We are on the cusp of extraordinary things…

Eighteen months ago I wrote those words here. And as it turned out, I was right – although I had no idea quite how extraordinary the next eighteen months would be, or how close they would bring me to hitting delete on this entire blog.

I made the site private initially – something I’ve done before, only this time I went further. I deleted its link from my social media, work bio, author website and, well, anywhere else anyone might stumble across my online presence. I removed ‘blogger’ from all my profiles. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be a blogger anymore, it was that I didn’t know how to be.

There were stories I couldn’t bear to write; truths I couldn’t face enough to voice. The origin of the little duck in my pocket which reminds me of my friend Celine; the ridiculousness of my family’s proclivity for rare, aggressive cancer.

I didn’t know how to bring those stories here; I didn’t know how to put a wry, positive spin on them. I didn’t know how to be the blogger that could do that, because I didn’t feel like her anymore.

So I logged out.

I logged out for so long that I forgot my password when I came to log back in this week, with every intention of hitting that delete button for good. And yet, as I cast my eye over that last post, the gentle musing about the extraordinary things we were on the cusp of eighteen months ago, something occurred to me. Those things, they still happened. Are happening. The dark times didn’t change that. And I realised, as I hovered over that delete button, that I miss writing about them.

I thought I was protecting my kids’ privacy. I told myself that their stories were not entirely mine to tell, that I was risking becoming a ‘sharent’, the very thing I’d posted against. But while it’s true that I don’t know what it’s like to be twelve, eight or six in 2026, I do know what it’s like to be their mum. To worry endlessly about smartphones and social media; what it means when your child is labelled a slow processor; how many extra-curricular clubs is too many for a six-year-old… Those worries didn’t go anywhere over the last eighteen months, and neither did the insistent voice nagging: this is something I could write about, maybe other parents worry about this too. Maybe writing about them could help someone worry a little less. Fear a little less.

Wasn’t that why I started this blog in the first place?

Still, I hated the thought that I might be using my kids unfairly. So I asked my 12-year-old about my blog. I told her there are posts about potty training and breastfeeding and tantrums. I told her that she could probably be identified if someone was trying.

And she, rather wearily, informed me:

“Nobody cares, Mummy.”

Then promptly wandered off to play Roblox while I was still mid-witter about doxxing and digital footprints.

And maybe she’s right. Maybe oversharing is just another thing I am overthinking.

Because the truth is, I miss writing about the chaos of these middle childhood years, about juggling work commitments with motherhood, writing and book marketing. About the ridiculous number of clubs we all do (yes, me and G included). And the bonkers family discussions we find ourselves having daily – about Minecraft and rhinos, superglue and, more often than one would like, poo.

So I didn’t hit delete.

I logged back in.

Because this is where the stories live, and this is where they began. This is where I’ve been writing and laughing and overthinking motherhood from the first post that made me a mum blogger in 2013 to this one I’m typing today, as K-Pop Demon Hunters blasts for the 645th time from the living room. This is where I write to worry a little more fearlessly, however dark the extraordinary stories turn out to be.

Because some days you’ll be walking the same school run you’ve done every day for years, chatting to your friend about running a stall at the school fayre… and the next day she’s gone and all you have left is a tiny duck in your pocket. And sometimes a disease you thought was done destroying your loved ones barges back into your family and you don’t know what will happen next.

Sometimes the stories we have aren’t the ones we expected to tell, or ever wanted to. But that doesn’t make them any less extraordinary.

And there’s no place I’d rather tell them.