There is a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t look dramatic.

It doesn’t announce itself.

It doesn’t demand applause.

It simply shows up again today.

This season isn’t about reinvention.

It’s about regulation.

It’s about tending to what already stands.

Health is no longer a crisis to solve.

It is maintenance to honour.

Home is not decoration.

It is structure.

It is systems.

It is energy management.

Growth isn’t loud.

It is disciplined repetition.

Watering the same soil.

Walking the same boundary.

Checking the fence.

Feeding what feeds you.

Stability is not stagnation.

It is controlled momentum.

The world pulls toward urgency.

But strength is built in steadiness.

Today I choose consistency over intensity.

Clarity over chaos.

Maintenance over burnout.

This is how foundations are protected.

This is how resilience becomes design.

This is how life holds.

Life doesn’t wait for anyone.

Some days, the ordinary holds more weight than we realise.

Yesterday, a friend learned her tumour, removed 18 months ago, has grown back bigger.

Life can shift in an instant, and control is never guaranteed.

Today, I am thinking about my daughter.

She cannot feed herself. She cannot leave the house without support. We live in a supported care model. And yet, the children are fed, loved, and nurtured.

Their laughter threads through the rooms. Their routines continue. Small acts of normalcy quietly hold the day together.

Love and hope matter, but they do not replace stability.

Patterns, consistency, and survival matter more.

The children notice the little things, a story read, a hand held, a joke shared.

Those are the moments that carry life forward.

This is the life we live today.

It is not simple.

It is not perfect.

But it is real.

And we get on with it.

Positivity and gratitude is the key. 🔑

Life accelerates.

Responsibilities expand.

Today, I paused.

A doctor’s appointment. A check-in. A realignment for the year ahead.

Not because anything is wrong — but because staying well is intentional.

Health requires review.

Direction requires adjustment.

Energy requires protection.

Positive thinking isn’t blind optimism.

It’s discipline.

Today was maintenance.

And maintenance builds strength

5am. Mosquito bites.

Once I’m awake, I’m awake.

I sleep less the older I get.

Coffee. Dark sky.

Clear constellations.

Today begins a new lunar cycle, a pause to reset.

Last year was about illness recovery, health rebuilding, financial pressure, and waiting for stability.

This year:

Recovery into maintenance.

Health into structure.

Money into strategy.

Stability into design.

Strengthen the foundations.

Lean on what sustains you.

Quietly. Deliberately.

With clarity.

Weekends fly by now.

So do the days.

There was a time when Friday opened wide. Now it feels like a breath in, a breath out, and it’s Sunday night.

Time hasn’t changed.

Awareness has.

This weekend I tried to learn Instagram. A small thing, really. Yet stepping into a new space always reveals something about you.

My first interaction was negative.

Not dramatic. Just enough to remind me: every room holds both light and shadow.

We are more connected than any generation before us. Every thought, kindness, criticism — transmitted instantly. The world’s consciousness sits in the palm of our hands.

But exposure is not the same as connection.

Discernment is the skill now.

Not every voice deserves your attention.

Not every opinion deserves your energy.

The days move quickly.

The practice is simple:

Move with the world — without letting it move you.

Stay open.

Stay steady.

Choose what lands.

Awake at 2am.

Seventeen-year-old little dog yelping confused.

Dementia.

Yesterday I took the kids back to see the little horse. I got too close to the electric fence. The shock hit like a log across my back. Sharp. Invisible. Real.

Dinner was another pub menu. Same meals, different heading.

I hate cooking, which probably makes me bad at it.

Facebook. Instagram.

Everything recorded. Everything polished.

Except this part.

The old dog pacing at 2am.

The electric fence shock.

The quiet effort it takes to keep showing up.

A 95-year-old, sharp as a tack, remembered I was coming back Saturday.

A 17-year-old dog, dementia-ridden, lost in her own hallway.

We are lucky to wake up each day, as long as we have our health.

Grass under bare feet.

Salt water.

Planting vegetables.

Reality doesn’t perform.

It just asks you to be there.

Growing up, we are taught to believe in the Cinderella story, the fairytale, the rescue, the happily ever after.

My relationships have often felt more like cinders than castles.

I carry no regrets, because life is meant to be lived, experienced, and learned from.

The truth I’ve discovered is this:

I have always been my own Prince Charming.

I have rescued myself when I needed saving.

I have rebuilt, reimagined, and restored my own story.

Now, I live in a palace,

not built from glass or stone, but from the strength of my own heart.

A place grounded in health, happiness, peace, and quiet joy.

So today, on Valentine’s Day,

I celebrate love. ❤️

The love I have given, the love I have learned, and most importantly, the love I have found within myself.

To the universal love generating around our world today.

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY ❤️🥰❤️

Restless sleep. Awake at six.

The air is crisp, holding that fragile space between night and day.

The moon lingers, a quiet smile in the fading dark

while beneath the clouds, the sun begins its patient rise.

A changing of guard. A reminder that nothing stays still.

Friday carries its own rhythm.

My favourite workday, lighter somehow.

My granddaughter counts down the hours

until her first sleepover with a friend.

Simple joy. Pure anticipation.

The week has been heavy.

Emotionally. Mentally.

The kind of tiredness that settles deep.

Chinese New Year approaches,

the Year of the Horse.

Movement. Strength. Forward motion.

Shedding the Year of the Snake.

Releasing what coils too tightly around the spirit.

Letting go of what no longer serves.

The world feels intensely yin and yang.

Destruction and abundance,

suffering and excess,

all delivered instantly to our screens.

So I return to my own ground.

My breath.

My work.

My family.

Gratitude as anchor.

Mindfulness as compass.

Step by step into a new year.

I woke up in my own house this morning.

The scent of my garden drifting through the air felt grounding, familiar, steady, safe.

Yesterday reminded me that progress is rarely linear.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Work was difficult. Home felt heavy. My energy was unsettled, and everything seemed to amplify from there.

Workplace bias added a layer of strain that sat with me longer than I expected.

I chose to come home for the night.

That choice, simple as it was, filled me with gratitude.

Not everyone has that option. Many carers around the world live in a constant state of responsibility, no break, no relief, no pause from the illness they support.

The weight they carry is relentless.

This journey is long. I am learning that it is not about controlling the length of it, but about how I meet each day within it.

Patience does not come naturally to me.

I have a temper.

I feel things deeply and react quickly. But I am beginning to understand that mindfulness is not about perfection, it is about awareness.

It is about catching myself, recalibrating, and choosing again.

Today feels like a reset.

A conscious return to gratitude.

A deliberate choice toward positivity.

Not because everything is easy, but because perspective is powerful.

Gratefulness and Positivity are the intentions of the day.

I stopped to talk to a 95-year-old man last night who lives around the corner from me, on a hill with paddocks and horses nearby. I’d wondered if my granddaughter might one day ride one of them.

The horses aren’t his, but he invited me inside. The stories he shared were living history — a lifetime of work, service, love, and loss, spoken quietly and without fuss.

His wife passed away last year. He still lives in the home they shared.

As I left, a small horse came up to the fence. He said he’d ask the neighbours if my granddaughter could ride one.

I walked away knowing this wasn’t just a chat — it was a privilege.

Day four today.

Small amounts of fruit continue — steady, meaningful progress.

My brother and his family remain a constant source of support, calling daily and surrounding her with positive energy.

Momentum is building, gently but surely.

A fresh day begins — birds chirping, hopeful vibes, one step forward in a long journey.

Doom scrolling is so unhealthy. Awake at 4:30am.

Re calibration this morning hopefully building on the last few days of wellness to gain some traction.

Feeling Positive ☘️

Pilates again today, a familiar rhythm, grounding and steady.

Yesterday was spent cleaning and preparing for the week ahead, small tasks that quietly set things in motion.

Today is haircuts and more preparation.

A little bit of Aid, pomegranate juice, very low blood pressure.

My aim for today is simple: a few spoons of vegetable soup.

In the background, VCAT is still in progress, waiting on a date.

My brother looked underneath the car and took a photo , the leak appears to have been patched with an orange goo.

Seeing that was shocking.

We’ve also learned the car yard has closed down, another complication in an already exhausting process.

Sunday.

My brother returned home today. The past week has been spent sharing the load, and the support has been deeply appreciated. I’m so grateful the kids were able to see that we do have a family member who truly cares.

Progress has been made — tiny amounts of fruit, and the beginnings of a daily routine returning.

I’m hopeful we can continue to gain traction and keep moving, step by step, toward recovery.

We took the day off and went on an adventure with the family — Phillip Island, Amaze and things.

My brother will head back home tomorrow.

Yesterday felt like a real step forward.

Half a strawberry.

A small chunk of mango.

A shower.

And a delusion fought.

Pilates.

Kids.

Work.

Hospital Discharge.

A morning that feels steady.

One step closer to recovery.

Recently a jeweller tells me my new jade pendant needs reinforcing.

Says my necklace will break.

Three thousand dollars.

It rattles me.

I get a second opinion.

My jeweller looks at it, smiles.

“Beautiful pendant. Strong chain. Don’t touch it. It’ll last for years.”

Sometimes the lesson isn’t about jewellery.

It’s about remembering:

not every warning is truth.

not every opinion deserves power.

and trusting who — and what — you already know.

It’s lovely to have my brother here. He loves my girl, and it’s heartbreaking to see her so unwell.

Will the sickness break? Or will I keep watching it attack her mind and body? That question is a constant presence.

The routine remains — work, school, animals, two houses, hospital.

I try not to think about the what ifs.

I try not to think about the kids hearing the word death, or the weight of that worry settling on them.

So I just get on with it.

I make the day as normal as possible.

I wake too early,

before the responsibility comes for the day.

The full moon is still there.

Pale. Lingering.

Not ready to leave yet.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

Before the day starts asking things of me,

before the noise,

before the weight,

I whisper a small prayer.

I trust the future heard me.

Doom scroll.

Sickness on repeat.

Sunday’s responsibilities.

Eighth hospitalisation.

The new hospital is now open, she has a room with a beautiful view of the bay that stretches out to the city on a clear day.

She is very unwell……

My brothers have been her only other family support.

I am grateful.

One comes tomorrow from interstate.

He has always been a wonderful uncle and supporter to her and the children.

It will be good for them to see we actually do have some family and that we are not totally alone.

The calmness of less urgency today.

No immediate rush of work, school, hospital.

The last time I brought my dog here to sleep, (she needs to be chained at home,) she squashed her solid ten-year-old body into the tiny, sixteen-year-olds kennel, resulting in an opera of barking and crying all night.

This time I tried to do better.

I searched for her very own waterproof bed.

$110 later, my daughter watching my return on the ring camera suggests I have wasted my money, her dog would surely chew it.

I snapped hard.

Not because she was wrong.

But because I needed this one small thing to work.

Finally, no barking symphony.

Step outside for my coffee…

FOAM EXPLOSION!

Her dog surely chewed it.

First world problems.

This will not be ruining my

Slow -paced, enjoyable, relaxing, do-less-today, recharge Saturday.

Finally, some relief.

Hospital………..

Now it’s a different struggle.

The juggle.

Holding all the balls in the air.

Work full time.

Two houses.

Three dogs.

Two cats.

Fish.

School.

Work says it supports people through crisis.

Reality is quieter.

You must be transparent to ask for flexibility.

But not too transparent.

Because honesty

can become liability.

You learn where the line is.

Motion is mercy.

Routine is survival.

And somewhere inside that noise,

hope keeps breathing.

Day nine without food.

Four calls to mental health triage. Two ambulance calls. IRT aware. Services say she is “fine.” GP told her to go to hospital. She refuses.

Kids start school today.

How do I function knowing my child is starving, alone?

If you rang a vet and said your dog hadn’t eaten in nine days, they would say:

“Bring them in.”

Electrolyte collapse is a leading cause of sudden death in starvation.

The constant minimising from services is making me feel neurotic.

This is a medical emergency.

Day eight with no food.

My girl is the kindest, most loving, and supportive person I have ever known. It is the cruelest illness to watch her turn so negative about herself and starve because of delusional thoughts. Thoughts that convince her of the complete opposite of reality.

She has a weekly appointment with the GP for blood work. Triple zero did not admit her yesterday. They told her to attend her GP instead. Today she goes back for results. Surely she will be admitted today.

Yesterday the heat reached 42 degrees.

A starving body in that heat.

It is excruciating to watch.

And still she plays with the kids. Still she tries. Still she cooks and cleans.

I don’t know how a body this weak can keep going.

I forgot I even had Pilates this morning.

My mind is tired from worry.

If hospital comes today, I will need to knock off and get the kids.

Tomorrow they start school.

Life keeps moving.

We are not.

No plans.

No certainty.

Just waiting.

Hopefully hospital today.

Seven days without food.

Third day calling triage.

Trying to get someone to understand.

Told Sunday’s case manager notes should have been enough.

Told to call an ambulance. I did.

She has a life-long, permanent mental illness.

She cannot see she could die.

Each day. A risk assessment.

I am not a doctor.

I juggle work.

I juggle children.

I juggle this crisis.

They did a face-to-face over the phone.

She presents well.

It looks fine.

It isn’t.

Every hour. A risk assessment.

Constant vigilance.

Endless calls.

Waiting.

It never stops.

Yesterday I was told to wait.

Yesterday was the case manager appointment.

Wait until she becomes dizzy.

Wait until tomorrow’s appointment.

Today triage says:

If I think she needs emergency, call 000.

She is on day six without food.

She drinks small amounts of water.

She can still walk.

She is still delusional.

From the outside, it can look stable.

From the inside, it feels like a quiet emergency.

They are talking about changing the diagnosis to PTSD.

I don’t care what it’s called.

I care what it’s doing.

Services seem to think I am a neurotic mother.

She says she will not eat until July.

I say the date will change.

Because this illness always moves the goalposts.

So I sit in between,

all while the kids and I sit in this illness together.

Watching a body without nourishment.

Watching a mind that cannot recognise danger.

Six days without food is not nothing.

Psychosis is not nothing.

I am not dramatic.

I am paying attention.

No food

Watching your child suffer through something so heinous is unbearable, particularly when she cannot understand that her life is at risk.

The struggle to convince her to go to hospital continues.

The case manager/ nurse has a scheduled visit today,

Hoping that he sees the reality of what is happening and advocates for urgent hospital care.

No food.

Still arguing thresholds, not starved enough yet for admission.

Care reduced to criteria.

Life can’t be planned.

I get angry. It’s the wrong reaction, but a predictable one.

This illness is insidious.

It removes people from reality and cannot be reasoned with.

Time sits still, waiting….

Recovery or Death ?

Suspended inside the illness.

Blessed for the strength that keeps moving me forward, alone.

I went looking for jade for wealth.

Weeks of searching led me nowhere, too small, too showy, too much gold. And then I stopped on a piece I hadn’t been looking for: white jade with apple green, described as grounding for carers. It felt less like I chose it and more like it chose me. Perhaps the universe has a broader definition of wealth: steadiness, endurance, the ability to hold when life tilts.

I washed it under running water, kissed it for luck. A quiet ritual of alignment. And then reality intervened, the bail is too small for a heavier chain. Practicality reminding me that even grounding needs adjustment.

Yesterday, I was approved to attend a RAP learning circle, an honour. One step forward. And yet at home, the personal side quietly crumbles. Surging forward at work while ten steps back play out in the background.

Caregiving is rarely visible. It demands stamina, restraint, and clarity……..and even when we are chosen for roles or meaning, the weight remains.

Perhaps this is the jade I was meant to find: not wealth as accumulation, but wealth as grounding. Not abundance as excess, but abundance as responsibility.

Interesting, to say the least.

I went to the office yesterday and was reminded how much I enjoy connecting with people, even though I often isolate myself working from home.

Meeting great staff in the office highlighted a little contradiction: I’m a team leader, yet I don’t always feel like a people person. Still, I enjoy re-engaging with the world, even in small ways.