x

I sit down after bouncing my baby to sleep in the carrier,

after I have made a coffee

and done the dishes

but,

before I open the laptop,

the pages on the screen

and write

I sit down and I think about going for a walk,

maybe that will make me a better writer? I say

I think about how I have waited all week for this day,

for these hours;

my four year olds voice is still echoing within these walls

but she’s on a daddy daughter day and

my mind can finally rest

it can finally have time to tune into what I sat down to do

write

but then I remember that my best writing comes from my mothering,

it comes to me when i’m driving in the car

along the coast line of Lutruwita

it comes to me when my daughter is crying in my arms

or she tells me she likes my dress

it comes to me when my son falls asleep on my breast

and he laughs at his sister

it comes to me when my partner scoops me up in bed

for a good morning cuddle

it puts whatever thoughts I hear in my head

to rest

whilst I simultaneously

dance, with the ones that become poems

and novels

and love letters

and so, I sit down after putting my baby to sleep

and,

I write

The very thing that often feels like it takes me away from my writing, is the very thing that brings me back to it; motherhood.

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Hello! to those of you who quietly read the part of my mind that has found its way into words on the pages, who open my little emails every now and again and read what I have left for you there.

And,

Hello to my many new readers here; I get a little giddy every time I see someone new has started following or subscribed to these little scribbles that make it from my journal to this laptop of mine and into your hands (or eyes).

I started this quiet place for myself to land as a mother, about three years ago now. Just as my daughter was about to turn one, I decided it would be a healing idea to speak out loud what I so desperately needed to say about my mothering journey so far. From there, I have shared poems, thoughts from my heart and mind as I journeyed through postpartum depression and depletion.

And, as we journeyed from one beach house where it was warm and humid, where my heart could sweat out of my skin and onto the paper, to another beach house on top of a hill, over the sea where its a little (ok a lot) colder, my musings come out in crisp breath air as I speak them to the moon that sets

Back then, I had one cub sitting on my leg, this time I have two; both Pisces just born four years and ten days apart. My girl and my boy. My fish, my seals, my ocean babies.

When we moved to the bottom of the country, my writings gained less speed and instead stayed tucked away in my mind or my journal waiting to be ready to be heard by your ears and born into the world of this online space. I very much did what the wintering intended to do for me here, I joined the quiet and the stillness and I became more than I ever imagined; Instead of monthly, It became yearly and here we are. I am five months postpartum, and my creativity was born way before my son; he was the crux for its conception during the past twelve moons.

My heart could not stop the expelling of words that moved through me, and out into the real world. My heart could not stop the force my son brought, the sureness of my voice and the joy in being heard. My heart became two, when my daughter was born and this year, it became three when I breathed my son out one autumn morning, with a smile as wide as the rising sun and a laugh as loud as the kookaburras.

My pregnancy showed me what it could be like to pull from a full vessel, of love and joy and grief and grow another piece of my heart with a body as strong as I always knew it to be. Most years Kai (my partner) and I, do a yearly vision board, the year we fell pregnant we put on our vision board that we wanted to find a home and a community. I flew to Wales two months later, I came home with somewhat a part of me that was missing when I flew over there. We then moved our little family for the fourth time since coming to Tasmania, and found our community; I fell pregnant a few months later and that community has grown more and more over the last year.

When I was just four days postpartum, I remember sitting in bed with Kai and our son Ishka; Olive asleep in the other room, and I was just staring at them both in absolute awe and disbelief I could be feeling this ethereal and, I thought about this poem.

Thank you for being here, and I hope as I move through this new season of life and creativity, you can find comfort in my words and relate in some magic way to this little seaside life I am creating over here.

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This Season

I love how my loved ones are seeing me in this season;

hair unbrushed, unwashed

bloody pads

and nappies on the bathroom floor

tender nipples out in view

hunched over body

as I make my way to the toilet

carrying my soft stomach

like my organs depend on it

because they do.

I love how my loved ones are caring for me in this season;

holding me as I stretch and expand in birth

lining the floor with towels

and puppy pads

like I’m walking an alter

flowers filling the room

water bottle filled up without question

food in my hands and,

baked goods at the door

on their knees while I hold their shoulders

as they pull nappies up my

bare wobbly legs

How I’ve loved myself in this season;

In all the ways I didn’t, I learnt to

In all the ways I had kept quiet, I spoke up

In all the ways that depleted me,

I grew, expanded, healed

through the very

laughter

that exploded out of me

when my son was born

full circle

Warmly,

I thought sharing my life in daily vlogs was the way to vulnerability but really I think it’s in honest word vomit. I thought sharing daily outfits was my way to being seen and heard but really it’s in telling a friend I’m doing the hard thing anyway. I thought sharing carousels about my postpartum depression was reaching those who share similar experience’s but really it’s not that glamorous and instead, I’m having those conversations in real life.

Like,

I don’t quite know what to say when people ask me how I am. I can’t tell whether it’s my hormones wearing off, or my heightened intake of coffee lately that has stripped me of whatever was left of those oxytocin fueled blurs. I answer with “I’m good” because my mind can’t remember past the sleepless night, or the juggling of keeping my baby alive, as well as my creativity; both priorities I would say. I tell them I’m learning to knit, and finish the conversation with “I just started my fourth book to add to the pile of half read stories that fuel each part of my personality, as of late” and I wonder if what comes out of my mouth makes any sense or it’s just Mother-giberish, that well, only mothers would understand

(just)

This time last year I was sitting in deep grief whilst simultaneously growing the son that now sleeps peacefully on my chest. I still don’t quite understand how we as women, as human beings, create, grow and birth a child all within 10 months and they grow and start sitting, screaming and jumping all at the (not so) ripe age of 4 months. It then makes me think about how a lot of those women are treated, like how dare you treat us anything other than the queens we are?

So I guess when people ask me how I am, instead of answering “good” thats what I want to answer with; but where does one find the words in the moment?

We’ve been sitting in the garden all four of us. Emotions are as susceptible as the winter plants that become food for the insects who surround. We talk about farmers markets, swimming upon waking, sweating. Oh the sweating, yes that’ll make you feel alive, all of which are things we can’t access here.

We play with the ideas of buying a home

“We haven’t done our yearly vision board yet” kai says, as he pulls weeds from the soil, like we pull the dreams from our minds.

I’m sitting across from him with ishka, lying on the blanket beside me. I’m reminded of sincere memories of our four year old as a baby in our garden; somewhere warmer. The thoughts grounding me from the winter breeze and dry air, while kai grounds himself with the soil.

I think about myself as a child, the way I would dance through the house; in my bedroom, in the lounge room, outside. When I think back to this child and her dancing, it feels like a dream. When did I feel so free? I think to myself, as I lie down on the wood floors inside, right where the winter sun hits. She was always moving; the grief, the sadness, her body floating like the kelp in the winter sea. Always moving it through.

I wonder if that’s what I need to do now?

Siân x

It was the night before mothers day here in the Southern Hemisphere, specifically Lutruwita, Tasmania, and I came across a piece of writing that basically said (and don’t quote me)

“There isn’t one significant moment that defines your relationship with your child.”

It got me thinking one step further; there also isn’t one significant moment where you go “yep, I am getting this right” its little moments sprinkled in the very real and raw mothering life. And, Mothers Day is just one of those days where we can be reminded of these moments and be acknowledged for all the days we parented, when we were the ones that needed parenting, held feelings when ours needed to be held, got out of bed when we felt swallowed by anxiety or depression.

Mothers day morning,

The last of the Autumn sun shining in our room, and where our bed faces; onto the sheets making an orange and yellow tone of the atmosphere around me. Usually I call kai in from Olives bed, to reprieve me of the little sleep I had the night before but instead, I was greeted with a flurry of my heart leaping into bed with me; Kai and Olive.

To my very little knowledge, Kai and Olive made a video (and in true Kai fashion it was a documentary to say the least) answering questions they had asked each other about me

I cried before Olive even began speaking,

Not because of what she was speaking about (although that did come later on) but more-so the song she had chosen to put behind it.

“Its mummy’s favourite”

The song was one of Olivia Deans songs and every-time I hear it, I am reminded of the year she turned 3. Our car drives along the bendy roads on the way to and from home, or the fruit shop, or a play group. The emotions of that time feeling just as nauseating as the twists and turns in the road up and down the mountain. Just her and me in the car, with a box full of fruit and vegetables and to her, a happy loud song singing mummy.

This song makes me feel like young Sian again, and that year I needed that the most. I mean, I am young but the Sian before kids, the Sian that had a broken heart and somewhat a broken life but had turned it around anyway.

And, I just imagined Olive in her car seat behind me watching on, trying to sing along and the look of awe of her mummy belting lyrics to a song and being nothing but happy.

It then got me thinking about that quote I had read, and that it really doesn’t matter when we have an off day as mothers, or parents. It really doesn’t matter when we are crying, or angry or feel guilt. Because the days they’ll remember most are the ones where your laughing crying in the front seat with their dad listening to a podcast, or your sipping on your favourite drink, eating your favourite snack and belting music you use to listen to in your teens with a smile as wide as the car.

Or, the days you push your pride aside and say sorry, sorry for being wrong and sorry for shouting a little louder than I needed to. And the days and nights you lay next to them, stroke their hair or read their favourite book. These are all the small moments (and more) that define your relationship, that define what it may mean to be Mother, that you will always come back to time and time again when the days feel hard.

Moments you come back to, that remind you, you’re doing something right even if that something isn’t conventional or the same as the next mother, or the next.

That night before Mothers day, I was in the kitchen preparing dinner and Olive was playing on her own. We were listening to Olivia Dean, the song she had chosen for the video had come on. She came up to me in the kitchen and asked me

“Mummy, is this your favourite song?”

Just to make sure, her version of what lights her mummy up, her version of what makes me “happy” and her version of events, was true.

My god! was it truer than true.

And, this significant moment was something I cried about and was reminded of when I had heard she chose that song, the very song she had asked me about just that night before. That yes, they notice the not so pretty times but my god do they notice the things we as adults are all too consumed to notice.

I wonder, what moments feel significant to you or feel significant to your little one that you might not of even thought twice about?

Sian x

There are old towels making their home in piles upon my laundry room, a birth pool lives in the cupboard for now and a pregnancy ball now floats around our lounge room like the ghosts of my first birth; that still feels like yesterday. I think if you were a vistor in my home now, you’d walk in feeling like you were walking into a birth. The house slowly filling up with candles, chocolates and flowers. Photos on the wall that bring me happiness and memories of myself now scattered across the way. I think once you have left, you would be unsure if you’d see me again as just a mother of one.

My alter, is always my home.

My first birth taught me a lot, like how the space doesn’t need to be perfect for you to birth your baby or the real truths; that we don’t need a whole lot to do so either.

My body is starting to soften, and I feel myself going to bed earlier and earlier every night. Less capacity for watching shows, and wanting to go more inward. It’s nice, but it also feels like my bodies way of preserving energy almost. Dreams of birth fill my sleepy mind as I toss and turn through the night. I remember writing my dreams of birth down when pregnant with olive and I read them 3 years later; they came true. Even just parts of them. The answers are always in the dreams! And the kookaburras.

My thoughts are fueled by oxytocin; memories of happiness — mostly mundane — like learning to ride my bike as a child, up and down our bumpy drive way

Or our first road trip together as a family of 3

And, the early days of postpartum with our first. The smell of chamomile and choc chip cookies, the taste of nettle tea hitting my lips again

The fluidity of grief and joy making their home in my tired, loved, healing body

It’s all familiar, it’s all engrained in my body ready for my mind to take grasp and hold onto it for moments like these

Or moments in-between the waves of birth

I light candles, I turn on my red lights and most nights; I go to bed alone. I close my curtains after I take a shot of my magnesium (I usually have about 20 minutes before it takes me into a deep sleep) and I look around at the hand me down bassinet that a new friend passed onto me; she had refurbished and painted it with her mother. Or the change table another friend handed to us, that she got from another mother when buying their home.

Every night I have this routine, I think about the nights to come where it’ll be just the two of us in this room. No longer having so much space for my first born to crawl into bed with me at 3am, because I guarantee I’ll be up tending, doing the most; the gut wrenching feeling that comes with those thoughts and also the heart fueling feeling that passes along behind it, or often before.

How mothers hold all these feelings, emotions, changes all at once? The excitement for the baby about to be born, the grief for the one in-front of me now — not so much a baby anymore —I think when they say our hearts expand, we’re use to it because, our thresholds for grief and joy also expand the moment we become mothers.

Which makes sense, because, they all live inside our hearts. Our bodies. These bodies of ours that grow, hold and birth our humans.

Alongside the grief and joy, always comes the creativity. The need to speak my truth’s and hold them tightly in the words that fall upon my mouth, upon my finger tips. I write love letters to myself across plenty journals and pocket sized books, saving them for later when it’ll find its way to making sense in my heart-mind. Love letters that feel like honest truths at first, hard truths but turn into love letters because it all comes from there first,

It makes sense later

I remember writing one of my first pieces on substack when I was a new mum, I wrote about finding my old self in the draws wide open in our tiny home and the other places that fill that space. This time, I’m finding her in the way my daughter smiles or chooses an outfit for the day. The way my partner holds my body and tells me I’m beautiful, the way I want to cry at the mere thought of expandable change and adaption because my heart is triggered by the trauma of change my inner child endeared all those years ago.

Safety

That’s all that matters

Safety to expand,

To open the windows and let the fresh air in

To let her in

Because I’m not fearful of adding a new soul into our lives, into our family

I’m fearful of the trauma I hold as a child

And that’s pretty liberating to understand and acknowledge.

Now all there is to do,

is birth.

Sian x

Just want to preface I wrote this back when I was 28 weeks pregnant, and wanted to share it now as those feelings of grief and longing for something that hasn’t even left me yet is still very much there in the presence of my every day life, of our every day life. I wanted to shed light on this part of my pregnancy journey, incase anyone else is in the similar reins of motherhood, of feeling.

I also tend to only share a piece of writing when it feels “complete” or in other words “perfect” and I’m allowing myself to feel into what that means for me, and how it shows up in the rest of my life. So please, enjoy this (what feels like to me) rough written piece x

There are lists in my notes app full of what needs to be done before the baby is born, Christmas crafts done and undone, vegetables and flowers filling our garden and cubby houses being made; though the one thing I was reminded needed preparing, needed time and care was myself and her, my daughter and our family unit as 3. As I come into the third trimester, a cloud fills my body that rains guilt and sadness on-top of it; the first trimester thrived off the tears, the emotion and somewhat pain of grief. Though, this time, I’m sick by it and fear it more than anything. It’s like that phone call you know you need to make but just can’t pick up the phone, or the boyfriend you know you need to break up with but can’t say the words. I laugh at myself internally, because the fear, the grief and the sadness was something I was ready to look at head on and be with but right now all I want to do is run, not even run; I just don’t want to get close enough to it to even run.

How do I only have possibly three months left being a mum to just my little girl?

How do I only have three months left of sitting on our lounge, under our lamp, next to my love sewing crafts and watching shitty tv shows?

How do I only have three months left of (thanks to that love) uninterrupted sleep?

How do I only have three months left to ensure my minerals are all positive, my mind is fuelled, as well as my body?

And how on earth do I only have three months left of the three of us?

A beginning

An extra seat at the table

In the back of the car

An extra space in the wardrobe for tiny clothes

Extra washing

Extra dishes

Extra voices filling our home

Extra love in our hearts for another human being?

How does one fathom and turn towards those feelings, of love, of grief, of overwhelm, of fucking joy

In three months?

Some days the thought feels too much to bear, like I’m losing everything and gaining something all at the same time. They say your heart grows bigger, when the second comes along though right now I don’t know how that’s possible; though I’m a mother, I’ll do it anyway.

I’ve seen posts on how to prepare your first for the new born, how to introduce them or happy little faces meeting their new sibling. But no one told me this would also feel like grief, that I’d be reminded once again the two can co exist; grief & joy. Pain & love.

I know that when I give birth to that little bundle of joy, It’ll heighten these feelings but they will also pass because the living act of giving birth, postpartum bubbles and raising a little bean is something that overrides all feelings of nostalgia, pain or grief. That there will also be

A beginning

My daughter witnessing birth

Our relationship growing stronger

Giving birth again and meeting myself over and over and over

Becoming someone entirely new all over again and the excitement that can bring

watching relationships form and bloom all because of one tiny human being

welcoming new routines

new favourite books

new favourite songs

their first step

first word

first bite of food

Understanding life isn’t one way or the other, its both dark and light, messy and clean, full of i do’s and I don’t, needs and wants, joy and grief, pain and happiness. It’s all there, amongst the mothering, the Matrescense, the new life.

Sian x

After falling pregnant again with my second, I couldn’t face watching other peoples lives online whilst I fell in the depths of mothering and surviving the first trimester. Deleting social media didn’t feel like an option this time, as I actually had lots of connection and community on there and if i’m being honest, it held as a distraction from the nausea I was feeling.

So, instead of scrolling mindlessly, I started to create a saved album called “Things I love” on Instagram, which is basically posts that come up in my for you page, that bring me joy and a sense of peacefulness in amongst the chaos that is sometimes life. A lot of these posts, are amazing creations by other people in different countries and people using online spaces in a more creative way.

I thought it would be nice to share some of these Posts of joy on here, monthly and some other things that give me joy and peace in my life.

December posts of joy roll up;

I hope you find peace in these creations, just like I did and it allows you to slow down and appreciate the creations and positives of our online world even amongst chaos, ruins and such an eventful time of year. Im finding myself looking back at my “Posts of joy” folder time and time again, to remind myself of the beauty of life and the people in it.

See you next month, and, next year for January’s posts of joy

Sian x

I sit at our kitchen table — the one I picked up from market place, sanded, oiled and painted the legs a warm red — it is spring and I am looking out at our big glass windows, wondering why I cant weather the storm, when the flowers do so effortlessly; springing into beauty here, when they are so cheerfully fighting against the winds.

I have always found beauty in the storms. It isn’t until now, i’m forced to see my very own.

The fog has named the day, in all its mystery and my daughter sits beside me with her paintbrushes, water, and paint; the colours on the page have created a red earthly hue and I squint as I watch her wipe those hue’s on her clothes. Though I know if there is creative opportunity to be messy, and a child, it’s her I should be getting that inspiration off. So I bite my tongue and I let her go, because It allows me to sit here and create too.

There have been many questions I ask myself at 3am; Do I lay here or do I get up and create? i’m learning to challenge the part of myself that wants to stay small and I’ve found beauty in choosing the latter; to see my possibility, hear my own voice, give myself a hug and write for no other reason than to just write and fuel that fire inside of me that so badly wants to be seen and heard.

Even at 3am.

I remember sitting on the train to school, writing poem, after poem and being inspired to see the world outside of the pain I was feeling and the small box I felt stuck inside. I recently had that feeling come up again; finding joy in the grief that can so often swallow us whole.

Swallow me whole.

I sometimes forget I’m still a child inside a women’s body, who lost her mother at 14 and learnt too early on how to be an adult rather than love and cherish the child inside.

I’ve been feeling a lot of that grief lately, grief for what once was or could have been. The juxtaposition of yearning for another child, then the bearing of them and yearning for a life just for me — I have felt shame for feeling this more than anything, and in a way I’ve also felt “right” for having these feelings — like I’m here finally living this human experience with a range of emotions, rather than distracting. The, no caffeine, hardly any social media and pregnancy hormones does this to someone.

I know I need to feel these things, and turn towards the pain and grief now so I can do so in birth.

Though its felt paralysing these past few weeks — like if I gave my body to the sea it would float with all that I am carrying — It’s also felt like an overcoming of sorts, a refresh. Understanding that a lot of my feelings of stuck-ness wasn’t coming from a place of “I cant do this” but from a place of

“holy moly what i’m going to create is going to be one of the biggest creations of my life so far — not just the life i’m creating inside of me, but the life i’m creating outside of me, for me — that this really is the time I’m needing to be seen, and heard “

So, I wanted to share what has been guiding me through these feelings over the last few months and how I imperfectly incorporated them into my life as a pregnant woman mothering a 3.5 year old.

As I mentioned earlier, I chose the first thing I needed to do was to limit any distractions that weren’t serving me right now. Not in the way I needed it to.

Less time on social media (but not banning myself completely), clearing out my notes, photos and messages to feel like I was “starting anew” this is something I’ve been doing since I was a teenager — though back then I was clearing out my bedroom and changing it around once a week. I always need my space and what I consume to not take over too much brain capacity —especially as a mother. And now, a pregnant mother.

Limiting who I give my attention to, and the conversations I have. My creativity is at an all time high and its important for me to protect that, as its the first time in a long time that I had felt this kind of fire; It also brings me immense joy and I think it’s important to prioritise that during challenging times.

The second thing I did was turn towards the parts of my self I never truly learnt to love, but deep down was the biggest part of what made me, me. Ive been having a big identity crisis since falling pregnant again — honestly I feel like all my motherhood I’ve been having one — and I thought the most important thing was to constantly do things that brought me back to myself, which is so so needed, but the thing I needed to do first — to keep me there and not repeat same old patterns — was turning towards the pain, the uncomfortableness, the discomfort in realising who I actually am, apart from who I thought I needed to be for so long.

The R.A.I.N meditation I first learnt from my counsellor, then researched more in Tara Bach’s book “Radical Compassion” was the leading force for turning towards those parts of my life I so often distracted from, or ran away from. Tara teaches in depth about this practice during her book; Recognise, Allow, Investigate and Nurture. And, what may be behind our need to run instead of turn towards it. For me, this meant giving myself a warm hug when I wanted to do the opposite in moments of anger or judgement or when I feel I step outside of my values; short fuses, impatience, talking short to my daughter or partner, judging myself for not living up to what I think it means to be “The Perfect Mother” (doesn’t exist btw) and instead I turn that critical thinking into positive self talk.

I envision my own mother giving me a warm hug in that moment, something I didn’t get growing up and definitely needed, and do need in that moment. I recognise how I’m feeling, I allow it to be there with me (the warm hug can help with this) and I investigate where it may be coming from, then I nurture her.

I think this can be incredibly helpful when we are stepping into a creative process, we are becoming ourselves and being in our bodies — of course things are going to come up — its important to remind ourselves of our worth, and to turn towards it especially if it feels uncomfortable.

The third ritual I started was creating a mental health list that I complete every morning or throughout the day. This list is something I can physically see and tick off, and as my brain fog becomes stronger, it is something I can rely on in times of forgetfulness or feelings of “I haven’t done enough today”. It is really as simple as drinking a glass of warm water upon waking, breakfast, cacao, journalling and meditating. I then do my pelvic floor exercises and 15 minutes of strength exercise a day.

And, as my partner sweetly added to my list “at least a 6 second kiss” for connection. This is actually a game changer haha.

These are things that are easy for me to get done most days, and I don’t feel like I’m struggling to get them done. I find this the most important for me when Im sticking to good habits, because it cant feel too much too soon, or I wont do it. Being realistic can be hard when we just want a quick fix!

Another simple ritual for those moments, — that I just spoke to my counsellor about — when I feel a certain pull away from myself or those parts of myself i’m still learning to love; I can check into my body and find the discomfort there. Is it a stiffness in my legs? or do I feel hot in certain parts of my body? and once I have established that, I find a part of my body that doesn’t feel this way and for me it feels like an anchor. I give attention to my anchor, and every time I feel the rest of my body calm.

Now, it’s important to say that these little rituals or daily affirmations don’t always feel like they are worth it. I have a tendency to only do the things that feel like they are working now, otherwise I don’t have the time for it — I don’t make the time for it — and I am learning how to now.

And, as I sit here with my daughter and I watch her create whilst I watch my fingers type the words I so long to be heard; I reflect back on what doing these simple (not that simple when your in the thick of it) things have brought up for me over the last two weeks;

• As a writer, it’s harder than I thought it would be to open up about my feelings. I feel like it’s easier to do so in poems or longer form posts, but when it comes to in person it can be so hard to articulate how I’m feeling!

• That opening up and being seen and heard online is just as hard in friendships - especially as a mum

• I’ve cared way too much about being liked that I’ve limited my own possibilities in a lot of areas of my life

• I’ve found it hard to “enjoy” the same routines in motherhood, a lot of my distractions are to escape that. Writing a substack on this now!

• A lot of my likes and dislikes came from who I thought I wanted to be one day instead of who I really am today

• The last season of ‘The Summer I Turned Pretty’ really hit me deep. As a young mother who had her first at 21, seeing someone my age choose herself in a different way struck a cord. The space to challenge, fail, travel, find and lose themselves many times… is a lot harder with children but it is not impossible. That has been a big layer to come to terms with - something I’ve felt quite alone in, in my motherhood.

• When it comes down to it, my inner child wants to be seen and heard not just by others but myself too. I lived a lot of my life limiting the possibilities of people seeing me! Here’s to challenging myself in a new, scary way.

It’s a comforting process in the end, when you can look back and reflect and say “wow, I really did do the work even when it was hard” almost like an affirmation in of its very own.

I would love to hear from other mothers who are in amongst the thick of it, creating, finding themselves again. Are there simple rituals you do? or if you feel like there isn’t, what are some things you can list and reflect back on and tell yourself that your doing enough?

It could be as simple as a morning walk, or opening up to a friend.

or, commenting under this post and connecting with another mama right there, in it with you.

Big hugs,

Sian xx

I listen to Billie Elilish as I walk through the house, its quiet there as my mind drifts to the undoubtedly fearful self; there has been a lot of unraveling here, a lot of time for it.

I hold those parts close during this time, music does this to me — allows space for the dark, emotional self — I squish play dough in my hands to ground myself from It all, the thoughts and memories it brings up.

I am always unsure, what to say, when loved ones ask “How are you” “What have you been doing?” “How is Tasmania?” (for those who don’t know, yes we moved to the beautiful land of Lutruwita-Tasmania). There has been a lot of growth, I’ve felt myself closing inward yet expanding like a caterpillar in a chrysalis; then becoming a butterfly, my butterfly is yet to emerge.

Time sits still here, like I expected and hoped. My mind still races, like its trying to keep up with the 1000’s of thoughts and screaming “what the fuck Sian” but I sometimes like to challenge that part of myself.

Im finding that she’s safe to do so here.

The water embraces me with its calming energy, I am learning more about kelp and seaweed more than I’m learning about what keeps me on my feet; but maybe the kelp does.

Its Spring now, here in the Southern Hemisphere and I ache for a swim, though my mind wins those battles. The need to be held by something other than my partner, the need to scream beneath the waves and hold my breath a little longer.

Instead, hands are laced with seaweed, as I weave stories in shells my daughter puts to her ears on the shore. Things feel close here, but also out of reach.

The dust has settled since I landed on welsh soil and came home again, and that all feels like a life time ago.

The rage came back, like a ticking time bomb and my heart is expanding along with the ribs in their cage. Though, this time I’m learning to turn towards it; a face the same as my mothers, and arms as wide as hers as they furl around me and tell me

“You’ll be okay”

“You’re doing better than you think”

“I hear you”

“I see you”

My hands have wanted to write the same things,

make love with the page like I use to at 9pm when Olive was still so young.

I’ve written to you time and time again as I lay my head on my pillow, words fuel my mind where rest should be and I feel my heart expanding.

Though, as I fumble with the words — words that have only seen the pages of my journal or floated upon my mind — I fumble with the idea that writing means an unbecoming, an unfurling, a turning towards me.

And, in all honesty, thats scared me.

It scares me

The mere becoming or unbecoming of what lays between my mind and the keyboard on my laptop?

Its grief, joy, truth.

and also, nothing, all at the same time.

What happens when I make time for me, I let those parts I fear the most, in?

Its something bigger than me,

Its being heard,

Its letting it be,

Its a becoming that feels to big for me now,

But what happens if I let her in?

There were little snippets of her over the last 12 months, when I remembered she was bigger than the fear.

In Summer, the way the sun warmed my skin whilst I overthought every interaction with a new mother, being in a new town, feeling like I had lost my entire identity all over again - she was there, knocking at my heart telling me to let her in.

In Autumn, it was the way I sat on trains through the midlands of Wales for hours at a time, on a quest to search for my mother’s motherland and find parts of her weaved through it. I had no distractions between myself and my mini journal I had bought at the airport on a whim. And, after I wrote, I felt the grief, I felt scared and uncomfortable. But amongst it all? she was there, knocking on my heart, telling me to let her in.

I fought it, I ran from it, but the only place it took me was further north and then back home again.

Then, in Winter, I saw her in the way I cut my hair differently, in the unfamiliar conversations with strangers or new found friends. This time, she banged at the door of my heart through my voice and my stories, dying to be heard, to be seen. The way I feel the anger arise in my body, and what I choose to do with it now — the mere practice of self awareness, compassion.

She is there, knocking at my heart asking to be let in, asking to be held like i hold the winter flowers in the front lawn; delicately.

So now, Im learning to let her in, along with all the different versions of her;

Mothering and grief

Mothering and art

Mothering and love

Mothering and being

Mothering and the Maiden

I can feel my butterfly emerging, no more hiding, no more chrysalis,

she’s ready

~

Until next time,

Sian x

I held her hand on the gutter of the timeless road, that fortunately leads to the beach. She put one food in-front of the other, carefully watching where to place which foot; leaning on me for reassurance I’m not going anywhere.

“Im not going anywhere”

I spotted a grevillea tree in the distance, it sat on the corner of our street and the next. It was bright red from all the rain, thriving in this climate like I know I will. Am. Grevillea trees have become my omen, my guardian, no matter where I go, reminding me I will be okay

“You will be okay”

Its been raining all day, I feel the cold air hit my skin like raindrops; I’m wearing a puffer jacket and jeans, the only bare skin are my hands, feet and face; reminding me that this is in fact, not a dream.

“This is not a dream”

The house I have rode my bike past a handful of times is an A-frame house that I sense would be more fit living next to a lighthouse on a hill somewhere. Instead it sits here, with an elderly man whom resides inside, I have become fond of his old pottery mugs that hang in his kitchen, and the two rusted bird statues on a window.

“It makes sense now, the A-frame house on the corner” I say to my partner as we drive past.

We keep walking until we reach the beach, a whole one street away. We let the dogs run, I feel the abundance of shells clutching under my feet, the vibration of two frequencies — them and me. I walk down to the water, and dip my cold toes in; it feels familiar, it feels like once upon a time, like they’re being warmed by the rising moon, too.

My daughter and I are collecting shells, we have since she was a baby. She likes to hold onto things, clasp them in her fists like she never wants anything or anyone to let go.

“I’m not going anywhere”

Kneeling down over the shells, rustling them through her hands, our hands; telling her I love her more than all the grains of sand. Feeling a sense of my own mothers warmness, on a summer day down south, my mum in a navy blue one piece swimsuit wearing glasses that looked like something you would wear on a motor bike, a bucket hat, placing sand in-between my hands. Looking at me with her face squinted from the sun, the same face I do on a bright day.

“The grains of sand come from shells, often their frequencies clink together too hard and create something even more beautiful, sand” she would say.

I quickly understand how deep my mothers love is, like I am feeling it for the first time, as I look down at my daughter and tell her the same thing; without even realising it.

“Thats a lot of sand, all the sand in the whole wide world?” I question my mum.

Like my mind cant grasp the intensity of what she was saying.

My mum made art with her words, not in the way I think she knew.

I am reminded of this when I meet a lady in a small brick cottage down a street in town, I thought to myself what it must be like to show all of one self; the grief, the joy and sorrow. As I watch her sitting at the table beside her paintings for sale; creating her art, telling her stories.

I bought two cards with her paintings on them; a lady, a moon and a swan

the other,

a ladies head intertwined within a lily pad amongst the water, she doesn’t make sense to me now; but I know one day she will

like the way my mother explained her love for me

that day it finally made sense.

One day I will buy her painting, that stood directly behind the artist. It was of a woman with half a head for a fish, and half a head for a human.

I decided a pair of local made earrings would suffice for now; allow me to hold the memories of this dear place close; like seashells to my ears.

They speak to me, the way I adorn myself with stories. Tiger eye and Pearl. I get back into my car, and I whisper to myself

“This is where I belong”

I couldn’t help but feel like I needed to be doing something, that I can sell the art I create in my home when everyone is asleep, the art I create with my soft new mum hands, the art I create in my most vulnerable states. I often wondered how much of our creativity was at stake for how much pressure we put on earning as mothers, or how much we were doing.

Why couldn’t I just create for the sake of creating?

So I did

And recently I’m finding myself on the bridge, inbetween wanting to lean more into using my creativity to earn exchanges & money for my family; to balance out the roles between mother & father now that we will both be home. If the option to stay home & relish in our daughters growth together, why not do both I wondered? Whose story was I trying to tell? By saying I can’t?

Ah the time to use my creations to earn an income is here ..

But this time I’m creating with my “I’ve seen some shit and been through some shit” hands , I’m creating with vulnerability but I know more now then I did then (until two more years ha), I’m creating for myself first - then for others second.

This year we chose to pack up our home and move to another state, a place we envision ourselves striving as a family both physically and emotionally. We have taken a big step towards our future, we both have the same interests in what we want to create for others, and for ourselves - why not bring them together and start creating more of the life we could always see for ourselves and our children.

There is still times where I have to remind myself that money doesn’t need to be an enemy, that it’s actually ok to earn something if it means I get to do the things I love; like create, be with my family & live a slower life style. That money can actually be a great thing if done mindfully, that our relationships can change with the way we feel about it. Whilst also knowing money is not the be all end all, that money doesn’t create happiness it just creates freedom & that it is just another external; we can separate ourselves from it.

We came into this year putting our creativity pursuits on the front seat, and tending to them regularly as we know it helps our mindset as well as our future endeavors & Olive gets to be apart of this too; showing her a healthy mindset around money & what’s truly important in this life.

It hasn’t been easy being on the road, creativity comes at its own will; sometimes takes weeks, days. Then it can come when drinking a tea, eating a cookie, smelling a certain smell.. balancing the act of finding a pen to write it down, hoping it’ll stay somewhere inside my brain for when I have a chance. So I continue on this spiral of creation & mothering, & keep coming back to what’s true to me.

Understanding creation is in the mere act of being a mum, even when it least feels like it - something I have struggled seeing for a lot of my motherhood so far.

Siân x

Does everyone wish to have a grandmother close to them, siting by a fire, with a tea and bickie, hearing stories of this magnificent woman’s childhood, as much as I do? or is this some beautiful common happening that I devastatingly am just not apart of? If so, I am both happy for you and sad for myself as I drown in the thoughts of

“Will I ever know who I am, if I don’t know who she is”.

My day today was full of beautiful, heart felt conversations about truths and grief’s us women hold surrounding our elders, and whether this culture we live in really serves them, therefore not serving us. I fall upon this thread as I think often about this. I grew up with a Nana in wales and a Nana two and a half hours away from where we lived — both at opposites ends of the world, both opposite types of people. I haven’t seen both Nana’s since I was in my early teens, I have no memories of sitting with either of them whilst they retold memories of their own. I think I would sit with one Nana here in Australia whilst we played domino’s and watched million dollar minute, or something like that — not quite like a cup of tea, sitting by the fire or eating a biscuit, bonding none the less.

As I traversed life as a first time mother, I also traversed life working through some large trauma’s that made themselves known to me once I birthed my daughter. I never underestimate the energy that is birth, it shifts and opens us up like nothing ever will. It truly did that for me, it brings up what needs to be focused on as I believe, allows us to transition into this role as ‘Mother’ — the more I surrendered to this, the smoother it would be, but not always. I thought grief would be the backbone of my pregnancy, I thought grief would hit my body just like becoming a mother has. I thought I would grieve her all over again, little did I know that would happen later on.

This year I have yearned and ached for my mother as I grow older, and my memories of her grow fonder. At the same time, I have ached and yearned for a connection to my welsh family — sometimes, more than my own.

I expressed this to a friend today, we were exchanging stories of our elders. We spoke about community, how all those years ago we would be learning from the women before us — through story threads and observing. Through sitting in circle, being taught many things we could use today — as mothers, as maidens, as future grandmothers, as women. Instead we are taught that botox will make us beautiful, and anti-aging products means we are finally worth something if we can pause the ever natural process of being human.

I don’t blame the women, I blame our culture.

I blame our society.

The same society that tells us women must be mothers, that if you are a mother you must be a good one and to be a good one that must mean it comes at your loss EVERY time. But you should also have your own hobbies, have the energy to do the house work, exercise, work and mother. But don’t ever age, or burn out, whatever you do.

*eye roll*

The generations after generations sexualise the maiden, that to be worthy of something means to be young. Which is one of the ways our dominant culture carries these ideas that to be feminine means we should be forever in our youth. And, as mothers, a place we often find ourselves striving to be in because it’s accepted by a society that just doesn’t accept mothers as they are.

Yes, coming from a twenty-three year old, because my generation is the one that needs to hear this the most. The generation raising daughters, to hold them so gently in their becoming. The generation raising sons, to guide them in their becoming.

Ugh. It hurts. It hurts that I cant speak to my mum now, that I can’t tell her I see her for the woman she so clearly wanted to be but society told her otherwise. I wonder how much of her self she was hiding?

As I get older, the only thing I tend to worry about with ageing, is growing further away from her.

My yearning for my welsh family this year, has been a yearning for her. For connection and roots to apart of me, my mother. To be on her motherland,

I often wonder what my mothers childhood was like, I know it wasn’t safe and I know it was hard. I know there was a lot of pain, and I know it was too much for her to ever tell me, and maybe too much for me to ask the questions now that she is gone, to those who do know. The thoughts that keep me up at night ring to me deeply, like whether or not my mothers life would have turned out differently if she was held and heard as a child, if the first seven years were cascaded with love and light rather than fear and heaviness. Im not sure if she would use those words, she may be lighter in a sense when speaking on it like she use to be, to save me from the pain of her reality. But, from what I know, trauma holds itself in the body if not dealt with, it looked heavy and fearful in her eyes some days. I wonder if the same goes for me, whether the last ten years of my life would have been different if I had not come up against so much trauma, if the first 14 years of my life I was surrounded by more joy than fear. This is mere wonder, no wishing,

just

wonder

The only difference between my Mother and I now is, I have been given time, time to heal those wounds, time to heal hers, and the generational wounds we both carry.

I get to look my daughter in the eyes and she knows there is pain there, but she also knows there is love and there is lightness and there is vulnerability. She knows this because I show her my tears, I show her my fears and my anger. I do not hide away.

And, on the days I wish myself away into the darkness of my bed sheets, I choose to be the mother I know my mother would have been to me and what she was to me for fourteen years of my life; her will and love for life. Even her anger that lives so deeply on my heart that I sometimes see seeping out of my own skin; that sometimes it is the only time I feel more like her than myself - I’ve learnt to be with it now instead of fighting it off, anger is a normal emotion that comes from roots much deeper than the current moment, I see that now even if she never did.

And thats how I tell us apart on days like those.

As I sit amongst the dunes with my daughter, I see the tides going in and out. I explain to her thats how feelings are sometimes. I see the lomandra in the wind, I wonder if the childhood I give my daughter is one where she grows up to feel her emotions deeply. A childhood where she is risen up with women beside her, witnessing the strong connection between us, the stories we weave and teachings we digest.

I do not wish for her to learn all she knows from me. She sits with her grandmother and learns about the birds and how they build nests for their babies. She teaches her about the true beauty of this life and showers her in more love than I have ever seen. She plays with her friends and learns about kindness and that love can come from more places than one. She dances on leaves and splashes in puddles under trees, learning that nature is apart of us just as much as we are apart of it. And she cries in my arms, learning that home is wherever our hearts are.

What’s more potent than living her life and learning from those lessons that come with it?

And one day soon I’ll make it to my mothers, motherland, but for now I am my daughters and this is where I need to be.

Siân x

I knew by having very little control over how these conversations would play out, that they would turn out how they needed to in their own time. After my conversation with Maggie, I feel I came closer to visioning that for Hearth Conversations and feel into what it may be evolving into; A vessel for where people get to tell THEIR stories, how they want.

I’m just the story teller, reinterpreting the story back to you all. I am forever appreciative of having the opportunity to tell their stories.

In my conversation with Maggie from Frilly, we speak a lot on family and community and how that can pave the way for our futures in the most beautiful of ways.

Maggie and I met not long before I fell pregnant with Olive. We actually moved just down the road from her when I was twelve weeks, and she introduced me to one of my closest mum friends Kashmira, whom also lived around the corner from us. Maggie use to work at the little local cafe around the corner, she would make me my coffee, drop me pastries and home cooked meals from her mum. Maggie and I built our friendship from our shared love of vintage clothing, pottery and mutual friends. She is now one of those very few non-mum friends that stuck around - and we are so glad she did.

Maggie moved back to Brisbane to be with her family not long before I gave birth - of course heart shattering to me because I loved having her so close - but also so heart opening because she was going back to a place where she feels most inspired; at home, with her mum, and her siblings. Maggie’s heritage is Vietnamese and Chinese, and she is one of seven siblings. When we started this conversation I had expectations in mind about what we would be speaking on, but what Im slowly learning on this journey throughout my conversations with people - is that I cant expect it to go any certain way, because well, I am retelling other people’s stories.

So, when I sat down for this conversation with my coffee, and my journal it indeed exceeded all expectations. Those being that we would talk mostly about Maggie’s brand - Frilly, but instead we spoke more on who Maggie is. And, the intertwine of mothers and birth; I learnt a lot about Maggie through this conversation, but it also taught me a lot about myself. A surrendering that is and has shown up throughout my life since Olive’s birth, and the letting go of all expectations.

Maggie was in the thick of her brand '‘Frilly" when we met, I remember she had just done a drop of her second hand clothing. Maggie had photographed all the clothes she had sourced from Op shops around Gubbi Gubbi Country/Sunshine Coast. I remember seeing her draped in these beautiful old pieces of clothing, in her backyard, which I would like to add; overlooked a beautiful mountain. I snatched a denim maxi skirt, a corduroy skirt and I think a dress - then I fell pregnant.

Frilly was born back in covid as a project to keep Maggie’s love and obsession for thrifting alive and sustainable. Maggie started thrifting for herself and then her love outpoured into thrifting for her friends, she slowly started a collection - nine boxes in fact.

Not long after Maggie moved back to Brisbane, she decided to start her business back up again. Although that business wasn’t Frilly, it was soon after that it would eventuate into being just that. Maggie met her friend Emma at a nearby cafe in Brisbane, who in the end was a big part of helping Maggie name her business; Frilly.

I feel like the deeper into this series I go, the more conversations I have, there is always this theme surrounding creativity and the shared beauty of it staying relevant throughout the individuals life; from childhood throughout to adulthood. It feels very inspiring to me — someone who lost that connection to creativity at a young age. So, maybe this series is more than what I sort out for it to be, maybe it is my way of staying connected to my creative self, giving my inner child the space to explore and learn as freely as she needed.

And so it seems, does the same for Maggie.

I asked Maggie if there was anything she loves from her childhood that she has brought into her now, it became evident that for a lot of us, the things we love from our childhood is often play, creativity and freedom. Maggie spoke about finding her love for soccer again, getting back into singing and her sisters dressing her up in their clothes when she was a baby.

The way Maggie speaks so fondly about her childhood I start to really notice that community and family is really at the forefront of what drives Maggie and who she is - as well as who Frilly is too.

Maggie is the youngest of seven, and she was born here in Australia with her brother. Maggie told me about her mother, Kieu’s, life and history growing up in Vietnam, then making her way to Australia. She spoke about Kieu catching a boat whilst pregnant with four children in tow, from Vietnam to Malaysia, birthing her daughter and then finally arriving in Australia where she had Maggie and her brother.

Maggie says her friends inspire her, but her mother inspires her the most. The more I heard of Kieu’s story, the more I realised how true that was to be. There is no doubt that Maggie’s mother has had to work hard her whole life.

As Maggie spoke of her mothers upbringing I could so clearly see the respect and love in her eyes; I too started to feel it, and I haven’t even met her mother yet. Although I felt like I already have through the stories woven throughout over conversation and this unexplainable connection that two people who have lost their mothers have. I wasn’t much older than Kieu when I lost my mother too, although our lives were very much different — living among different cultures, a different time line, different lives — the heart break is still the same. I could feel so deeply, the choices Kieu would have had to make as a young girl, stepping up, finding a way to survive without the very thing that keeps us going; our mothers.

This part of the conversation is when I knew what I was doing with Hearth Conversations was a knowing, guided by something larger than myself, possibly my mother — whatever you believe in — but I cant help but feel this project is much bigger than myself. Because with story telling and listening, comes so much healing and connection; what would it be like if there was more of that?

Speaking of healing and connection, I find common hues weaved within every conversation I have and sustainability being one of the main ones. I asked Maggie what sustainability means to her, and that is, trying to find ways by thinking out of the box where she can reuse or give life to a piece of clothing more than once. Maggie talks about allowing your creativity to flourish by thinking about more ways you can be sustainable, and that it can be a fun thing to do. This flows deeply into her business, Frilly as she expresses

Maggie speaks about how she’s always trying to find new ways to keep Frilly sustainable in terms of setting an example and showing people it is achievable. She also does this when she is op shopping, she checks what each piece of clothing is actually made of whilst trying to aim for natural fibres and good quality brands. Though, Maggie says it’s been easy to lose touch with op shopping, we both agreed the prices on some pieces of clothing can be a joke especially when you read the tag and it’s made of polyester, or it’s really bad quality.

In saying that I have loved asking everyone I have a conversation with, what us parents reading can teach our children about sustainability. I asked Maggie what she feels we could incorporate into our lives, to teach our children about sustainable fashion. Maggie expressed that she thinks we can teach our children that op shopping is so much fun, it can be quite easy to find what your style is op shopping. It’s a really affordable way to do this, and children can use their imagination. Maggie gave a great example of a child going straight for the costume section, then choosing a pair of pants or hats, giving them more authority over what they choose to wear and who they want to be.

For Maggie, Frilly first started to become an outlet where she could share clothes and use the different creative parts of her self, as well as building community. Maggie speaks about more meaningful ways to tap into this community aspect, to allow for more interaction and education, whilst still finding clothes & rehoming them.

We ended our conversation speaking on the importance of not having one plan in life, or having a plan necessarily at all. That different seasons of our lives can call for different outlets too, and it was a nice reminder whilst I traverse the seasons of motherhood - that we don’t have to be everything we sought out to be at once, we have our whole lives ahead of us.

Thank you Maggie for having this conversation with me, I loved every moment of it & I hope you all did too. You can find Maggie at “magggieluu” and Frilly “frillystore” on Instagram.

Maggie has just recently released a thrifted drop and I believe there is still some pieces to be scored.

Siân x

We climb mountains that often feels like no one else has climbed, to be a parent is a dance that never stops. Like the way she climbs the very stairs she learnt to walk up; she kept persisting and now she does it all on her own. There is ripped paper at the top, boxes filled with memories we wish to keep and bins filled with those we no longer need. Maybe it isn’t my fear of leaving it behind, maybe its the fear of being another step away, another memory away from the feelings I felt when I held her in my arms for the first time; oceans away from the memory of becoming mum and dad.

Grief and love persist on my heart, we watched home videos from when we were just two lovers, yet to know what was beholding us and what would come of the next three years of our lives. We spoke of what life would have been like without her, we agreed it wasn’t a life worth living, though we both ache at the feelings of grief for what we had when it was just the two of us;

It’s all welcome here.

Our feet tangle within sheets of stories. Death and rebirth is current in our lives right now. Everything sentimental fits into tiny places of the stories already written, alongside each-other. We make way for new stories, and for those waiting to be written. Sometimes it feels like we are a boat without an oar, navigating the hard times with compassion maybe more so than we give ourselves. We are intertwined within our daughters existence, when she became one with her first breath, I think we did too.

Learning a path unseen, like wading in the darkness of the unknown; not knowing where to place our feet. Possibly the simple learning is what makes us free.

One. Step. At. A. Time.

Im learning to turn the fans off as we leave the house, and he is learning how not to fix everything. We love each-other for it.

My heart has not felt absent, though time says otherwise. I feel like time is the common theme of my impatience as of late; or the triggering from the parenting of oneself, whilst parenting a tiny human. I try to find inner waves of gratitude for the times I do get to write, even if it has been jotting down something in my notes; then never using it. It’s the mere act of showing up, even when I don’t want to.

Though, absence makes the heart grow fonder, my heart has been called for the other. The reading taking place in the last weeks within this home, music being sung into the kitchen walls someone else will soon call home. I wonder terribly why there is so much violence in this world when we all called each others home our own one day. Whether that was made of brick, or womb. Yet I am not blasé enough not to know, that the problem lies within depths much deeper than that.

We watch her grow whilst we hear of others wilting, I think about the mothers laying there tonight absorbed by the trenches of fear; missing out on their children’s growth or the grief they feel from death taking its place. As one needs time to process, where is theres? I do not think time exists there, yet days become higher numbers and nothing is done to change. Ive never felt so helpless in my life besides the day I slowly lost my mother.

So as grief and love continue to co-exist so loudly within my life, I will continue to follow with the love specially on the days that feel very far from it. Because there is nothing more important than raising a child to be herself and full of love, in a time that is very full of darkness. And, on the days where I feel I can no longer, I will think of those mothers who are doing it longer without their children, living in fear and uncertainty of the day in-front of them and speak of them often.

We don’t need to be silent, as I tell myself.

As change sweeps its way throughout our lives at this moment, I will be trying to write more within the calmness that comes along with the rustling of comfortability. I cannot wait to share more about our journey this year, and if you feel like following along within a more fast-paced scene you can so on my instagram sian__april though I am aching to find the words for such transformation,

soon.

Siân x

This newsletter is more of a personal one with a little insight into our days lately and something special from my pregnancy. I have included photos of my Christmas crafts that we have been doing, I struggled with finding things I could do with the capacity I have had. So, if you have been feeling the same and are interested in seeing more “hardly any capacity crafts” (that is what I will call them haha) I will be posting some things over the month of December on my Instagram and possibly could post them here on notes if that is something you would be interested in. Let me know in the comments,

As many of you know I am a mother to my daughter, full time at home with her. I haven’t been getting as much time to write lately, and when I do, I have been writing whats on my mind in that moment or following from something I had quickly jotted down in my notes. So with that being said, I am still working on my next Conversation as part of Hearth Conversations which I am hoping to have out this month. If you haven’t read the first two, then you can read the first half of the first conversation here~

And part two ~

And if you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about when I say “Hearth Conversations” then I will add a link that will take you to my newsletter where I give you a deep dive into what these conversations are about.

In summary, Hearth Conversations is a place I created as a full time mum where I can have important and interesting conversations that I struggle to find the time to have. These conversations can range from being about people in my local community doing amazing things, mothers, fathers, grandparents, neighbours. But most importantly, I wanted to create a space that shined the light on how we are ALL important in some way, and I want to retell their stories, so you, my reader, can see that too.

As always, I am forever grateful to those who take the time to open my love mail, respond to notes, comment and like on my posts and who follow along day after day ~ post after post. Creating a community on this platform as meant more to me than creating one anywhere else on this online world, thank you for reading my thoughts and supporting me, a mother.

x

Under the mountain, and by the sea our house resides. It was a grey day when we woke up this morning, the sun peeping through the clouds with a slight tinge of blue within the distance. My mind felt at ease that the sky was as gloomy as I had felt waking up at 5am with a teething toddler. I rolled over and attempted to fall back to sleep whilst my partner assisted our daughter with her pries for a “book book book” and her insisting whenever we sit on the toilet it’s “poo poo poo”.

I must have drifted in and out of sleep a few times, but I had already been woken, so any chances of me falling into deep meaningful rest again was close to zero. I remembered today was Sunday and today was our family day; there is no time for a sleep in now, not whilst everyone is up - a fear of missing out is too strong to keep this mum asleep.

We head downstairs after our usual morning routine of teeth, stretching & cuddling. The usual baby magpie that was saved months ago by the community here; people hand built it a nest and helped his mum feed him hoping for a sign of growth. Now her and the mum do their usual dance across the grass finding worms or squawking at her waiting to be fed, I am going with “she” because my daughter does the same to me. Awaiting to be scared off by my daughter, who — with much excitement runs to the door screaming “bird bird bird”.

The smell of coffee or eggs cooking in the morning is something my daughter will grow up feeling nostalgic about. My partner works as a coffee roaster as well as a photographer so, as you can imagine, there are lots of coffee’s made and lots of photos too. We have a big window in our lounge room that looks out into our courtyard where a Grevillea tree resides. We use to have a big Grevillea tree in our backyard when I was pregnant, I would stand under it every week to witness my growing belly through my partners camera lens; I guess they are nostalgic to me. My daughter will feed and I will watch the lorikeets and minor birds eating the nectar that falls upon the grevilleas.

Today the sun was peeking through the clouds so perfectly that it was lightly hitting our herbs we have just planted in our garden, there is a sand pit yet to be filled with sand and another area with pebbles — but I love this little garden so much. It’s been a nice change from living in a tiny shed, with a big backyard. I don’t have to do as much chasing around, or worrying the giant goannas would eat my daughter like they did our chickens.

We usually sit at the dining table whenever we eat - we never had one in our tiny shed, we would always sit on the floor or around our coffee table. So when we moved into a bigger place, I was adamant about the dinning table. I wanted the ritual of eating all our meals together, at the table. We always say what we are grateful for before we eat; grateful for the food in-front of us, for the family we have that we get to eat with.

After my partner cooked some eggs and made some coffee we sat down and I said I was grateful for family day, a chance to slow down and appreciate each-other when often in times of business or to-do lists it can be easy to forget - but thats the beauty of the dinning table, we always come together at the end of the day.

It got me thinking about my daughters childhood, I read something I had written down in my notes a while back “The people she looks up to and the way they perceive her is the way she will learn to perceive herself” and I thought about the slowing down, the appreciating. When times are tough and energies are low or the world is in turbulence, fear and massacre it reminds me that all those other worries or to-do lists actually don’t matter in the greater picture. Having people around that prioritise the slowing down, the family time, presence, the mundane, will show my daughter that these are things that truly matter most.

This topic of slowing down, gratefulness, has been something I have been thinking often, especially this time of year. I feel the energy is high surrounding Christmas, people are trying to get last minute things done, maybe find presents, plan Christmas dinners, or finish up classes. I am left wondering if the stress comes from the holiday being built upon presents and Santa photos, and what it would be like if it was more about the actual coming together, the slowing down and the presence that Christmas magic can bring.

It got me thinking about how to approach Christmas to our daughter, she is almost two but she understands so much already. When I met my partner, I remember spending Christmas with his mum and brother, the house was full of festive add ons that you could tell had been in the family for years. There was your usual family dinner, rum balls and the feeling of coming together as a family. But what I loved most about it, was that every present; giving or received was either handmade or lovingly found. That was my first time experiencing an exchange of gifts that were truly made from the heart, there was no giving because you felt you had to, or because it is the ‘right’ thing to do. That these choices may stem from not having the money at first, though my mother in~love didn’t allow that limitation to necessarily be a negative thing. As I know she believes, and as do I, that often in these times creativity comes out and special things can happen; like gifts made from the heart that creates long life memories longer than any store bought present could do; keep sakes for eternity.

The plant my mother in~love gifted me that Christmas, still sits at our front door.

My partner and I’s second Christmas spent together, I was pregnant and I was finishing up my pottery creations for the year. I loved hand building during my pregnancy when my belly got too big. I hand built my sister a small vase for her home, and wind chimes for my mother~inlove; they both still have them sitting within their homes. Im always thinking of the memory of our first Christmas together whenever there is a reason to gift something to someone. I’ve chosen to carry that tradition on, and try gifting handmade loved upon goods; that really, the first gift my mother in~love gave me was showing me that they can mean way more than anything else I could gift my daughter.

This tradition is now carried on to her, Olive, for I want her to feel the things her mother has weaved for her, that to be in abundance does not mean to have a lot. That maybe one day if she decides to, she will be sitting at her dining table with her children, making things with her hands and thinking back on memories with me and her granny.

My mother would always say “a home made card means more than a bought card” I wish I listened to those words more, but I will savour them now & speak of them to my daughter.

She watches on with her deep blue eyes, the process of creating, the process of giving. She will watch me paint or draw on the pages she fills with scribbles, that I then rip out to pass on to loved ones as a token of our love - what’s better than that? For these moments are so precious, I don’t think I could ever chuck out her creations. There will be folders upon folders, to be used as gifts, I will pull them out for birthdays & wrap her presents in them. We will love them.

I made her a felt crown for her first birthday, and a couple of fairy wands with felt and sticks. Her granny made her wooden dolls with hand dyed felt.
She still plays with them a year on.

I thought about my childhood & the lengths my mother went to, to have me feel seen & loved on holidays like Christmas, birthdays and Easter. I believe I can be grateful for my mothers mindset and values at the time just as much as I can learn from her and not outstretch myself. Because, honestly I remember the stress of her trying to outdo herself every year — the lack of money she had — the same as I remember waking up excited on Christmas morning to open those presents, and giving my mum a smile that would prove to her, she is doing the best she can.

If only she knew the term ‘Patriarchal Motherhood’ back then.

It made me think about the mothers that are told in our society and culture that the more we give, the more our love is shown, or worthy. That to receive love we have to buy it, stretch ourselves out and add to the already gigantic list of what we call the mental load; because we for some reason need to compensate with presents and toys that won’t get used more than once but probably cost an arm and a leg - which then means we have to work more for them. Thanks to a society that defines worth on the externals rather than who we are as mothers, and everything else that comes under that.

What would happen if we were told; we are still good enough mothers, we are still loved even, if we choose to slow down & make things with our hands, buy just one present or that our presence and time is more worthy than anything else? because what if mothers could be supported in the slowing down and not in the doing? being told that if we really don’t want to do the thing we really don’t want to do, but feel like we HAVE to or “should” do, then we really don’t need to and thats okay.

We can hold ourselves up to certain expectations that when we often don’t meet (because we are meeting everything else) it can leave us feeling guilt and sometimes, shame. I want whoever is reading this to feel as though this space is showing you that if there’s no Christmas decorations hand made and the only thing you can do is get $5 decorations from the $2 store down the road, then that’s more than enough - or if you feel like you have no capacity to do anything, you don’t have to. Because at the end of the day our children will remember the love over anything else.

Because like you, I too sit here today finishing off this newsletter and think about the week I have had, that slowing down would benefit me and therefore my daughter, more than the stress of Christmas presents. I had found myself wanting to do it all, and often wondering what it meant if I couldn’t. I took a step back and watched my daughter with what she does have, she’s happy to live by the beach and a park. She is happy to get to spend every day with me, she is happy to have a present family and loving friends she gets to grow up with. That if there was one present or none sitting under our Christmas tree, she would be happy that we were all together and present.

And, I am slowly learning and surrendering to the truth that the only thing I need to giver her is my time, the rest will follow. With time comes presence, with time comes peace. I don’t need to carry on a conditioning that makes me believe I need to provide more for her to feel worthy or for me to feel loved.

Because how does that show her how I perceive her, and in what ways will she learn to perceive herself?

She loves me anyway, and thats enough for me.

I have been thinking a lot about this space and what I want to use it for. I went in-between figuring out a way I could create something for others, which in a way I definitely am or will be doing more of. As I feel the conversations around motherhood are very much needed, and there’s so much I want to share - it just comes at a price of emotional exhaustion at times, and a vulnerability hangover.

And well, producing something that I want to, and enjoy doing/talking about.

I am often reminding myself that what I need to say will reach the right people, at whatever time in their lives they may need to hear what I have to say.

I’ve always wanted to ‘help’ people in some way, but if I can stand beside another women; a mother and say you aren’t alone and we are in this together, through what I write and share on here, then that’s more than I could ask for.

So as I continue to share my love and sometimes loathe for mothering and all that encompasses it; I will be sharing more from my new chapter called “Hearth Conversations”. If you are intrigued and want to read more on what this is about I will lovingly send you to this link ~

The first conversation you can read here ~

I’m hoping to release a new conversation monthly — with a new conversation in the works — but as with everything, there is no guarantee and I must continue to listen to my heart within times of exhaustion, love and compassion and allow myself to sink into every season — whatever way that needs to look like.

I’ve come to understand my way of being is so synced to always coming back to truth, vulnerability and being my self. I came here because there was no should’s, or limits for what I can create. There was no external influence for me personally, just me, my mind & my ideas. So I’m going to use my time here however I like, and allow my creativity to flourish, my love to deepen and my heart to expand.

Im loving creating a community here - there is almost 80 of you which is a big number for me as I started this without wanting anyone to read anything. How glad I am that changed, because the people I’ve met here mean way more than meeting someone on Instagram ever has.

Over the last six months I’ve allowed myself to open up, continue to tell myself that what I have to say is worth sharing and expanding in ways I didn’t know how.

I truly believe, the gift of believing is something I hold close to being human. Believing in myself has always managed to open up more expansion in other aspects of my life.

I remember last month confessing to my partner that I’m bored within the mothering, and I feel like I need to birth; I do not want another baby right now though, however that feeling was just that — expansion.

I mentioned I wanted to learn something but felt overwhelmed because my list of interests for things to learn was growing by the minute and my lack of time was shrinking by the second (which essentially is why I started ‘Hearth conversations’ that has been fulfilling that to some degree) But I realised one thing, a lot of those named on the lists were actually hobbies that needed more time dedicated to them - and the other stuff, well, I allowed myself to sink into what it would mean for me if I started making a future for myself where more abundance could flow freely and showing myself I am enough; so I signed up to a motherhood studies course with Dr. Sophie Brock. And I’m SO excited.

I also started working one morning a week at a beautiful holistic healing centre, learning and working with amazing woman & herbs. - which was one of the hobbies on my list I had written.

I was amazed at what happened when I said yes, took a leap instead of over thinking and eventually saying no, or nothing at all.

And, miraculously I’ve had more time for my creativity; my writing, drawing WITH my daughter, other projects I can’t wait to share and committing to these things has felt even better.

I was driving to work the other day and felt so incredibly emotional, I looked at my daughter the night before and I couldn’t help but feel that ball of guilt sitting within my throat. I wondered, was I doing the right thing?

“Shouldn’t” I be spending every living, waking moment with this girl?

“Shouldn’t” I just be grateful I get to stay at home and be with her?

“Shouldn’t” I savour every moment and not be or do anything outside of her, or Mother, because time is fleeting and it doesn’t last forever?

I sat with these feelings and thoughts for a little while, I realised we are in a season of grief as well as a season of flourishing, expanding in all the most beautiful ways.

I remember a mother speaking on grief within being a Mother during our Substack meet up — — Thank you from the bottom of my heart, I didn’t know it then, but I needed to hear what you had to say — Zoe has an older son, and she spoke about how there is no certain ending to one milestone, or one chapter of mothering, there is just a learning to live with both the intensity of grief and love — the two can coexist. This reminded me of one of my older posts — if you are a long time follower you may recognise — “Fragments of Change” ~

So as I stared at my beautiful girl, I noticed the grief that was living inside of me. Olive is almost two, and we now only have “milky” to fall asleep. I have started to feel “done” for a couple of weeks now, thinking of ways I could slowly reduce the amount she is drinking — because it’s a lot. I absolutely adore and love every part of breastfeeding, even the twiddling with the opposite nipple like she’s twiddling her thumbs, even the sleepless nights because all that helps her teething is my milk, and even the uphill battle for her to eat something some days other than milk. But of course, as soon as I stuck with my truth, she did too; and that energy that was once stagnant, shifted.

I also noticed the joy that was living inside of me, the feeling of purpose; of finally finding my voice, landing somewhere that feels right — for now. That how could I feel so much guilt, shame whilst feeling so much joy, happiness?

I think that feeling is something that comes with being mother, the one where at times you often feel at a loss no matter what decision you make until you don’t again.

Surrendering is always painting pictures within my life, it’s a theme curated for me since birth. I am thankful for that, as surrendering is something I know of quite well. I went to the deepest depths to understand it, I will forever be re-meeting and understanding; I think for the rest of my life it will be my biggest teacher.

Sian x

Today I was reminded of why I don’t feel inspired all the time, and the moments in which I do; It’s the in-between being a mother & a woman,

The moments in which I watch my daughter figure out Duplo,

The moments in which I’m exhausted, crying beside my her

The moments in which our foreheads are pressed together, the feeling of being one again

The moments in which she’s at the kitchen sink putting the forks and spoons away to only bring them back out again

The moments in which she’s woken up at 4am, quietly letting me know the sunrise will be beautiful and so will the rest of the day

The moments in which she says no and stands her ground

For I want her to remember them as her own,

To grow up and know I was inspired by her

Our moments together as one

And now, as two

The moments in which we are seperate, and I get a moment to me

The moments in which the house is a mess, coloured with her play

The moments in which I say “I’m done today”, at the end of a hard day

I yearn to know when those days will come,

when she will express these days back to me,

in words she knows how

but for now I will relish, in the hugs and the tugs at my dress’s

that say,

I love you too mum

“Hold it in” I say to my mind, keep it in there until I find pen and paper, or some time.

I have been feeling quite fragile this week, triggers of my early childhood reminisce amongst the air of my days with my daughter. I try so hard to fight it, maybe listening to my own words of advice; surrender.

I look at a photo of a painting of a mum and her baby; she is breastfeeding and she looks happy. I think to myself “ I remember that place all too well” where the mere thought of “I’m not enjoying this as much anymore” was so far out of reach, because if you know me you know how much I loved breastfeeding — and I still do — which I find is the uphill battle. Knowing when i’ve had enough, when I’m ready to let go.

The constant battle with stepping away from those duties, my daughter not accepting it. Although, my place is elsewhere now. She is almost two and I feel her slipping, slowly getting older, with more independence and requring more of my attention; which is at reach.

How does one hold it together? Next week I might have the answers, this week I do not.

A first time mum pointed at the painting, she mentioned wanting artwork to display in her home for preparation of motherhood; she said that the painting reminded her of a happy mother. I remembered the days when I looked at mothers and couldn’t see the depth they were carrying day to day, the smiles would hide them away.

I wasnt sure what to say to her, Motherhood is happy, but also debilitating, greif shooken, heart opening and life changing. It is transformational, it is the death of maiden and rebirth that is Matresence whether we feel it instantly or not. That it might take you some time, and thats okay. I wanted to tell her she might feel it all. We don’t have to be everything our culture and society says we do, she can be angry, she can be upset, she can hate it sometimes. Its okay. Our babies will still love us.

I wish someone had whispered those words to me

Would I of listened? no, probably not.

How do you wrap and fit words to explain a life altering experience, that is being mother?

You cant.

But I think there is a difference between having known those completely normal things, being told that it WILL be okay spite it all

And, not being told these things; being reborn into it, feeling alone because I’m up at 3am with a baby that wont latch or sleep and my boobs are the size of mountains (I had no idea that was going to happen)

I know it’s hard when you are not in the depths of it, you want to savour every moment. We don’t choose when or how we speak about it. I know that when we are in the depths there is always a massive change or transition happening — which more often than not, feels like,

Every. Single. Day.

Whether it’s visible or not. That once we are over the hump, I wake up to a new child; from baby to toddler, a little girl right before my eyes. So I often choose to sit in the “easy” and not think about the hard. Because what if I miss it all?

So I can understand why no one told me I’d be happy, as well as all the other things

and I hope she understands why I didn’t either.

No one is an expert in being a mother, it somewhat gets easier until it doesn’t, we sometimes feel we have our shit together and most of the time we don’t — which I feel is the beauty of it all, birth surrenders us to the unexpected, it opens us up to ALL possibilities - which are endless.

And it strengthens us for the road to come.

That yesterday was a happy day,

and tomorrow may not be.

We are still loved, and we can still love, even amongst it all.

Sian x

You can also find my Poetry and Mother thoughts over on my main page too, I hope you find something that resonates with you or something that you may of needed to hear — to ring deep within you on this day.

And, please let me know if so; I have loved connecting with beautiful, like minded people on this platform.

So, thank you for being here.

Sian x

Welcome to Part two of Hearth Conversations with House of Clare, if you haven’t read Part one already then I would love for you to read it here

I have uploaded this conversation in two parts because I felt that it was full of too many goodies, that I actually wanted to give you the time to integrate from part one. Part two is more of a personal and intimate insight into Clare and her life within House of Clare.

As mentioned in Part One of Hearth Conversations with House of Clare, we spoke a bit about Clares creative outlets - because theres lots, and if theres anyone to inspire you to pick up a paint brush, a pencil, some clay — its Clare.

As I walk around Clares home, there is a couple of paintings of hers, drawings and ceramics scattered in there too. Clare spoke a lot about the feeling of home, and what it feels like to walk past someones home, the memories and life that makes up these brick buildings we all live within— so when I was inside Clares space, I could really feel a sense of hers. It was inspiring to be amongst her creations, which Im sure inspires her too.

When I first met Clare, her instagram was full of beautiful artistic film photos, the way she explores and captures everything from people, houses, animals to random objects that would otherwise not be visible to someone else — but visible to Clare, she make’s beauty out of it. I feel Clare has always had an eye, bringing the mundane to the forefront of our lives — the people who follow her, who she surround’s herself with— from photography, to painting and drawing.

Clare speaks about her recent trip to Tasmania, that her and her partner Murphy ventured out on. Clare of course took her camera, and she came home with a myraid of photos of old beautiful houses. She ended up making a zine full of the ones she captured in the small rural towns of Tasmania.

Clare doesn’t just capture this beautiful imagery of simply being human, an animal, a house, or a vintage house hold linen — but she channels these visions through many other avenues of creativity too.

Clare uses either a graphite pencil or black ball pen on paper to capture the essence of people and their loved one, she did commission pieces for people and their pets. It reminds me of the person that Clare is, the joy that comes from that special place in her heart by creating and sharing it with others.

I remember when I was nearing the end of my pregnancy and Clare came around to draw and paint me under my favourite Grevillea tree in my backyard. I still have the painting hanging up in our lounge room. My birth worker mentioned that its a liberating feeling having your pregnant body be captured in many forms of creativity, other than a photograph — Im so glad Clare did that for me.

Clare spoke about her first hobby as a seven or eight year old, beading. She would make dream catches and friendship bracelets at school and started selling them there. She spoke about her collections and wanting to open her own craft store.

It made me think about our aspirations as children, and how as we get older we slowly lose that part of ourselves — the child like, the play, sometimes the creativity. So, I love how Clare — even though she isn’t beading anymore — still kept her child like self bright enough for her to open her own brand and continue creating, playing as an adult. I feel that speaks so true to who she is as a women, as a brand owner — following her intuition, staying true to who she is.

That started to get me thinking about what else inspires her, other than her love for homes and beautiful household vintage. Clare mentioned Wes Anderson.

When Clare started ceramics she began making her own ceramic houses at TAFE. Clare hand built for many many months the most beautiful houses you ever did see, one sat beautifully on a shelf in her studio with a light shining within. I remember briefly seeing Clare during this time, she would sometimes run past my house on her way home and collect my own ceramics to be fired. You could tell she was in the depths of her creation process then, it was inspiring. Clare spoke about her end of year exhibition for her TAFE class, she had her ceramic houses up for display as well as her many other creations;

I’ve enjoyed so much getting to know more about Clare and her brand House Of Clare, I wondered what went into a day of production, how she creates the magic that is House Of Clare; from household vintage linens to brand new button up shirts, shorts, hats, etc. Clare explained

I think knowing what goes on behind the scenes, the love put into every piece of clothing, the effort, is so important when buying from sustainable brands. The way Clare expresses her love for her craft, the love that goes into those production days - you can very clearly see that Clare is doing something she truly loves to do. She is finding the delicate dance that is bringing something you love to life, and also making it part of your income.

Clare spoke about having a small business and how at times it actually can be quite difficult. Clare’s production line is just her, on her own, creating each and every piece of clothing from the moment she sources it, irons it, she unpicks it, cuts and sews it. Clare speaks about what it means to run a small business, and what the last ten months has looked like for her

Towards the end of our conversation I asked Clare what House Of Clare’s values are, she expressed them being;

Quality, expression and art.

I couldn’t agree more, and I think if you’ve read this far, you would too.

Clare has recently just dropped a new range for spring, and she spoke about using more of her scraps. You can find Button-up Shirts, Halter Tops, Shorts, Bandanas, Hats, Mini Skirts and her Mini Pouch Pencil Cases on her website.

Go give her some loving x

The windows are stained gold, and the wind flicks them open slightly. I pick up my coffee, the chocolate on top falls onto my keyboard - I rub it off and I notice the same gold tinge on the ring on my finger. It was my mothers ring, that she placed there, I was thirteen and she was forty-two. The last time it was on her hand she was pushing the hair behind my ears for one of the last time’s, she would always say how much she loved to see my face. I never understood why.

The clock says it’s 9am, the number feels so present in my life right now. It has just gone nine years without my mum, nine years of discovering who I am without her. Although I stare at that ring on my finger, and I feel closer to myself, because I feel closer to her — than I ever did before.

I see her when I push my daughters hair behind her ears, I get it now.

I remember when she passed, I didn’t cut my hair for years afterwards. Maybe it was my way of preserving who I was when she left, maybe it was my way of keeping that part of my life alive; because she wasn’t.

I deleted the instagram app from my phone last month, and maybe I did this to preserve who I am now, the sanity I have left in this season of mothering, maybe it was to keep myself in this moment of time with her — my daughter. Maybe it was the pressure getting to me, to show up as a mother doing more than that — mothering. Maybe it was myself, giving me a chance to meet who I am now? who am I apart from her? who am I apart from the fourteen year old girl who lost her mum way to young?

Who do I meet every day I look into the mirror?

Is not knowing a bad thing?

I recently listened to something about how curiosity and fear cant live together, you have one or the other. You cant have both, not at the same time. You either switch on curiosity or you switch on fear.

In my early childhood fear was switched on without my permission, my creativity was taken from me and that slowly formed who I became. I still had my imagination, though. I would imagine I was anywhere else but in a moment of time. Long car drives turned into gazing out the window pretending I was in a different car, in a different time, in a different life —usually to the sound of whatever song I may of been listening to. Looking back on it now, I see it as myself romanticising myself out of a life that was all too much and into a life that seemed much easier, prettier, calmer. I’d catch a train to school most days my mum started to get sick, my earphones would go in and those worries would come out, id switch off to the world. And I watched way to many movies that made me hopeful my life would amount to something.

Now, this might sound like the small unconscious doing of romanticising, is helping me in some way when I really needed it — which it definitely was, and definitely can but;

Romanticising became my way of surviving

Coming back to my ‘why’ for deleting instagram off my phone, everything I said previously was indeed part of it. But I knew there has to be a much deeper aspect as to why;

Instead of music, movies and train or car rides I turned to social media as another way to romanticise a life I so badly wanted, I craved. Because in that moment, I was living and breathing the trauma that was going on for me — I now see life was just levelling me up, because really, I wouldn’t be who I am today without it — I mean, would any of us? However, that way of living was so engrained in me that it became more detrimental rather than saving me anymore.

No, I wasn’t living that trauma no longer, no longer was I victim to it. So why on earth was I relying on old ways to serve me now?

I was now a mother trying to survive in a different way.

Everyday i was witnessing this romanticising of motherhood

While it’s important to romanticise to get through our hard days; the cries and sometimes screams, still sink into my ears the same and sometimes, not always, is it easier to be in that than not. That somethings are better left than to romanticise something out of them.

Which do not get me wrong, I agree whole heartedly. I wake up everyday choosing to see the beauty in those small, fleeting sometimes hard moments — I wouldn’t get through some of our days without putting music on, baking with my daughter and see art in the way she cracks the eggs and pulls the yolk out with her little fingers — but for someone with my past of romanticising to survive, it felt I was propelling myself back into the traumatic state; an ignorance of what is and a hoping for what it ‘should’ be; turning into an adult with even more big feelings and the cycle of being triggered by my daughters.

What would happen if i just accepted the hard days of motherhood for what they were? allow myself to feel into them a lot more deeply

It became more about simplifying, rather than romanticising and using that to allow myself to drop into creativity over fear.

I deleted instagram and I came back to those mundane moments that are a lot of the time hard, and messy and ugly. I created something from it — rather than burying myself in what other people were doing, or living their lives in more often than not — perfectionism.

My mother was diagnosed with cancer and I opened myself to the healing art of writing. I wrote about it. I wrote about how it made me feel. And, when I go through any transition or life change — I always write.

So, nearing my mums anniversary I chose to write as if my life was all sunshine and rainbows but it became harder to write than it was before. That maybe, just maybe, I needed to give myself the permission to be in the hurt, the grief, to hold myself there and tell myself what I needed to be told nine years ago; but instead drowned myself in movies and people who weren’t the best for me.

To tell myself now, that its okay to not always be able to romanticise the hard season i’m in, that sometimes spilt food on the floor really pisses me off and when i’m due for my bleed, seeing the house a mess doesn’t look like an artwork made by my daughter. That for someone who has been romanticising to survive most of their life — although its helped in many ways it also has its time and place — that more often than not, hasn’t been apart of my mothering experience as much as id hoped it to be.

Instead, I can give myself a gentle reminder that it’s only a season, that it wont be like this forever — that maybe in the next season of mothering it will be — that my heart wont ache like that forever and its okay to hold myself now.

Possibly a little gracefulness too, for that season of motherhood when I am in it, or that season of being human — I feel it’s where I am most inspired to write. Those in-between moments where things have been extremely difficult but they’re nearing from impossible to possible and the suns finally come out, I can breath again and my fingers can move in this synchronised way they only know how from the deepest depths of pain. I find myself being able to write again, how the wind moves or the rain drops on my shoulder.

So, mother, daughter, friend reading this, this is a reminder that the thing that feels most hard might not be the thing you need to romanticise today and that if you cant, it doesn’t mean you are not doing a good enough job. I give you permission to give yourself permission, to lean into the hard, to feel whatever you feel and then later, later you can romanticise about it. But just promise to feel first.