Beneath The Bottle

Tag: hope

  • Finding My Spark Again

    Finding My Spark Again

    I was told I’d lost my spark.

    The words sat there between us, heavy and undeniable. And the truth is, they were right. I have lost my spark.

    Not in the obvious way, perhaps. I am not outwardly miserable. I am not the person people would necessarily point to and say she is falling apart. I can still smile. I can still laugh. I can still hold a conversation and make myself appear intact. But inside me, there is turmoil running through every vein. A constant unrest. A heaviness that rarely loosens its grip.

    I keep most of it in.

    It spills out here instead, into my writing, because this is the safest place I know to be honest. I can pour my worst fears onto a page, lay my pain down in words, and for a little while it leaves me. Or at least becomes quiet enough for me to breathe.

    If you met me, you would see that I do have a personality. Even writing that feels uncomfortable because I have no real ego to cushion me. Speaking well of myself feels awkward, almost embarrassing. But it is still true. I can laugh. I can care. I can sit with someone for hours if they need comfort. I can help an elderly lady reach the top shelf in a shop, balancing on my tiptoes as if I am far taller than I really am. I can help a flustered woman at a petrol station open the petrol cap when she has borrowed her husband’s car and cannot work it out. I can carry the weight of eight children’s needs, emotions, chaos and endless mess, and still somehow keep everything moving.

    If I see someone struggling, I stop.

    If someone needs kindness, I give it.

    I can play video games to a decent standard for a 45 year old mam. I can snipe on Call of Duty. I can edit montages on Premiere Pro. I am down to earth. I can crack a joke. I can make my kids cringe at my humour, and although they would never willingly admit it, my jokes are funny. I enjoy a bit of harmless sarcasm. My empathy floods me more than it should sometimes, but I would still rather be too soft than too hard.

    But trust is gone.

    Some things happen in life that strip trust from you so completely that it never grows back the same. Since last year, I have known that something in me has changed for good. I do not trust. I do not believe I ever fully will again. So I stay alone, in my own company, where disappointment cannot walk through the door wearing a familiar face.

    There was a time, about eighteen months ago, when I would go out walking and take photographs of everything beautiful. Flowers. Bees. The river. The sun. The moon. The trees. The clouds stretching themselves across the sky as though they had all the time in the world. I noticed things then. I felt pulled towards them.

    Then I stopped.

    And maybe that is what losing your spark looks like. Not becoming someone else entirely, but slowly ceasing to reach for the things that once lit you up. Quietly drifting away from what made you feel something. Letting life harden around you until wonder no longer feels natural.

    But today I took photographs of the clouds.

    And they mesmerised me.

    That has to mean something.

    Maybe I did not lose my spark at all. Maybe it was only dulled. Worn down by years of pain, by things that should never have happened, by the sort of hurt that changes the way you move through the world. And then, just as I was already carrying enough, I was retraumatised by someone I had believed I could trust.

    That kind of pain does not just bruise you.

    It alters you.

    But sparks fade. They do not disappear.

    I need to believe that now. I need to believe that there is still something in me worth finding again. I need to start looking for beauty in small things. I need to let myself enjoy gaming not as a distraction alone, but as something that genuinely brings me joy. I need to make the TikToks again. Edit the videos. Learn new things. Build something from the skills I do have. Not for clicks. Not for likes. But for the feeling. For the small flicker of pride. For the sense of purpose. For the reminder that I am still here.

    Gaming brings me joy. It always has. My competitive side wants to improve, to sharpen, to keep going. Editing gives me something to focus on, something to shape, something I can make mine. Creation matters. It reminds you that even when life has taken so much, it has not taken everything.

    I do not naturally believe I am talented. I can say I am a good mam, but even that I downplay because it feels easier to minimise myself than to stand fully in anything good. But I have written a book and self published it. I have another one in progress, this time fiction. That must count for something. It has to.

    What I need now is belief.

    Motivation.

    Desire.

    A reason to keep reaching.

    Because the truth is, I have never really had anyone in life who believed in me in the way people should be believed in. I have had to become my own cheerleader, my own comfort, my own support system. And that is hard when your faith in yourself has been chipped away over years and years.

    But maybe this is where it starts again.

    Not with a miracle.

    Not with some grand transformation.

    Just with a photograph of the clouds.

    Just with a small return to wonder.

    Just with the quiet decision to believe that something in me is still glowing beneath it all.

    Maybe I have not lost my spark.

    Maybe I am only learning how to find it again.

  • The Ordinary Things

    The Ordinary Things

    I had to come home and write immediately.

    I picked up my two youngest from primary school and asked, as I always do, how their day had been. My ten year old, who has that wonderful kind of honesty that arrives wrapped in unintentional comedy, told me his day had been bad. He said he was “going through it.”

    Curious about what could have weighed so heavily on ten year old shoulders, I gently asked a little more. He told me he was not talking about it. Not wanting to push or pry, I said that was okay, that he did not have to, but that I was here if he wanted to.

    Within seconds, he told me anyway.

    They had done puberty at school and it had completely freaked him out.

    A smile quietly formed at the corners of my mouth. As he launched into graphic details, fears, and utter disbelief about what the future might hold, I felt something inside me loosen. A small shaft of light through the ordinary. A moment of relief dressed up as school run conversation.

    I reassured him that he would be okay, that all of it was normal, that growing does not ask our permission before it arrives. Still, I could not help but laugh to myself. Here was a child who can play horror games for fun without so much as a flicker, yet one lesson on the birds and the bees had left him utterly shaken.

    I love my children in that deep, daily way words never quite hold properly. They make me smile, yes, but more than that, they make my heart smile. They are often the pause I do not know I need, the breath between heavier things, the soft return to joy when life has felt too loud.

    Sometimes it is not the grand moments that save us, but the quiet, ordinary ones that remind us we are still alive inside them.

  • When The Music Speaks

    When The Music Speaks

    Music… it makes my world go round.

    Silence scares me, and music fills that silence with something warm and poignant.

    It quiets the world just enough for me to breathe.

    Songs are powerful. They can unravel a person’s deepest thoughts in mere minutes. One of my favourite things is to ask someone what their favourite song is and just listen. You can learn so much from what you hear. The progression of a song tells a story, as though you’re walking beside them for a few minutes, sharing something deeply human.

    Music has always found me in the places words couldn’t reach. It soothes the noise inside my head or amplifies it until I finally hear what I’ve been trying to silence. Each song is a mirror, showing me where I am, who I am, and sometimes who I’m too afraid to be.

    It opens a door to a world where we don’t need to be alone. Through shared songs, we can communicate without barriers.

    Tonight I’ve been reflecting on the last few months. Next week, my eighteen month therapy comes to an end. I’ll write about that in more detail soon, but for now, I want to reflect through music. On the many places it has taken me. Because sometimes, when words fail, sound carries the message better than anything I could ever write.

    Music knows what to say when I can’t. Like this blog, it finds the spaces between my thoughts, the quiet, the ache, the pulse beneath what I never say out loud. It soothes, but it also stirs. Sometimes it feels like the only thing that truly understands the language of my emotions.

    During therapy, my playlist told my story before I could. It held up a mirror that didn’t lie. It echoed what I felt before I could name it. That’s why one song can make you cry and another can steady you. Some lyrics felt written for me, because in that moment, they were me.

    Therapy was never a straight line. Some days I climbed out of darkness; other days, I slid back down. But through every rise and fall, there was music. Always music. It reflected every phase of how I felt, the numbness, the anger, the heartbreak, the faint pulse of hope.

    From hundreds of songs, these are the ones that stayed. They became more than background noise; they became signposts of where I was when words couldn’t come. Some were loud and chaotic, others soft and steady. Healing doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, waiting for you to listen again.

    Uncomfortably Numb – Pink Floyd

    It began with numbness.

    The kind that feels heavy, as if your body is too much to carry. Therapy had started, but I was far from ready to feel. There’s a strange comfort in not feeling, it protects you, but it also isolates you. This song captured that perfectly. Existing but not living, breathing but detached. It wasn’t peace, it was absence. I was uncomfortable in stillness, desperate for something to move inside me, yet terrified of what it would mean when it did.

    Same Drugs – Chance The Rapper

    There’s a sadness that comes with watching everyone move forward while you stay frozen.

    It wasn’t about substances; it was about distance. People growing, healing, changing and me, still trying to catch up.

    I heard it and felt the ache of being left behind, of time passing without me. It’s a gentle song, but quietly devastating, like realising the world didn’t wait. It made me feel trapped in my own body, wishing someone could see me. A loss not just of others, but of the version of myself I hadn’t yet found.

    Glass House – MGK (feat. Naomi Wild)

    This one burned.

    It forced me to face the parts of myself I’d tried hardest to hide. The anger, guilt, and resentment I turned inward. I’ve never known how to be angry at anyone else; the rage always lands on me.

    Glass House shattered that mirror. It was messy, uncomfortable, but freeing. Sometimes anger isn’t destruction, it’s recognition.

    Sad Forever – Lauren Spencer Smith

    There were days when the sadness was so heavy it felt like breathing underwater.

    Sad Forever gave that feeling a voice. The trembling vocals, the raw honesty, it mirrored the exhaustion of never knowing if the pain will lift, or if it ever will.

    It reminded me that sadness isn’t weakness; it’s proof that I can still feel, even when I wish I couldn’t. Beneath the ache was a small flicker of hope. The belief that one day, maybe, it won’t hurt this much. It’s the moment in therapy when the tears come before the words do.

    Die Young – Chappell Roan

    This song hit me in the darkest place.

    For a long time, I believed I wouldn’t make it this far. Die Young reflected that. It’s haunting and beautiful, defiant and broken all at once.

    It was the song I played when I didn’t want to die but didn’t know how to live either. Even now, part of me still feels that pull, the whisper that it might be easier not to keep trying.

    But when I listen closely, I hear something else; the will to stay alive long enough to see what might change.

    Maybe living is rebellion. Maybe hope is hidden in the background of songs like this. Not loud, but waiting.

    When the music fades, I’m left with silence, but it no longer feels empty.

    These songs carried me through therapy. The numbness, the heartbreak, the anger, the exhaustion, and the fragile hope that followed.

    They were there for me when I didn’t know how to be there for myself.

  • Growing Beneath The Bottle

    Growing Beneath The Bottle

    Some seeds grow in silence. Through connection and reflection, they begin to rise; slowly, softly, quietly until one day you realise how far you’ve come.

    There’s a saying I’d never really thought about until now: when you plant a seed, it doesn’t bear fruit the same day.

    Only recently have I begun to see how many seeds have been planted, both by me and for me, and how quietly they’ve been growing beneath the surface of my life.

    In these past months, words from others have lingered like rain, softening the soil around me. Small moments. Conversations , glances, shared truths have helped me act and reflect in ways I once never could. I’ve realised that without connection, our capacity to plant anything meaningful is limited. Isolation keeps us trapped in our own thoughts, rooted in stillness, repeating the same stories.

    But through connection, something shifts. Growth becomes possible, not all at once, but gently, like light spreading over still water at dawn.

    One seed that took root was the realisation that I had used alcohol for decades to numb my pain. I believed it could fix what was broken, but it only buried it deeper, covering cracks with temporary calm. Earlier this year, I reached out for help; a step that led to a medical detox. It wasn’t smooth or easy; growth never is. Life doesn’t move in straight lines. But slowly, I began to see that even in the hardest moments, new shoots can appear.

    Acceptance was another seed – the understanding that relapse doesn’t mean failure, it means learning. Now, sober, for today, I can look back and see the quiet influence of others. The gentle reminders, the shared stories, the encouragement that took root when I wasn’t even aware.

    Those small seeds have bloomed into something unexpected, fruit that nourishes me with knowledge, compassion, and patience. I’m harvesting lessons I didn’t know were growing.

    What I’ve also come to see is how one seed can start a chain reaction, a quiet domino effect of growth. A single moment of honesty, a small act of reaching out, can set something in motion we might never see fully. One seed takes root, then another, and soon what began as a single act of connection becomes a field of change. The words someone once shared with me became my turning point,and now, in sharing my own, maybe another seed begins to stir somewhere else.

    Maybe you’ve planted seeds too. Quiet moments of change that haven’t yet shown their bloom. Stay with them. They’re growing, even if you can’t see them yet.

    And if you’re in that quiet stage; where nothing seems to grow, you’re not alone. The roots are there, waiting. Together, we’ll keep watering them, one sunrise at a time. Beneath the bottle, there’s always room for roots to take hold.