I didn’t plan to take a break from writing.
I had big plans for April: video production, content rollout, and momentum. But then something happened that made everything else feel small.
My daughter lost Hamie Ham, her pet hamster.
He was her tiny best friend. Her comfort. Her companion for 3 years. She was still in kindergarten when we got him, just after she’d wished for a hamster for her 6th birthday. And when he passed, something in her shifted in a way I didn’t expect. I knew she would be sad. I just didn’t know the sadness would run so deep that it would shake her from the inside out.
She stopped eating. Stopped talking much. Her appetite disappeared. She started saying her chest hurt. That she couldn’t breathe properly.
We went to the emergency room, twice. They thought it could be an asthma attack. Maybe it was. But maybe it wasn’t. The doctor did hear some wheezing, so she was given a nebulizer treatment to help. There were also one or two more visits in between to the paediatric clinic when she felt unwell, flu-like symptoms, nausea, and a general sense of discomfort that seemed to ebb and flow with her anxiety. My husband and I did our best to conceal the worry that was quietly tightening in both our chests, not wanting her to see how afraid we really were. Maybe it was just her little body trying to make sense of big grief, reacting in ways her heart couldn’t yet express.
I was scared. Terrified, really. Her daddy was right there with me through it all. We were both trying to stay strong, each quietly figuring out how to ‘fix’ her the best we could through those long, uncertain weeks. I kept it together in front of her, but inside, I was unravelling.
I didn’t want her to see that I was holding my breath too.
For weeks, I watched her fade into this quiet, fragile version of herself. I tried to coax her to eat. To smile. To rest. But none of the usual comforts seemed to reach her. And I felt helpless.
Because this wasn’t something I could fix. Not with hugs, not with logic, not with love.
That broke me.
But slowly, quietly, she started to come back. Little signs.
A spoonful of soup.
A few pages of homework.
A joke. A hug. A request for something sweet to eat.
She’s not all the way there yet. But I can feel her spirit slowly patching itself back together. And I’m learning that grief has no schedule, and healing is not a checklist.
We’re just moving with it. One moment, one meal, one small win at a time.
This month taught me something I didn’t expect: That being a parent isn’t always about solving the problem. Sometimes, it’s about sitting with your child in their pain, holding space for their feelings, and reminding them they’re not alone. We couldn’t fix it,but we stayed. And maybe that was what she needed most.
So, if you’ve wondered where I’ve been this past month, this is it. I pressed pause. I wrapped my arms around my girl and I waited with her in the quiet.
And if you’re a mom going through something similar, grief, anxiety, emotional exhaustion, I just want you to know this:
Grief took over our month, and that’s okay.
You’re not behind. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re holding space for something sacred.
And sometimes, that’s the bravest thing a mother can do.
From one mom to another, thank you for being here. 💛💛💛
But look at her now—one bar, one breath, one brave moment at a time.”