The Season of Beginnings

In fifteen weeks, I will finish my degree.

Some days that feels exciting.

Other days it feels terrifying.

For years the finish line seemed so far away that I rarely stopped to think about what might come after it.

Now suddenly, I can see it.

And beyond it?

A question mark.

Not an empty question mark, but one filled with possibility, uncertainty, excitement, hope, and just a little fear.

Although "a little fear" may be the understatement of the year.

Truth be told, I alternate between feeling incredibly excited and wondering what on earth I'm going to do when I am let loose in the real world.

The truth is, I have become quite comfortable being a student.

I know what is expected of me here.

I know the rhythm.

I know the next step.

What comes after that is far less certain.

Perhaps what makes this transition feel so significant is that studying has been part of my life for so long.

My life has been measured in semesters, assessments, exams, clinic hours, deadlines, and more late nights than I care to remember, squeezing study into the spaces between work, family life, and everything else that needed me.

I realised recently that I have been studying for more than half of my sons' lives.

My kids, have really only ever known me as someone who is studying, learning, growing, and working towards the next goal.

Even my husband has only ever known a version of me that was working towards something. 

When I think about it, that feels extraordinary.

For so long, being a student has not just been something I do. It has been part of who I am.

Being a student has become one of the constants of our family life.

For so long, the question has been, "What's due next?"

Soon, the question will become, "What comes next?"

And while that feels exciting, it also feels strangely unfamiliar.

Not because I am leaving something behind.

But because I am stepping into something I have worked towards for a very long time.

As I look around, I realise I am not the only one standing in the space between what was and what will be.

My son is standing in his own question mark.

Having recently completed his apprenticeship, he now finds himself in that strange season of waiting that sometimes follows a significant achievement. One chapter has ended, but the next has not quite begun.

It is an uncomfortable place to be, that space between what was and what will be.

I find myself wanting to reassure him that the waiting will not last forever. That another opportunity will come. That one day this season will make sense.

Then I realise I am trying to tell myself the very same thing.

A dear friend of mine is also standing at the edge of a new season.

Next week she will graduate, marking the completion of years of dedication, sacrifice, and perseverance. Yet alongside that achievement, she finds herself navigating significant changes and learning how to imagine a future that looks different from the one she once expected.

It strikes me that life often works this way.

Just as we find our footing in one chapter, another begins to unfold.

And then there is my baby boy.

Next week he turns twenty-one.

Twenty-one.

I am not entirely sure how that happened.

One moment I was reading bedtime stories, packing lunchboxes, helping with homework, and cheering from the sidelines of childhood.

The next, I am looking at a grown man.

A young man standing at the beginning of his own life.

How can someone be both your baby and an adult at the same time?

And yet somehow they are.

Perhaps every parent understands this strange contradiction.

We spend years teaching our children to grow, and then find ourselves wondering where the years went.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that beginnings are not reserved for the young.

We often imagine that life's biggest beginnings happen in our twenties.

Leaving school.

Starting careers.

Falling in love.

Building families.

But life keeps asking us to begin again.

At twenty-one.

At thirty-three.

At fifty-one.

At sixty.

At eighty.

Again and again.

A new career.

A new season.

A new relationship.

A new identity.

A new understanding of ourselves.

Sometimes we choose these beginnings.

Sometimes they arrive uninvited.

Most often, they arrive carrying equal measures of hope and uncertainty.

Because every beginning asks us to leave something behind.

A familiar routine.

A comfortable identity.

A chapter that has shaped us.

Perhaps that is why beginnings can feel so complicated.

They ask us to celebrate what is ahead while quietly grieving what is ending.

They ask us to trust a path we cannot yet see.

As I stand here, fifteen weeks away from completing my degree, I cannot tell you exactly what comes next.

My son cannot yet see where his next opportunity will come from.

My friend is still discovering who she will be in this next chapter of her life.

My youngest son is stepping fully into adulthood.

And I am preparing to step into a role that I have worked towards for years, but have not yet fully inhabited.

Different stories.

Different journeys.

Different beginnings.

Yet all of us are standing before the same invitation.

To trust that an ending is not the end.

To believe that uncertainty is not the enemy.

To have faith that something new is quietly taking shape, even when we cannot yet see it.

Perhaps that is what a beginning really is.

Not a destination.

Not a plan.

Not even a certainty.

Perhaps it is simply the courage to take the next step before the whole path is visible.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.

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Amputating to Survive

There are moments that divide your life into two parts: before this, and after this.

Six years ago, I chose a prophylactic mastectomy due to genetic cancer risk. My immune system had always felt somewhat run down, frequent illnesses, never quite robust. But the deeper exhaustion came from the cycle of breast lumps, scans, and holding my breath while results determined whether life would continue as normal or fracture entirely.

The waiting was agonising. That does something to you.

I followed every protocol to be op-ready. I was as prepared as I could be. What I didn’t know, not 100% anyway, was that beneath dense breast tissue, undetected on scans, cancer was already there.

The surgery that felt preventative became life-saving. That realisation still humbles me.

Cancer has woven itself through my life like ivy, persistent, reaching, sometimes thorned. Beautiful from a distance. Invasive up close. It has shaped the architecture of my becoming in ways I am still uncovering.

The Immediate “After”

If I’m honest, the very first “after” was softened by very good pain medication, what I jokingly called my “happy juice.” I was in a haze, barely able to process what was happening, yet even then, there were moments of laughter.

There’s something almost merciful about that haze; your body and mind gently cushioned from the enormity of what just happened.

I still remember Day 1 post-op vividly: the plastic surgeon walked in, exclaiming “Oh shit!” at my left breast, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Even amidst fear, humour found its way through.

By Day 2, I wrestled with numbness down my leg, fevers, and a catheter that wouldn’t drain. While the team debated sending me back into surgery, I shuffled to a recliner, where my husband trying the hot air blanket declared, “Too hot for this little penguin!” Even in the haze, we laughed.

Those first three days I often reference, the haze, the drains, the first walk to the loo (there are many memories of the loo), sleeping six hours and feeling “human again”, they were only a snippet.

What followed wasn’t tidy.

I was in and out of hospital for weeks at a time. Complications. Infections. Additional procedures. Monitoring. Waiting. Recovering. Regressing. Recovering again. Healing wasn’t linear. It rarely is. 

At the time, I thought it was simply about surviving the physical trauma. I became detached from my body so the gravity of my emotions would not sweep me under.

But six years on, I see something deeper.

The compartmentalisation was also tied to survivor guilt.

Because this was a choice I made.

Because I didn’t require chemotherapy.

Because others endured more invasive treatment, more suffering, more loss.

Because my baby sister faced breast cancer at 35.

Because women I love, like my Mum, have walked harder roads.

Somewhere inside, I told myself I didn’t have the right to feel it as heavily.

So I muted it. Detached. Carried on.

It was both a shield and a quiet kind of self-denial, a coping mechanism that saved me, but also delayed some of my emotional processing.

Relief.

Grief.

Strength.

Numbness.

Sometimes they come one at a time. Sometimes all at once.

Amid the haze of it all, music threaded through memory. Hope, the song I danced to when I laboured with my two boys. Even broken open, I remembered that I had danced before. That joy had lived in this body too.

The Quiet Shock

The mastectomy was a double procedure, with both nipples removed. My breasts were reconstructed, what I now affectionately call my “foobs”, using tissue from my inner thighs. Incisions from groin to knee. Multiple follow-up surgeries. Healing layered upon healing.

My foobs are still not quite right.

A hysterectomy followed. Another surgery. Another surrender. Another quiet line in the sand. Another redefining of what my body would be able to hold, and what it would no longer carry. 

Surgical menopause arrived not gently, but decisively. 

What surprised me most wasn’t that menopause came, I knew it would. It was the acceleration. The way it seemed to sneak up overnight. The subtle but undeniable sense of aging, of something shifting at a cellular level.

Even when you are prepared, the body still moves at its own pace. 

I was surprised by how deeply I was attached to my femininity, and how much of it I felt I had lost.

It brought its own grief, its own recalibration of identity, hormones, sexuality, energy.

The Body, Rewritten

My body was rewritten again, not in one dramatic chapter, but in layered edits.

I was scheduled for nipple reconstruction this year. I know I’m not ready though. Not physically. Not mentally. 

Resetting everything back to zero feels like too much.

Body image has always been complex for me. Surgery, menopause, weight changes, lymphoedema, physical limitations, they added new terrain to navigate.

Yet paradoxically, I am healthier in some ways now than I was before. Health and aesthetic don’t always align. Strength doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.

I had always been driven. Resilient. Capable. 

Anxiety wasn’t something I wore obviously before surgery, but in the years since, it has surfaced more clearly. Though to be fair, the mastectomy happened at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s difficult to separate what was surgical, what was hormonal, and what was global uncertainty pressing down on all of us. Have any of us really recovered from it?

I had wonderful support from my husband, my boys, my family, my friends. During COVID, physical support was limited, but what was offered was incredible. And yet I sometimes wonder, would more support have helped? More women around me navigating the same terrain? More language for what I was experiencing?

Some transitions are survivable and still isolating.

Like hands that cannot sustain the remedial massage career I paused six years ago. That version of me still exists, but she has been buried beneath physical limitations and rewritten priorities.

Resilience remains, but it looks different.

Not push-through strength. Not white-knuckled endurance.

I have had to learn to listen to my body instead of fighting it. To respect limits rather than override them. To understand that resilience is not the same as pushing through.

Six years later, I am more emotionally attuned than I have ever been. More aware. More tender. Less invincible, and perhaps more whole because of that.

The Long Thread

Cancer has touched so many I love, and caused losses I cannot begin to describe the weight of.

My Nana when I was ten.

My Dad, my muse, when I was sixteen.

A best friend who visited me in hospital on her own treatment days, and who didn’t get to stay.

My former self.

Cancer feels like ivy, weaving its way through everything. Quiet. Persistent. Wrapping itself around milestones, memories, relationships.

And sometimes it has thorns.

Losing my friend carved something deep into me. Survivor guilt lives there too. I walked forward. She didn’t get to.

On Tuesday, February 24th, on my six-year mastectomy anniversary, I took a client case that hit close to home. Without sharing details, I can say this: 11 years into her journey, I was in awe of her progress, her strength, and her fragility. It reminded me of how far I have come, and how self-critical I can be. 

It reminded me that these “before and after” moments never fully disappear. They soften. They integrate. They shape how we show up for others.

It stirred something tender: grief, gratitude, recognition. The ache of survivor guilt. The weight of what I have endured. The privilege of not having needed further treatment like chemotherapy. Healing is not linear. Neither is reflection.

Six years on, I don’t have a perfectly packaged message.

Just this:

Sometimes the choices that feel preventative are actually life-saving.

Sometimes loss deepens you.

Sometimes femininity evolves instead of disappears.

Sometimes strength is quieter than it used to be.

And sometimes, you don’t realise how much you’ve grown until someone else’s story gently reflects your own.

Gratitude and tenderness can coexist. So can strength and softness.

Ivy Has Thorns

Now, another of my closest friends is navigating her own complex battle.

Loving her is both privilege and ache.

I adore her fiercely. Completely.

And if I’m honest, there is a silent fear. One I don’t dare speak of. I don’t need to. Sometimes in our conversations, I feel a mutual knowing, not of defeat, but of reality. Of fragility, not frailty, but that tender in-between space of strength and vulnerability. Of how precious this all is.

Watching her has stirred trauma in me I didn’t realise was still living in my body.

But it has also offered healing.

In loving her, supporting her, sometimes from afar, I am integrating what I once amputated. It is confronting. It is tender. It is necessary.

When I look at her, I see the woman I was during my own journey: steady, composed, battling quietly. And I want to show her what I learned:

Resilience is not self-abandonment.

Six Years On

There are moments that divide time: before this. After this.

Six years ago, I amputated tissue to survive.

I amputated emotion to survive.

I compartmentalised because the weight felt undeserved.

But I understand something differently now.

Survival is not a competition.

Grief is not comparative.

Love is not rationed.

The ivy may wind its way through my story, but so does strength.

So does tenderness.

So does laughter in hospital rooms.

So does music.

So do women who show up for one another in the middle of their own battles.

I no longer believe I have to sever parts of myself to stay afloat.

I can feel the weight and still stand.

I can love and still risk loss.

I can carry grief without comparing it.

Cancer has woven itself through my life.

But so has love.

And I am still here.

But the woman I was has been fundamentally rewritten.

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Connected Independence

Loving them well isn’t doing everything for them. It’s inviting them into the weight of responsibility, into contribution, into capability, into the quiet dignity of learning to carry their part.

The Secret Ingredient

I was about to prepare dinner when the words of my supervisor echoed in my ear. Not about food. Not about nutrients. About doing a disservice, in loving them only through acts of kindness.

That landed. Because kindness, when overextended, can quietly become protection. And protection, when habitual, can quietly become limitation.

I was tired. Fatigued in that bone-deep way that doesn’t announce itself dramatically, it just hums beneath everything. And still, dinner needed to be made.

That’s adulthood. No matter how depleted you are. No matter how long the day has been. You still need to cook. You still need to show up. You still need to feed the people you love, and yourself.

So I made a decision. Tonight was the night. “Everyone in the kitchen.”

Truth be told, despite moments of laughter, seven in a kitchen is a lot. It was crowded. There was someone in someone else’s way. And it heightened my anxiety. That material, instinctive pull to protect them, to smooth the edges, prevent mistakes, take over.

The chopping took its time.

Instructions were repeated with patience. It would have been easier to do it all myself. 

And sometimes, it still is.

But that’s not the point. Because loving them well isn’t doing everything for them. It’s teaching them what it means to carry responsibility.

To contribute. To participate even when you don’t feel like it. To understand that nourishment doesn’t magically appear. It is made.

And so we cooked. 

Seven pairs of hands learning the choreography of adulthood. Learning that fatigue and responsibility can coexist. Learning that contribution is part of belonging.

It wasn’t seamless. It wasn’t serene. But it was growth. Small steps toward connected independence.

Not the kind that says, “I don’t need you. ”But the kind that says, “I can stand beside you.”  Independence that still gathers at the table. Independence that knows how to chop, stir, serve, and someday, lead.

And maybe loving them well

isn’t lightening every load -

but teaching them how to carry it.

L, L, P,

Tash xo

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Unspoken Label

 If you’ve been following along, you may have noticed something slightly… intense.

Over the course of just a few days, I published seven blogs. On paper, that doesn’t sound extraordinary. One per day feels reasonable, balanced, disciplined. But that isn’t how it unfolded.

Those seven blogs poured out over three, maybe four days, in bursts of hyperfocus that overrode everything else. Emails waited. Laundry waited. The world waited. My mind, however, would not. Ideas collided and overlapped. Sentences formed before I could catch them. And somehow, it all needed to be captured.

And so, I wrote.

When Hyperfocus Takes Over

When hyperfocus kicks in for me, it’s not gentle or rhythmic. It doesn’t knock politely or ask permission. It overrides. It absorbs. I try to capture ideas as they come - in my phone, in the margins of notebooks - but when the tunnel of focus locks in, everything else dims until the thread is complete.

The methodical part of me wants to plan, pace, structure. Hyperfocus laughs at that order, pulling me into intensity that feels both exhilarating and exhausting.

When the seventh blog - “Becoming Her” - was complete, something shifted.

Climbing into bed beside my sweet men, I released a deep, auditory, sigh - the kind that empties your lungs completely. My mind unclenched. The fog lifted. The dense tangle of thoughts loosened. It felt like the clapboard snapping shut at the end of a take. A cut. A pause. A landing.

And yet, in the dark, ideas began stirring again - overlapping, forming threads I could almost reach for but had to let go. I chose rest. And in that choice, I recognised another paradox: even in stillness, my mind is never truly quiet. And perhaps it never should be.

The Un-named

Still, it highlighted something in me I’ve been circling for a while now. A word. A label. One I’ve been breadcrumbing through posts without actually naming. Whenever I edge toward declaring it, there’s a debate within me - a tug of war. Part of me leans in, relieved at the possibility of a lens that might explain the way my mind ignites and then exhales. The oscillation between immersion and relief.

Another part resists - wary of boxes. Of trends. Of being perceived as following some orchestrated global narrative. Of reducing an entire life to a single word. Perhaps that resistance is upbringing. Perhaps the echo of other people’s ideals. Perhaps societal pressure whispering, Don’t make it your identity.

Growing Up Unnamed

When I think about why a label sits so heavily in my mind, I am reminded of the world I grew up in. In the 70s, 80s, and 90s, differences like the ones I’m circling simply weren’t named. Children who were “too much,” “too sensitive,” or “gifted but inconsistent” were expected to adapt. To mask. To blend. There was no language for wiring that didn’t match the norm. You either internalised… or you learned to create order where understanding didn’t exist.

Heightened Sensitivity

There is another element here, too. As a child, I could hear, see, and sense things others couldn’t. Even now, that remains true. I’m speaking both physically and metaphysically - heightened sensitivity to tone shifts, micro-expressions, energy in a room. The atmosphere before a storm - relationally and literally. Subtle details others miss. Patterns beneath behaviour. Undercurrents beneath words.

It has often felt like living with the volume turned up. Not hallucination. Not fantasy. But intensity of perception. And when the world tells you that what you sense isn’t real - or is “too much” - you begin to question your own instrumentation. You try to turn it down. Sometimes you succeed. Often you don’t.

Structure and Freedom

Even now, I feel the tension between structure and freedom shaping how I move through life. I’ve always liked doing things methodically. Across my home, my work, my routines - I like defined lines. There’s a place for everything. Structure is my safety rail when the mind and heart feel unmoored.

And yet, I long for the version of myself who can leave the house without rehearsing a checklist. Who can immerse in spontaneity without discomfort. That version feels wild. Untethered. Free. Maybe she is me. Maybe the wiring just runs differently.

Motherhood and Reflection

I see the tension most clearly in my children. I remember my beautiful boy coming home from school, upset, asking me why he was different. My heart shattered - not because he was different - but because he couldn’t yet see the beauty in that. Months later, he shared his aspiration for the future: “To just be myself.” Such a simple statement. Such profound courageousness. It’s depth still reverberates.

Moments like that remind me why understanding - rather than labelling for the sake of labelling - matters. In 2020, my oncology psychologist asked if I had ever been assessed. She wasn’t questioning dysfunction - she was reflecting on resilience. Despite surgery. Despite the pandemic. Despite upheaval. I pushed through. Her question caught me off guard. And yet, underneath it, I felt seen. I rejected testing then. Why would I need it? What would it change? I’ve built a life. Raised children. Created. Loved. Endured.

Labels and Accountability

And yet, the tension remains. I have seen what a diagnosis did for my youngest - how it opened doors to school support that made a tangible difference. Offering language, context, and accommodation where previously there had been only struggle. And so, I understand the utility of a label, even if I resist it for myself.

I fear labels becoming alibis. I’ve witnessed that. I never want one to excuse poor behaviour or replace accountability. Growth and responsibility remain mine. But perhaps a label isn’t an excuse. Perhaps it’s a lens. A framework. A way to decode patterns rather than judge them.

Emotional Regulation and Recognition

In the past, emotion would build - sometimes invisibly - and then erupt. Sharp. Immediate. I blamed insecurity. Bottling. Weakness. But what if it was dysregulation? Sensory overload? Emotional saturation? A nervous system stretched too thin? Expectation versus intensity. Containment versus overflow. A collision between internal intensity and external expectation.

A lump forms in my throat as I write this - not from sadness but recognition. I’ve spent decades trying to smooth edges I didn’t fully understand. Trying to discipline intensity instead of decoding it. Suppress reaction instead of learn regulation. Maybe I wasn’t “too much.” Maybe I was overstimulated. Maybe I wasn’t dramatic. Maybe I was dysregulated. Maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was wired differently.

Maybe I Was Wired Differently

Hyperfocus, sensory intensity, emotional surges, metaphysical sensitivity - perhaps they aren’t random flaws. Perhaps they form a pattern. A nervous system tuned finely - sometimes beautifully, sometimes painfully. Perhaps perfection was never the goal. Perhaps understanding is.

The Gift and the Grit

Hyperfocus is still a paradox. It derails structure, yet it propels me forward in ways nothing else can. Deadlines are met. Projects completed. Ideas realised. It prevents languished indecision. What looks like procrastination is often internal alignment - sorting before immersion. Once it lands, it’s a current I can ride with surprising efficiency.

That intensity spills into creativity - art, music, writing - ways to process and make sense of life. I am, in many ways, a dabbler of crafts. Not for mastery. To inhabit different facets of myself. I don’t like conformity, yet I crave order. I like rules, yet I chafe under them. The methodical version of me and the hyper focused version of me don’t sit neatly together – they’re more “clogs” than cogs.

Even in light-hearted spaces, I see myself reflected. The Big Bang Theory remains my favourite show. Sheldon mirrors my precision and rigidity. Leonard mirrors my relational warmth. Academia doesn’t come easily like it does for Sheldon - my HDs come through hyperfocused grit and persistence.    

Fire and Fog

And yet, with all these threads - intensity, sensitivity, hyperfocus, structure, resistance to naming - I’m learning to offer myself grace. Life is a negotiation between wiring and desire. Between fire and fog. Between compulsion and calling. Growth isn’t linear. Perfection was never the goal. Understanding and acceptance are enough.

I see this in my children - their courage to just be themselves. And I see it in the quiet moments when I remember that resilience and intensity can coexist.

Perhaps wiring, difference, and depth are not flaws. Perhaps they are simply patterns. Even now, I sit with the tension between producing seven blogs in three days and needing to close my eyes and remember I am human. Perhaps both are true. Perhaps both are me. And perhaps naming it won’t diminish it - but simply give lyrics to the rhythm I have always lived inside.

I think this is the most exposed I have ever felt.

L, L, P, 

Tash xo

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