escape.

Not relief.

Just temporary numbness

while the bitterness still waits underneath.

I don’t know

what influenced the intoxication more.

Whether it was the day itself.

The emotional exhaustion.

The constant monitoring.

Or the fact

my daughter wouldn’t sleep

while he was here.

Maybe it was because she is sick.

Maybe her body was already struggling.

Or maybe,

his presence unsettled her

the same way it unsettles me sometimes.

And honestly,

I don’t know

which thought hurts more.

Because one explanation feels physical.

The other feels psychological.

And I’m not sure

I have the emotional capacity tonight

to untangle which one

I actually believe.

So instead,

the thoughts circle each other

like vultures above the canyon.

Neither landing.

Neither leaving.

Just waiting for me

to feed one of them.

I don’t want to face it.

I don’t want to sit with the possibility long enough

for it to become real.

So instead,

I change the image in my mind.

I stop imagining vultures

circling above the canyon.

And pretend they’re eagles instead.

Something protective.

Something guiding.

Something watching over me

instead of waiting for me to collapse.

Just for tonight,

I let myself believe

it’s simply my daughter being sick.

Because that is something I can help.

Something I can soothe.

Something I can fight beside her

until she heals.

But I don’t know what to do

if it’s her father that unsettles her.

I don’t know how to protect her

from something so intangible

while still wanting her

to have a relationship with him.

And maybe the hardest possibility of all,

is that it’s me.

Maybe she senses

the way my body reacts around him.

The tension in my shoulders.

The tightness in my voice.

The way my nervous system

never fully relaxes.

Maybe she feels the exhaustion.

The hypervigilance.

The way I silently count down the hours

until I can finally numb myself enough

to stop carrying the weight of it all

for a little while.

And honestly,

that thought cuts deeper

than any of the others.

So I continue

down the canyon.

Intoxicated.

Trying to twist the echoes

into something softer.

Something survivable.

Turning vultures into eagles.

Turning fear into illness.

Turning tension into exhaustion.

Anything,

to stop myself

from looking directly

at the possibility

I’m most afraid of.

I pray I’m wrong.

I pray my mind

is simply exhausted.

Traumatised.

Overreactive from everything

this canyon has already forced me to survive.

But somewhere beneath the alcohol,

beneath the numbness,

beneath the noise,

everything inside me

keeps whispering

that I’m right.

And honestly,

I don’t know which outcome

terrifies me more.

He’s here.

Driven hours
to see our daughter.

And she’s still getting used to him.

Still trying to understand
who he is to her
outside of occasional visits
and unfamiliar stretches of time apart.

He constantly says,

“Hi, it’s Dada.”

Over and over again.

And honestly,
it frustrates me.

Not just because of the repetition,
but because I can tell
it frustrates her too.

It’s all he says.

Like he’s trying to force recognition
instead of building connection.

So I try to help him.

I suggest talking to her properly.

Reading to her.

Telling her about his day.

Interacting with her
in different ways.

Because babies don’t bond through titles alone.

They bond through presence.

Through tone.

Through consistency.

Through warmth.

I try explaining
that conversation matters.

That engagement matters.

That connection grows stronger
when it’s nurtured naturally
instead of repeated into existence.

But he turns salty instantly.

Defensive.

Like my guidance
is criticism instead of support.

Like helping him bond with his daughter
somehow threatens him
instead of helping him.

And honestly,
that’s the exhausting part.

Not teaching him.

Not encouraging him.

But carrying the emotional labour
of trying to help create a bond
I shouldn’t have to build for him.

While she sleeps,
the atmosphere shifts.

Softer.

Familiar.

He starts mentioning movies
he thinks I’d like.

Bringing up topics
we used to talk about
when we were together.

Books.

Stories.

Local gossip.

Little things
he knows would catch my attention.

And it’s strange.

Because it happens so naturally.

Like muscle memory.

Like slipping back
into an old rhythm
neither of us consciously planned to find again.

The conversations flow easily.

Too easily.

Neither of us avoiding recommendations.

Neither of us pretending
we don’t still know
what interests the other person.

And maybe that’s what unsettles me most.

Not tension.

Not anger.

Not bitterness.

But familiarity.

The ease of it.

The way parts of us
still know how to exist together
without trying.

And I don’t know
what to do with that.

Because the connection
still exists in fragments.

In conversation.

In humour.

In shared interests.

But trust doesn’t.

Safety doesn’t.

The relationship itself doesn’t.

So instead,
it feels like standing inside
the shell of something
that used to be alive.

Recognisable.

Comforting, even.

But hollowed out by everything
that happened inside it.

And maybe that’s why
those conversations unsettle me so much.

Because I’m far more comfortable
talking about our daughter.

About our families.

Keeping each other updated
on the parts of life
that directly involve her.

That feels manageable.

Structured.

Safe, even.

But the moment conversations drift
into the kinds of things
friends would talk about,

movies,

gossip,

shared interests,

small details from everyday life,

something in me stiffens.

Because we aren’t friends.

And honestly,
even acquaintance
feels like too generous a word.

There’s too much history
for casualness.

Too much damage
for comfort.

Too much grief
sitting underneath everything
for me to pretend
this is normal.

And maybe that’s what makes coparenting
feel so psychologically strange sometimes.

You’re expected to communicate
with someone
who once held your entire world in their hands.

Someone who witnessed
the most intimate parts of your life.

Your body.

Your mind.

Your fears.

Your dreams.

And then one day,
you’re supposed to reduce all of that
into logistical conversations
about naps,
feeding schedules,
and visitation times.

As if the collapse
of everything else
isn’t still echoing quietly
between each sentence.

And then,
the atmosphere shifts again.

He brings up finances.

The divorce.

Settlements.

Logistics tied to the collapse
of everything we once built together.

And instantly,
something inside me closes.

I tell him no.

That he’s here
to spend time with his daughter.

To visit her.

To be present with her.

Not unravel legal threads
while she sleeps in the next room.

But his argument is simple.

“She’s asleep.”

And maybe logically,
he isn’t wrong.

Maybe to him,
it feels practical.

Efficient.

Like making use
of dead space between parenting moments.

But to me,
it feels invasive.

Like the canyon walls suddenly shifting
beneath my feet again.

Because I don’t want her visits
overshadowed by negotiations.

I don’t want the softness
of these moments
contaminated by courtrooms,
money,
or mediation.

I don’t want to sit there
trying to separate motherhood
from heartbreak
while he talks numbers
like the emotional wreckage
doesn’t still exist between us.

And maybe that’s unfair.

Maybe he’s simply trying
to move things forward.

But I’m tired.

Tired of feeling like
I have to emotionally pivot
without warning.

One moment,
we’re talking softly about our daughter.

The next,
I’m being dragged back
into the collapse of our marriage.

And honestly,
that whiplash exhausts me more
than I know how to explain.

I bite back at his argument.

Tell him I’m happy
to talk about anything else.

Anything except that.

He asks about compromise.

Asks if I’d feel better
talking about it over text instead.

But I still say no.

Because these aren’t casual conversations anymore.

They’re legal matters.

And he’s here
to visit his daughter.

Not negotiate the remains
of our marriage
while she sleeps nearby.

So I tell him plainly,

I’m not willing
to discuss any of it
without lawyers present.

And just like that,
the bitterness returns.

Sharp echoes
bouncing off canyon walls
that were finally beginning
to quiet down.

No depth to them.

Nothing steady enough
to hold onto.

Nothing solid enough
to reassure me
that one day
we’ll learn how to coparent
without stepping on the wreckage
that still sits between us.

Because that’s the part
people rarely talk about.

Coparenting sounds simple
when spoken aloud.

Communicate.

Compromise.

Be mature.

Put the child first.

But nobody talks about
how difficult it is
to build healthy communication
on top of unresolved grief,
broken trust,
and legal collapse.

Nobody talks about
how exhausting it is
trying to protect the peace
for your child
while your own nervous system
is still bracing for impact.