There’s something about sitting in the sun that brings the past into soft focus. On a quiet day, when the world finally slows down, and the light drapes gently across the floor, you find yourself caught between now and then. Not in a sad way—more like a quiet ache. A gentle nod to the life you’ve lived, the things you’ve carried, and the paths that have shaped you.
Today, I’m sitting here, just watching the sunlight stretch across the garden. The birds are singing in that knowing way they do, and the world feels still. And with the stillness comes reflection—on life, on love, on choices made and those left behind.
There have been so many versions of me over the years. The dreamer, the daughter, the young woman chasing the shape of her future. The one who fell in love. The one who said “yes” to marriage with trembling certainty. The one who became a mother and discovered strength she didn’t know she had. The one who built a home, went to work, packed school lunches, managed calendars, dried tears—both her children’s and her own.
But behind all the milestones, the laughter, the late-night worries, the bills and birthdays, there has also been loss. Quiet, unspoken griefs that nestle themselves into the folds of everyday life. We don’t always name them—sometimes we’re too busy to even notice their weight. But they’re there: the friend we grew apart from, the job we stayed in too long, the parts of ourselves we set aside for the sake of others. The dreams we shelved because there wasn’t time, or space, or enough belief.
And then there are the bigger losses—the ones that hit like storms and leave you changed forever. The parent/sibling who passes. The relationship that ends. The loved one you couldn’t save. Grief is such a strange companion. It doesn’t announce itself politely. It arrives when you least expect it—in the supermarket aisle, in a smell that brings someone back, in the way your child says something that reminds you of something or someone lost.
Sometimes, I think about the chances I didn’t take. The words I didn’t say. The paths I was too afraid to follow. I wonder who I might have been if I’d been braver. If I’d left earlier. If I’d stayed longer. If I’d trusted my instincts, or fought harder for myself. But with time comes the wisdom to know that every decision—even the wrong ones—brought me to this moment. And there’s peace in that, even if it comes wrapped in longing.
Marriage, for me, was a complicated road. It wasn’t always soft edges and safety. There were years that felt more like survival than connection. For a long time I felt invisible in a life I helped build. There were good memories too, of course—shared glances across crowded rooms, the deep knowing that only comes from walking alongside someone for years. But love doesn’t always look the way we thought it would. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is let go. Or let yourself change within it.
Being a parent… well, nothing prepares you for that. It’s the most beautiful, exhausting, heart-wrenching journey. I look at my children now—some grown, some still growing in ways but all adult children now—and I’m overwhelmed by how much space they take up in my heart. Every scraped knee, every school play, every heartbreak they endured felt like it happened inside my own body. I did the best I could with what I had. And I know now that good parenting isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up, over and over, even when you’re exhausted, even when you’re lost yourself.
Work, too, has been a place of both fulfilment and frustration. There were jobs that lit me up—where I felt like I was doing something meaningful. And then there were the years I stayed too long, trading my time and energy for security and structure. We don’t always have the luxury of following our passions. Sometimes we work because we must. But looking back, I wish I’d made more room for what brought me joy. Creativity, music, art, helping others in more intuitive ways. I’m learning, even now, that it’s never too late to return to what makes you feel most alive.
And grief… grief has taught me everything and nothing. It’s the club none of us want to join, but one we all eventually do. It’s made me softer, more grateful, more present. It’s also broken me in ways I don’t always talk about. The babies lost – leaving a love so real yet left unspoken – forgotten to most, but always weighing heavily on my heart. There are people I miss with an ache that lives just under the surface. I’ve lost family, friends, pieces of my younger self. And with each loss, the world tilted slightly, asking me to adjust, to begin again.
What I’ve come to understand is that everyone walks through pain. Not always the same kind, not always at the same time, but no one escapes life untouched. And yet, we so often carry our struggles in silence, feeling ashamed for not having it all together. We mask our pain in busyness, or humour, or quiet withdrawal. We tell ourselves we should be stronger, or that others have it worse.
But strength isn’t in the pretending. It’s in the reaching out. The moment you whisper, “I’m not okay.” The courage it takes to ask for help. To sit with a friend and speak the truth out loud. To say, “This is hard. I’m tired. I need someone to walk beside me.”
We need to stop glamorising resilience and start honouring realness. Life is messy and complicated. It’s full of contradictions—moments of deep beauty and unbearable sorrow, often sitting side by side. And no matter how strong someone seems, you never know what they’re carrying.
So here’s what I’m learning, as the sun shifts and the shadows stretch across the floor:
It’s okay to mourn the life you thought you’d have.
It’s okay to change your mind, to outgrow roles, to start over.
It’s okay to feel lost—even in a life that looks good from the outside.
And it’s more than okay—it’s vital—to ask for help.
There’s no shame in feeling broken. The truth is, we all are, in our own ways. But we’re also capable of healing, of beginning again, of finding light in unexpected places. Of laughing again. Of loving differently. Of building new dreams from the pieces of old ones.
The sun doesn’t judge the shape of the shadow. It just keeps showing up.
And maybe that’s what we can do for each other, too.
So if you’re reading this and your heart feels heavy, please know this:
You’re not alone.
You are not weak for feeling overwhelmed.
You are not behind, even if life hasn’t gone as planned.
You are allowed to feel tired, to feel sad, to want something different.
But you are also allowed to hope.
To start small.
To reach out.
To say, “Help.”
To begin again.
There’s a road ahead—maybe not the one you pictured, but perhaps one lined with the kind of grace and growth that only comes from walking through fire.
Sit in the sun today, if you can.
Let it touch your face, soften your spirit, warm the parts of you that feel forgotten.
And remember: your story isn’t over.
Not even close.
Dr M’s thoughts 