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Part 1 of 3: The Story
This is the first in a three-part series about taking the leap into self-employment and what it taught me about resilience, support systems, and leading through uncertainty. In this piece, I share the deeply personal story of how I made the toughest decision of my life.
Continue readingRight, settle in. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? That moment you try to be incredibly helpful and, instead, you look like a prize pilchard. I’m talking about my latest spectacular self-sabotage, an act of sheer, well-meaning idiocy involving one of my brilliant clients.
My Helpful Default Mode
For those who don’t know, my two birth-children are technically adults now. They are both brilliantly capable, but they still manage to drive me insane and do spectacularly stupid things. They are also severely dyslexic. I’ve lived the struggle, and I know that sometimes, a great, big wall of text is the absolute worst. A quick voice note? Brilliant. A chat? Even better. It’s my default setting for communicating anything important to them.
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Some people meditate. I’ve got a robot hoover with a hedgehog sticker. It does more for my sanity than yoga ever could.
For the past six months, our Dreame L40 Ultra – affectionately (and usually sarcastically) called Moron, has been quietly holding my mental health together. It’s not just about the clean floors, though they are a thing of beauty. It’s about the fleeting illusion of order in a house otherwise ruled by teenage lads and two Weimaraners with deeply inflated egos.
The map of living is a tricky draft;
You’ll meet the moment where the path is split.
The towering obstacle—the sudden shaft—
Is not a sign to fail, or cause to quit.
Oh, morning. That sacred, hallowed time before the world, and indeed, before the humans of the house decide to collectively assault my ears. In our humble abode, there’s a hard and fast rule, carved into the very stone of our hearth: Thou Shalt Not Disturb Connie Before 7 AM. Unless, of course, the house is on fire or a tidal wave has just swept through the garden. These are, as you can imagine, rare occurrences.
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School meetings are usually dull. Today, not so much.
One of the kids I care for is changing schools tomorrow, and after a horrendous few weeks of paperwork, a new chapter is finally beginning.
During a meeting today, the professionals from school kept calling me “mum.” Repeatedly. Almost like they were daring him to correct them. Aaaand… He didn’t – not once.
Instead, he tried not to laugh, giving me side glances with a knowing twinkle in his eye that said, “You see what just happened?” So I quietly joined in, doing my best to keep a straight face.
Later, I mentioned that R would be picking him up for therapy. The school asked, “Who’s R?” and without thinking, I shot back, “His brother.” That was it – instant coughing fit as he tried to smother his laughter. By the time we got home, the car had turned into a comedy sketch, with him chanting “mum, mum, mum” on repeat like the seagulls in Finding Nemo squawking “mine.” I was howling.
I leave it to him to decide what to call me. After a rocky few months, he’s settled on “Auntie” to most of his friends, and if he chooses, “Mum” at school. It’s his choice, his life, and I trust him to decide how he wants me to be known in public.
I’m not here to replace anyone from my foster kids’ lives before me. But I will mother them in every sense that counts: fiercely protecting them, fighting for them, and loving them unconditionally. They need patience, care, acceptance, and laughter – I will give them all of that, every single day.
And I’m lucky to have my birth kids along for the ride, especially when R starts conspiring – you just know it’s going to get interesting.
At least I didn’t get called Gran.
Anyway.
You know what I’d like people to take away from this rambling?
Professionals, friends, anyone involved: respect the voice of the kids in care. Let them tell you what they need. Let them guide you on what matters most.
Because, in the end, it’s not about what I’m called – it’s about them feeling seen, safe, and loved.
Where is your road leading?
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. ~Proverb
You do not become good by trying to be good, but by finding the goodness that is already within you, and allowing that goodness to emerge.~Eckhart Tolle
Good intentions have been the ruin of the world. The only people who have achieved anything have been those who have had no intentions at all.~Oscar Wilde
Because he has given up helping,he is people’s greatest help. ~Laozi
Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. ~C.S. Lewis
Kindness is a language that the deaf can hear and the blind can see.
Mark Twain
The Art of Stupidity 