When I read Ian Perrin’s initial article for the Keep Talking series, it struck me how little we often truly know about the people around us. In our industry, connections are frequent, but often not that deep. I’ve known, respected and admired Ian for many years, yet I had no idea of his personal story and journey until now.
It is incredibly hard to open up and share some of the darker moments. What struck me upon reading Ian’s piece, and the subsequent contributions to the series, is the undeniable truth that we all have a story. At some point, we are all grappling with things far bigger than what we show on the surface. And so, I want to share a little of my own.
I lost my mum to cancer when I was ten years old. At that age, I had normalised caring for a sick parent and didn’t truly grasp the magnitude of what we had gone through, were going through, and would continue to process for decades to come. My older brother and I became young carers; children who take on the responsibility of looking after a parent, whether due to illness or, in many instances, addiction.
We had an incredibly loving childhood, but it was one marked with huge responsibility for us both. At seven, I was doing the grocery shopping, taking the bus to the shops and a taxi home. I’d be busy calculating if I had enough money for the groceries and the chocolate bar I’d added to the trolley as I navigated the aisles. We nursed our mum, gave her medication, and tried to keep going as if it were all normal – because for us, it was. We grew up fast, accepting this responsibility, and were incredibly grateful for all that our parents did. Mum had a blood transfusion each Thursday so she could be better for the weekend, and we could have fun. There was so much joy, love and happiness against this backdrop of extreme sadness.
When I was ten and she was 40, she passed away. This became the most impactful event of my young life, and undoubtedly what shaped me the most. I didn’t understand mental health then, any more than I understood that we had taken on the roles of young carers. I grappled with feeling lost, alone and sad for years to follow.
Grief for a child is an interesting thing. Years later, I would read a book called “Motherless Daughters” that helped me understand some of what I was experiencing. This book explained that children, particularly daughters (though having spoken to many who lost a parent as a child, I believe it applies more broadly), often grieve the loss of a parent multiple times; as a child, again as an adolescent, then as an adult, and sometimes again at key life milestones like marriage or having children.
My teen years were hard. I craved a maternal figure and often rebelled against my father’s discipline. I wanted a woman to explain puberty, boys, the shift in my emotions, to help me navigate high school, beauty and friendship challenges. I navigated this by moving in with my grandmother – my mum was her only child – and together, we gave each other what we needed at that point in time.
These waves of grief continued to hit me multiple times as I entered adulthood. I often found myself lost in it, unable to see how to be an adult without my mother’s guidance. It led me through hard times, marked by low self-esteem, body image issues, a lack of understanding of how to navigate those feelings and a pretty unhealthy relationship with food for many years.
It was around this time that I started counselling. Through this, I began to understand why and what I was feeling. The strange sense of abandonment I felt from losing my mum, the hole I didn’t know how to fill and the need to process this grief again and again as I shifted through different life stages.
As I came into my mid-twenties, I found an industry I loved, new friends I identified with and many new interests and passions. I started to see my patterns, understand the shifts I was making and recognise the way grief would reappear for me. I grew more comfortable with who I was, and most importantly, who I wanted to be. Meeting my husband, getting married, and learning to accept myself brought me a huge amount of peace and comfort.
Yet, those dark moments still hit at unexpected times. Having my first child and wanting my mother there to support me. Turning 40 and fearing I might follow in her footsteps. My grandmother passing away felt like losing my mum all over again, prompting me to delve into the past.
Today, I’ve learned to navigate these feelings better, to understand them, and to recognise the profound impact those early experiences had. I can also now see the positive in some of those things; the gaps that were filled with new relationships and the resilience and strength these experiences taught me.
The most valuable insight that I can share from my own journey is this, the things you don’t talk about are often the things we most desperately need to talk about. It’s in sharing our vulnerabilities, our hidden struggles, our grief that we find connection and understanding.
The Keep Talking series is such an important initiative in creating a space where these essential conversations can happen without judgment.
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