Lessons Beyond the Classroom: Overcoming Struggles and Finding a Path

“Suzanne, wait behind. I want to speak to you.”

That dread in my stomach—no doubt I was getting another lecture or telling off. I braced myself. She came to me and started to apologise. I was gobsmacked.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought that doing this would make you hate me and make you so mad at me that you’d want to prove me wrong, but I now see that it was wrong.”

I was confused… What was I hearing? I must be imagining this. I looked at her with confusion. She continued to tell me a story about her own son at school and how he had struggled. His teacher had made his life a misery, and he had used his anger at the teacher to show them that he could succeed. My teacher told me she had hoped this approach would have the same effect on me but now understood that she was wrong.

I don’t remember if I spoke or said anything—I just listened in disbelief. Was this adult actually coming to me, a child, and apologising? My memory after this is hazy. I remember feeling relief, like something magical was happening, but at the same time unsure if I could trust what I thought I was hearing.

When I left the class, Pamela and a few others were all waiting to hear what horror had befallen me. I don’t think they would have believed me when I told them she had said she was sorry. What I do remember is that I never, ever worked as hard for any teacher again as I did for Mrs Turnbull after that day.

Most of the teachers hated me. They hated my brother too, who was three years above me. I assume this came from their belief that we could try harder or achieve more. One teacher in particular, who had taught him years earlier, asked me on my first day in her class—in front of everyone—if he was my brother. When I proudly said yes, she replied, “Oh, well I won’t expect much from you either then.”

There were few exceptions. Back in the 1980s, things in schools were very different. Punishments, isolation, and shaming were commonly used tools. But this teacher regularly shamed me over my spelling. She would read out my work to the class as I had written it—with all the spelling errors and the Bs and Ds mixed up. She would keep reading, and the class would roar with laughter, everyone hysterical—except Pam. I don’t remember ever seeing her find it funny.

Tears would stream down my face, embarrassed and ashamed. I had worked hard on that piece, and not only was it not good enough, it was ridiculous enough to be comedy. My red face burned. My head bowed to hide my tears. The sound of laughter echoed in my ears with every sentence she read. It felt like it would never stop.

This happened often until, one day during wet playtime, she told me to wait behind. The apology was certainly not what I had been expecting. After that day, she engaged me in planting and growing seeds. I remember her praising me and telling me how well I was doing. I got the only good school report I ever had from that teacher.

Her name and face stay with me to this day, and that conversation after class had a huge impact on me. I use this story often when I talk in schools and workshops to highlight the power of owning our mistakes—even when those mistakes come from a place of good intention. I don’t focus on what she did wrong, I remember that she sanitation and owned it

It was quite groundbreaking in those days to have a teacher acknowledge that I couldn’t help it—that I wasn’t choosing to struggle. There was very little understanding of ADHD, dyslexia, or neurodiversity. The planting activity was so creative and different from putting a book in front of me that I couldn’t understand or had no interest in.

I mostly sat staring out of the window all day, dreaming. Every report card I ever received said I lacked motivation and could try harder. Was it really my responsibility as a child to motivate myself? I was told I talked too much. I was put out of many classrooms, sat alone in isolation, and still didn’t do any work. Nobody seemed to learn that their methods weren’t helping me.

I was sent to ‘remedial class’ for years, which was for children who needed extra support. I didn’t mind; they were fun and more engaging than the big class lessons. But I remember at one point, the remedial teacher stopped me while I was happily running back to class after break.

“There’s no point in you coming back if you’re not going to do the work. You’re not learning, so there’s just no point.”

I was taken aback. I didn’t expect this teacher’s anger and disappointment. I had liked her and was confused. I shrugged it off. I didn’t really understand why she’d said this. When I went home, I told my mum I didn’t need to go to remedial class anymore. She was delighted—until parents’ night, when the teacher told her why.

My mum came home and, in mock horror, joked about this with me. Luckily, my parents hadn’t been great achievers at school either, and they didn’t seem upset by my or my brother’s lack of academic ability. It seemed to be a given that we wouldn’t be high achievers in that way. This was a blessing for sure. I have been grateful in my life to not have had that pressure from family around exams and school.

I left school with a few O levels to my name: Art and Maths (just). It didn’t hold me back. I grew up watching my parents work hard and earn money. That work ethic I witnessed is deeply ingrained in my blueprints for life.

I became a hairdresser like so many others like me. But I loved it. I thrived. I learned how to talk to people and build relationships. I was having a wonderful time. Clients kept coming back to me. I wasn’t really that good a dresser, but I could build good connections. I loved to talk, I was interested in people, and they came and told me their stories—and they wanted to hear mine.

They gave me big tips. People would stuff money in my pocket every day. The wages were rubbish, but the tips made up for that. As the years passed, I worked my way up from Junior to Stylist, and at the age of 22, I was offered the Manager’s role.

Life was good. I met Steven at work. He worked next door in the Plumbers, and we got engaged around this time. I can remember loving life—out with friends every weekend, money in my pocket, and experiencing being part of a couple for the first time.

When I met people from school, and they asked me how I was doing, they were often shocked. They were still trying to figure it all out—studying, in and out of jobs they hated, many of them still hanging about the local shop as they had in school. It felt good to be the one to have it together for once. My confidence in myself was building.

My brother did a lot better after he left school too. He, like me, had struggled in school. He drew stormtroopers in his school books instead of writing. He was obsessed with Star Wars, and all his art centred around this. His teachers despaired.

My parents were so afraid for his future that they banned him from talking about Star Wars and removed all his Star Wars figures when he got caught smoking in high school. It didn’t deter him.

Years later, he became a graphic designer in London at Pinewood Film Studios, designing Star Wars sticker books and annuals, among other things. He would go on to visit Skywalker Ranch and meet Mark Hamill, living his childhood dream of trying on the stormtrooper mask that Han Solo wore in the film.

My parents would later laugh at this success and wonder how far he might have gone had they, in fact, encouraged him. Don’t get me wrong—they always encouraged his artistic talent, just not the focus of it.

But there’s a theme here. A daughter who talked too much, silenced and isolated, now talks for a living. A son’s passion, stifled, ended up being his career.

I don’t blame my parents. I understand only too well as a parent myself that fear grips us for our children’s future. They didn’t know. They couldn’t have imagined these careers for us. They were outside the realm of normal jobs. We couldn’t even have imagined them for ourselves.

My brother used to say to my mum in their heated arguments as he got older—she would beg him to draw something, anything else—“I’m going to do this one day, I just know I am.”

But how could she have known?

Even for myself, I used to talk and narrate my life. I used to talk in my room to imaginary audiences about my experiences. How could we have known that there would be a world where I could make a living talking about my journey for four hours at a time, and that anyone in their right mind would want to listen?

From Shadows to Strength: A Journey Through Bullying and Healing

I was really surprised to learn that being bullied as a child was considered an Adverse Childhood Experience. I was bullied many times by different people throughout my childhood. I believed it was just a part of life. No adults in my life ever stepped in to stop it, so why would I think otherwise?

In primary school, due to an ongoing health issue beyond my control, children started treating me as though I had a disease they could catch. It began innocently enough when it was my turn to catch a tummy bug that was going around. A friend had said that if we touched the ground and said, “Bugs-proof all my life,” others wouldn’t catch it. But this stuck. Throughout my primary years, I constantly heard it. If a child had to partner with me or sit next to me, they would perform this “ritual” to protect themselves from my supposed germs.

The boys were worse than the girls, particularly a small group of them. Three boys from my class, along with a younger cousin of theirs—whom I didn’t even know—turned this into a sport they seemed to enjoy greatly. During break times, they chased me and cornered me. The four of them would surround me, chanting the phrase repeatedly, looking at me like I was a freak and calling me names.

I often wonder now why I always gave them this sport and ran. What would they have done if I’d just stood my ground? This happened most days, and no one ever stepped in to stop it.

But worse than this group was a lone boy who bullied me in a much harsher way. He was small, slight, and an extremely angry little thing. What he lacked in size, he made up for in seething rage. All the other boys were afraid of him. Looking back, something was clearly very wrong in his home.

He hated me with a passion. I was often sat next to him during music lessons, and as everyone sang, he would tell me under his breath how much he hated me. He would reel off all the ways he planned to hurt me after school. I would cry. When I tried to tell the teacher, she would shoo me away, uninterested.

These were not idle threats. He would wait for me behind bushes, jump out, and kick me in the stomach. This was even witnessed by the lollipop lady, who did and said nothing.

On the odd occasion when I hit back, I would get into trouble. A big fuss was made for other children who were bullied at our school, even a little. But to this day, I cannot understand why no one seemed to care when it was me.

I told my parents. I once asked my dad why they didn’t do anything to stop it. He told me he had spoken to the school, but if they wouldn’t act, there was nothing more that could be done. Again, the message to me was clear: accept it.

Many of the teachers didn’t like me. I struggled to concentrate and talked too much. I was often sat at a table by myself or outside the class. The way the teachers treated me, I’m sure, confirmed to the kids that it was acceptable to treat me this way also.

When we moved to high school, things were mostly better. The bullies moved on and seemed to leave me alone. But every now and then, a group of older girls—often dealing with their own insecurities—would pick on me. I probably made it worse because I was loud and excitable with my friends. I wouldn’t, couldn’t, stay small and quiet, even if I’d wanted to.

Of course, I’m no angel. I’ve been the bully myself—teasing taken too far with a slightly younger child. Feeling in control. The bullied becomes the bully. It’s not something I’m proud of, and those moments haunt me with guilt and regret. But even then, adults stepped in, and I was called to the head teacher’s office. It was short lived and ended very abruptly. I was left ashamed and confused. Wasn’t this just part of life? Why was it okay for this to happen to me but not to others?

Even as a young adult, I’ve had bosses who were bullies. I chose to become self-employed to avoid dealing with them.

I wonder, do those children—now adults—feel guilt? Like me, do they find themselves reflecting on the past? Are they parents now? Were their children bullied, if so do they feel guilt? I suspect not.

One of my old bullies is now a friend on Facebook. I don’t know why I added him or keep him there. He’s now a nurse with a lovely family. By all accounts, he seems like a nice guy. Perhaps I’m waiting for an apology that will never come. Or maybe I want to show him he didn’t break me. Does he even care? Probably not.

What’s confusing to me is that it hasn’t affected me more. I credit that to my best friend. Her unwavering connection through it all helped me immensely. Of course, it has left scars. Outwardly, I can seem confident, but the slightest negative feedback, rejection, or blame can trigger me back into feeling bullied again. I retreat, shut down—running away, cornered once more, afraid.

But I’ve discovered, through my own IFS work and trauma coaching, that I have a strong dissociative part that has protected me. This part has helped me survive, and I’m grateful for it.

As I reflect on these experiences, I realise they shaped me in profound ways. They taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of speaking up when something isn’t right. While the scars remain, they are a reminder of my strength and the journey I’ve undertaken to heal.

I often think about what I would say to my younger self if I could. I’d tell her that it’s not her fault, that she’s not alone, and that one day she’ll use these experiences to help others. I’d tell her to keep going, that brighter days are ahead, and that she will grow into someone who can hold space for others who feel unseen, unheard, or cornered.

Bullying leaves marks, but it doesn’t have to define us. Healing is possible, and we can choose to rewrite the narrative, turning pain into purpose.

For anyone reading this who has experienced similar struggles—know that you are not alone. You are worthy of kindness, understanding, and respect. And no matter how broken things may feel, you have the strength to heal and rise again.

Thank you for allowing me to share my story. It’s been part of my healing, and I hope it can be part of yours too.

Pamela: My Forever Safe Place

Pamela has been a massive part of my life. Since that first day at school at the age of four, she has been my steady rock. We have played, laughed, wondered, conspired and cried together. She was with me through the bullying in primary school; we have shared heartbreaks through high school, the crazy alcohol-fuelled clubbing years, weddings, births, and even grief together. All of my memories include her bouncy blonde-haired presence. As children, we fell out often, and as teens, many petty jealousies caused rifts. But we always came back stronger. There is nothing I would not do for this amazing woman.

We have so many memories through the years: fighting in the mud outside school in primary, both crushing on the same boys as teenagers, huddling together in a McDonald’s toilet while she took a positive pregnancy test at the age of 19, being bridesmaids for each other, toddler groups, and girls’ nights out. Through the good, the bad, and the ugly times, I feel so very lucky to have this friendship. I often wonder what I ever did to deserve it.

We are very different in many ways. She has always been cute and blonde compared to my awkward brown messiness. She was popular while I was bullied. She was clever when I was told I was a lost cause. All the boys were attracted to her while I was desperate to be seen. She would be more sensible where I was compulsive. But these differences didn’t matter. Growing up, her home was my favourite place to be. I spent as much time there as possible, talking myself into sleepovers with midnight feasts and inviting myself along to family gatherings. I’m sure her family despaired. In the early years, her older sister and I did not get along. I was so jealous that she got to be with Pamela more than me, and we argued often. I was her little sister’s annoying friend. Pam was even banned one summer by her parents from seeing me. But it was pointless. As soon as we saw each other again, we were thick as thieves. Her family had no option but to accept it. As we got older, we were regulars in each other’s homes.

It’s only latterly, as I reflect and become curious about my own history, that I see she was my safe place. It’s her constant connection that helped me get through. I always had someone to go to, someone who would listen and understand. I do wonder sometimes how that must have been for her. Some of the things she witnessed and heard me talk about can’t have been easy. She was just a kid herself. I only hope that I was at times able to offer that same support to her.

We have never run out of things to say or talk about. In school, we weren’t allowed to sit together, separated every year for talking too much. We would take an age to walk home from school every day, always chatting and getting up to mischief. I would go to Pam’s house for crisps and sweets, grudgingly heading home only to pick up the phone and call her when I got there to talk and giggle some more. Many people would wonder what we could possibly still have to say.

The daily bullying could be relentless, and the things the bullies called me and said about me were impossible not to believe. The signals were clear, especially when no adults stepped in to stop it, and even sometimes confirmed it themselves. I wasn’t good enough. I deserved it. Something about me was substandard. But Pamela didn’t see me this way. She didn’t distance herself in case my unpopularity affected her. She stood unwaveringly by my side. She accepted me—my true, authentic, loud, annoying, excitable self. The more time I spent with her, the more it drowned out the bullies. I had to assume this drove them crazy because I wouldn’t cow down to them. I wouldn’t be quiet and timid. I didn’t fight back; I accepted it. But somehow, it didn’t break me. As long as I had this friendship, I could bounce back every time.

So when many years later, while learning about the power of connection, it made complete sense. I had experienced this. We can recover from a harsh and painful world if we have that one safe place to keep returning to.

As I get older I realise that not everyone is so lucky. I am acutely aware of just how rare and precious this kind of friendship is. Pamela has been more than a friend; she’s been my anchor, my confidante, and my second family. Through every twist and turn of life, she’s been there, holding space for me, offering kindness and understanding when I needed it most.

As we’ve grown older, our lives have become busier. Careers, partners, and families demand so much of our time, but we always find our way back to each other. Even if weeks or months pass, we can pick up right where we left off, as if no time has gone by at all. That’s the beauty of a friendship like ours—it’s timeless and unwavering. I always have a better week if Iv seen her or spent time with her

I hope we still have many adventures ahead of us. There will be more milestones, more tears, more laughter, and more memories to cherish. Pamela will always be part of my story, just as I hope I’ll always be part of hers.

To Pamela: thank you for being you. For standing by me, for accepting me exactly as I am, and for showing me the power of connection and love. You are my forever friend, my safe place, and my greatest blessing.

Here’s to many more years of laughter, love, and mischief.❤️

Finding Comfort in the Water: Our Swimming Story

My eldest had never been good at anything. Everything was hard for her, even the simplest of things. Her sister, on the other hand, excelled. It was a hard comparison, which often worried me.

Swimming had been a constant in our lives. I had loved swimming myself as a child, often spending all day in the water with friends at our local pool. On holidays, I spent all day in the water, and no holiday was complete without a pair of flippers, a snorkel, and a mask set. I took the girls often when they were young. On those long days where we didn’t know what to do, wet Sundays, or long Christmas holidays, it was always a win. S could never sit still for long or amuse herself, and the eternal fighting and squabbling would start. But they both loved splashing around in the water. I could sit down in the pool and have a much-needed rest at last while watching them. They loved to play around me, pretending to be hairdressers and washing my hair, or carrying me around in the water where I was weightless. Many happy hours were spent with them in swimming pools. They could even get a shower and wash their hair, which saved the screaming and fighting at bedtime. With the distraction of watching everyone in the pool, it was somehow manageable. Sunday afternoon swimming became a regular thing as it also meant they were all showered and clean for school the next day. Getting them out of the pool and into the shower was a challenge enough, but getting the three of us dressed afterwards was a whole other level of stress. They would both be exhausted and grumpy by this time. Threats and treats were thrown around, and food and snacks helped a little. I’m sure those around thought that I was torturing them. Screaming, yelling, and banging came from the cubicle. Even a few loud slaps at times that would have sounded like I had hit them—when it was actually S hitting me. We often left in tears, steam coming out of my ears, and with empty threats to never return to another pool again.

We tried many different swimming lessons. G did well and picked it up. S struggled. It made us aware that one side of her body was weaker than the other. She couldn’t get her left arm to swing around the way she could the right. She couldn’t get her face into the water. She had to remove her implant in the pool, so couldn’t hear anything and could only go on what she picked up from lip reading or watching others. Many different teachers tried to teach her. She progressed slightly but never quite got there. In between, I persisted in trying to get her to learn myself. She was getting older now and, on holiday, still wearing armbands. This wasn’t socially acceptable. Steven and I could deal with our embarrassment, but her sister was mortified. For safety, we really wanted her to be able to swim. So I persevered, trying to teach her. Slowly, she improved. We got her to a point where she could swim under the water but not above. She still couldn’t swim beyond her depth.

It was when she started at a special needs high school that this all changed. They had a pool and a wonderful PE teacher who was working with her. She recommended that we contact a special needs swimming club in our area. I had no idea it existed. Along we went, unclear about what we were actually going to, but we soon realised that this wasn’t just lessons—it was a swimming club. A boy from her school was there too. He seemed delighted to see her, and it was obvious they knew each other well.

She started to go every week, and slowly they worked with her to learn how to breathe while swimming. Little by little, she got more confident until eventually, she could do it. She progressed to swimming with the club three times a week. She swam for miles, length after length. She learned different strokes and started taking part in swimming galas. At these galas, she started winning medals. She was achieving, she was good at this. Her left side got stronger, but she was also part of a team.

I cannot tell you the difference this made to our lives. She found her place in the world, but in that place, we had also found solace in the other parents. They got it. They understood. For many years, this was our routine: swimming three times a week, swimming galas at the weekends, long days sitting at hot, uncomfortable pool sides, cheering her on. She, of course, couldn’t hear us as she didn’t have her implant on—until new technology advanced enough to create a waterproof version of this. How exciting! Now she could hear the water. She was surprised at the sound her arms made as they slapped the water and at the cheering crowd as she swam. She could hear instructions and talk to her teammates.

Swimming three times a week had brought some calm to our lives. The energy she used up helped, but the controlled breathing, deep pressure, and sensory stimulation all helped too. If she missed a week’s training, we could see the difference in her behaviours. She had built friendships and felt like she belonged—she was blossoming.

The boy from school was now her boyfriend. It was all very innocent and sweet. I had never dared to imagine this for her. Life was already improving when we got the news that she had been selected to swim for Scotland West in the Special Olympics. This was something that we heard the older swimmers talk about, and it was a big deal. She would be travelling to Sheffield, staying with her team, and swimming each day for a week, competing for Scotland West.

For a year, training increased, funds were raised, and hotels were booked. Around 20 of our friends and family were travelling down to see her compete. The excitement built. I was worried about how she might cope. How we might cope. But she had the time of her life, bringing home a gold medal for her 50-metre backstroke and a silver medal for her team medley. Seeing her win that gold, with all of our nearest and dearest cheering her on, was indescribable. Pure joy. Especially when, in her own delight, her fist pumped the water as she realised she had actually pulled it off.

She continues to train regularly to this day. When she misses it, she struggles. She is more on edge and has too much energy to burn. Lockdown was torture for her. She couldn’t get in the water for a year. An inflatable hot tub in the garden was the best we could do, until a friend of a friend allowed us access to their nearby empty holiday home with an indoor swimming pool built on the back. This was awesome. It was like releasing a stranded animal out of captivity. She was back in her natural habitat: streamlined, gliding up and down the pool. Submerged underwater and moving her body in and out, breaking the surface and then back down again, tumbling under the water and pushing off the wall into another stretched-out stroke. It was as much a relief for us to see as for her to experience.

Her sister became a volunteer in the club, assisting in training and at galas, then eventually trained as a swimming teacher. It was a great job for her in her late teens and fantastic experience for her career as a school teacher. I even trained as a swimming teacher myself, a job I did briefly between fostering and running the charity.

The water has been so therapeutic for us. It has so many healing qualities: its sound, its feel, the way it moves, and how it looks. Its repetitive rhythm. As I get older, I find myself drawn to vast expanses of water more and more, craving it. I could sit and look at the water for hours—it helps bring me calm and grounds me.

Looking back, I realise how much swimming has given our family—not just a skill or a sport, but a sense of belonging, resilience, and pride. For my daughter, it wasn’t just about learning to swim; it was about overcoming challenges, building confidence, and finding her place in the world. Water has a way of healing, of washing away fears and struggles, and leaving behind strength and calm. It gave my daughter so much that I never expected and provided us all with a sanctuary. Today, when I see her glide through the water with confidence and joy, I see more than just a swimmer. I see a fighter, a champion, and a young woman who has found her flow in life.

Swimming has taught us so much more than strokes and technique—it’s shown us the beauty of persistence, the strength in community, and the joy of achieving the seemingly impossible. It’s a journey I’ll forever cherish, one that continues to shape not just her life, but all of ours.

A Fight for Diagnosis: Our Journey to Understanding

We knew our daughter had learning difficulties early on. She had been late to sit and walk; she never really crawled but instead rolled, almost swimming across the floor. Her speech was delayed due to her hearing loss, but she also had meltdowns and sleep issues. She was clumsy and struggled with motor skills. No one ever gave us a clear diagnosis beyond “special needs.” Words like dyspraxia and limited understanding were thrown about. It got harder as she grew older. Her speech developed, but she struggled in many other ways. Steven and I would often talk about it long into the night. Maybe one day someone would come up with an answer or discover something that made sense, but we didn’t really believe they ever would. We were filled with fear for her future. What was to become of her? How was this ever going to end well?

It wasn’t until the transition into high school that we began to think she might be autistic. I had never considered it before. My friend Pamela had tentatively suggested it to me years earlier, but I couldn’t go there. I didn’t want it to be true. I had been quite offended by the suggestion at the time. But the meltdowns had increased with this big change in her life, and she had developed tics. A nervous cough appeared every day before school, and she would vomit on the way there. The anxiety started on a Sunday night. A fear of seeing people faint or fall emerged, and we seemed to encounter it everywhere, oddly. We tried the GP and educational psychology, but they couldn’t offer any help. By chance, we found an organisation called SENCE through a Google search. They told us about CAMHS. All these years and all these professionals, and no one had ever mentioned them to us. We needed a GP referral, so back we went. The GP, who had never suggested this himself, wasn’t going to agree to the referral. It was only when I broke down in tears, exhausted and fearful for my child, that he reluctantly sent the referral.

We waited a months, but eventually, we got an appointment, and an assessment began. Many forms and questions had to be answered, and as I filled them out, I realised I didn’t always know the answers. Did she look people in the eye? She looked me in the eye, but I wasn’t sure. Did she have special interests? I didn’t think so; I couldn’t get her to sit still long enough to have one. I didn’t want my child to be autistic. I really only wanted an occupational therapy appointment to get a sensory diet. I had read about this and was keen to get it. At this time, it was 2010, and before the assessment, the CAMHS diagnostician had told me that currently Occupational Therapy was not working with any children who had an autism diagnosis. This seemed to be a funding issue. So we needed this assessment to say she was not autistic to get the sensory diet. It was madness. This was only happening in our area for a short time in history; no one else I’ve ever met remembers this. But of course, it would have unconsciously affected my answers in the assessment. Unsurprisingly, the result was that she was not autistic. I was delighted. It was exactly what I had hoped for. But then, why was she having these issues?

The two CAMHS workers involved couldn’t agree. I sat there as they argued—one thought she was autistic, the other suggested it might be trauma. Trauma! What were they saying? Suggestions about my parenting, leaving her to “cry it out,” or even threatening her with the police when she had been violent towards me. So much shame and blame. I had been doing my best, not knowing what else to do. As a foster carer, this felt doubly shameful. I had seen the impact of trauma. It was a dark day indeed. But at least we were finally referred to Occupational Therapy. The sensory diet was helpful, with exercises designed specifically to help ground her. We used these often. I was grateful to CAMHS at l for this is nothing else.

As time went on, I began to notice all the things I had claimed she didn’t do on the assessment forms. She didn’t look people in the eye. She did speak in a funny voice at times. She did hum and stim. I just hadn’t noticed. But the real moment of clarity came when she finally learned how to draw a star, something she had struggled to do. I went up to her room; she had been up there for hours, which was unlike her. She never sat still or focused on one task for long. She was at her desk, drawing stars. Pages upon pages of stars covered the floor. It was equally wonderful and terrifying. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a special interest; it was that, due to her learning delay, she hadn’t developed the capacity for one until then. The more her motor skills developed, the more she drew. She coloured, scribbled, did paint-by-numbers, and later, as her understanding of words and spelling grew, she started word searches and crosswords. Then came maths books—addition, subtraction, times tables. She loved it when we wrote her long sums. Off she went with her calculator. All these signs were so obvious now. She repeated lists and numbers, and practised conversations with herself. A common phrase in our home became a sarcastic “No, she isn’t autistic at all!” whenever she did something obviously autistic.

Every professional we worked with would ask if we had considered having her assessed. It was so frustrating. I called CAMHS to tell them this, but they assured me I was mistaken. They were adamant that, as she had used imagination in her play at their sessions, she couldn’t be autistic.

A year later, I heard about something called Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA). It sounded very similar to the challenges we’d been dealing with. It was a rare type of autism, largely undiagnosed. I ordered a book called My Daughter Is Not Naughty, which described everything we’d experienced. The constant battles over simple things, her fixations on specific people and objects, her meltdowns. The big things and the small things. This was unbelievable. This was it. Everything made sense. I waited, hoping CAMHS would learn about this and contact me to say they now understood, but that call never came. I rang them, and they again told me that as she didn’t have an autism diagnosis, she couldn’t have PDA. I was gobsmacked. I didn’t want my child labelled as autistic, but it was obvious she was. I couldn’t get professionals to meet her needs without a diagnosis. There’s a lot of debate around diagnoses, but sometimes they’re needed. Without one, we parents aren’t taken seriously. I don’t think any parent wants to be in this position, so if they believe this is the case, they should be listened to. No, it doesn’t change anything, but it can provide clarity and understanding. I decided to try the PDA techniques from the book, and they made a big difference. If I didn’t give a direct demand, she was more willing to do things. Reverse psychology worked every time: “Don’t you dare put your pyjamas on; I’ll be so annoyed if you do!” would send her off squeaking with delight, and she’d return changed for bed as I mock-groaned, “Oh no, I didn’t want you to do that!” Her sister also learned this, becoming skilled in managing and gently steering her PDA behaviours.

But things could still be hard, especially when routines changed in our lives. I now understood that her meltdowns weren’t a choice. This shift helped me, but it didn’t stop the meltdowns; it just helped me take them less personally.

The years marched on, and she was becoming a young adult. Services needed to be in place for her transition out of school, but without a diagnosis, nothing was forthcoming. I spoke to the school, who agreed to have the school doctor reassess her. It took years to progress, and just as we were about to get this done, we were told she was too old and would have to transfer to the adult team. By this time, there were so many signs. She would mimic me as I spoke, copying my words and mannerisms. In social situations, she was awkward, and in an attempt to join conversations, she would say random things that made no sense. She couldn’t follow conversations. I knew she was PDA autistic. I decided to give up this futile fight for a diagnosis. It had worn me down. I refused to spend any more of my energy on it. I didn’t need it. We knew the truth.

She was managing college as best she could on her special needs course and attended a special needs swimming club. Swimming really helped her regulate. The repetitive movement, breathing, and deep pressure of the water, three times a week. She had friends and even a boyfriend. She was part of a club and winning medals. There was finally something she was good at. We were in the best place we had ever been with her when we were offered genetic testing. We did it mostly to see if her issues were genetic and something her sister might need to consider when having her own family. It was extremely unlikely she herself would ever have children, but her sister very likely would. We didn’t expect what we learned. They explained she had an extremely rare gene deletion called DLG4. At that time, there were only 70 people in the world with this. It was called Shine syndrome, and part of it involved autistic spectrum disorder. This was incredibly validating. Finally, at the age of 22, we understood. This was not genetic; her hearing loss is genetic, but not the other issues. This is something that happened in gestation—a gene that didn’t develop. No one’s fault. But the more we learned, the more it made sense. With Shine syndrome, children struggle with motor skills, global developmental delay, and skeletal issues. So many of the issues she struggled with that we hadn’t understood.

My heart broke all over again for the times we made her walk when her legs and joints would have been painful. No wonder she always wanted into her sister’s pram; she hadn’t the words to communicate, and we didn’t know. When I think of her as a young, deaf, autistic child, suddenly having sound and vibration thrust into her silent world, it’s so clear why she struggled with it so much—the sensory overwhelm she must have been experiencing would have been imence. If only we had understood this.

We have come such a long way from there. The final step was learning about the trauma-informed approach and realising that all the stress and fear Steven and I had been experiencing was only making everything worse. The children were feeding off our energy. Since making these changes and reducing our stress and fear, she no longer has meltdowns. Her demand-avoidant behaviours are short-lived and are now a red flag, telling us she’s stressed about something she can’t fully communicate. We can work to help her by validating this, helping her figure out what it is and release the stress. Meltdowns are a thing of the past. Of all four of us, she is often the most regulated, highly aware of our stress.

Knowledge has truly been everything for us. I’m often sad that it took so long to get here, but I also truly believe we went through it so that we could be where we are now—to this place where we can share that ray of hope with other parents struggling with similar big behaviours. I just wish someone could have done this for us back then.

Our Fostering Journey; Love Loss and New Beginnings

Friends of ours had become foster carers. We watched in awe. It was something we had considered. The radio and TV adverts had pulled at our heartstrings, and I had been so surprised when Steven had come home one day and suggested we consider it. But it seemed like something other people did, and having so many challenges of our own, I assumed we wouldn’t be allowed to do it. We had wanted more children but had opted out of this, as the chance history would repeat itself was too high. But watching someone so close to us in this role and seeing how the process worked had made it seem more possible. So we tentatively contacted our local council about fostering.

It didn’t take long for them to get back to us. There was an initial meeting where they gave us basic information about fees, expenses, and expectations. We could ask all the questions we had around sleeping arrangements, choosing ages that might suit us, parental contact, etc. So far, it didn’t scare us off, so we were invited to a two-day prep group for new prospective carers. We went through the training, unaware that we were being watched and reported on. But whatever we were being assessed on, we must have passed, as soon our assessment started.

This was a long process. No stone was left unturned. Many meetings in our home, asking lots of questions about our families, our histories, and our personal background. They spoke to us together and apart. They spoke to our children, our parents, and our friends. We had to have full medical checks, police checks, credit checks. We had to provide insurance documents, mortgage statements, birth certificates—you name it, it was all covered. Everything except the colour of our underwear. But it was understandable; if we were to be given vulnerable children to care for, then every step had to be taken to be sure we were safe.

Our own struggles with our own child didn’t seem to be an issue. If anything, our experience was a strength. It took about a year in total to go through the process; the last hurdle was to go to a panel. This was daunting. A room full of panel members would interview us and decide if we would be approved. It was exciting but terrifying. When we left, my legs were like jelly. But the news came in that we had been approved to care short-term (now called interim care) for one child between the ages of 0–7. It was recommended that we only have children younger than our own.

There were no children that matched with us at this point, so we just had to wait. Our girls were so excited. We were too. Our rose-tinted glasses were firmly in place. They were older now, 11 and 13. They got on a lot better now, although there could still be many fights and meltdowns. They tended to get along better when there was a friend over, so the hope was that this wouldn’t be a win-win.

Months passed with no news. We got the bedroom ready and collected different sizes of clothes and toys here and there. When the call eventually came, we were ecstatic. Our first foster child was a two-year-old little boy. He was adorable. We were all instantly smitten. He only stayed a few weeks before returning to his birth family, but what an eventful few weeks, with a rollercoaster of emotions. He was, of course, frightened to be in this new house with these strange people. But it didn’t take him long to get to know us and build connections with little in-jokes, silly songs, and sayings that we still talk about fondly now. He used swear words that would make your hair curl and could go into moods that seemed to come out of nowhere.

It was a short stay and a great first experience for us, with a lovely outcome seeing him return to his dad. I will never forget his joy and excitement when we told him he was going home, and we waved him off in the social worker’s car. I’m sure he has no recollection of those few weeks with us, but they are imprinted in our family as a core memory.

We had many different experiences in our seven years of fostering—from a premature baby born drug-addicted, a newborn relinquished at birth, to children whose parents were struggling with addiction or mental health. Some were able to return home, some went on to aunts and uncles. We supported a few adoptions. This could be joyous but also tinged with huge loss and sadness, for the birth family and for us. But seeing the child connect to their new family over the transition period felt like a huge honour to be part of. Some children came for a day, some stayed for years. Some left and came back again. Nothing can prepare a foster carer for the reality of the role—the extreme behaviours or the overwhelming fear the child can often be in. The heartbreaking stories and horrific allegations they can sometimes disclose. My own girls could struggle with all of this. They were understandably jealous of our attachment to these children at times but also became so attached themselves.

Every one had, and always will have, a space in our hearts—forever a piece in our family’s history. They were never ours to keep, just ours to nurture for however long they would stay. The hardest part was saying goodbye. It surprised me how much I would crave that child after they left. Even if a similar child took their place in our home, the need for their smell and their unique personality lingered. We have been lucky to maintain some kind of contact with most of the children we have cared for and know a little about how they are getting on. I think of them often and still have all their photos on my walls. I hope that as adults they may seek us out. A few have found us on social media. Our door will always be open.

Walking away from foster care wasn’t easy. As challenging as it was, it was also massively rewarding and slightly addictive. The buzz of excitement when that call came in with news of a new child needing our care. Seeing them start to feel safe and getting to know their little personalities. Witnessing their transformation as they begin to feel secure—there is nothing like it. But it can be so restrictive: not being able to plan anything, never knowing what the child’s plan might be. Holidays are tricky; nights out impossible. Babysitters could be an issue, with many children too afraid to be left with anyone else. The lack of sleep and, oh boy, the washing. The never-ending washing.

The final straw came for us when social work started shaming carers who were overweight. Steven had always struggled with his weight. But now, at the yearly review, the medical advisors were telling overweight carers to go on a weight-loss programme and expected Steven to report back to be checked on for weight loss. There was huge uproar about this amongst the foster carers. Some social workers had handled it better than others. Sadly, it wasn’t handled well by ours, creating a lot of shame and embarrassment all round. No job is worth that. We loved fostering, but I couldn’t expect Steven to be put through this every year.

So this was the beginning of the end for us. The girls were finishing school, our parents were getting older—it was time to move nearer to them to support them. So, with a heavy heart, the plan to retire from fostering was put into place. We already knew when our last wee guy came that he would be the last one. I hadn’t realised that what he would teach me would set me on my next journey.

From Vision to Vital Funding: Sustaining a Charity

When we became a registered charity, I was under the misconception that funding would fall into our lap. I thought the government would give us funding and all we had to do was apply. I had no idea how hard it was going to be. We had originally started charging for tickets, but it became clear that people needed this information, and I was passionate that if we were to get this out there, it had to be accessible to all. I soon realised we had many more changes to make. To apply, we needed a bank account in two or more names. We couldn’t have any board members that were related. We had to present accounts. We had more work to do.

During lockdown, we had been given £2,000 by the CORRA FOUNDATION; all charities were given this to help support them at that time. This was exciting—we could finally cover our costs, which were minimal as workshops were all online. Setting up a bank account wasn’t easy, as lockdown was only just lifting, and getting an appointment was impossible. But finally, we managed to get one set up. Steven and Julie stepped off the board so that we didn’t have any Trustees who were married. We applied to a few different small grants. It seemed that most funders liked to see three years of accounts. But as a start-up, we didn’t have this. It also seemed that we needed to have funding to get funding. It felt impossible.

Being dyslexic made this even harder—rewriting and correcting everything I wrote, over and over. Each application asked for something new that I had never heard of. Words like ‘evidence of impact’ and ‘outcomes’. I didn’t know what these meant. They wanted to see policies that we didn’t have in place yet. On I went, applying and learning all the way. I soon realised I was wasting my time with the larger grants. Emails kept coming back, telling us we had been unsuccessful. It was soul-destroying. After each rejection, I would have to give myself time to lick my wounds, threaten to give up, and ultimately always recover and come back fighting, ready to try again.

We had more success with smaller grants—local community grants. £1,000 here and £2,000 there, offering six workshops in one area and four in another. Some councils, I found, were more open to the Trauma-Informed Approach than others. We secured funds in Stirling, West Dunbartonshire, North Lanarkshire, and East Dunbartonshire. A law firm in Glasgow awarded us £2,000 to deliver workshops in Glasgow. Things were starting to happen.

What I didn’t realise was that with funding comes responsibility. Each successful bid brought its own stress. It’s one thing to say we can deliver six workshops in an area; it’s another to find the audience to deliver to. Again, some areas are more open to this. I sent emails and messages to any charity and organisation in these areas, telling them of our work. But they had never heard of us. They were sceptical. It took time to find organisations that would use our service. Homestart was brilliant. They would book a workshop for their staff and volunteers first, and then after attending, they tended to get excited and book more for their service users. Women’s Aid did the same. We reached out to local councils and social workers, but they were resistant. Schools were too. They would ask what certification we had, and we didn’t have any that was recognised. I was certified in Bryan Post’s stress model, but the workshops were based around my lived experience, so they weren’t interested. Councils seemed afraid of us. What we were saying was in direct contradiction to the Triple P and Incredible Years programmes that they had been offering parents. In one area, four schools booked us for their staff—we were so excited—but the council shut it down. Their party line was that they didn’t want to confuse parents by offering contradictory information.

We kept on. Applying, emailing, messaging. Sharing posts on social media. I even got myself banned from a few Facebook groups for this. Slowly, more funds came in. Slightly bigger funds. We managed to get enough funding to cover the cost of having the workshops CPD certified. This made a huge difference. Suddenly, school staff and social workers were taking us seriously. We were gathering feedback all the time, and with the help of our wonderful coach Adrian Murtaugh of Just Smart Thinking, who offered his time once a week to help me, things began to take shape. We had policies and evidence. I was getting more successful at writing applications, but they took me so long—it was a full-time job. I learned that you had to just keep applying and applying. Most were rejected, but the odd one would be successful. When they were, it was like winning the lottery.

Soon, we had some new Trustees. Sharon, who was at one of our original workshops and had offered to help, was roped in. She had experience in charities and applying for funding. She was amazing, helping me and going over the applications with me. Barbara, a lawyer; Kevin, a supporter of our work through Adoption UK; Lindsay, a nursery teacher from that first workshop; Teshhany, one of our parents; Geraldine, a foster carer I had previously worked with; and Gillian, the amazing social worker who had originally got me interested in ACEs, even joined. Having a wealth of experience on the board made a big difference. But sadly, with these new Trustees came the retirement of some of our original members. Pamela stepped down first. She felt her role in helping me get things off the ground had passed, and now it was time for new blood to take over. I didn’t want her to leave—I was so grateful to have her be part of this; I always will be—but she insisted. With a heavy heart, I accepted her resignation. Stuart and Barbara, our Chairperson and Treasurer, also stepped down. This was a new era. I am forever grateful to them all.

The more funds came in, the more we could grow. We decided to use some of our funds to bring in a part-time fundraiser. This was a huge decision for us. It could go either way. There was a lot of fear that it could be a waste of funds. There was no guarantee. But we had to try, and Katie was brought into the TIP team. When I first spoke to Katie, she motivated me massively, and I could see a way forward. The vision became so clear. Having someone else take over the funding allowed me to focus on delivering more workshops and growing the organisation. It didn’t take long before small funds started to come in. Then bigger ones. Within a year, she had secured some three-year funds and the full year’s required income. TIP could now offer the workshops across Scotland fully funded. We were able to bring in a trauma coach to support attendees at the large monthly online events and a part-time admin to ease my workload.

People were starting to notice us and contact me for advice on how we had done it, which prompted me to start this blog. Of course, my fear sets in when I start to share this information—the fear of losing our funding to other organisations, the fear of scarcity. There is an instinct to keep it all for myself. I have to work hard not to be controlled by that fear and instead choose to come from a mindset of abundance, in the hope that what I share with others will come back full circle.

A siblings journey- Embracing the Chaos of Two

I don’t know what kind of mischief had come over us, with all the drama we were going through with S’s hearing and meltdowns. It had taken us two years trying to conceive the first time,  but something in me was telling me to go for it. I wonder now, was it a desperate need to take back control of our lives? Was it fate? Or insanity? The chances were so slim, or so we thought. Within a few weeks all those tell-tale signs were there. On a wet Sunday afternoon in January 2000, I sat there staring at three blue lines from three tests. Shock, excitement, disbelief. What had we done??!! S was only 16 months old. Gulp.

But I was filled with something unfamiliar that I hadn’t felt in such a long time. Joy. Hope. Happiness. Yes, it was terrifying, but it was also wonderful. A new baby. People were going to think we were crazy. We had so much going on, and we were still struggling to come to terms with S’s hearing loss. But as we broke the news to family and friends, they were also joyous for us. They didn’t seem to think we were insane, or at least they didn’t show it if they did.

The professionals dealing with us weren’t so delighted. We were met with stony faces and grim news. We were informed that with us having one Deaf child, there was a 1 in 5 chance that this child would also be Deaf. For some reason, that didn’t worry me. That was a 4 in 5 chance that they wouldn’t be. We had been to see the Cochlear Implant team and were told my being pregnant might make us less appropriate candidates for S being chosen for the implant, as I would be too busy with a new baby to give her the required time and attention she would need. I assured them this wouldn’t be the case. I could see there was going to be more fighting ahead of us.

The pregnancy marched on. During this time, we fought to get S her cochlear implant and went through the operation (see blog -Silent struggles ). The due date was close and coincided with S’s switch-on date. At this point, I just wanted to get on with it. I felt like a beached whale – second pregnancies aren’t as fun as first pregnancies, especially when you have a toddler to run after. At my antenatal appointment they had agreed surprisingly to induce me to fit in with S’s switch on date  S was dropped off with my parents and we headed off to the hospital.  When we got there the midwife told us that it was busy night and suggested we go out for something to eat and return in a few hours. It was unreal for us to be out on our own after everything that was going on, knowing that in a few hours we would have another baby, just sitting having a meal in a restaurant, casual as you like, strangest date night ever. After a long night and day G came noisily into the world.  The midwife said she had never seen anything like it  before. She wasnt crying, she was talking, she was gargling, wriggling her head   as she left the birth canal.  It was a strange sensation.   

G was a pure joy, a real bright spark in what had been a dark time. Before I was allowed home, she had to get the echo test to see if there were any concerns about her hearing. But I had already noticed the difference. I could see her turning to voices or jumping and starting at sounds. I hadn’t known the first time round, I’d had no comparison. They wired her up and put electrodes around her head as she slept, and they piped sound into her ears to test the echo that is sent back. I held my breath. The words the technician told me next were like music to my ears: “Everything seems normal.” As I came out of the room, my mum was waiting at the other end of the corridor with S. She could tell by the look on my face what had just happened, as I grinned widely and nodded  “She is OK.” Her eyes filled with tears. What a relief.

S was not impressed with her new sister at all. In fact, she wasn’t impressed with me. She was so clingy with my mum, and it wrenched at my heart. The few days she had spent away from me had already created such a disconnect. I was emotional as it was, having just given birth, but this was brutal. She didn’t want to hug me, she didn’t want to see the baby, even though the baby had brought her gifts, and I’d been careful not to be holding the baby when she arrived to visit, I’d read all about how upsetting it could be . I’d done all the right things, but it didn’t matter. It felt like she didn’t love me anymore. I was desperate to just get home.

So home we came, all four of us for the first time. Many friends and family came to visit and meet the baby. S was fine when we had visitors – she would go off and play with all the other children that came and went, but every time someone would leave, she tried to give them her sister to take with them. She didn’t seem to understand that this baby was ours. She didn’t like this new creature in our home at all. She wouldn’t sit near her for a photo and would have huge meltdowns every time I fed her. I lived in hope that this would pass. I could hold the baby to feed her and opted to have her in front of me in her baby chair   I got really good at feeding her while also chasing S round and playing at the same time, no wonder she was so colicky.

We had to get used to having a new baby as well as managing S’s many meltdowns and prepare for the switch-on. I told myself that everything would be different once she could hear us. My mum and dad came over to watch G the day of the switch-on. Normally, it would have taken me many few weeks to even consider leaving my baby, and even though I knew my mum would take good care of her, it felt wrong. She was so tiny, but we had no choice. The switch-on was too important and needed our full attention.

Meanwhile, we were still trying to adjust to being four. G was a great wee baby, but it’s hard – the lack of sleep, the night-time feeding, and the colic. I was stressed out of my mind. I remember at night, in the dark, winding her with such vigour that sparks were coming off her little handmade knitted cardigan. I was hanging by a thread. It was all too much. But little did we know, things were about to get worse. G came down with a bad cold. She was so tiny, and her coughing and wheezing were worse than anything we had seen before. I took her to the doctor and was sent to the hospital. She was kept in; S was dropped off at my parents’. We sat all day with G as they monitored her oxygen levels. It was the first time I had felt I could catch my breath. We had a nice day that day, sitting waiting, not really thinking this was a big deal. They mentioned her staying in overnight, and my initial response was relief – we might get a night’s sleep. But when they explained what was really going on, that thought soon disappeared. G had a virus called RSV. I had heard of it before, as a friend’s child had had it the year before, and it had been brutal. This wasn’t going to be a walk in the park – I wasn’t going to be getting a night’s sleep any time soon.

They took us up to a ward right on the top floor. There was a box in yellow tape on the floor around each bed. This was our quarantine area. In our square was a cot/bed and a chair. We were not to leave our square without fully disinfecting and removing all protective clothing; we had to wear the protective wear at all times. G had an oxygen tube put into her nose, and she was also fed by tube as she couldn’t swallow and breathe due to the virus. They couldn’t tell us how long we would be there. But we could see she was getting sicker as time went on.

In the evening, it became clear that only one of us could stay. Each child had one parent. They all sat beside the beds in their yellow squared boxes. A few babies had no parent – they would cry and cry, the nurses were too busy to attend to them. When we attempted to go to them, we were told this was not allowed as we might contaminate each other with a different strain of the RSV virus. It was heart-breaking. I was overwhelmed with guilt that I had momentarily thought I might get home for a sleep. How could I have ever considered leaving my baby in this way, alone, sick, and crying in an unfamiliar place? There was no way I was going anywhere.

Steven went home that night and got S and brought her home. I stayed and tried to sleep in the hospital chair; it wasn’t even a nice soft reclinable chair, just a regular one. I think it was the most uncomfortable night of my life, worse than those nights in hospital with S after her operation—that seemed like luxury in comparison. I found myself very emotional and tearful. The nurses regularly did their rounds and had to check G’s temperature, which would unsettle her. She’d wake up and start crying again, often just after I had settled her. I could feel the tears as the nurse looked at me as if I was overreacting. I felt full of shame and muttered that there had been a lot going on, and things were just a bit much right now. I couldn’t quite believe this was all happening—how much more could we take? I felt so sorry for myself, thinking of Steven in our cosy bed, fast asleep.

But when Steven returned the next day looking like hell, he told me S had not settled all night. Every time he went in to get her, she would meltdown, probably because she was looking for me and didn’t understand what was going on. He had dropped her off at my parents and headed to the hospital for another day of us standing and sitting in our little yellow square. G was slightly improved, but her oxygen levels were still too low for us to go home. We opted to swap for the next night. Steven felt he could fashion the chair into something relatively comfortable. I was very sceptical but wasn’t going to argue, so I headed home to face the meltdowns, unsure which of us had the worse deal. It felt like I was on autopilot, one foot in front of the other, though I’ve no idea how. Thankfully, S settled well that night. She was either so shattered or relieved to have me back home, but for the first time in months, I slept through the night—it was bliss. I felt so guilty for poor Steven in that horrible hospital chair.

It turned out he had managed to get some sleep too, and G was fit to come home. She could breathe on her own now, and we could finally see her little face without all the tubes. We couldn’t get away from that yellow box quickly enough. I remember the relief driving home—we were utterly done in. It felt like we had just been through a war, and I don’t think we could have taken one more thing.

A few days later, the health visitor came for her routine visit. She weighed G, did the usual checks, and gave me a questionnaire for new mums. It had some odd questions: ‘Have you ever felt you might hurt yourself?’ ‘Did you ever feel like running away?’ I answered them all honestly. When I finished, she looked taken aback and told me that I had scored very highly and should see the doctor that same afternoon. At the doctor’s surgery, he asked me why I was there. All I could say was that I had scored highly on the health visitor’s test, but as he asked how I was, the floodgates opened. I became a sobbing, snotty mess. He handed me tissues and told me I was at high risk of depression because of everything we’d been through with S  and having two children so close together. It helped to know that. I didn’t feel like such a failure if others in the same situation were struggling too. He prescribed me antidepressants and sent me on my way. It wasn’t easy to accept that I needed them, but Steven, Pamela, and my mum kept telling me I wasn’t myself and that they would help.

I was confused. So, I was high risk for this? Was I the problem? But these things we were dealing with were real—the constant meltdowns were real. The girls were hard work. Was it them, or was it me?

I took the medication and instantly felt relief. I mean, instantly. Even just filling the prescription and having the tablets in my hand felt better—was this a placebo? That day, outside the chemist, I met an old neighbour who asked about the girls, as people do. I smiled and chatted as if everything was fine, but out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my GP walking past. I felt like such a fraud—I’d been sobbing the day before, and here I was, looking like I didn’t have a care in the world. This was even more confusing.

Within days, Steven was returning from work to a happy home—no more kids in meltdown, I was no longer a crying wreck, the dinner was made, and the house was tidy. I was a different person. In fact, I felt so much better I started to wonder if I even needed the tablets. Everything was good. Every day before had been like marching through treacle, going through the motions, but feeling like ‘what’s the point? Tomorrow will be just as bad, and I can’t see any way forward’. But now, it was so nice to feel like myself again. I could breath; for a second, I wasn’t drowning.

My mum was over, helping me with the kids as she often did. We were in the kitchen, G asleep in the living room in her chair. Mum was giving S a Tunnock’s Tea Cake, her eyes dancing at the look of chocolaty mallow deliciousness. My mum gestured to her to put her implant on if she wanted the treat—bribery and corruption all the way. S let my mum place the implant on her head, and Mum, teasing even more, said to her, “Say ‘Ta’,” ever hopeful that this might be the time she’d speak one of the words we were desperate to hear. S looked at her… but nothing. Her eyes didn’t move from the Tea Cake, held just out of her reach. Mum tried again, “Say ‘Taaa’?”

From out of the room, we suddenly heard a very clear little voice say, “Taaa.” Mum and I looked at each other in confusion and disbelief. Who on earth could have said that? S was given the Tea Cake as we went into the living room, and there was G, all of four/five months old, wide awake in her seat, grinning wildly. Surely not! G had been hearing everything we were teaching her sister. She had been present at every speech therapy session. Her words and comprehension came on in leaps and bounds. I had no frame of reference, of course, with her sister not speaking yet, but I had never seen a child so young with such speech.

Time passed, and the girls grew. G began speaking very early, and her understanding and communication were incredible. The more she spoke, the more her sister copied her. I’m convinced that G’s speech developed so well because of all the speech therapy she was exposed to from birth. Every sound we practised with S, we repeated to the dog and to little baby G in her car seat, just to get S to do it again and again. All the “cow says moo” and “sheep says baa” over and over. It was amazing to see how, unknowingly, we’d been building those pathways in G’s brain. My mum often said she felt G was here to teach her sister how to speak.

But as G got older, S didn’t like this new child in her world. She avoided being near her, and they were constantly arguing and fighting. The double buggy was a disaster. G’s legs kept finding their way over to her sister’s side, which put S in meltdown mode—shaking her head furiously and shoving the offending legs away. The same thing happened in shopping trolleys, making food shopping tricky. S would shove her sister out of the way, and G started biting back, leaving teeth marks on her big sister. Looking back, I can’t blame her—it was pure survival. S wouldn’t share anything with her sister, so we ended up with two of everything. We had big toy baskets with a photo on each one to keep their toys separate and avoid the inevitable squabbles. G was so keen to play with her sister, but S wasn’t having it.

The words “No,” “naughty,” and “baba” soon became S’s firm favourites. It didn’t take long for her to start putting them together: “No, naughty baba” or “bad baba” became common phrases as she turned as far away as she could from her sister, shaking her head furiously and waving her finger. This usually happened when snatching something she didn’t want to share. G, such a sweet little thing, hardly ever complained. It was constantly hard work. How do you discipline a child who doesn’t have vocabulary? S was often in full meltdown, and it got to the point where we hardly went anywhere because it usually ended in tears—mine included.

At this point, I felt totally isolated. I remember watching parents collect their children from the school across the road. They were all talking and happy, and I would see them in the morning and again at the end of the day. I felt such resentment towards them—they had lives, they were out in the world, coping, while it felt like I was standing still.

S had taken an extremely long time to crawl, sit, and walk. Her motor skills were hugely delayed. She could walk now, but after a short distance, she’d refuse and go into meltdown. It’s extremely difficult to manage with a toddler in a buggy and another child lying on the ground in full meltdown, refusing to move. We got a buggy board in the hope that we could move to just one single buggy—these had just been introduced and seemed like the answer to our prayers. Little G in the seat, and S on the board. But S soon got tired of standing and would launch herself off it in protest. G was toddling by this time, and as soon as she came out of the buggy, her sister was in it like a shot. Thankfully, G was happy to stand on the buggy board, even though it was meant to be the other way around. I received many strange looks with this tiny tot on the board and the older child in the buggy. S was never as happy as when she got into that seat. I was so grateful that G was so easy and always did what I asked without any complaints   

At this time, I had no idea that one day I would learn to see this very differently. That it would break my heart to realise that she had learned this as a coping skill, as a way to survive in our chaotic family. But I hadn’t known.  I was doing the absolute best that I could at the time.

Silent Struggles-A families fight for sound.

My best friend had her second baby five weeks after my first daughter. We had grown up together, been each others bridesmaids, been pregnant together, and now we would be mums together. But her baby was blossoming. Her child was starting to make noises, talking, and moving across the floor. Mine wasn’t. I was shocked to see how much more advanced her baby was. My baby was a happy wee soul, and I hadn’t had any worries until now. Every time I saw them, the divide grew bigger. Every time she proudly showed a new word or trick he could do, it felt like a blow. It was hard to feel this way; I wanted to be happy for her, but my stomach lurched, and fear set in. Something was wrong.

I asked the health visitor and was told not to worry—it was all perfectly normal. The months went on, and she still wasn’t sitting when all the children her age were. She wasn’t making much sound, just high-pitched squeals. She wasn’t responding to noise; occasionally, she would turn to loud bang, or at least I thought she had, but at other times, she didn’t. We spent so much time sneaking up behind her, clapping or shouting her name in the hope of getting a reaction—mostly, she didn’t respond. By the time her 18-month check came around, I was desperate. The doctor confirmed what we already suspected; she didn’t pass the hearing test, and a referral to audiology was made. I felt a mixture of emotions—relief that a professional had taken it seriously, but also fear and denial.

After many appointments, she was to go under anaesthetic so they could properly test her hearing. Our questions would finally be answered. It was what we wanted but also what we were most afraid of. Afterwards the doctor came out and used words like “definitely no sound getting in,” “hearing moulds,” and “hearing aids.” It didn’t seem clear to us as we left that day, unsure of what he meant. As we passed the audiology desk, a lady we had met earlier stopped us. She already knew the news and used the word “deaf.” She even mentioned applying for Disability Living Allowance. It was surreal, but oddly I was thankful she used the actual words, it helped us process the news. We drove home in silence, a silence only to familiar to our child.

When we got home, we told friends and family. Saying those words out loud was brutal. “She is deaf,” I would say, answering all the well-meaning questions on automatic pilot. “No, I don’t know what happens now.” “Yes, we are okay.” Some friends called with warm wishes, while others stayed away. I understood—what could they say? Nothing would help. Those days felt like we were walking through treacle. Our little girl was still the same, but now, every time I sang to her or spoke to her, I knew she wasn’t hearing me, and that was heartbreaking. I started to see the word differently through her silent world. My parents were really worried this would mean she would be sent away as this is what used to happen years ago but I assured them that wouldn’t happen. My mind often wandered to a girl who was deaf at my school. She had hearing aids and seemed to have done okay. I found myself being curious about what had happened to her and where she was now .

We pinned all our hopes on the hearing aids. It took weeks to get the hearing moulds back which wasn’t ideal as her ears would grow and they likely wouldn’t fit well . When the day finally came, we were so hopeful. The audiologist came in with the hearing aids, tiny brown contraptions that hurt my heart to see, but I hoped they would work. Oblivious to what was going on, she pulled them straight out. We tried again and again, but she hated them. There was no sign she was hearing anything, and it quickly became clear the hearing aids weren’t staying in. The disappointment was crushing. At home, I kept trying to put them in, but she always pulled them out, and each time, it became more upsetting for us all going through this day after day. Fighting her, holding her while she screamed, squashing these hearing aids into her ears for her to grab them and throw them on the floor. I was completely overwhelmed. Until one afternoon Steven appeared home early, he walked in on us both screaming and crying, something in his gut had told him he was needed. He held me as I sobbed. From that moment on we decided to stop forcing the hearing aids. She wasn’t benefiting from them, and it wasn’t helping any of us. The relief was immense, but so was the sadness. Where did that leave us? How would she ever communicate? I’d heard about cochlear implants but didn’t know much. We resolved to find out more.

The next step was for her to have an audiogram. To be candidate she would need to have a hearing loss that was severe to profound. It was odd to be hopeful she had little no hearing. But the test showed her to be profoundly deaf. It explained why the hearing aids hadn’t worked. We could stop feeling guilty about not using them. There was new hope. We waited for a referral to Crosshouse Hospital and started learning basic sign language with help from our deaf teacher, Anne. She was a godsend, visiting weekly and bringing light to those dark days.

We made the decision to go ahead with the implant after many appointments and assurances from us that my now pregnant state and imminent new arrival wouldn’t be an issue. Once we convinced them we were absolutely up for the task, they agreed to put us on the list, and a decision would be made over the coming months. S was one of the youngest to have been considered, but the news was that the younger the implant could be done, the better the chances of her developing natural speach. There was a huge waiting list. I decided on a charm offensive and phoned the office every single week for months, as friendly as I could be, asking when we might hear, making the biggest nuisance of myself that I could.

Finally, after months of hoping and waiting, we got the news that she had been selected. It was celebrations and elation all around. She was to have the operation the day after her 2nd birthday. It was terrifying but exciting, and everything we wanted. But the fear of her going under a long anesthetic, having part of her skull chiseled out for the implant, and the risk of facial paralysis was not lost on us. At this point, I was eight months pregnant, with a huge belly. The day before the operation was chaos. We were having a party at the house with friends and family for S’s 2nd birthday, which was a welcome distraction. I felt like death. In the photos from that day, I look like death. But there was an odd feeling in the air of change and hope as I watched S bossing people around in her silent way, pointing and telling us where to sit and what to do, wondering what this next phase would hold for us. It felt good to have all our loved ones around us at this time especially.

Those days in the hospital were long and all a bit of a blur. My parents were with us, and Steven was staying with them in a flat on the hospital grounds. I was staying with S in her hospital room on a camp bed. On the day of the operation, after I had gone with her in my scrubs and held her as they gave her the sedative, she drifted off to sleep, and they took her to the theatre. The four of us set up a vigil outside the elevator doors. It felt endless. The operation took over four hours, and every time those doors opened, we all jumped out of our seats, waiting, pacing, hoping. Finally, the nurse came through those doors, and S’s crying was music to my ears, her curly hair tufting out of the top of the bandages. I was so happy to see both sides of her face screwed up in tears, no paralysis. She was groggy and in pain, but it was done.

It was going to be a long night. Every time I got her settled, the nurses came in to check on her, and she woke again. When she did sleep, I couldn’t sleep. The folding bed was so uncomfortable, and my very pregnant body wasn’t managing it well. I was emotional and overwhelmed; all the feelings I had been holding back were flooding me in the relief. I was feeling so sorry for myself, and the thought of Steven and my Mum and Dad together in the flat celebrating just made it worse. The rain was pounding the windows as the storm raged outside. I heard a phone ring in the nurse’s station. I could tell it was Steven calling to check in, and the nurse assuring him that we were both fine and asleep. But I wasn’t fine. I wanted to scream. There were no mobile phones to text back then, so I sat in my overwhelm, taking big gulps of air as I sobbed silently, not wanting to wake my sleeping child. I felt so alone, and it all felt too much, too big.

A few minutes later, I heard someone come running into the ward, which was odd so late at night, and some mumbled voices. In came a soaking wet, out-of-breath Steven. He had just had a feeling that he should come. My folks had told him not to be silly, the nurse had said everything was fine, but he just knew. My hero yet again. He lay behind me on that tiny camp bed and engulfed me in his big strong arms, and I’ve never felt comfort like it, the two of us squashed in together as I drifted off to sleep. The four of us in that little room—us on the bed, S in the cot, and G unborn, curled up inside of me. Who knew what lay ahead, but for now, we were all safe.

The implant wasn’t switched on for six weeks. It felt like endless waiting once again.

Visitors and well-wishers came and went which was lovely and eventually it was her bed time. I lay her down but as was often the case she didn’t settle, I kept laying her down and waiting for her to eventually quieten down but she was more upset that usual, it was dark and I couldn’t see well, something wasn’t right, she was crying and crying and moving her head franticly from side to side. I turned on the lights in the hallway and was met with what felt like a horror scene. She had moved her head so much that she had taken the big bandage that was on top her head clean off. We were met with what looked like the results of a car accident. I was filled with terror, screaming for Steven to help and that something is really wrong, her half shaved head, her little white scalp with big black stitches from top to bottom, all the way  down behind her ear to bellow her ear lobe.  Half of her beautiful curly brown hair missing.  Crusty scabs were forming around the stitches and her tinny hands were clawing at them, a few with fresh blood were opening up. I was convinced in that moment that she was going rip the implant right out.  Steven just went to pieces, I hadn’t ever seen him this way before, he was always the stronger calmer one but this was just too much. He was pacing in and out of the room, no idea what to do. Seeing his baby in this state must have triggered something, but we had no choice. Picking her up I put her in his arms and told him to sit down, she was squirming and screaming, “Hold her still” I ordered, as I tried to put the bandage back on, but as much as he tried she kept squirming and getting her arms free, those chubby little fingers and tiny razor like nails clawing at the stiches. I could hear the Alfred Hitchcock music playing the in my ears. Im screaming at him to hold her tighter, “We just have to to do this”. “Oh my god, oh Jesus, I’m trying, I’m trying.” He replied. But it was pointless; I still couldn’t get the bandage on. Both of us were in bitts, each as terrified as the other. We sat the loose useless bandage on her little stitched together head and held it there while we tried to come up with a plan. We opted to get her in the car and get to the nearest hospital, Cross house hospital where she had had the procedure was 2 hours away so that wasn’t and option. We ran out and bundled her in the car seat, me in the back with her holding her hands so that she couldn’t get at the wound and her screaming.  We were told later that the young kids out playing that had seen us in the  Street had told everyone that the top of her head had come off and that we were rushing her to hospital, it was funny afterwards but in the moment that was how it had felt to us too. we got into the car straight to the hospital but  they didn’t know what to do with it either, a young Doctor who had never even seen a cochlear implant tried to bandage it, S was  screaming and yelling, as I’m holding her she’s tossing and turning her head, he managed a loose bandage of sorts and as I left he and I both knew that  it was instantly going to come off. Me and Steven stood outside the hospital at a loss, what could we do? I needed my Mum. I instantly felt better just beeing there, S seemed to calm down too.  Me and my Mum slowly started to unravel the mess of loose bandages, there was miles of the stuff, Steven couldn’t watch, he had to go out of the room.  S was very calm suddenly, she let us remove them all and she sat there on my knee almost in a trance, I got a brush and she allowed me to gently brush the half head of matted  bloody hair all knotted up from being in the bandage for days, she was so relaxed. We got a chance to really look at it. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, yes it was big and ugly and hard to see but at closer inspection it was healing, it was clean and no stitches had actually been burst. I shouted on Steven to come and see but he didn’t want to look. She sat there as calm as could be in my arms as  my mum calmly bandaged her head, much better than it had been before and we found a hat that tied under her chin. We put a hat like this on head for six weeks, day and night, in bed in the bath constantly. it only came off when the bandages needed changed which we routinely did, me and my mum, calmly once a week. letting the air get at it and cleaning and brushing her hair, rebadging and adding a clean hat.

The weeks passed as her curls began to grow back in We had big expectations of what this switch on would be like. This was before we had the internet filled with all of these cute tear-jerking videos of kids hearing for the first time, but you better believe that’s what we were expecting. So off we went, our Deaf teacher had come along as she was keen to see what a switch on was like, she had never experienced it, we loved  her and were happy to have her with us witnessing this miracle that was about to happen. We set of full of anticipation and excitement, this was it, this was the day it was all going to change.

At the hospital they ushered into the audiology room, after the usual pleasantries and interest in the birth of the baby and how S was getting on, we got on with it. Her outer part of the implant was at this point attached to a big thick long cable that connected to the PC, the placed it on her ear and switched on the sound, we held our breath, nothing happened, we started talking and saying her name, she looked unimpressed and pulled it straight off her head. My stomach hit the floor. We tried again and again, every time she wriggled and squirmed and pulled it straight off. She hated the cable and didn’t want it touching her, I tried to hold her so she could grab at it but it was pointless, she was in meltdown and I felt like I was haemorrhaging, I had only days before given birth and here I am wrestling on the floor with a hysterical 2 year old while everyone watched, I was sure the blood was seeping out of me (it wasn’t actually) but I didn’t care, we kept trying, Steven too, distracting her, bribing her, forcing her. But it was no use. Eventually we were sent away with the implant and a box of many small pieces and bitts and lots of instructions, none of which I had taken in, I hoped steven had, he hadn’t either. Anne was with us, I was sure at this point she would rather have been anywhere else, she tried to cajole us with kind words and comfort of it just takes time etc. But me and Steven couldn’t even really look at each other, the reality was to horrible to face. Into the car we got, S still in her silent world and us all driving in silence ourselves lost in our own fears and thoughts. When we got home my parents were waiting to hear all about it but it didn’t take long for them to understand things had not gone as hoped. Anne made her goodbyes and am sure was so glad to get away. Years later she told me that she would never forget the sight of us that day, “those 2 desperate parents “she had called us looking back with humour and the gift of hindsight.

Over the next few days nothing really changed. She wouldn’t wear the implant, all it seemed to do was upset her and she would pull it off.  We were both heartbroken, all our hopes had been on this working. Where did this leave us? We were trying to be positive.  I kept thinking, maybe when she’s older, she might not want now but it will always be in there, ready waiting, if she ever changes her mind. I went into fix it mode, there had to be something we could do. As she couldn’t stand the earpiece behind her ear, we opted to stick this part to the coil with double sided sticky tape.  In the hope that we could encourage her to wear it this way. We made sure that she was always wearing tops with hoods, this way the implant could sit in there still wired to the body worn processor and whenever she was distracted we could try to pop it on to the magnet in her skull just under her hair, My Mum fashioned a little mini back pack that fit snuggly around the processor made from old bra straps and this was worn under her clothes, she seemed ok with this. It was supposed to be worn on a bum bag around her waist, but she had made her feelings about this very clear as she went into meltdown every time we tried this. Off we would  go to the park, every time she was busy one of us would sidle up behind her and pop the coil on, holding our breath, trying to distract her and keep her focus, each time it would stay on for a few minutes and then she would realise it was there and off it would come, dangle there on this little wire, we got used to popping it back in the hood till the next opportunity arose. We would bribe her with sweets or play games to create these windows of opportunities.  Every moment it was on was a small win. Slowly slowly, more and more, the time it stayed in place before being grabbed a thrown off got longer. It just became the norm; I began to feel it would always be this way. One day Steven came home from a visit to the park and casually announced that she hadn’t taken it off the whole time they had been out. I couldn’t believe it. What progress. She started wearing it more when we were out but still not so much at home. All the while there were still no signs of hearing or speach, we often wondered was this device even working.

We had started to keep a list of all the sounds that she was making, not words but she has started to make what the speech therapists said were preverbal noises. We were not convinced. Too afraid at this stage to get our hope up anymore. I will never forget the first moments I realised that the implant was working. She was sitting on the kitchen window sill; she loved playing with baby wipes. I was videoing her sounds as she played and to get her attention I instinctively said her name as I always did. She turned and looked at me. The world stood still. I held my breath. Had that really just happened? Dare I believe? Dare I hope? For 2 years we had shouted on her and jumped about behind her making noises trying to get her to turn to us, so many times we thought she had, only to learn that she had actually seen our reflection in the TV or felt the vibration of our feet behind her. So, I waited until she was distracted by the wipes again and standing very still, I said her name again. Again she turned to look at me. I gasped, hand over my face in disbelief, my heart pounding, I wanted to hug her and kiss and throw her around, but I was afraid to do anything in case I jinxed it. We continued doing this over and over, I cannot tell you how many times I had to see this with my own eyes for it to be real. Pure joy is the only word for how it felt. Elation. I phoned Steven to tell him, I was so excited, but he, just like me was unsure. “Hmm, really? We have thought this so many times before, was it not maybe just a coincidence?” I understood his fear. “No, I’m telling you, she has done it over and over all afternoon consistently, I’ve even got it on video”. He came of the call pretending to believe me, not wanting to dampen my excitement but I knew he didn’t believe it. I couldn’t wait for him to come home.

When he came in I could see his apprehension, afraid to ask. I tried to hide my excitement, I knew he had to see it for himself, and I too was afraid it might not happen again, maybe it was a coincidence. I was making dinner and watching from the kitchen window as he went out with her into the garden to play, she ran off for the ball and I saw him tentatively call her name, I was willing her to respond and she did, she stopped and turned and looked at him. He threw the ball again and the same thing happened. The slowest biggest smile started across his face, I was beaming, tears in my eyes, he looked up and saw me watching, could this really be happening. It certainly seemed like it might be.

I can’t really remember where it came from, I think it was a gift, but someone gave us a fluffy cuddly dog toy.  I was holding S on my hip and the dog in my hand as if it was looking at us. This wasn’t a conscious thing, just a random moment of play. I made to doggy nod as it said “woof woof”, She looked at the dog, she looked at me, she pursed her little pink lips and made an “oo oo” noise. Wow. I did it again, the dog nodded in time to the “woof woof” and again she looked to me, she looked to the dog, and again she said “oo oo”. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. She was absolutely trying to say “woof woof and she understood that this sound was connected to this dog.  I was the first time I seen her brain connect with a sound and respond to the south and make a noise. I did it over and over again. Throwing her about in jubilation. But still the doubts were there, was this really what I thought it was, dare I believe?  I thought I would push it a little further and put the dog away in the toy box in the other room.  I came back to her and looking her square in the face said to her, while gesturing confusion “ Where is the woof woof?”. I held my breath. She stopped what she was doing and went into the toy room, there was lots of banging about and out she came dragging the doggy behind.  This was such a euphoric moment in my life, but I was on my own with 2 small children who had no idea what was going on. I got on the phone to Steven, this time he seemed to allow himself to get excited. I couldn’t wait till he come to show him. And when he did, she did it again perfectly. This was huge turning point for us. The implant was working, and her brain was starting to process sound. This was to become our party piece at every loved one’s home we visited for some time, every time the dog being hidden in more elaborate places where is the woof woof?” off she would go and find it, even when we said it without her being able to see our faces and lip-reading. My Mum bought herself a similar dog toy and when she looked after kids, she “woof woofed” all around the house with it.

S making this sound will forever be one of the most joyous moments of my life up there with the birth of my children, watching G graduate and seeing S win Special Olympics medals. To see her make that connection, for her to know that Woof meant something showed me that my child had some understanding and had the capacity to learn. Yes, it was going to be a long road but there was possibility. There was a glimmer of light at the end of this long, long tunnel.

She did go on over time to learn more words and sounds and string those together more and more each day. Words became sentences. Sentences became stories. Wearing her implant everyday, her hearing capacity is now amazing. She talks constantly and her hearing loss is the least of her issues.

Read the next blog-A siblings journey

Starting a Charity : The Birth of Trauma Informed Parenting

“Let’s set up a charity.” I’m not sure if it was supposed to be a joke when Steven said these words, but it didn’t seem like the worst idea. “I’m sure you will be able to get funding,” he said. How do you even start a charity? Did it cost money? Did you have to have experience in charities? Lots of other people had done it. How hard could it be? Off I went down a wormhole, looking for information. There was so much to learn, so many people to talk to, but where to start? Steven knew a few people through his networking group and got me the names of some organizations. Firstport was really helpful. They helped me understand that it wasn’t as simple as just starting a charity. There were many different kinds of charities and social enterprises, and it depended on the work of the organization to determine what might suit best.

I had many meetings with many people. Our local voluntary action group gave me tons of information—too much for my brain to process. At this point, all I knew was that I needed at least three trustees, and I had to write a constitution. They gave me a template document to use and told me to apply to OSCR for charity status. At this point, I decided to set up a Facebook group and called it *Trauma Informed Parenting*. The plan was that it would give the organization a presence, and we could document the journey of becoming a charity while sharing the occasional helpful post.

Three trustees. Where to start? Who would even be interested? I put out a post on the group and my own social media. No one responded. I asked a few people I thought might be keen. They politely declined. I thought that if Steven and I could be trustees, then we would only need one more. It needed to be someone I knew, liked, and trusted. One person who fit that perfectly and had some amazing skills to boot was my childhood friend Pamela—my rock, my bestie. But was this too much to ask of her? Would it stretch our friendship too far? When I messaged her to ask, I gave her so many ways to say no. The message would have started with “Feel free to say no,” and I’m sure there were a few “Absolutely no pressure” and “I will totally understand if you don’t want to” thrown in. But her prompt reply consolidated my already undying love. She had written words like “I would be honored” and “delighted to support you.” I was euphoric. Boy, had I lucked out having her in my corner. Her belief in me felt like a huge endorsement.

So we had three. I went on to OSCR, the Scottish charity regulator, and in July 2019, just 10 months after attending the ACE Aware Nation event, I sent in an application to set up a charity called *Trauma Informed Parenting*.

But it was no small task. It turned out that if I wanted to become an employee of the charity eventually, I couldn’t be a trustee. I wasn’t happy. This was my baby. I didn’t want to give up control of it, but there was no way around it. I had to find another trustee to step in. Back to the drawing board. I roped in another of my good friends, Julie. She and her husband had been foster carers before us. It was seeing them go through the process that had given us the confidence to do it. She was a perfect fit, although she didn’t think she was and couldn’t see how much wonderful experience she could bring to the role. More as a favor to me, she kindly agreed. At a night out with my neighbors, over a few drinks, Barbara, who was an accountant, made the mistake of offering her services to help if I needed them. She didn’t need to ask twice. I was thrilled.

In the meantime, I had decided to offer a free workshop in Glasgow. I needed to see if there was even an appetite for this. We knew of a lovely office space we could hire that was central and not too expensive. In August 2019, I offered our first official *Trauma Informed Parenting* workshop. I shared it on as many Facebook group pages as I could find. Posts about what I was doing and signing people up to the event. I was surprised at the interest. Twenty people signed up to come. Ten came on the day. The feedback blew me away. We continued to host one each month. September’s workshop was just as busy, and so was October’s. I’m still in contact with many of the people who attended those early events. Some have become trustees. The content changed and grew as we took the feedback on board. We were asked to deliver workshops for a few organizations. All of this was for free, and in fact, at my own expense, but the hope was that eventually, if people heard about the workshops, we might be able to sell tickets or secure funding.

Pamela arranged a meeting with us both and her wonderfully eccentric Auntie Grace, who had lots of experience in charities. She gave me a wealth of information and equally terrified me with all the questions I would need to answer. The info and grilling she gave me that day unknowingly provided me with the education required to continue on this journey. I am forever grateful for this turning point that meeting provided.

We were corresponding with OSCR, answering all of the many questions about the organization we were building. We had opted to become a SCIO charity. We had to decide on what our charitable purpose should be, . This process of back-and-forth with OSCR took months and months. But finally we agreed that Trauma Informed Parentings purposes would be: (j) The advancement of human rights conflict resolution and reconciliation -to promote repair and connection in relationships and reduce the fight and flight response in previously reactive children. To teach parents to de-escalate potentially explosive interactions. (n)The relief of those in need-to support placements in crisis and prevent families breaking down. To support parents to better support children suffering from trauma. To build a safe and loving environment for traumatized children to learn to heal. It took so long. so many emails back and forth with OSCR, question after question, I had to provide so much evidence, at times I wondered if it was even worth it and came close to giving up. But on January 29th, 2020, Pamela sent me a message congratulating me. I didn’t know what for, but we had both received an email with our charity number, telling us *Trauma Informed Parenting* was officially a charity.

By February 2020, we were offering a monthly workshop, and a few people were buying tickets—foster carers, parents, nursery staff, support workers. These groups were small, sometimes only 3 or 4 people, but they grew. By March, we had groups of 10, and a fostering agency had booked three workshops across Scotland. Things were getting exciting.

But by the time we delivered the March workshops, something a bit scary was hitting the news. People were canceling their tickets and not turning up. The fostering agency called to say that in the current situation, they didn’t feel it was safe to hold these events. Of course, I understood, but I couldn’t believe what was happening. All of the momentum we had built was lost.

The world was going into lockdown.

Continue reading the next blog-Growing through a pandemic

Choose Love in moments of tension

While on holiday this week in Tenerife, we were waiting at a taxi rank. It was a hot day and late in the afternoon. The line was long, and no taxis were in sight. When one did finally come along, an elderly man with two walking sticks stepped forward. At the same time, so did a younger man. An argument started. The elderly man claimed he was there first, while the younger man and his wife argued that they had actually been waiting when the elderly man came along and sat in the shelter at the front of the queue. The argument continued, and the taxi driver drove off without taking any passengers, leaving both men, and everyone in the line, irritated.

I could feel my own stress rise. My autistic daughter can become very upset by this kind of thing, and I wondered if we should walk away and come back later. The tit-for-tat argument went on, with the older man stating that people had no respect for the elderly nowadays, and the young man pointing out that he had a young baby with him that was a priority. He shouted, “What is your problem, anyway?” Each man had been escalated the situation further.

I was at the stage of getting ready to leave when I heard the older man shout, “I’m hot and I’m tired, and I just want to get home.” This was so interesting to me. This was vulnerability. The younger man, slightly less aggressive now, said, “Well, so are we, especially my baby.” There was a moment of silence. We all waited for the taxis. The older man spoke up again, but this time he apologized to the younger man. “I’m sorry, I was out of order,” he said. The younger man, still irritated, nodded and held his hand up grudgingly, as if to say it’s okay. There were a few apologies muttered as the taxis arrived, and all was well. Everyone was tired, hot, and grumpy. Windows of tolerance were exceeded, and in situations like these, sometimes humans have bad days.

Repairs can be made in some of the hardest moments when one of us can just own our own stress and be a little vulnerable. It’s contagious. The more we learn about the trauma lens and start to see the fear, the more we see it everywhere, in every micro-moment and interaction.

In the worlds of Bryan Post- In any given situation , we can ‘Choose Love.’

Read about our journey with our Deaf child-Silent Struggles

Finding my voice-Delivering my first workshop.

Roughly 6 months after attending the ACE Aware Nation event and learning about Bryan Post's stress model, I started to feel the need to tell people about this new way. People had to know. I kept imagining what a different world we could have if others had this knowledge—social workers, teachers, parents, carers, police. If they all understood that children were not choosing these behaviors, and that everyone is in a state of fear and survival, everything would change. Systems would change. Generational patterns of dysfunction could change. It was blowing my mind wide open. I felt the energy of this revelation pumping in my veins. I was being driven by something deep within, something new and unfamiliar. I felt this was my purpose. Every moment in my life now made sense. Every hard, upsetting thing I had ever endured—all of the childhood trauma and the years of being a stressed and overwhelmed, frantic parent—had happened for a reason. To bring me to this very place at this exact time.

At our next foster care support group, I asked if anyone was interested in me doing a talk about this new trauma-informed approach I had learned. I suggested we also have a showing of The Resilience film. This film, made by the fantastic Nadine Burke Harris, who I heard speak at the ACEs event, explained the impact of Adverse Childhood Experiences and was being shown across Scotland to many people working with children. I had already managed to see it at a local school. Many wanted to see it but couldn’t find anywhere showing it. It was an extremely powerful film. The other carers seemed interested, and the social workers agreed. The lead social worker put me in touch with our Educational Psychologist, who had the film and the rights to offer a screening.

I had a short PowerPoint of sorts that I had been working on, using some of the Post Institute slides sent to me while training in the model. Feeling like an absolute imposter, I met with the Educational Psychologist in her office. I explained my story and my idea, and she asked to see my slides. She said she would get back to me. I felt incredibly vulnerable, like a 5-year-old in the head teacher's office. I left with heavy feet, thinking surely she would laugh her head off at my PowerPoint and suggestions. But a few days later, she emailed me with possible dates, and a plan was formed.

To be honest, I resented social work for making me work with her. This was my baby. I didn’t need the side dish of intimidation. But if we wanted to show The Resilience film, she needed to be involved.

As the day drew nearer, I prepared. Friends who were carers signed up—some that had seen the difference in my wee guy and were curious, some who just wanted to support me and had no idea what to expect, and some who were forced to come by their workers and were disgruntled about it. Many had years more experience in foster care than me, and many I hugely respected. Around 15 people were booked in. We would show The Resilience film in the first hour, have a discussion led by the Educational Psychologist, and then I had 1 hour to deliver my part of the session.

I was pumped. I was excited. I was terrified. The night before, what I had signed up for hit me. What was I thinking??!! Where on earth did I get the idea that I had anything to say?? Pure terror set in. Steven could see this and gave me a wide berth, checking on me occasionally but knowing well enough that I was not fit for human company. I couldn’t even talk because the fear in my throat was so thick. I went to bed early and tried to find oblivion in unconsciousness. Thankfully, my brain shut down, and somehow I managed to sleep.

The next morning, I was a mess—grumpy, jittery, overwhelmed. I must be mad. Who did I think I was? Why did I say I would do this? But I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Breathing, breathing, breathing. I listened to one of Bryan’s recordings on the way there, which helped validate everything I was about to do.

Stepping into that room, I was met with so many familiar faces. I think this made it worse because I knew too well how set in their old-fashioned parenting ways some of them were. Those that had been told to come by their workers were obvious. Their body language said it all—folded arms, stern faces. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The showing of the *Resilience* film went well, and the discussion afterward was good. Next, it was my turn. My legs were like jelly. My voice was cracking. “Come on, Suzanne, pull yourself together.” But once I started, it was okay. I got through the presentation. I told them about the brain, stress, and fear. I explained what we had experienced when we made this change. There was some discussion, and the Psychologist stepped in a few times. I didn’t necessarily agree with what she said and was hugely proud of myself when I found the courage to respectfully say so.

The feedback was very positive. Some told me we needed more of this information out in the world. I was just relieved it was over. But it was also exhilarating. As we packed up, the Psychologist told me she felt it had gone well and that this was information she often tried to give parents, but they would feel like it was a personal attack. She said that coming from me, using my own experiences, may appeal more and make the information more palatable.

I had hoped she would want to do more sessions with me or offer advice on how to use this knowledge, but she offered none. She said her goodbyes and went off to the social worker's office, I’m assuming to discuss the days events. I wasn’t invited to join. I left feeling pretty deflated. Where did we go from here?

In the days that followed, I emailed many different organizations, telling them of my experience and that I was retiring as a foster carer and looking to use what I had learned. They seemed confused by my offer.

It was on a Sunday morning, still in our pajamas over breakfast, that Steven came up with his idea. We were yet again talking over what to do with this information. I needed to find a job and didn’t want to walk away from fostering with all this new knowledge and not use it in some way. I had been a hairdresser for years and was now also training to become a swimming instructor, but my real passion was in sharing this information. No one seemed to take me seriously, though.

“Let’s start a charity,” he said.

Read more in the next blog-Starting a charity

Growing though a pandemic

Lockdown was coming. The news was thick with it, and rumors were rife that soon there would be an announcement. Our workshop bookings had all been canceled in anticipation, and at the last few events, many people hadn’t attended due to the fear of catching Covid. It was hard to believe this was really happening. I had been considering taking the workshops online, but this was all so new to me. I hadn’t done anything like this before. I had been working from my daughter’s old laptop and didn’t even know how to use Zoom. I spent some time practicing and familiarizing myself with how it worked. I set up a Zoom account and registered for a subscription. On our social media, I advertised an online Trauma-Informed Parenting Workshop. I shared it in any groups that would allow it. People started to sign up, and we had a good number. Still, I was nervous. This remote, online thing felt weird.

The family was all home. My youngest had come back from Uni after a frantic phone call from us, telling her to get back before anything happened. My eldest’s college had already closed in preparation for what was about to come, and both girls were hanging around the house. Steven was the only one still going out to work. I didn’t have an office, and we had only recently moved into our home—it was a real fixer-upper with no great spot to Zoom from. The best option was to do the workshop over two mornings at 10 a.m. and hope the girls would stay in their rooms until 12 p.m., as requested, allowing me to Zoom from the living room. People continued to sign up. Every time I practiced delivering on Zoom, I messed it up and forgot what I was saying. How was I going to manage this?

The day before the workshop, Boris Johnson came onto our screens as we all huddled around the TV in anticipation and told us to “Stay at Home.” It was so unreal. We knew it was coming, but it felt like we were in an apocalyptic movie. Messages started coming in from people saying they wouldn’t make it to the workshop due to getting things in order for lockdown. It was to be expected. The world was spinning into fear and panic.

On the day of the workshop, four people turned up. There were five, but one couldn’t get their connection to work—two adoptive parents, a foster carer, and a nursery teacher. It was a small group, but they were all lovely. Both mornings, they sat on Zoom with me while I delivered the workshop online for the first time. Once the session started and I got into the flow, it was fine. I forgot about my nerves. It seemed to go okay. We had lots of discussions and chat, which was lovely. I organized another date, and this time it booked up even more. Many teachers signed on as they were all now sitting at home. Over 20 attended this time, and the feedback was brilliant. My phone and email were blowing up with messages from attendees telling me how much they had gotten from it. This was so exciting! But I had to come up with a better plan.

The family was hanging around in their bedrooms, waiting to get into the kitchen. They had been great about not disturbing me, but hogging the main living space in the house all morning wasn’t going to last. My youngest was horrified by what I was doing. She could see me on social media sharing posts about TIP workshops. At 19, this was mortifying. “Mum, please don’t go live on Facebook, and do not go onto TikTok,” she begged. “You’ll get slaughtered.” I assured her I had no plans to go live online.

As the lockdown passed, I offered one workshop a month. I found a small acceptance corner in my bedroom to zoom from, with boxes piled up on the bed to hold the laptop. We offered a workshop for birth parents, as I had seen the difference in my own child with this approach, and the feedback was amazing. People were messaging, telling me about the difference they were seeing. I shared it on many of the forums I followed for parents with autistic or ADHD children, and on forums for carers and adopters. Some groups deleted my posts; others didn’t. I messaged and emailed organizations supporting families, telling them what we were doing. The workshops grew bigger and bigger. Sometimes too big—it could be a bit overwhelming at times. We started charging for tickets, but when parents messaged me, saying they really wanted to attend but couldn’t afford it this month, it broke my heart. The information was too important. People needed it.

All these forums were full of posts about families in crisis, managing huge behaviors that were only escalating due to the stress and fear in the world. The decision was made to offer the workshops for free. At this point, all it was costing me was the monthly Zoom fee. I was sitting at home doing nothing anyway. If this could help people, I had to do it.

We were invited to deliver a workshop for Adoption Scotland by a lovely man called Kevin. SWIS Foster Care also asked us to deliver an online session. A few familiar faces were there from those early in-person workshops, like Sharon, who had hung back and encouraged me to keep up the work and offered to help if I ever needed advice on being a charity. Kevin and Sharon would years later become a big part of the TIP board. The workshops grew larger each month. Twenty or thirty would sign up, and around 10 to 15 would attend. The Facebook group was growing, and people were asking questions and interacting with the content. We created another private group for those who had attended the workshop as a safe place to support each other. People joined, but there wasn’t much interaction yet.

TIP committee meetings continued via Zoom. A friend of ours, Stuart, had kindly offered to become a trustee. His wife, Julie, was already on the board. However, the more we learned, the more we realized that having married couples on a charity board wasn’t really appropriate. So, Julie and Steven stepped off the board. Stuart became TIP’s Chairperson, Pamela the Secretary, and Barbara the Treasurer. Steven was gutted to step down, as he was my biggest supporter. He was always coming up with great ideas behind the scenes and was my sounding board. It felt unfair that he couldn’t be part of it, but if I hoped to eventually secure funding and become an employee of TIP, he couldn’t be on the board due to a conflict of interest. It was all so new to us, learning as we went.

I joined some networking groups to promote the charity and became a member of BNI. They were offering a free spot in each group to a charity. Steven was already a member and had been for many years through his work, so I was familiar with how it worked. I loved it. I met so many people and built some solid connections. Barbara, a lawyer, went on to become a trustee. Adrian, a mental health nurse and life coach who worked in a charity, offered to mentor me and taught me so much about running a charity. Vera a photographer who gave her time to photograph our workshop. A magazine editor did an interview on our work. A copy writer offered to help with the website. Many times, the members rallied together and took part in charity walks to raise money for TIP. The support and camaraderie I found there were much needed, especially since remote working can be such a lonely role.

By the time lockdown eased, TIP was reaching further than ever. Offering the workshops online had expanded our reach, with people attending and joining the groups from far and wide—not just the UK, but also from America, Australia, India, and Germany. I hadn’t expected this. The Corra Foundation had given out funding during the lockdown to charities—£2,000—our first ever funding. We started applying for small community grants to offer six online workshops for different local areas. Some councils were more open to it than others. In Stirling, West Dunbartonshire, North Lanarkshire, and East Dunbartonshire, our applications had been successful. We also received a small grant from the Bellahouston Bequest Fund to cover six workshops across Glasgow.

When the world kicked back into gear, I didn’t return to the part-time swimming teaching job I had been working in. I was still cutting hair on Saturdays for my long-standing clients, but the rest of the week I was now working for TIP for a meager part-time wage, while putting in long full-time hours. But I was delighted—I loved it. We were even beginning to deliver some in-person workshops again.

The reach was growing, the need was growing, and The Facebook group was growing rapidly. What had started as a simple advert for our work had evolved beyond anything we could have imagined. Thousands of people were joining, and the membership count rose by the day. I decided to turn it into a closed group, hoping it would make things easier to manage.

read more-Choose Love in moments of tension

Breaking Free from the Parenting Matrix

I was so excited and nervous to start this new parenting program. 28 days seemed like a long time, though. Would I manage to keep up with the work that might be set? What should I expect? It seemed like Bryan was building a community, an army even, of "Posties," he called us. He was being goofy about it and even had a picture of himself in the black coat and glasses from *The Matrix* movie, asking if we wanted the blue pill or the red pill before signing up.

He posted videos on his Facebook and hyped it up. As people signed up, we were all added to a new Facebook group called "The Post Lovalution." I was buzzing with anticipation.

Each morning, Bryan went live in the group. He made short videos with tasks. At first, he told us to spend a day reflecting on our own parents' experiences of parenting and our grandparents' experiences. Then he told us to curl up in the fetal position on our bed and try to remember anything we could about our own in-utero experience. Another time, we were to sit in our child's bedroom while they were out and imagine their internal world. These tasks seemed odd. Not what I had expected at all. They were focused on me, not my child. Some mornings I could watch them live and even get a chance to interact with Bryan; other times I would watch the replay. The more I worked through this daily, the more lightbulbs went off in my brain.

Then the tasks shifted more toward our relationship with the child. We were to list 20 different ways we could respond in those worst moments. Then, we were to purposely mess up and cause a drama. It was madness at times, but so incredibly effective. He told us to go three times each day and just sit beside our child and breathe. We could message Bryan with our sticking points, and he would get back to us with his feedback. It was brilliant. In the group, others were sharing how they were finding it. A community was forming. He asked us to memorize his stress model, video ourselves saying it, and post it. It took me ages to memorize this:

"All behaviors arise from a state of stress and fear. In between the behavior and the stress is the presence of a primary emotion. There are only two primary emotions: love and fear. So, it’s all coming from fear. It’s through expressing, processing, and understanding the fear that we calm the stress and diminish the behavior."

But in doing this, a deeper understanding of what these words really meant emerged. I had no idea at this stage that I would one day be saying this over and over each week during workshops I would deliver.

The program transformed our home. Steven started to see that there was something to this. Each day, I reported the details of the session and what I was learning. He could see that things in our home were changing. Meltdowns were reducing, not just with my wee guy, but even my autistic child's meltdowns had stopped. My own meltdowns weren’t happening either. Within our marriage, things had changed. We were learning to see each other’s fear, to come back, repair, and hold space to listen. The more I validated Steven’s fear, the more he started to see that he didn’t need to jump in and fix everything. He began supporting me so that I could support them. He wasn’t always great at staying calm or seeing the fear in the moment, but he was able to reflect afterward and recognize when he had been triggered.

Even when I told him about the regressed state—after I had first offered to hold and soothe my wee guy like a baby—and we witnessed how healing this could be. I suggested that I might even offer him a bottle. Steven was horrified. Surely I wasn’t serious. That was just too far. We had some harsh words over it. I was so frustrated at his shutdown of this idea as we had come so far. But later that evening, he came to me with an apology. He had spent some time googling it, obviously expecting validation for his belief that this was messed up, and learning that, actually, it was a thing? It did work. He apologized for his reaction and owned that it had freaked him out and seemed really wrong. Big changes were taking place in our home.

These changes were taking place in me most of all. In these worst moments, I was becoming aware of my triggers. In reflection afterward, I could see the moments from my own past that were coming up for me. Like wormholes in time, I was being sucked back into them—there were so many. I became acutely, painfully aware of how our parenting had affected our children through the years. In my mind’s eye, I could see flashes of my children as infants, toddlers, even babies, and recognize all of these moments filled with overwhelming stress and fear. It was horrific to start to recognize this. So much trauma. But I hadn’t known. I hadn’t understood. No one had told me there was another way.

Looking back, I feel so fortunate to have been part of those live sessions with Bryan. The content is still available through The Post Institute via the recordings, but no other group got to experience it live with access to Bryan in that way. It feels like fate put me there, exactly in the right place at the right time.

Social work could also see the difference. They agreed to cover the cost of the monthly subscription for two months. I had noticed on the website there were other courses. Part of signing up meant that I could work through these and become certified in Bryan’s model. "Why not?" I thought. I had no idea what use it might ever be to me.

No idea that this was about to become my call to arms.

The Post Institute-Parenting Matrix/ lovaolution Programme

https://www.newparentingloveolution.com/loveolution-program-review24717065

Read my next blog post-Finding my voice

From Chaos to Calm: My Parenting Breakthrough with Bryan Post

After discovering the work of Bryan Post, I couldn’t get enough of it. Every day, while driving in my car or working around the house, I was listening to his teachings. There were so many short videos on his Facebook and longer videos on his YouTube. My brain was on fire with all of this new information. It was like nothing I had ever heard before.

Was this man talking about me? Not my child. He was telling me that I had to calm down, that I was making the situation worse with my own stress, and that my child was not choosing these behaviors. The odd thing was, it was making sense. Somehow, it just felt right. Could it really be as simple as this? He was telling me to do nothing. To stop and breath and not make things worse.

I showed this to Steven. He was skeptical. It sounded too "airy-fairy." Too good to be true. Every new thing I learned, I would relay back to him. He was interested but not convinced.

The more I learned, the more curious I became. Bryan was teaching me about the brain and what happens when it goes into a fear state and how we all feed off each other's energy. I found myself having to pull my car over and put my head in my hands many times while listening, as my brain was blown by how much I could see myself in this information. I would shout in agreement at my phone as more information sparked moments of realisation. Lightbulb after lightbulb going off in my head.

But the real test was in those big moments with my child. He gave me plenty of opportunities to try this out. One evening, while he was melting down in his room, Steven and I waited it out downstairs. Bryan’s mantras ran through my head:

“All behaviors arise from stress and fear.”

“They cannot choose behaviors in this state.”

“Their thinking is confused and distorted.”

“They are regressed back into the trauma in these moments.”

I reminded Steven of these; he was still unconvinced. But I kept repeating them, trying to convince myself as much as him. “Okay,” I said, “I’m gonna try this.” Up I went.

My wee guy was in a rage, his room was wrecked. His face was red, and his body tense. He was on the bed, his body curled into a ball, refusing to look my way. The anger was emanating from him, palpable.

I asked if I could come in, and he grudgingly nodded. I sat on the floor. For a while, I said nothing. Bryan’s words echoed in my head again: “Just breath.” So I did. I wish I could remember all of that interaction from that day, but I can’t. I just know that things went very differently. I remember him moving closer and eventually cuddling in beside me. I mostly remember coming back down in awe to tell Steven about it, replaying it to him in disbelief. I remember calm was restored, and breakthroughs were made. My wee guy had been able to talk to me, and we had reflected together on what had led to him feeling and behaving this way. When I understood his experience, I felt very differently. Where there had previously been frustration and disappointment, there was now compassion and empathy. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Of course, I worried this was a fluke, a one-off. But as the days went on and I kept seeing the fear, kept seeing the regressed, stressed child underneath, the repair got easier and quicker. He started to expect that I would come to him in this way, and secure in the knowledge that we could have these moments afterwards. He started meeting me in the hallway, on the stairs, waiting. This was actually making a difference. And every time, I would go back to Steven, and we would marvel at what we were seeing. He was still resistant, but he couldn’t deny that there was something to this.

The more I learned, the more change we saw. I started offering ways for him to express his emotions through drawing, screaming, jumping, and even allowing a safe space for him to swear and get it all out. The meltdowns became less frequent and much shorter. I wasn’t perfect. I made many many mistakes. But I always came back to repair and afterwards, reflect, so that I could learn about what I could do differently.

So, when Bryan Post announced that he was offering a new parenting program, I had to sign up. He called it the ‘Parenting Matrix.’ It would last 28 days, and he would talk to us each day, delivering a short session with work for us to do daily. This was like the Matrix movie; he said that if we did this, we would be leaving the old parenting paradigm behind us and that there was no going back.

I was all in.

Read the next blog -Breaking free from the parenting Matrix

My First Blog Post: The Beginning of a Life-Changing Journey

I've been asked often if I have a blog. So, I’m going to give it a try. As a dyslexic human, this is no small task, so please be kind!

When I walked into the ACE Aware Nation seminar back in 2018, with a free ticket offered by my supervising social worker, I had no idea it would transform my life in every way imaginable. My foster child’s amazing social worker had already piqued my interest in Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) and introduced me to a fab Facebook group called "Connecting the Dots to ACEs." I had learned so much from this group and had already seen small changes in my child. Still, I was nervous. Should I even be here? Was I qualified for this? After all, I was just a hairdresser from Glasgow who had been fostering for six years—not exactly a professional.

As I parked and headed to the Armadillo building, I saw the others attending, all gathered outside. The queue was growing, and the rain was smirring down—typical Scottish weather, of course. Umbrellas were bumping. The doors were late in opening, and people were eager to get inside. A few folks started chatting: a social worker whose train had been running late and was thankful for the delayed and an early years worker who wasn’t sure what to expect from the event. We were eventually diverted to another building, only to be turned back again to the original building to finally get in. In the rush for seats, I managed to slip unnoticed to the very back, where I hid, feeling all of my insecurities bubble up as the empty seat beside me remained unclaimed.

Just as I was convincing myself I didn’t belong, a woman sat down next to me. We waited and waited some more. The event was running extremely late. Apologies were made, but the crowd stayed patient. A friendly conversation started between me and my neighbour, a social worker who had lost track of her colleagues somewhere in the audience. We talked about our hopes for the day, and through our conversation, I realized I knew a lot more about ACEs than I had given myself credit for. I shared links, groups, and info, and she was glad to take it.

Finally, two hours behind schedule, the lights dimmed, and the seminar began. To this day, I wonder if the delay was intentional—to spark those important conversations and connections.

It was wonderful. I sat in awe, listening to people whose names I had never heard before but who would soon become my beacons of hope and guidance: John Carnochan, Nicki Murray, James Docherty, Nadine Burke Harris. The information blew my mind. This was why I was the way I was. This was why my autistic child had trauma. I could now understand why my foster children couldn’t just stop certain behaviors. No wonder NO WONDER!!!!

I was gutted to miss Suzanne Zeedyk’s talk at the end due to the long delay. I had to get home—Steven was holding down the fort, and rush-hour traffic awaited me. I left with a heavy heart, carrying a bag of pamphlets and my programme.

Later that night, after the dinner, baths, and bedtime routines were done, I tried to relay bits of what I had learned to Steven. Flicking through the leaflets and programme, I wondered how we could change things. It was fascinating to understand ACEs and the reasons behind our behaviors, but how do we change them? I wanted more.

Then, as I scanned the back of the programme, I saw a name: BRYAN POST -THE POST INSTITUTE. He hadn’t been mentioned at the event, but I was curious. Despite being exhausted, I pulled out my phone and Googled him. Videos of Bryan came alive on my screen—his presence was glorious, and he was passionate about this parenting paradigm. His content was free and abundant. He mentioned something about "The Post Daily Dose, the best 10-minute parenting show on the internet," but I was too tired to explore more that night. I saved the links and promised myself to check them out the next day.

I went to bed, my mind swimming with everything I had heard that day. I felt hopeful but had no idea that my life was about to change in ways I could never have imagined. I was on the verge of a journey of self-discovery and healing. My family was about to transform from a battleground of meltdowns and yelling to a place of compassion and learning. More than that, I was about to find my life’s purpose. Everything my family and I had gone through had been leading to this moment, and it was all for a reason.

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This is just the beginning. There’s so much more I want to share about my journey into ACEs, trauma informed parenting, and how this knowledge has reshaped everything in my life. Stay tuned for more, and thank you for reading!

Check out my next blog post -From Chaos to Calm