The Uncomfortably Familiar Surrounding of the Hospital Ward No Longer Sits Well With Me.


The moment you arrived in this world, those nine weeks prematurely, was the moment I knew our journey was going to be jaggered. 

Your Brother had done very little to prepare us for a poorly child, he’d not once been ill in the 9 months prior to your birth. We left ward 10 of UHND skipping with positivity, marvelling in the miracle of life. Only to return somewhat nine months later anticipating your eager arrival. The car journey to hospital with your brother was full of excitement and readiness – and even though he arrived three weeks early, we were both mentally and physically prepared. My pregnancy APP had told me that he was officially ‘full term’ and had done all the growing and developing he’d need to in my womb. The car journey second time round was not so clear cut. The feelings we experienced were completely worlds apart! With you, there was so much to fear, so much at stake of losing. We were told there was a chance you wouldn’t survive and although we were compelled not to believe this would be our reality, we couldn’t deny that this could be our truth. 


It took 5 weeks before we could skip down the corridor, focusing positively on your future. 5 weeks of getting to witness just how miraculous growing life could be. We physically saw your eyes unpeel, your lungs grow stronger. In a conflicting sort of way, it was a privilege to see.  Once those 5 weeks were over, we had visions of plain sailing from then on out, to wave goodbye to UHND once and for all. We had visions of routine check-ups going exactly as the should…no hiccups, no complications, no more reasons to worry.

I wished for this so much.

Your 1st Year of life saw us returning to hospital almost as much as we were away. Your lungs just didn’t seem ready to cope with any common childhood bug you encountered. I spent many nights watching the sats machine, praying you’d turn a corner. I sat in the darkness of the hospital room, feeling all too uncomfortably familiar within my surroundings. The smells, the noises, the chaos and commotion just felt so much like the beginning of your life. I started to feel as though maybe this was just going to be part of your jaggered journey.


Almost as quickly as I admitted that, you suddenly seemed to flourish. Your lungs appeared to be coping with the demands of toddlerhood, we rarely used your inhaler and started to believe you were over the worst of it.

That’s not to say your trips to the Hospital came to an end. During this time, we came to realise you had Cerebral Palsy. The MRI scans, blood tests, kidney scans, hip X-rays, hearing tests and optometrist appointments just seemed to replace the late night ventures to A&E. on top of your ECG scans and routine paediatric visits, we began to see regular physio appointments, hydrotherapy, and occupational health. We became more aware than ever that UHND was always going to play a role in your childhood. This, however, all seemed manageable. The trips were expected and planned, we knew when you were going, how long you would attend and always that you’d be back home in time for bed. Most appointments were promising and we left with a sense of direction and confidence in your consultants. You were moving in the right direction. Every visit, every scan or X-ray shed some much needed light on how we could get you to where you needed to be. The familiarity of the hospital ward was certainly diminishing.

Then you turned two and things just seemed to turn upside down. 


You even started your 2nd Birthday poorly! We awoke on the 30th November 2016 to find you covered head to toe in Chicken Pox. You were irritable and understandably agitated but like we’d grown to expect, you appeared no different to any other toddler. It wasn’t until two weeks after your Birthday – a week before Christmas – that the late night rushes to A&E returned to our lives.

Since then, we seem to have visited more than ever before. Your lungs which we once rejoiced over maturing, no longer seem to tolerate any additional pressure. You’re susceptible to chest infections as a side effect of your large ASD (something I had hoped we’d have sorted by now), when your chest is infected, your lungs just can’t handle the strain. I’ve watched you work so hard to breathe that it’s rendered you incapable of speaking. I’ve held your listless body in my arms – agonised by your intercostal recessions. I’ve listened to Doctors tell me you have Asthma then tell me again that you haven’t. There always seems to be a battle whether it’s viral-induced wheeze, Bronchiolitis or Pneumonia which has knocked you down. Lately, they’ve branded around Chronic Lung Disease as if it’s not something that should scare me witless! I’ve heard them say you need a consultant then walked out of the hospital doors so maddened by the lack of progress on this front. 


I’ve fought! I’ve insisted and I finally feel as though I’m getting somewhere! Tomorrow, we’ll meet your Asthma nurse and eventually a plan of action can be put in place. 

You’re two and a half now and I’m so exasperatingly ready for that plain-sailing part of your journey to start. I want to be able to take you to a park on a sunny day without fear of hearing that wheeze. I want to take you to ballet without feeling guilty that the exercise is too much for your lungs to handle. I want to wake up on a rainy morning loving the possibility of spoldging in puddles – not feeling the dread that the humidity will change your temperament. 

The uncomfortably familiar surrounding of the hospital ward no longer sits well with me. Surely, it has to be time to move on! 

P.S I’m forever grateful for the care and attention Siena receives from UHND. The staff here are beyond miracle workers, keeping me sane one admittance at a time. Thank you for your hard work and support xx

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You’ll Never Want For Love


Before entering the realm of Motherhood, I truly never understood just how strongly I could feel about someone else. I’d always considered myself to be empathetic and emotionally astute but even then, I could also be so emotionally detached. As far as Motherhood went, I’ve kept no secrets that it wasn’t something I was looking forward to.

It always felt so hard to relate to those who swore I’d feel differently once you and your Sister arrived. Babies made me uncomfortable, nervous and a little scared. Even around your cousins and friends, I couldn’t relax in the company of infants. I didn’t know how to hold them – how to comfort them or reassure them. I assumed, in plain, that this wouldn’t change once I had my own treasures to care for. 
It’s true though – what they say – you are always different with your own. Yes, it took me a few weeks to settle into the role of Mother but once I had, I knew it was my calling. 

Both you and your Sister arrived into our lives like tornados! You came in screaming, threatening to disturb the peace, life-changing and altering all in an instant. You changed me eternally, made me so scared to envisage a life then without you…taught me true pain, true heart ache, true love. You showed me the flaws of my soul, showed me a way to want to be better! 

Your Sister arrived even more turbulently, traumatic and harrowing, she taught us all that tragedy is real – that our lives aren’t protected, shouldn’t be taken for granted. Even though her story ends positively, her entrance made us all aware of just how precious life can be. She confirmed what you’d already taught me – that no one else matters, no one else is just as important as you two. 


That’s why – you’ll never want for love!

Life has been challenging recently, more challenging than I’m ready to admit aloud. Your Sister’s poor immune system seems to have darkened our spirits, left us all feeling vulnerable and exposed. It’s made me question my parenting, evaluate how I can ensure you’re both safe from harm’s way.

It has matured you massively. It saddens me so much that at the age of three, you’re already so aware of the signs to look out for. You’re anxious and cautious, protective and caring. So caring! At the age of three, your imaginative play consists of administering your Sister her inhaler and medicine. You tell me to check on her, that she’s coughing and poorly. You worry so much;  I worry that your heart is burdened by things you shouldn’t even be aware of. 

The past few hospital visits have hit you harder than we all could have imagined. I sense it still plays on your mind, still lingers in your thoughts. 

Suddenly, you’re nervous about me leaving. 

38 months we managed without you being needy. 38 months we survived without attachment issues…and yet here they are! 

You were only nine months when Siena entered so poorly. The five weeks we spent in hospital should be a distant memory by now but they aren’t. Moments of recent have taught us just how much they affected you. Last time Siena was in hospital, you cried for me for nearly three weeks after we returned. Even when I was there – even with my arms around you!


I remember distinctly a moment not long after we came home. I’d ran downstairs quickly to answer the door, leaving you and your Sister on the 1st floor. When I returned, moments later, your cries were so violent you’d nearly vomited. When I asked why you were crying, you told me “I’m crying for Mammy”. 

One sentence, one small simple sentence broke my heart in an instant. Baby, you never have to cry for me. 

Sibling rivalry was also something we manage to go unscathed by…although, undoubtedly, we’ve seen small glimpses of it…this wasn’t something that has ever truly affected us. Yet, it’s something that seems to be play a huge part in every day. You’ve become jealous of your Sister, resentful of the extra time and care she needs. I can understand it, it mustn’t seem fair that she gets to be carried for most of the day. I see it in your eyes (you’ve told me honestly, aloud), you want me just as much as she needs me. 

It’s hard for you – having a sister with Cerebral Palsy affects you in ways I don’t think I’m even sure of. At most, we don’t give you credit for just how amazing you are! We expect so much understanding from you, expect you to help us when all you want is to be three…and free as all children your age are. 


I wish I could magically change things for you. I wish I didn’t need to care for your Sister additionally. You know she needs extra support, for the main, you’re brilliant and understanding but I can see how it pains you – I can see why you feel the need to act out.

I can’t promise you the world. I can’t promise that I can protect you from heartache, from failure or hardships (although I swear to do my best to prevent them). I can’t promise your future will be easy, that you’ll get everything you ever need or want…but I can promise that you’ll never want for love. 

What Motherhood taught me was that selflessly, my life is no longer my own. For now…it belongs to you and your Sister! Whilst you’re both so young and so needy, I’m yours as you need me! To cuddle, to protect, to make you feel better…to be tough when I need to be! For every fall, for every scrape or scratch – my lips are for kissing you both better…my arms are for wrapping you up and making you feel the extent of my love.

And of course, I promise that I’m never leaving so please don’t ever cry for me – I’m doing my best to make you feel that you’ll never want for my love, attention or affection.

It’s already all for you and your Sister!

Look How Far You’ve Come


Looking at you now, it’s hard to recall the delicate start to life you had. You’re, quite obviously, no longer the tiny premature baby I once watched struggle for breath…no longer the fragile little doll you once were. 

Looking at you now, it’s so clear just how far you’ve come!

You’re relatively tall for your age, you don’t look out of place amongst your peers. You’re still slender (you’ve always struggled to gain weight) but it no longer highlights your previous battles. I look at those beautiful long legs and immediately acknowledge the cause of envy they’ll become. Your slight and toned appearance will undoubtedly serve you well amongst those awkward and harrowing  teenage years. It will become one less burden for you, one less aspect of pressure.

Your gorgeous golden hair is perfectly bobbed…and thick! Like your Mother, it will always be one of your most treasured features. It makes you look older, more mature than you are.

Looking at you now, you’re most definitely a toddler!


That statement is definitely not limited to your visual attributes – you’re also incredibly intelligent for your age.

Last week, your Health Visitor (the same one who is still concerned for Tristan’s development) came to complete your two year check. She was left completely awed by how far you’ve come. Since birth, doctors have given us a period of grace to meet milestones, to compensate for the nine weeks of development you missed out on in my womb. There’s been less pressure to meet milestones in the same timescales as your peers, less pressure to perform at the same rate of full term babies. Yet, at only a day after two years from your due date, she arrived – clip board in hand – eager to complete her lengthy questionnaire.

When Tristan turned two, the sole purpose of the questionnaire was to check gross motor skills…could he climb, could he jump? I felt instantly saddened when I heard it was your turn, afterall, why did we have to endure telling her all over again that you couldn’t do any of the physical things on her list, that you could barely manage the physical milestones of a nine month old? However, this time, your emotional awareness was also to be measured. Doesn’t that sound utterly crazy? That a two year old would be checked for skills some adults can’t master. 


You left her amazed! She couldn’t digest how excellently you scored. 

Thankfully (and to my delight) she left out the questions about what you were physically able to do…but we still took pleasure in demonstrating what new skills you’d been working on. Instead, she focused on your mental astuteness. This proved, much as we’d thought, that you are a very bright and capable little girl. 

In particular, she just couldn’t believe your ability to communicate so effectively. At just two, your Brother struggled to formulate sentences. His bank of key words was limited and lacking in impressiveness. You, on the other hand, can already formulate full conversations. You can ask questions, listen with focus and respond with appropriateness. You can talk in depth about what’s on your mind, tell us exactly how you feel and why. 

I love this about you!


Our undisturbed conversations are fast becoming one of my favourite things in life. They make me think about our future, the bond we’ll have, the relationship we’ll share for life. I can’t wait for the discussions we’ll have over boys, your dreams, your hopes and wants, thoughts and feelings. It makes me so excited to know that we’ll always be able to communicate with one another, we’ll always understand one another as well.

Your creativity also astounds people. At only two years and two months, you can throw yourself whole-heartedly into imaginative play. You use your imagination in ways which reassure me you’ll always be able to use your mind creatively. You love to pretend, take on the persona as a Mother to your dollies with such ease and enthusiasm. You also interact with your Brother, take on roles as different animals, make each other laugh with so much joy. 

Your sense of creativity makes me so proud! When your journey through education begins, you’ll be able to draw upon these skills to help you achieve. I only hope that this is something we can nurture and grow as you do.

It’s also fair to say that you’re incredibly charismatic. You’ve an easiness to your character which makes you such a delight to be around. You’re forever able to make people laugh with your cute but quirky individuality. Although younger, your sense of leadership is also clear. You seem to have set a precident that your Brother is always trying to achieve. He looks at you to show him how to perform, craves the attention you so naturally acquire. He follows you, copies your every move in a bid to share your limelight. He’s charismatic in other ways, it’s not as natural to him to be so mischievous and cheeky. 

So, looking at you now, it’s only right that we note just how far you’ve come. 

Some days, I look back at your journey, to the uncertainty of your beginning. I recall the conversations we had with consultants, the x-ray which revealed you’d been left with a level of brain damage. I recall those early days at home, the worry over missed milestones…the arguments I had to have just to get your Doctor’s to listen to my warranted concerns. 


I think about the moments I felt saddened by the lack of progress you once showed…the fear that you’d never get to where you are now. I remember every time I cried over videos I saw of younger children doing things you should have already been able to achieve. The pain in my heart that I’d never get to share those moments on your behalf – knowing how shallow this made me – knowing that I shouldn’t care. I was pained not for me but for you! I wanted you to do everything others could, for you to feel equal to everyone. 

I look back at those moments and thank god for how far you’ve come!

Eventually, at the age of two, I can see that you won’t let anything hold you back (okay, so we still have your confidence to contend with but we’ll conquer that). 

Tonight, as I sat reading to your unsettled Brother, you managed to climb out of your bed…you crawled into your Brother’s room in a bid to ensure you weren’t missing out. I know how hard that must have been for you, how much your hips and limbs will have ached yet you persevered…

That determination, that strong sense of will, are what is completely admirable about you! 

All I can say Dolly is that you inspire me! I hope you’re as proud of yourself as I am, I’m floored by your achievements.


Just look at how far you’ve come! 

Love you lots
Mama (p.s: crapping myself until we get you a baby gate 😂)

Your Dreams are What Matter! 


I have to admit, as shallow as it sounds, I was desperate to have a little girl. It was just something I’d always imagined for my own life, something I’d definitely hoped for. 

7 year old me would brag on the school yard that some day I was going to have two children. A boy first, of course…and a girl second, so that her older Brother could look out for her. Coming from a family where I had experienced the love and support of having an older Brother, I knew I wanted exactly that for my future. My childhood had been perfect, so much so that I wanted to mirror it for my own children.


The day I discovered I was pregnant, I instinctively knew I was expecting a Boy. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind! As the sonographer revealed the gender, I cheered so proudly to have been right. I had my perfect son – my perfect start to our family. 

Having a son was so important to me, I wanted a boy because I knew how loving they could be, how proud I could feel about raising a man but most importantly, I knew how special older Brothers could be. I already felt so lucky to have one amazing child but my plan was always that my Son would be an older Brother.

When we discovered we were expecting again, my heart ached for you. I know how this sounds and yes – I would have loved a second Son just as much. A healthy child – no matter the gender -would have made me so incredibly happy. But, my life’s plan was always to have you!

Our 20 week scan was on a Tuesday. Your Father had left work early and the three of us headed to the Hospital.  I recall sitting in the waiting room almost pained with eagerness to see you on screen. Obviously, our priority was to know that you were healthy and growing as you should have been. Yet, I just still couldn’t wait to know your sex.


Although too young to comprehend what he was seeing, Tristan looked at you on the screen with so much awe. He marvelled at the flickering image wriggling around contently and he cheered at the noise of your heartbeat. The sonographer told him he was getting a little Sister; I cried and cried with happiness. 

My perfect family was complete! 

Finding out I was getting my girl was such an incredible moment. From being 7, I had high expectations for your future. I had in mind exactly how I wanted you to be.

Without question, you’d have blonde hair and blue eyes. You’d be quirky and individual, confident and assured…undeniably beautiful. I envisaged you’d be good at sport, always energetic and full of desire to achieve. 


In my mind, you’d be a ballerina. A perfectly poised, enigmatic ballerina. At 7 years old, I saw you dancing on stage – people looking at you in absolute admiration. Radiantingly elegant, you’d hypnotise your audience with irrefutable skill. 

I’m going to be honest here, my vision of what I expected from you is almost cruel and unkind. I had expectations of you that even I was incapable of. Expectations of you that most women never accomplish.

Your early arrival in this world taught me some well needed perspective. In the moments where you nearly died, I grieved solely for my little girl, my Daughter. As I watched the Doctors relentlessly trying to stabilise you, I had time to ingest what I was at risk of losing. Hair colour, eye colour, academic or physical ability did not once enter. Instead, I saw only the love I could be denied. 

In the days that followed your birth, I swore never to burden you with unreasonable ideology. Just to have you breathing, just to have you living would always be enough! 

At 17 months old, you were eventually diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. Part of your diagnosis meant accepting the fact that there may be things you’ll never manage to do, physical ailments you’ll harbour all your life. I’m struggling the most with this. 

You see, to me, there’s nothing you can’t achieve!


I once ignorantly worried that my 7 year old vision for your future had been crushed. That I’d never get the chance of fulfilling my dreams for you. I want you to know that I’m aware of how pathetic I have been. My 7 year old dreams for your future were always going to be completely inconsequential.

Something I learnt very quickly about you is your strength of mind. From 9 weeks before you were due to be born, you had your own style of doing things, your own wants and desires. These are what matter the most! 

At almost two, you’re the cutest most quirkiest Doll I’ve ever known. You’re passionate about living, approach everything with a ‘I can’ attitude. It’s this attitude which leaves people spellbound. You’re not even two and already so many have marvelled at your strength, are astonished by your decisive and domineering demeanour. 


Your passion for 80’s disco hits is entertaining and bewildering but you don’t care! You dance your beautiful heart out in whichever way you please. You care only about the pleasure you acquire and not at all about how you are perceived. This is something I hope desperately we can retain. 

Recently, I took you to a ballet class. I must admit, although trying to look calm on the outside, inside I was bubbling with anxiety. I worried that other Mothers would think I was cruel, as though I was forcing you to be something you may never be…may never want to be! I worried that others may think I was delusional, expecting you suddenly to grasp physical demands you’re quite obviously incapable of doing. Mostly, I worried that you’d hate me for pressurising you with those unrealistic dreams I once promised I wouldn’t. 

Of course, you proved me wrong. 

You attempted every dance, giggled with magnificent joy as your legs bounded around the room. You waved your arms side to side and danced with so much pleasure that my heart felt blessed to watch you. 

Every day, you make me realise that there’s literally nothing you can’t do! I’ve no doubt in my mind that you’ll conquer every challenge you decide to take on – whether that be ballet dancing or not. 


But for the moment, you just love to dance. So, go ahead my Unlikely Ballerina and enchant the world.

Lots of love, your biggest fan xx

You Gave Me Purpose


    Purpose. It’s funny to think but the power of purpose is often forgotten about. In our hectic days and manic lives, purpose can become lost or confused, hidden or overshadowed. Yet the power of purpose is phenomenal.
    Purpose drives us forward, pushes us to achieve. 
    Without purpose there’s simply no point. It’s the catalyst for our actions, the sole reason for why we do.

    For so long, I searched for purpose. I lived, I breathed, I existed. But nothing felt worthwhile, nothing felt meaningful. 
A life without purpose just isn’t fulfilling. You can carry out routine procedures but the joy behind it just isn’t felt. It’s sad, when you think about it, to consider that some people never recognise purpose. It’s sad to think that purpose can be so easily masked or mistaken. 

    I had no idea myself just how powerful purpose could be…until there were you!
When you entered my life, you revealed my purpose. I know that this sounds cheesy but I need you to know this. I need you to always remember that my purpose was you! 

    Having children is certainly life altering. There’s times everyday where I still feel so intensely overwhelmed by Motherhood, so intensely submerged. I’d love to say that this was always positive but it’s not. There’s times everyday where I need to say ‘I didn’t enjoy that’ and not be judged. I mean, who really wants to argue with a two year old in public? Who wants to feel undermined by a toddler, with little beady judgey eyes on show? Who wants to feel embarrassed and worthless? Throughout these trying moments, please never forget that I still find reassurance in my purpose.


    Throughout all the mania, there’s something so magical about it all! Something that makes it so outrageously worthy.

    Before your Brother arrived, my body had meant nothing. I’d overworked it, abused it. In an attempt to find purpose, I’d put it under immense duress to stay slim and slender. Your Brother taught me that being ‘skinny’ wasn’t my purpose. As my hips cracked to make way for his arrival, I accepted the full extent of my body’s purpose and worth. The purpose of my body was not to be viewed as beautiful, beauty lay in the roundness of my childbearing belly. The purpose of my body was to protect both you and your Brother – through childbirth and forever after. Your Brother taught me to love my body, to appreciate every curve. 

    Suddenly, I had purpose.


    I had purpose to live, to breathe, to take care of myself the best I could. The change in me began, I felt it from within. Unlike before, the most measly of tasks could supply pleasure. That feeing of pleasure made everything so worthwhile…late nights, early mornings, lack of sleep…all of it had purpose!

    When you arrived, it’s fair to say that I already had purpose but nothing could prepare me for how much more purposeful my life would become. 

    The day you nearly died, I realised my purpose was to make you stronger. Your strength was already admirable but I needed to teach you to WANT to survive. I knew that I needed to teach you to see how magnificent living could be. I needed to teach you that living would be worthwhile! I knew that this could only be accomplished by showing you all the wonders of life, to show you how to be a glass-half-full kind of person. I knew that my only way of succeeding in this would be to change my own mentality (this harder than I’d like to admit, I’ve too many people in my life who ridicule this outlook on living, too many people who’d rather focus on the negatives). 


    Suddenly, I had purpose to change.

     Then, the day we discovered you had cerebral palsy, I realised my purpose was also to champion you. Your determination was just as admirable as your strength but I knew that I needed to make you feel the extent of your worth. I realised immediately that I just couldn’t ever allow you to feel self conscious or doubt. The only way I’d succeed in doing this is to show you how to love yourself, that this also meant me having to love myself too (again, this is harder than I first imagined. For too long, I’ve listened to the listing of my flaws, the reasons as to why I shouldn’t). 


    Suddenly, I had purpose to accept myself for who I am.

     The day I heard that you may never walk, I realised that my purpose was to support you – both physically and mentally. If your own body won’t supply you the means to show you the world, then mine will. The purpose of my arms is to carry you wherever your heart desires. The purpose of my legs is to walk you wherever your feet want to travel. The purpose of my heart is to love you enough that you won’t feel hurt by the rejection of others. 

   Between you and your Brother, my life will never be short of purpose. Purpose to love you, protect you, guide you and direct you. Having purpose has given me more confidence and strength than I’ve ever felt before. There’s something so gratifying about knowing the importance of your existence. Never before have I felt so comfortable in myself, known what I deserve and what I don’t. 


   So, through all the hard times, the tears and the tests – I need you to know that I’m so grateful for my purpose. 

    Thank you for giving me purpose, thank you for making me a Mother, thank you for giving me the gift of watching you grow.

Love you – Mama 💕

You’ve Got This


     I’ve not always been noted for my positive outlook. I’m one of those highly strung people who never seem to balance their emotions (surprising considering I’m a Libra and meant to be wholly balanced). I’m either high or low, happy or sad, excited or miserable. My reaction to situations or circumstances is undeniably unpredictable – and by that – I mean that I can’t even predict which way I’ll handle somethings. 
     Since you were born, I’m definitely making progress here. 
     Before you, I could easily wallow when things didn’t go my way. I could sulk endlessly in a way which would make me quite unbearable to be around. I’d always focus on the negatives in any predicament. In my mind, it was my way of protecting myself. I deludedly thought that if I prepared for the worst, I wouldn’t feel as bad when it actually happened.
      Spontaneously (9 weeks early) you entered this world and immediately taught me that preparing for the worst could sometimes be unthinkable; that preparing for the worst could sometimes be unimaginable. 

     There was never a moment I allowed myself to believe that we’d lose you – even as we waited seven hours for the Doctors to stabilise your condition. Even as we followed the blue-lighted ambulance 30 miles South knowing there was every really possibility you wouldn’t be strong enough to survive the journey.
     Following your pneumothorax , the Doctors found themselves in unnerving territory – If they transferred you without being stabilised, you could die but if you stayed at Durham, you surely would.
     As they prepared us for this chance, I heard the words swish around in my mind but I couldn’t digest them. You seemed too super to die, too determined to give up. 
     At 23 hours old, you made me view the world differently.

     I was no longer looking out at the world from the shoulders of a Mother full of vulnerability and emotion. I was looking at it with more strength, composure and self-assurance than I’d ever felt before. I knew instinctively that in your moment of need, I would never let you down. I felt it in my heart that my own strength and conviction was needed to carry you forward. I knew instinctively that I’d always believe in your ability, never doubt your capabilities.
     Nearly two years later and I can’t thank you enough for the strength and positivity that you’ve taught me. 

     Your prematurity made barriers for you we’d never imagined. You’ve had so many obstacles to overcome. So many more fights to conquer than other children your age. Since your diagnosis with Cerebral Palsy, were realised just how many challenges you’ve actually had. Many of which you must have suffered silently for so long but your attitude towards overcoming every barrier is truly amazing.
     You’ve a zestiness that is utterly captivating and instantly contagious. Your passion to succeed is completely admirable. The way you handle your disability makes me feel so incredibly proud of you. Every doubt you’ve heard us utter has played on your mind, willed you to prove us wrong. 

     There hasn’t been one challenge thrown your way that you haven’t tackled with ease. Your blasé attitude and confident approach to overcoming your ailments has, on many occasions, given me insight and perspective. There have been many times I’ve worried about your condition. There have been many times I’ve wanted to cry inconsolably for fear of what your future may hold. There have been many times where I’ve wanted to focus on the negatives and prepare myself for the worst.
     But every time I do, you show me that there really is no need to.
     Today, you met another milestone, one I’d once thought I’d never see you do. You pulled yourself up into a sitting position! For so long, I waited for you to sit unaided. It wasn’t until you were 18 months that you eventually learnt to hold your own. This accomplishment felt massive and although I beamed with pride, a little part of me still focused on the fact that your sitting wasn’t natural. You could only hold your stance if you’d been positioned, the notion of sitting on your own hadn’t registered in your mind. Having cerebral palsy, I knew that this would always be your biggest barrier.

     Your brain doesn’t communicate to your limbs the way that it should. It doesn’t send signals intuitively. We’ve been told to prepare ourselves that it may never learn to send those messages. We’ve been told to prepare ourselves that you may never walk. Although I hear this warning, I can’t allow myself to believe it. Your progress today proves that you won’t be defeated.
     I see you progress so rapidly recently that I feel more and more excited for your future. There’s no goal unreachable to you, no target you won’t strive to achieve. That tenacious attitude of yours inspires me to be more like you. You don’t see the negatives, you don’t focus on failing – and that is what I love about you! 
     Thank you for showing me a different way to be, a more positive, more constructive, more enthusiastic way to be.
     You make me hopeful and incredibly proud – I’m more grateful for the strength you’ve show me and the way you guide me to being a better person.
      You’re my fighter, my Warrior Princess, my Dolly – my daughter! And you’re completely amazing. 

     You’ve got this!

I Hurt because I Don’t Know How to Fix Things


Ever since you arrived, I’ve had conflicting emotions between you and your Brother. I’m desperate to preserve his childhood, I watch him grow so swiftly that I want to pin him down and clutch on to his baby demeanour for as long as I physically can.
You, on the other hand, I’ve pressurised to grow.
Knowing you’ll be my last child, a part of me has passionately savoured the lengthy wait between each development. You’ve been my baby forever and I need you to know how much I’ve appreciated that. But still, I will you to grow.
The hardest part of your disability for me is the ‘not knowing’. We knew from birth that your brain bleed would leave permanent damage – it wasn’t until you turned 17 months that we learnt the extent of the trauma. 17 months of anxiety and doubt. I thought that once we had confirmation of the cause of your slow progress, I’d magnificently feel better but now knowing you have cerebral palsy leaves us with a new extent of uncertainty. 


There’s every real chance that we’ll never see you walk unaided, never watch you dance your 1st dance at your wedding, your Father may never be able to walk you down the aisle. This kills me! Especially because we’ll never know you won’t do this until you don’t. 
There’s a million moments each day which take me by surprise – I can look out the window at our neighbouring children chasing butterflies, with that wild tenacity young children have, and feel paralysed with dread that I may never be watching you join them. I can load up social media and see videos of children much younger than you climb slides or take their first step and feel sick to the pit of my gut that I may never share those moments for you. After all, it’s not for me that I want these opportunities – it’s very much for you.


You’re growing more mature now, you’ve started to realise you can’t join in. I see the frustration in your eyes, feel your heart ache with every glistening tear which rolls down your cheek. I spot the desperation in your mind to fit in, I watch you idolise other children, admiring their movements and itchy to copy. It’s that same will and desire which makes me feel more at ease.
You’re too determined to give in. You’re too strong to not conquer your hardships. 
More than ever, I’ve seen you transform recently. Our latest holiday was almost a catalyst for your growth – you decided to join the world of toddlerhood. Each night, the music would begin and your legs would spontaneously thrash out shapes, not too dissimilar to dance moves. Your arms would join in and your smile would radiate the space around you. Your laughter was infectious, captivating. You squealed until we took you to the dance floor, broke down if we tried to remove you from the fun. 


It was both mesmerising and incredibly hard in equal measures. Mesmerising because I’ve wished you to grow for so long that I almost couldn’t believe I was watching you do it! Hard because you harboured so much frustration and resentment at the lack of your own ability. Each night began with your untamed laughter but ended with your violent cries. 
This is why I will you to grow. 
As your Mother, I’ll always want you to succeed in everything your heart desires. I can’t handle listening to you scream because you want to run with your Brother. I can’t handle trying to settle you because you want to dance independently. Each head-but, each bite is confirmation as to how much you’re hurting. You thrash outwardly to make us identify with your pain. The thing is Dolly, I already feel it just as strongly as you do.
I hurt so much. I hurt because I don’t know how to fix things, don’t know how to get you to where you want to be.


All I can do is cuddle you, let you air your frustration and encourage you to succeed…even if this means picking you up after every single fail.
I’m proud to see you toddle, so grateful for the progress I see you make. You’re no longer my baby and I promise I won’t treat you as one, I won’t hold you back in ways that may be harmful to your development.
Together, we’ll do this. Together, we’ll make sure you have your moments…but if, somehow, we can’t – please remember that I’ll never ever give up on you. I’ve said before that I’ll carry you forever. If there ever comes a time I can’t carry you any longer, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you still succeed in everything your heart desires. I’ll push you, I’ll guide you, I’ll always support you.