Behind The Sunglasses

Behind the Sunglasses — No Filters. No Perfect Life. Just Jo.

I’ve been a bit meh meh lately.

And before anyone asks what that means, I haven’t got a bloody clue.

It’s not quite sadness. Not quite anxiety. Not quite exhaustion.

It’s everything and nothing, all rolled into one.

For someone who usually has an opinion about absolutely everything, I’ve found myself strangely short of words.

Yes, ME.

The woman who could probably argue with a brick wall and win!

I haven’t written much lately. Not because I’ve run out of stories, but because I don’t quite know what to do with the ones happening inside me.

And this morning, something strange happened.

Without thinking, I took a couple of deep breaths.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

And for a moment, I felt better.

Nothing magical. No sudden enlightenment. No bloody angels singing from the ceiling.

Just a little bit of peace.

And I realised something.

Maybe I’ve been holding my breath through life without even noticing.

When Life Throws Everything at You

The past few weeks haven’t exactly been a relaxing holiday.

Thais is leaving work, and that brings its own changes and emotions.

Mirko and I have both had Influenza A.

Lovely little gift, that one.

Because apparently, after everything my body has been through this year, a good dose of influenza was exactly what I needed.

Thank you very much!

I’ve also been vomiting, feeling physically dreadful, and generally wondering whether my body and I are still on speaking terms.

And now, on Thursday, I’m heading back to hospital for more investigations.

A colonoscopy and an endoscopy.

They’ve found some activity that needs checking.

And those two words — some activity — have a remarkable ability to make your mind wander into places you’d rather not visit.

I don’t know what the tests will show.

And I’m trying not to write stories in my head before the doctors have the answers.

But I’d be lying if I said the uncertainty didn’t affect me.

Sometimes I’m frightened.

Sometimes I’m angry.

Sometimes I feel absolutely nothing.

And sometimes I just want to pack a suitcase, get on a plane, and tell the entire world to leave me the hell alone.

Which brings me to something I’ve only recently understood.

The House That Holds My Whole Life

I love my home.

I really do.

It’s a big house.

Five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge garden.

The sort of house you build a family in.

And that’s exactly what we did.

We raised our little girl here.

This house has seen everything.

Birthday parties, Christmas mornings, school mornings, friends over, laughter, arguments, tears, celebrations, and all the beautiful chaos of raising a family.

There were bicycles in the garden.

Little shoes abandoned wherever they landed.

School bags dropped after a long day.

My kid running in and out, asking for snacks, making noise, leaving messes that I probably complained about at the time.

And birthday parties!

Oh, the birthday parties.

Taylor Swift.

Disco parties.

Disney themes.

Every year, something different.

Every year, another cake, another celebration, another house full of children.

I cooked for my little girl.

We made things together.

We watched movies.

We laughed.

We had our own little traditions.

And I was so busy living those moments that I never stopped to think about what it would feel like when they were over.

Because when you’re raising a child, you somehow believe there’s always another afternoon.

Another birthday.

Another movie night.

Another little voice calling out, “Mum!”

Until one day, there isn’t.

Not in the same way.

“It’s Normal. Let Her Go.”

This is the part that really gets me.

Whenever you talk about your children growing up and moving out, people are very quick to tell you:

“It’s normal.”

“She’s grown up.”

“She has her own life now.”

“You have to let her go.”

Well, thank you very bloody much!

As though I didn’t know that.

Of course I know it’s normal.

Of course I know she’s supposed to grow up.

Of course I want her to have her own home, her own adventures, her own happiness.

I didn’t raise my daughter to spend the rest of her life sitting beside me on the sofa!

I raised her to be independent.

To be confident.

To go out into the world and make a life of her own.

And she’s doing exactly that.

I’m proud of her.

So incredibly proud.

But nobody prepares you for how much your heart can hurt when your child does exactly what you raised her to do.

Nobody tells you about the quiet afterwards.

About the empty spaces.

About how strange it feels when the person who was once woven into every hour of your day suddenly has a whole life happening somewhere else.

Nobody tells you that you can be bursting with pride and quietly heartbroken at the same time.

And that neither feeling cancels out the other.

I don’t want Thais to stop living her life.

I don’t want her to feel responsible for my sadness.

I don’t want her to feel guilty for growing up.

But sometimes I wish people would stop telling mothers what they already know and simply acknowledge that letting go can bloody hurt.

Because it does.

Pride for her and heartbreak for me can coexist.

And I don’t think that makes me selfish.

I think it makes me a mother who loved every minute of being one.

Well, perhaps not EVERY minute.

There were definitely some teenage moments I’d happily skip! 😂

But you know what I mean.

The Little Pockets of Time

And then there’s something else nobody really explains.

When your child is little, you have so much time together that you don’t always notice it.

They’re there when you wake up.

They’re there at dinner.

They’re there on weekends.

They’re there for all the ordinary little moments that make up a family.

Then they grow up.

And suddenly, time together becomes something you arrange.

A visit.

A lunch.

A coffee.

A movie.

A little pocket of time in between their work, their commitments, their plans, their own life.

And those little pockets?

They’re magic.

A spontaneous visit can make my whole day.

A few hours together can mean more to me than she probably realises.

Sometimes we do absolutely nothing extraordinary.

We talk.

We laugh.

We share a meal.

And I find myself wishing the clock would slow down just a little.

Because I know she’ll eventually say she has to go.

And of course she does.

She has a life.

I know.

Believe me, I KNOW.

But there’s a difference between understanding something with your head and accepting it with your heart.

My head understands perfectly.

My heart is still catching up.

And perhaps the hardest part is learning not to hold on too tightly to those little pockets of time.

To enjoy them without making her feel that leaving is somehow hurting me.

Because that isn’t a burden I want her to carry.

So I smile.

I enjoy every moment.

I tell her to drive safely.

And sometimes, after she’s gone, the house feels just a little too quiet again.

It sucks.

There.

I’ve said it.

It bloody sucks.

The Sticky Notes on the Fridge

The funny thing is, Thais hasn’t really disappeared from this house.

She’s everywhere.

There are still sticky notes on the fridge.

Little pieces of our everyday life that somehow never got taken down.

The house is full of photographs.

A little girl smiling.

A birthday celebration.

A family holiday.

Another year, another memory.

I look at those photographs and see all the different versions of my daughter.

The little girl.

The schoolgirl.

The teenager.

The young woman.

And now the adult building her own life.

I remember her learning to ride her bicycle.

The excitement.

The determination.

The freedom of discovering she could go a little further on her own.

Funny, isn’t it?

Back then, I was probably cheering her on.

Proud that she could ride without needing me to hold on.

And now, all these years later, I’m still cheering her on.

Only this time, she’s riding much further away.

And I’m still learning how to let go of the handlebars.

Sometimes I wonder whether I should take down the old sticky notes.

Change the photographs.

Make the house feel different.

But why should I?

Those things are part of our life.

They’re evidence that a little girl grew up here.

That she was loved.

That this house was once her whole world.

And for a long time, she was mine.

And Then There Was Marley

Around that same period, I lost Marley Jean.

My beautiful, ridiculous little cocker spaniel.

My shadow.

My mama’s boy.

For nine years, Marley followed me everywhere.

If I moved, he moved.

If I sat down, he settled at my feet.

If I walked around a table a hundred times, Marley would follow me a hundred times.

He was my constant.

My little heartbeat beside me.

And when he died, the house became quieter in a way I hadn’t imagined possible.

Then there was Thais, no longer living under the same roof.

Two completely different kinds of loss.

One permanent.

One simply part of growing up.

But both changed my everyday world.

Both left spaces where there had always been someone.

And I don’t think I ever really stopped to understand what that did to me.

I just kept going.

Because that’s what I do.

There’s work to run.

People who need things.

Responsibilities.

Appointments.

Life.

You keep moving.

Until one day, you find yourself standing in the middle of a five-bedroom house wondering why it suddenly feels so bloody enormous.

When Every Room Has a Memory

This is the part I’ve struggled to explain.

I love my house.

But lately, sometimes I want to run away from it.

Not because it’s ugly.

Not because I’m unhappy with what we’ve built.

But because every room seems to hold a memory.

I look at the garden and remember children playing outside.

I walk past a bedroom and remember a younger version of our family.

I open a cupboard and find something that belonged to a different chapter of our lives.

A toy.

A photograph.

A forgotten little treasure, I fell on her Holy Communion Gifts.

And suddenly, I’m back there.

For a moment, I can almost hear the laughter.

The music.

The noise.

The house full of people.

And Marley.

Always Marley.

I can almost see him trotting along behind me, probably looking for something to eat.

It’s strange how a house can be so full of memories and still feel so empty.

The furniture is there.

The walls are there.

Everything is familiar.

But the sounds have changed.

The routines have changed.

The people and little creatures who filled those spaces have changed.

And some days, it hurts.

Not because those memories are unhappy.

But because they were so bloody happy.

And I didn’t know how much I’d miss them until they became memories.

The Christmas Tree That Couldn’t Quite Fix It

I’ve already put up my Christmas tree.

Yes, I know.

It’s early.

And no, I’m not taking complaints! 😂

It’s white and gold. Nope, I need to add some red!

I wanted to brighten the house.

Bring some life back into it.

Make it feel festive.

Make it feel like home again.

But the tree is just… there. Even the gifts are ready! November 3rd!

Beautiful, yes.

But somehow not quite doing what I hoped it would.

Because Christmas used to mean so much more than decorations.

It was the excitement.

The traditions.

The family.

The presents.

The laughter.

The chaos.

And Marley, probably somewhere nearby, conducting an illegal investigation into the Christmas food.

Now the tree stands there, and I look at it, trying to find that feeling again.

Perhaps that’s why I want to add the red.

A little colour.

A little warmth.

A little life.

Or perhaps I simply like red and I’m overthinking the bloody Christmas tree!

Entirely possible.

But I think what I’m really trying to do is make the house feel alive again.

And I’m slowly realising that decorations can’t bring back a moment in time.

No matter how beautiful they are.

Japan — My Beautiful Escape

And then there’s Japan.

Oh, Japan.

My trains.

My temples.

My ridiculous wrong turns.

My adventures.

My freedom.

My ability to get completely lost in a railway station and somehow consider it part of the holiday!

I love Japan.

I love the culture, the people, the order, the beauty, the feeling of discovering something new around every corner.

But lately, I’ve realised something about why I’m so desperate to go back.

Japan is also my escape.

There.

I’ve said it.

It’s not just about travelling.

It’s about being somewhere that doesn’t constantly remind me of what used to be.

In Japan, I don’t walk past the place where Marley slept.

I don’t open the fridge and see old sticky notes.

I don’t walk through rooms filled with photographs of a little girl growing up.

In Japan, I wake up and wonder what the day will bring.

Which train I’ll catch.

Which temple I’ll visit.

Which platform I’ll get wrong.

Which bloody exit will send me walking in completely the opposite direction!

And somehow, I laugh.

I’m not looking backwards.

I’m looking around.

I’m living in the moment.

I’m simply Jo.

Not the woman waiting for hospital results.

Not the mother missing the little girl who grew up.

Not the mama grieving her dog.

Not the person everyone expects to have everything under control.

Just Jo.

A woman with a suitcase, sunglasses, a questionable sense of direction, and absolutely no intention of behaving herself.

And perhaps that’s why I love it so much.

Because for a little while, life feels light again.

The Woman Behind the Sunglasses

I’ve spent a lot of this year dealing with things I never asked for.

Medical treatment.

Surgery.

Recovery.

Uncertainty.

Changes in my body.

Changes in my family.

And losses I haven’t quite worked out how to carry.

And yet, I still laugh.

I still plan trips.

I still put on a dress and feel pretty.

I still have my opinions.

I still get excited about silly things.

I still want to see the world.

But some days, underneath all that, I’m just tired.

Not necessarily physically tired.

Although lately, there’s plenty of that too.

I’m tired of uncertainty.

Tired of waiting for answers.

Tired of having to adjust to another change.

Tired of discovering that another piece of the life I knew has quietly slipped into the past.

And perhaps the strangest part is that I can be grateful and sad at the same time.

Grateful for my beautiful home.

Sad about how quiet it feels.

Proud of my daughter.

Missing the little girl she used to be.

Grateful for nine years with Marley.

Heartbroken that there won’t be a tenth.

Excited about Japan.

Aware that part of me wants to escape.

Happy to be alive.

And sometimes frightened of what comes next.

All of those things can exist together.

Even when I can’t find the words to explain them.

Maybe I’m Not Trying to Run Away From Home

I’ve been thinking about that.

Perhaps I’m not really trying to run away from my house.

Perhaps I’m trying to escape the feeling that time has moved on without asking my permission.

Because I still remember being the mother of a little girl who wanted me beside her.

I still remember the birthday parties.

I still remember Marley looking up at me with those beautiful eyes.

And in my head, those moments don’t feel very far away.

But life doesn’t stand still.

Children grow up.

Pets grow old.

Bodies change.

People leave.

Some come back for dinner.

Some never come back at all.

And the house that once held all those moments stays exactly where it is.

Waiting for us to learn how to live in it differently.

I don’t know whether I’m ready for that yet.

Maybe I don’t have to be.

Maybe I can love my home and still need to get away from it sometimes.

Maybe I can miss the past without wanting to live in it forever.

Maybe I can be proud of my daughter and still wish, just once, that she was little enough to need me in the same way again.

Maybe I can love Kai without ever stopping missing Marley.

And maybe I can go to Japan because I love Japan, even if part of me also needs the escape.

I don’t have all the answers.

For once in my bloody life!

Just Breathe, Jo

This morning, without thinking, I took a few deep breaths.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

And for a moment, I felt better.

Not fixed.

Not suddenly happy.

Not free of everything that’s weighing on me.

Just a little better.

Perhaps that’s enough for today.

Thursday will come.

The tests will happen.

I’ll deal with the results when I have them.

The Christmas tree will eventually get its red decorations.

Japan will be waiting.

Thais will keep building her life.

Kai will keep being Kai.

And Marley Jean will always be part of mine.

As for this big, beautiful, sometimes painfully quiet house?

I don’t know yet how to make it feel like the home it used to be.

Perhaps I never will.

Perhaps that’s not even the point.

Perhaps one day I’ll stop walking into every room wishing I could go backwards.

Perhaps I’ll begin making new memories without feeling as though I’m leaving the old ones behind.

But for now, I can admit something I haven’t really allowed myself to say.

I miss my old life.

Not because my life today is bad.

Not because I don’t appreciate what I have.

But because there was a time when my little girl was still little, my Marley boy was still alive, and the house was full of a kind of happiness I didn’t realise I would one day ache for.

And if I could have one ordinary afternoon back, just one…

I’d sit in my kitchen.

I’d cook dinner.

Thais would be nearby, telling me about her day.

Marley would be at my feet, waiting for something to fall.

And I wouldn’t rush.

I wouldn’t worry about tomorrow.

I wouldn’t think about work, hospital appointments, or what might come next.

I’d just stay there a little longer.

In that ordinary, beautiful moment.

Because I know now what I didn’t know then.

One day, the life you’re rushing through becomes the life you’d give anything to visit again.

And perhaps that’s why I keep travelling.

Because I can’t go back to those moments.

But I can still go forward.

I can still see beautiful places.

I can still laugh.

I can still make memories.

I can still be Jo.

And maybe, somewhere between the house I love, the people I miss, and the places I haven’t seen yet, I’ll find a little more peace.

For now?

I’ll finish decorating that bloody Christmas tree.

Add some red.

Put on my sunglasses.

And keep going.

Not because I’ve figured everything out.

But because there are still stories waiting to be lived.

And I intend to be around to tell them.

No filters. No perfect life. Just Jo. 😎❤️