This weekend was difficult.

The events that unfolded were directly linked to the abuse my children lived through. I will not expand on those details publicly because some things belong to them, not the internet. Their story is not mine to expose. My role is to protect it, even while telling the truth about what trauma leaves behind.

Friday also marked the anniversary of my ex’s arrest. For a short time, I believed that moment meant safety had finally arrived. The reality that followed was very different. What came afterwards exposed my children and family to risks I never thought possible, not only through one individual, but through systems and institutions that were supposed to protect us.

This weekend was not only about an anniversary.

It was about what resurfaced because of it.

Trauma does not disappear because time passes. It shows up in behaviours, emotions, reactions, fear, anger and overwhelm. Especially in children.

And when it does, the hardest reality is not just managing the moment. It is knowing that, when everything falls apart, me and the kids only truly have me.

There is no reliable safety net arriving. Not in the way people imagine. Not consistently. Not when the damage has already been done and the consequences are still living inside my children.

That is why I went to the rocks.

Not because I had spare time. Not because it was scenic. Because my body knew I needed to reset before I broke under the weight of it.

People often think trauma lives in memory alone. It does not.

The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.

Certain dates pull you backwards. Certain places do too. Sometimes it arrives without warning, tightness in your chest, pressure in your throat, a sudden need to move, drive, breathe, or escape. For years, I did not understand why I instinctively sought out open spaces, music, nature, long drives or silence.

Now I do.

This morning, I drove the children to school and then headed to the rocks, the same place I used to go after leaving. I remember the first few times I went there. I cried most of the drive. At the time, I did not understand why being there mattered so much.

Looking back, I can see that my body was searching for regulation before my mind had fully processed what had happened.

People can dismiss walking, music, fresh air, the sea, nature, or grounding techniques as “airy-fairy”. They are not. The nervous system carries trauma. It also recognises safety, rhythm, space and movement before we always have the words for why they help.

Trauma changes the way you live. I have certain clothes I wear because they make me feel safer. Certain items I keep with me. Certain routines, places and songs that act as anchors. They may look insignificant to anyone else, but to a traumatised nervous system, they are reminders that I have survived before and can survive again.

Today I walked to the top, somewhere I had not climbed since carrying my then three-year-old on my back with the dog beside me.

It was almost comical at times. I avoided the proper path and ended up climbing through brambles instead. At one point, I was practically on my hands and knees dragging myself up the final stretch just to reach the spot I needed to get to.

And the dog never left my side.

She kept stopping and looking back to check where I was. No formal training. No commands. Just instinctively staying close while I crawled through mud, brambles and exhaustion towards somewhere my body had decided mattered.

When I finally got there, I sat.

Headphones on. Music playing. Breathing.

For the first time in a while, everything went quiet.

Walking back down, I did not want to leave. I circled for a while, climbed back through the brambles again, and delayed going home because something about being there made me feel human again.

Maybe that is what healing sometimes is.

Not fixing everything.

Not pretending it never happened.

Just finding a moment where your nervous system stops fighting long enough to let you breathe.

There is a version of me that existed before all of this, and I know now I will never fully be that person again. For a long time, that grief consumed me. I thought being broken meant I had lost myself forever.

But being broken also gave me understanding.

It changed the way I see pain in other people. It taught me to recognise what fear, exhaustion and trauma can look like beneath behaviour. It changed the way I advocate, the way I work, the way I parent, and the way I see injustice.

When you have lived through institutional failure, coercive control and fear, you begin to understand how many people are silently carrying things nobody else can see.

I have spent much of my life giving other people what I never had myself, support, compassion, protection and reassurance. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that self-care is not selfish.

It is necessary.

Because school runs still happen.
GCSEs still happen.
Parenting still happens.
Life still continues.

Today, my 15-year-old came home after his first GCSE exam.

I asked him how it went.

He shrugged and said he did not even understand the question.

And I just told him, “You’re fine, as long as you tried your best.”

Because honestly, after everything he went through last year, I did not know whether he would emotionally make it to this point. Trauma comes out in children in ways people often fail to recognise. Attendance can be resilience. Showing up can be courage. Sitting an exam can be survival.

So I am proud of him.

Not because of grades.

Not because of results.

Because he showed up.

Because despite everything, he walked through those school gates and sat that exam.

Sometimes healing looks like climbing through brambles to sit on the rocks with your headphones on because your body needs reminding that you survived.

Sometimes resilience looks like a child walking into a GCSE exam after a year that nearly broke him.

And sometimes the strongest thing a person can do is keep showing up for their children, while finally learning to show up for themselves too.

Even when healing means accepting that the people and systems you believed would stand beside you were never really there.